one afternoon. It was the pits. Couldn't wait to get back here
and catch a few rays."
"You from L.A.?"
"Nobody's from L.A., man," Goldblum said.
"I'm from Butte, Montana. Came out here seven years ago, after a
hitch in the Marines. Tried to break into the movies. Did some stunt
work. Had a few bit parts. Maybe you saw me? I was in a couple of
'Happy Days' and one 'Barney Miller'."
"I don't own a TV."
Goldblum gawked at me as if I were from another
planet. "Now that is weird. You know about TV, don't you? A
little box with a screen? Shows pictures that talk?" He clapped
me hard on the arm. "Just kidding, Harry. Maybe they haven't got
TV in Cincinnati, yet. You look for it in the papers."
"What happened to your acting career?" I
asked.
"Aw, it went right in the toilet. Nowheresville.
I got an agent. Changed my name. Took an ad out in Variety. Nothing
worked."
"What did you change it to? Your name?"
Goldblum looked abashed. "To Sy Goldblum,"
he said. I laughed.
"Yeah, I know," he said miserably. "But
there are a lot of Jews in the business. No offense."
"I'm not Jewish."
"Good," he said. "I thought a kike
name might help. Now I'm stuck with it."
"Why don't you change it back to what it was
before?"
"To Seymour Wattle? No, thank you. Besides,
having a kike name doesn't hurt in this town, if you know what I
mean. Your pal, Moon, isn't a hebe, is he?"
"No, he's a wop."
"Good," Seymour said. "I get along
good with wops."
Jack came back to the table with Seymour's beer.
Seymour snatched the bottle out of Jack's hand and patted the chair
beside him. "Have a seat, Shorty."
Jack grunted and sat down. "Well, did I miss
anything?"
"Only the story of Seymour's life," I said.
"Hey!" Wattle said, giving me an angry
look. "Don't call me that. I'm Sy Goldblum, now."
"Sorry."
Wattle drained the beer in one gulp. A couple of
drops leaked onto his shirt. When he noticed them, his face reddened.
"Shit, this thing cost me seventy-five bucks on Rodeo Drive.
It's pure silk. Some dago design." He glanced at Jack and said,
"No offense."
Jack said, "None taken."
"Shall we get down to business, Sy?" I
said.
Wattle nodded. "You want to know about Dover,
right?"
"Right the first time."
"Well, I'll tell you," he said, leaning
forward and cribbing the empty beer bottle in his hands. "I
don't have much. The guy was found dead on Monday by a maid in the
Belle Vista. Some Mex cunt. As near as we can guess, he'd been dead
since early Sunday morning--maybe thirty-six, forty hours. I wasn't
in on the investigation, but I've seen the lab photos and the boy was
a real mess. He'd apparently been taking a shower and lost his
balance and fell right through the glass curtain.
"Broken glass is the worst," Wattle said,
peeling the label off the beer bottle with his thumbnail. "Give
me a shotgun any day. Shit, the guy was sliced to ribbons. Belly
open, guts hanging out. One eye dangling on his cheek. Even his
pecker-"
"That's enough!" Jack said in a commanding
voice. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I
knew the man, that's all."
"Well, you wouldn't have recognized him
anymore," Wattle said. "What wasn't cut up or off was
scalded by the shower water or half-eaten by maggots."
Moon's face turned white.
"I think we can skip the clinical details,"
I said to Wattle, who was enjoying Jack's reaction. Wattle laughed.
"O.K. by me."
"You all right?" I said to Jack.
He nodded weakly.
"What caused the fall?" I asked the cop.
"We don't know. Could have been he lost his
balance and slipped in the tub. The guy had a heart, so it might have
been that. He was also a juicer, so it could have been any number of
things."
Since I was looking for a scandal, I said, "Could
he have OD'd?"
"We couldn't find any tracks on his arms, but
that's not the only place you can shoot up and the rest of him was
too messy to tell. If he was stoned, it probably wasn't on H."
"How about blow'?"
