You're nobody 'til somebody kills you

Thirty-one

Jerry made sure the blue Chrylser didn’t lose us on 10. When we got on to 405 to go to Brentwood I started wondering where we could take those guys.

On San Vicente I told Jerry, “Bypass Marilyn’s.”

“Where we goin’?”

“To the country club.”

“Oh, goody.”

The Brentwood Country Club was always busy. The beautiful people needed their recreation. But you couldn’t just drive in, you had to stop at the guard’s gate and identify yourself. When we pulled in, there were two cars ahead of us. Our tail didn’t know where we were going so they turned in to follow. Before they knew it they were in line, a car in front and a car behind.

“Come on,” Jerry said.

He was out of the car with his.45 in his fist before I could stop him. I ran after him, hoping that the two guys in the car weren’t cops.

Jerry got to the car before they could react. He opened the driver’s side and yanked the guy out, showed the passenger his gun.

“Don’t!” he said, in case the second guy was planning to pull a gun.

I got to the passenger side just as the guy put his hands up. I did a quick frisk-as I had seen done plenty of times in the movies-and came up with a gun.

“One here, too,” Jerry said, releasing the driver so abruptly he staggered. He tossed the guy’s gun into the backseat, so I did the same.

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” the driver demanded.

The driver behind them leaned on his horn, but when Jerry gave him a look he released it.

“What do you guys want?” I asked. “You been following us at least since Palm Springs, maybe before.”

“We don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” the guy in the passenger seat said.

“You got a permit for that rod, bub?” the driver asked Jerry.

“This one sounds like a cop, Mr. G.”

“I suggest we get our cars out of the way and have a talk,” I said.

“Tell your friend to put the gun away,” the driver said. “The security guy’s comin’ over to see what’s goin’ on.”

“He’ll put it away,” I said, “but it comes out again if you try to take off.”

“Understood. We’ll move the car,” the driver said, getting back in.

“I’ll move the Caddy, Mr. G.”

At the same time, the passenger got out. “I’ll handle the security guy.”

“Right behind you,” I said.

As Jerry and the other driver moved our cars out of the way the passenger showed the security guy ID that I didn’t get a look at. It must have been good because the guard backed right off.

We walked over to where Jerry and the other driver were waiting.

Both the strangers were in their thirties, wearing off-the-rack suits and skinny ties. They didn’t look like Secret Service to me, or FBI.

“Mind if we see those IDs?” I asked.

The men exchanged a glance, then took out their folders, flashed us Palm Springs police department buzzers. The passenger was Dugan, and the driver was Atkins.

“What the hell-” I said.

“Detective Stanze would like to see you fellas now that you’re back in town,” Dugan said.

Atkins looked at Jerry. “Bet you’re gonna have to explain about that gun.”

“Bet you’re gonna have ta explain about your black eye,” Jerry said.

“I don’t have a-” Atkins said, then suddenly backed away from Jerry warily. “I could take you in for manhandling me.”

“You’re right,” I said, “he jerked you out of the car pretty easily. Want to explain that? That’d leave a bruised ego.”

“Look,” Dugan said, “we were just sort of escortin’ you back. You know, keepin’ an eye on you like Stanze asked.”

“So you didn’t follow us from L.A.?” I asked, just to confirm.

“No, we picked you up when you got to Palm Springs,” Dugan said.

“You friends with Frank Sinatra?” Atkins asked.

“Yeah, we are.”

“Umm,” Dugan said, “that blonde in your car, was that … Marilyn Monroe?”

“No,” I said, “it was Mamie Van Doren. Why don’t you call Stanze and tell him we’ll be in a little later. We’re gonna freshen up first.”

“Yeah, you guys can go back home to paradise,” Jerry said.

“It is paradise,” Atkins said. “Where are you from, bub?”

“New York, pal,” Jerry said, “and you can keep yer sand and sun. I’ll take the Great White Way, thanks.”

Atkins made a move as if he was going to poke Jerry in the chest with his finger, but he drew it back at the last minute. Wise decision. Jerry probably would have pulled it off and shoved it up the guy’s ass.

“Let’s go,” Dugan said to his partner. “We’re done here. We were doin’ a favor for your guy, Stanze.”

“He’s not my guy.”

“Well, whatever he is, tell him not to call us again. We’re done cooperatin’.” He turned to Jerry. “You ever point a gun at me again-”

Jerry stopped him by drawing the gun and pointing it at him.

Atkins looked at Dugan, then they both chuckled, shook their heads and walked away.