Machaland: The Hollywood Crime Novels

By Kemosabe

Absolute power corrupts absolutely. The LAPD investigates the vicious murder of ex Las Vegas showgirl, Betty Larkin, the owner of the Los Angeles Stars professional football team, and Sunset Pictures. Kinky and degenerate lifestyles proliferate among the movers and shakers of the LA country club and movie makers scene. Powerful women slamdance men partners nightly at a Hollywood nightclub.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kemosabe
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476496979

Kemosabe

Linton Lewis*~KEMOSABE~*Writes #fempowerfiction Bold and Boiled Harddigitally published novels by EdivaSin City Crime Novels,THE BLACK WIDOW RANCHTHE RIVER NILE,The Hollywood Crime NovelsMACHALANDTHE PECKING ORDERCandy Rules Novel,COMING OUT,All can be purchased digitally at Kindle, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Apple, Sony, Diesel, Kobo, etal.Linton Lewis grew up in Atlanta and attended Georgia Tech University before enlisting in the navy. He studied acting at the Academy Theatre in Atlanta and pursued an acting career in Hollywood while working as a caddy and assistant caddymaster at Bel Air Country Club. He worked as a craps dealer and supervisor on the Las Vegas Strip. He sold real estate in Simi Valley, Atlanta, and Las Vegas before boldly dipping his pen into the boiled hard #fempowerfiction writing inkwell.

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Machaland

The Hollywood Crime Novels

Kemosabe

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Published by: ediva on Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 by Linton Lewis

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Chapter 1

A telephone rang somewhere off in the distance and it started to really irritate the living shit out of Bobby Jean. Would someone please answer the damned thing? She is a contestant on The Price Is Right, Bob Barker has just asked her to name the price of this blender. She had bought this selfsame blender not three days before and knows exactly to the penny what it cost. Would someone answer that goddamned phone? She has the price on the tip of her tongue but before she can spit it out Bob Barker holds his hand up stopping her from answering. He looks offstage frowning. Will somebody get that? We’re in the middle of a show here. This is live.

A voice from offstage says, It’s not from back here, Bob.

Bob Barker gives Bobby Jean a scathing look and says, It must be your phone. Do you want to get it so we can finish here?

It rang louder and louder. It wasn’t her cell phone because she left it with her purse in the green room as instructed. Goddamn! Realization slowly penetrates through the fog that she is fucking dreaming. Shit! And it is such a wonderful dream. She has to hurry and take care of this call so she could get back to Bob Barker. He had a gleam in his eyes like he knew she knew the right price.

Gunther, she mumbled into the phone beside her bed, the dream faded reluctantly, it still had a hold on her, calling her back, pulling at her like a drug. She shook the cobwebs out of her head as she kissed the new car and Hawaiian vacation she was going to win goodbye. She checked the time, 5:46 AM.

You’re up, Gunther. A woman’s been killed at the Bel Air Country Club, said Lieutenant Raymond Arcey, her boss at Division One, [RHD] Robbery Homicide Division downtown at the Parker Police Center.

Thinking this might somehow get her off the hook and back to her quiz show. Lieutenant, you know Al’s still in the hospital.

Of course I know that, Bobby Jean. That’s why they gave me these lieutenant bars to play with. he said with mock indignance. You okay?

Uh, yeah, just having a hard time waking up.

I don’t have anyone to spare right now. Go by the West LA Unit and pick up someone. I’ll call Lieutenant Corsey.

Okay.

And, Gunther.

Yes, Lieutenant.

Be on your best behavior. I’m told the victim is Betty Larkin.

Holy fucking Jesus. She sighed. Okay, I’m on my way.

Detective Bobby Jean Gunther felt a half smirk sneak onto her face as she walked to the vehicle Lieutenant Corsey had assigned her and her partner as she left the West Los Angeles Police Station. She glanced over at her shoulder at Detective Dylan Hannah, another fucking rookie. What was she getting into? At least the kid’s cute. He had manners and seemed upper class. A medium build, kind of short, five-seven, she guessed.

You got any college, Hannah?

Uh, yes, Detective.

Where and what?

I graduated from SC, Criminal Justice.

Hmm, a rich kid, huh? That’s what I figured.

I hope you won’t hold that against me.

