“Him I’ve never heard of,” I admitted.
“Another reason I wouldn’t let anybody chain me to an advertising agency — turns your brains to jelly. Anyway, Maktab Al-barid ruled the Arab country of Zayt until some fanatic holy roller led a revolt and took over that oil-rich little spot,” said Norbert. “Before Maktab Al-barid skipped the country he managed to stash away something like a couple of billion bucks in various banks around the world. At the moment he resides in ex-kingly splendor in a Bel Air mansion once owned by a silent-screen lover and more recently by those rock poets of the platinum records, Honey and Hank.”
“This Arab king is financing Macho in something?”
“The peabrain is going to make movies,” replied Norbert. “His first motion-picture venture, announced but a few days ago in the Hollywood trades, is to be — we’ll skip the trumpet fanfare — an adaptation of The Spy Who Went Through the Meatgrinder.”
“One of the Blind Butcher novels?”
“One of my Blind Butcher novels, yeah. Second one in the series.” The plastic fork suddenly snapped in his clenched fist. “See, under that dumb little agreement I injudiciously signed with him back then, Macho retains all subsidiary rights. All I ever saw was half of the paltry initial advances. Maktab Al-barid has paid Macho $108,000 for the screen rights and he’s going to hand over an additional $216,000 for a screenplay.”
“He seems to favor multiples of 54.”
“That’s the kind of sympathy I need.”
I shrugged. “Norbert, you made a mistake,” I said. “Maybe with a good lawyer you can do something.”
“Good lawyer? There is no such being,” he said. “No, to get my share — and Macho can keep the screenplay money — to get my share of that $108,0001 intend to start applying pressure. I may even drop in on Maktab Al-barid himself, although I hear he keeps himself very well bodyguarded because of a fear, perfectly legit, that terrorists from Zayt may be dropping in. Seems they’d like to have Maktab Al-barid star in a trial for treason and sundry other misdemeanors.”
“I still think an attorney could—”
“I already talked to three of them.”
“What did they say?”
“I haven’t got a chance to collect.”
As it turned out I phoned Norbert less than a week later. Locating him was a little difficult, since his answering service had just dropped him for being three months in arrears on his bill. His agent swore he’d never heard of him, then offered me five other writers who were currently hot properties. Finally I got Glorious to admit she was still in contact with him and that he, having just checked out of the Beverly Glen Hotel in another economy move, was residing in the back half of an old duplex down in Manhattan Beach.
“Hello?” he answered that afternoon, using a completely unbelievable British accent. “You are speaking to Mr. Norbert Tuffy’s confidential secretary, what ho.”
“Hey, Norbert, listen,” I said, and identified myself.
“Old chap, you’re making a bally mistake. Mr. Tuffy—”
“The agency doesn’t like me to waste too much time on personal calls,” I went on. “But there’s something I better talk to you about.”
“Not a penny less than $54,000, if you’re acting as go-between for your buddy.”
“Macho Sweeze? Haven’t even seen him since you and I had lunch last week.” From my office window I could watch a handsome high-rise building being constructed, its topmost floors lost in pale smog. “This has to do with a guy named Fritz Momand.”
“What a sappo name. Who is he?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I have no recollection of the name.”
“Fritz Momand is a freelance commercial artist who specializes in fruit. I happened to—”
“In what?”
“Fruit. He’s doing a series of ads for us for FrootBoms Cereal. That’s the stuff shaped like little hand grenades which explode with flavor when you pour milk over—”
“What has this Fritz guy to do with me?”
“I was at his studio over on La Cienega yesterday, to okay his painting of an orange, and he got to talking about his wife. Her name is Frilly Jonah.” I paused, anticipating a response.
“Anybody who’d voluntarily call herself that must have show-business aspirations.”
“She does. She’s a Country-and-Western singer who hasn’t had much success.”
“Probably sings on key, which is a great handicap,” said Norbert. “You’re not the greatest yarn spinner on the face of Los Angeles, pal. Not that I don’t enjoy chitchat and pointless blab—”
“You don’t know Frilly? You haven’t been seeing her on the sly?”
“Eh? Norbert Tuffy does nothing, absolutely nada, on the sly,” he said loudly. “Besides which, my heart is still in a sling over Glorious MacKenzie.”
“This is the truth?”
“Do I ever lie? Don’t try to tell me this fruit vendor claims Norbert Tuffy has been fooling around with Frilly while he’s been slaving over a hot persimmon?”
I cleared my throat and turned away from the view, which was making my eyes water. “Fritz Momand is a big, violent guy who likes hunting,” I began. “Very tough, extremely jealous. He’s grown suspicious of late that Frilly has been seeing someone else. In the course of ransacking her room while she was off singing at the Back in the Saddle Club in Ventura, he unearthed a complete set of the Blind Butcher paperback novels. Each one was inscribed to his wife in glowing phrases. One such said: To the apple-cheeked, delight who’s brought a new kind of love to me, with the passionate regards of the author.”
“You actually thought Norbert Tuffy could write gush like that?” he asked. “Using a fruit image to woo the guy’s wife is a nice touch, though. How old is this Frilly?”
“Never actually met her, but she’s quite a bit younger than her husband. Probably about nineteen or twenty.”
“So use your coco, chum. It’s obviously that scoundrel Macho Sweeze who’s putting the Dan X. Spear pen name to yet another sleazy use and giving the horns to your pushcart Picasso.”
“But you wrote the books.”
“True, true,” said Norbert, “except, as I made perfectly clear to you when last we met, Macho loves to claim the credit. I am sure it’s he who’s using the books to impress this honkytonk bimbo now that one book is a movie-to-be.”
“You’re probably right. Just wanted to warn you to watch out for Fritz Momand, since he seems the kind of guy who likes to do violence to those who fiddle with his wife,” I said. “You haven’t had any luck getting a settlement out of Macho, huh?”
“The amount of luck I’ve had in any area of late, pal, you could insert in a flea’s nostril and still have room left to pack in an agent’s heart,” he answered. “I approached Macho and, politely for me, suggested he ought to do right by me. He was cordial, for him, and swore he’d see to it I got a little something. That is, after the film is released, which will be a good two years hence.”
“You don’t believe he’ll do even that?”
“Most of Macho Sweeze’s sincere promises could go on that list of the world’s most famous lies, the one that commences with ‘The check’s in the mail.’ ”
“So now?”
“Since you are sincerely interested in my fate, unlike the circle of Judases I used to run with, I’ll tell you what Norbert Tuffy has in mind. I have always been hailed, and justly so, as one of the most brilliant plotters in this nutty town. Even now, in my temporary exile, I have not lost the knack.”