Case #3: Masks
Date: Early Spring of 1988
Location: Hollywood, CA


He wore sunglasses.

But this was Hollywood. Everybody from tourists from Nebraska to street hustlers wore sunglasses. He was wearing nice threads, those sunglasses, and a hat. Nobody wore a hat anymore. I did have an old Fedora and a trench coat hanging on the back of the door, more as a prop than a necessity. I took a quick glance just to make sure he hadn't borrowed my gear.

"I need a detective," he said without removing the glasses.

"You came to the right place. I'm Johnny Casino-"

"Hollywood Detective," he finished my sentence. "Yeah. I saw the sign while I was driving around last night. You must work late."

I must sleep in my office, I thought, but he didn't need to know that. I shared an apartment with a character who would give schizophrenics a run for their money. He was a slob as well as a neat freak. I never knew which one would greet me when I came home. That's why I spent nights at the office. Last night was one of those nights.

"Lots of people need a detective." I made that up, but I could always hope. "So I keep late hours."

"Well, I need a detective." His oddly familiar voice echoed in my sparsely furnished office.

He slowly pulled off his sunglasses. I used low watt bulbs so clients couldn't see the dust, the worn furniture, and the lack of other amenities. My back was to the window, so my face stayed in the shadows, but the dingy light coming through the grimy glass highlighted his features.

I stood up.

"Mr. Hennessy."

Charles Hennessy was a big movie star. Huge is more like it. His career spanned over forty years and he had at least one Oscar sitting on his mantle at home or where ever they kept things like that. I'd mount it on the hood of my Bentley, if I had a Bentley.

"Can I get you a drink?"

It was ten-fifteen in the morning and I was babbling like an idiot. But honest to God, he was the first real live major film star who had ever spoken to me.

"Whataya got?" he asked in the tough-guy voice he made famous on the silver screen.

Totally dumbfounded by his presence, I had forgotten my question. He hadn't.

"To drink," he coached. "Whataya got to drink?"

What do you offer a legend?

"B-b-booze?" I stuttered.

I don't know if I'd ever used the term before, but I'd heard it in a million movies, probably ones starring Charles Hennessy.

"Scotch?" he said.

"Yeah, sure. Ice? Straight?"

He glanced around the office. It barely had a chair. It certainly didn't have a refrigerator.

"How about straight?" he said.

I went to the tall, beat up filing cabinet, and opened the top drawer. Several liquor bottles rattled inside. I plucked the nearly full bottle of cheap scotch out and grabbed two paper cups from the narrow credenza behind my desk. I poured a shot into the cleanest cup for my guest and splashed a little into the other one for myself.

Handing it to him, I said, "Have a seat, Mr. Hennessy."

I indicated the only other chair in the place. The fake leather seat was torn and the jagged edges cut into the back of your legs.

"Hollywood Detective is kind of catchy." He said, continuing his survey of the small room. "I think I was offered this part in a movie once." He waited a beat, then added, "I turned them down."

He sat in the chair opposite my scarred desk and tried to avoid the cracked parts digging into his leg before taking a sip from the paper cup. The expression on his weathered face said he'd had better booze before. Gumshoes in the movies drank scotch and I wanted to fit that pattern. I drank some and decided I'd stick to gin.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Hennessy?"

He reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and tossed $5000 on the desk. "A private detective is like a priest, isn't he?"

"You don't have to pay a priest, but we do have a code."

"Will a five thousand dollar retainer buy your silence?"

"If you killed somebody and want me to help you cover it up, get yourself another boy."

.......continued.

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