Well, it’s not going to help you. I’m Westwood College, Criminology.

UCLA, huh?

No, Hannah, I didn’t say UCLA. I said Westwood.

Westwood? I didn’t know they had a college in Westwood. I mean except UCLA.

They don't. Westwood’s online.

Online? You’re kidding.

No, I’m not. She gave him a hard look. It’s not exactly SC, or even UCLA for that matter, but, hey, I’m here. She spread her arms

Well, I’m glad to be here with you. You have quite a reputation. She glanced back again and swore that he blushed.

I’ll drive, Bobby Jean said, and slid into the driver’s side of the unmarked car. How long you been on the force?

Three years.

Three years? And you’re already in homicide.

Uh, yeah.

You must have some strong juice. Who is it?

My uncle Stan works in the DA’s office.

Of course, Stan Hannah, a first class prick, and you can tell him I said that.

Well, I don’t tell tales out of school. And I agree he’s, um, difficult sometimes. I hope you won’t hold that against me as well.

Let’s see, you’re an SC grad, your uncle is Stan Hannah, and you’ve only been on the force for three fucking years. I’ll give you a chance, but them are humongous obstacles, dude. Do you know who our victim is?

Sure. Everyone knows Betty Larkin, owner of the Stars and Sunset Pictures.

This is a high profile case. Do you know what that means?

I’m not sure.

It means it will be covered extensively by media. They’ll be all over us like stink on shit looking for mistakes, like the Simpson case. Both our careers could be ruined. If we take one wrong step, we could wind up, up in Idaho, chopping wood for Mark Furman. You are to keep your mouth shut, Hannah. You will answer no fucking questions period.

Yes, ma’am.

Even the time of day.

I’ll be mum, Detective, like a bug in a rug.

I see you’re also a comedian.

A blanket of calm opulence enwrapped them as Bobby Jean pulled off Sunset Boulevard through the west gate of the Bel Air Estates. Mansions on large landscaped lots flagrantly exuded money, real money, as they said in Vegas. You’re not from in here are you, Hannah?

No, he smiled, we’re not quite that rich.

Well, at least that’s one thing in your favor.

At the gate to the Bel Air Country Club a mob of media descended on them like they were movie stars giving out autographs and free movie tickets. They screamed questions through the rolled up windows. Flashing her shield, Bobby Jean pulled through the squad cars and parked at the front entrance. A uniform diverted them down some steps that led directly into the men’s locker room from the outside.

She stopped and Detective Hannah bumped into her.

Er, uh, excuse me.

She didn’t answer. The scene was ghastly. Someone had apparently worked over Betty Larkin’s face with what looked like a seven-iron that still leaned against her body.

She looked back and the kid flinched. His eyes watered, but he looked like he was going to be able to hold everything down. Welcome to Homicide, Hannah.

Bobby Jean stepped carefully near the victim and squatted. The wounds looked several hours old. Dylan Hannah squatted by Bobby Jean’s shoulder. She took a rubber glove out of the large bag she carried to every crime scene, and put it on her right hand. She picked up the cadaver’s left arm, and let it flop back to the locker room floor. What did they teach you at SC about rigor mortis, Detective?

Well, it means, the stiffening of the muscles. It generally starts between three and four hours after death. Times for the onset can vary from a few minutes to several hours, depending on the ambient temperature. Factors influencing rigor mortis include the age and condition of the body, as well as the mode of death and the surroundings. Rigor mortis will tend to set in faster in those who were active immediately prior to death.

Ambient, huh? Is that a Tommy Trojan word? At Westwood they called it surrounding.

Sorry, but you did ask what they taught me at SC.

Bobby Jean smiled. Yeah, I guess I did. Lift up that arm and tell me how long you think Ms Larkin’s been dead.

Dylan hesitated, clearly appalled. Bobby Jean challenged him with her eyes. You wanted to be in homicide, young man. It’s not all glamour. This is the nitty gritty and it’s time to get your hands dirty.

He reached for the arm. Gloves, Hannah, goddamn gloves!

Humiliated, he reached into the bag she pushed toward him, selected a rubber glove, and put it on. She knew he was nervous, but he had to learn.

Well? she asked after he released the arm.

