before I find this guy.”
“Yes, I see. I would prefer if that aspect of this business be done with discretion.”
“It will be,” I said, as Chaplin extended his hand.
“I assume you would like an advance,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
An advance would be nice. Then I could eat, get gas for my Crosley, pick up a new windbreaker, and pay my landlady. An advance would be very nice.
“Will cash do?” Chaplin said, shifting his racket and reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“It will.”
He counted off two hundred dollars in twenties and handed them to me. I pocketed them without a second count.
“I’ll get back to you every day. My man, the one who’ll be watching you, will introduce himself, stay out of your way, and keep his eyes open.”
“That will be satisfactory. And now, Mr. Peters, I still have a friend or two and a brave face to show the world. And I have a tennis engagement.”
I started across the room toward the front door.
“While I was counting,” he said behind me softly. “I was reminded of the zeppelin sequence in Hells Angels. You know it?”
“Great movie,” I said, turning back to him.
“Gripping sequence,” Chaplin said. “First the Germans, hurrying to get away from the British planes, cut the line of the man in the observation car. Then, to lighten to load further in an attempt to outrun the British, the Germans unload most of their equipment. When that isn’t enough, the enlisted men are ordered to jump out of the vessel to their death. Watching them step into the dark hole is unforgettable. And then one of the British flyers sacrifices himself by diving into the zeppelin. I identify with every one of those victims of war. I am haunted by that sequence. The brave and the innocent are the true victims of war.”
“Pilots died making that movie,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Making movies can be almost as dangerous as war.”
He was lost in thought now. He gave me a private telephone number where I could reach him or leave a message. I wrote it in my book. I heard someone coming down the stairs when I went out the front door and crossed the driveway to my car. I had two hundred dollars to work with and too many leads. I’d need some help. I knew where to get it.
I hit the radio button. The Crosley backfired. It had been doing a lot of things it shouldn’t have been doing for a few months now and it hated to come to life in the morning. It reminded me of me. I’d have to take it to No-Neck Arnie, the mechanic.
On the way back to my office going down Hollywood Boulevard, I listened to the end of Big Sister and caught the news. It was December 10, 1943. The announcer with the deep voice said that the war news was good. The nine-day “Battle of the Clouds” over Germany marked a major victory for United States and Canadian pilots. The Fifth Army was moving on Via Casilini. Bulgaria was getting ready to bail out on the Nazis. In the Pacific, Allied forces led by the Australians were clearing the Huan peninsula. MacArthur was seventy miles away across the Vitiaz Straits ready to come in and land. Meanwhile, U.S. planes had dropped 1,300 tons of bombs on New Britain in two weeks.
I caught the first two minutes of Ma Perkins as I pulled into No-Neck Arnie’s, two blocks from the Farraday Building where I had my office.
CHAPTER
2
N O -N ECK A RNIE , the mechanic was wiping his hands on a greasy rag when I drove into his garage. Four other cars were there with their hoods open like baby birds waiting for a worm, a bug, or a spark plug.
A radio in the background was playing the Harry James version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”
Arnie wore his gray, dirty mechanic’s uniform and a look on his face that, as he watched me, said clearly, “You think you’ve got problems.”
Arnie was around sixty, solid with a little belly, blue eyes, and short steel-gray hair. He had no neck or almost none. It would take a trained medical
“Yes, I see. I would prefer if that aspect of this business be done with discretion.”
“It will be,” I said, as Chaplin extended his hand.
“I assume you would like an advance,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
An advance would be nice. Then I could eat, get gas for my Crosley, pick up a new windbreaker, and pay my landlady. An advance would be very nice.
“Will cash do?” Chaplin said, shifting his racket and reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.
“It will.”
He counted off two hundred dollars in twenties and handed them to me. I pocketed them without a second count.
“I’ll get back to you every day. My man, the one who’ll be watching you, will introduce himself, stay out of your way, and keep his eyes open.”
“That will be satisfactory. And now, Mr. Peters, I still have a friend or two and a brave face to show the world. And I have a tennis engagement.”
I started across the room toward the front door.
“While I was counting,” he said behind me softly. “I was reminded of the zeppelin sequence in Hells Angels. You know it?”
“Great movie,” I said, turning back to him.
“Gripping sequence,” Chaplin said. “First the Germans, hurrying to get away from the British planes, cut the line of the man in the observation car. Then, to lighten to load further in an attempt to outrun the British, the Germans unload most of their equipment. When that isn’t enough, the enlisted men are ordered to jump out of the vessel to their death. Watching them step into the dark hole is unforgettable. And then one of the British flyers sacrifices himself by diving into the zeppelin. I identify with every one of those victims of war. I am haunted by that sequence. The brave and the innocent are the true victims of war.”
“Pilots died making that movie,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Making movies can be almost as dangerous as war.”
He was lost in thought now. He gave me a private telephone number where I could reach him or leave a message. I wrote it in my book. I heard someone coming down the stairs when I went out the front door and crossed the driveway to my car. I had two hundred dollars to work with and too many leads. I’d need some help. I knew where to get it.
I hit the radio button. The Crosley backfired. It had been doing a lot of things it shouldn’t have been doing for a few months now and it hated to come to life in the morning. It reminded me of me. I’d have to take it to No-Neck Arnie, the mechanic.
On the way back to my office going down Hollywood Boulevard, I listened to the end of Big Sister and caught the news. It was December 10, 1943. The announcer with the deep voice said that the war news was good. The nine-day “Battle of the Clouds” over Germany marked a major victory for United States and Canadian pilots. The Fifth Army was moving on Via Casilini. Bulgaria was getting ready to bail out on the Nazis. In the Pacific, Allied forces led by the Australians were clearing the Huan peninsula. MacArthur was seventy miles away across the Vitiaz Straits ready to come in and land. Meanwhile, U.S. planes had dropped 1,300 tons of bombs on New Britain in two weeks.
I caught the first two minutes of Ma Perkins as I pulled into No-Neck Arnie’s, two blocks from the Farraday Building where I had my office.
CHAPTER
2
N O -N ECK A RNIE , the mechanic was wiping his hands on a greasy rag when I drove into his garage. Four other cars were there with their hoods open like baby birds waiting for a worm, a bug, or a spark plug.
A radio in the background was playing the Harry James version of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”
Arnie wore his gray, dirty mechanic’s uniform and a look on his face that, as he watched me, said clearly, “You think you’ve got problems.”
Arnie was around sixty, solid with a little belly, blue eyes, and short steel-gray hair. He had no neck or almost none. It would take a trained medical
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