"It's possible," Wattle said. "But
that wouldn't change
and catch a few rays."
"You from L.A.?"
"Nobody's from L.A., man," Goldblum said.
"I'm from Butte, Montana. Came out here seven years ago, after a
hitch in the Marines. Tried to break into the movies. Did some stunt
work. Had a few bit parts. Maybe you saw me? I was in a couple of
'Happy Days' and one 'Barney Miller'."
"I don't own a TV."
Goldblum gawked at me as if I were from another
planet. "Now that is weird. You know about TV, don't you? A
little box with a screen? Shows pictures that talk?" He clapped
me hard on the arm. "Just kidding, Harry. Maybe they haven't got
TV in Cincinnati, yet. You look for it in the papers."
"What happened to your acting career?" I
asked.
"Aw, it went right in the toilet. Nowheresville.
I got an agent. Changed my name. Took an ad out in Variety. Nothing
worked."
"What did you change it to? Your name?"
Goldblum looked abashed. "To Sy Goldblum,"
he said. I laughed.
"Yeah, I know," he said miserably. "But
there are a lot of Jews in the business. No offense."
"I'm not Jewish."
"Good," he said. "I thought a kike
name might help. Now I'm stuck with it."
"Why don't you change it back to what it was
before?"
"To Seymour Wattle? No, thank you. Besides,
having a kike name doesn't hurt in this town, if you know what I
mean. Your pal, Moon, isn't a hebe, is he?"
"No, he's a wop."
"Good," Seymour said. "I get along
good with wops."
Jack came back to the table with Seymour's beer.
Seymour snatched the bottle out of Jack's hand and patted the chair
beside him. "Have a seat, Shorty."
Jack grunted and sat down. "Well, did I miss
anything?"
"Only the story of Seymour's life," I said.
"Hey!" Wattle said, giving me an angry
look. "Don't call me that. I'm Sy Goldblum, now."
"Sorry."
Wattle drained the beer in one gulp. A couple of
drops leaked onto his shirt. When he noticed them, his face reddened.
"Shit, this thing cost me seventy-five bucks on Rodeo Drive.
It's pure silk. Some dago design." He glanced at Jack and said,
"No offense."
Jack said, "None taken."
"Shall we get down to business, Sy?" I
said.
Wattle nodded. "You want to know about Dover,
right?"
"Right the first time."
"Well, I'll tell you," he said, leaning
forward and cribbing the empty beer bottle in his hands. "I
don't have much. The guy was found dead on Monday by a maid in the
Belle Vista. Some Mex cunt. As near as we can guess, he'd been dead
since early Sunday morning--maybe thirty-six, forty hours. I wasn't
in on the investigation, but I've seen the lab photos and the boy was
a real mess. He'd apparently been taking a shower and lost his
balance and fell right through the glass curtain.
"Broken glass is the worst," Wattle said,
peeling the label off the beer bottle with his thumbnail. "Give
me a shotgun any day. Shit, the guy was sliced to ribbons. Belly
open, guts hanging out. One eye dangling on his cheek. Even his
pecker-"
"That's enough!" Jack said in a commanding
voice. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I
knew the man, that's all."
"Well, you wouldn't have recognized him
anymore," Wattle said. "What wasn't cut up or off was
scalded by the shower water or half-eaten by maggots."
Moon's face turned white.
"I think we can skip the clinical details,"
I said to Wattle, who was enjoying Jack's reaction. Wattle laughed.
"O.K. by me."
"You all right?" I said to Jack.
He nodded weakly.
"What caused the fall?" I asked the cop.
"We don't know. Could have been he lost his
balance and slipped in the tub. The guy had a heart, so it might have
been that. He was also a juicer, so it could have been any number of
things."
Since I was looking for a scandal, I said, "Could
he have OD'd?"
"We couldn't find any tracks on his arms, but
that's not the only place you can shoot up and the rest of him was
too messy to tell. If he was stoned, it probably wasn't on H."
"How about blow'?"
"It's possible," Wattle said. "But
that wouldn't change
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