It doesn’t look like full rigor has set in. I’ve never felt it, but they showed our class a film of a cadaver at the Academy. Full rigor takes about twelve hours, and then it subsides back to relaxation in about thirty-six. We can assume, he gestured around at the room, with the blood and all she wasn’t killed somewhere else and moved here, and she hasn’t lain around here long enough for the rigor to have come and now be on its way out. So let’s split the difference between three and four hours, at three and a half, that leaves eight and a half from the twelve hours. Split that to four and a quarter. He looked at his watch. It’s now 6:30. I’m going to say she was killed about 10:45 last night.

Very good, Dr. Watson. I’m going to guess about 9:45. Of course we’ll get another estimate from the SID coroner investigator and a more specific time later from the medical examiner after the autopsy. What do you say we set up a preliminary window of opportunity between eight and midnight?

Opportunity?

She used his shoulder to push herself to her feet and turned to him. Opportunity for murder, my lad.

He blushed. You’re the boss. He stood paused a moment then nodded slightly. My lady. They both smiled. She couldn’t help herself. She liked this kid.

Crime Scene Investigators and uniforms filled the locker room. She didn’t have to worry about the CSI but sometimes one of the uniforms would touch something he or she shouldn’t. She called out her standard order loudly. Anybody fuck-up my crime scene and I will personally smash their balls.

A female uniform looked over and responded wryly, Yeah, we know, Detective.

Her name was Tracy, a seasoned veteran. Bobby Jean knew her and tried to give her a hard look but couldn’t keep the mirth from leaking out of her eyes. She walked over to where Tracy stood

Hiya, Trace.

Hello, Bobby Jean.

I hear you were the first officer on the scene.

Yeah, me and my partner. She motioned toward a young kid who looked like he’d just fallen off a turnip truck. The good old LAPD, always sticking the green horns with the veterans. That’s how they learned, but sometimes it was quite frustrating.

Where’s this guy who discovered the body, Bobby Jean looked down at her notebook, uh, Alabama Clark?

He’s over there in the attendant’s office, said Officer Tracy.

Say, he’s a movie star or something isn’t he?

TV, I think, piped Dylan Hannah.

"Yeah, I’ve seen him a couple of times. He’s not too bad. Didn’t he just make a movie with Marlene Pace?’ said Tracy.

Yeah, I think you’re right, but they haven’t released it yet, said Hannah.

"Okay, Dylan, if we are through playing Who’s That Starlet? let’s go see what Mister Movie Star has to say. I’ll ask the questions and you take notes."

Yes, ma’am.

Alabama Clark looked up from where he sat at the attendant’s desk. At the sight of him, his beauty took her breath. An aura of glitter seemed to surround him, pulling her in. Here was a real movie star.

Mr Clark, we’re both homicide detectives with LAPD. I’m Bobby Jean Gunther, and this is my partner Dylan Hannah. His eyes were bloodshot and he appeared disheveled as if in mourning, but, hey, he’s an actor.

Alabama nodded to both of them. Good morning and please call me Alabama.

Okay, Alabama, I’m told you found the body.

Yes. I came in early to practice putting before teeing off with the Gang.

What time was that?

About five.

Did you come in the front?

No. The front door was still locked, and so was the door to the men’s locker room from the parking lot. I came through the caddy shack.

Which was unlocked?

No. I have a key.

Why would you have a key to the caddy shack?

Uh, I used to work here. I was Thane Potter’s assistant.

Thane Potter?

The caddy master.

Of course. Bobby Jean’s look dead panned at Dylan. "Now you said you were going to tee off with some kind of a, gang?"

It’s called the Whip-out Gang. I…don’t want to say anything, uh, incriminating. We’re a group of high stakes gamblers.

"We’re not Vice, Alabama. We’re trying to solve a murder. Anything you tell us about gambling, per se, we won't hold against you. And what does this Whip-out Gang, actually whip-out?" She exchanged a subdued mirthful look with Dylan. The kid might be all right.

Cash. The losers are required to whip-out cash.

You’re a member here, I take it?

Yep, just voted in. He motioned to the door. Betty Larkin was my sponsor.

She was also your employer wasn’t she?

Well, it’s a little more complicated. She owned both of the TV shows I worked on and Sunset Pictures where I just finished a movie.

With Marlene Pace, I understand.

Yes.

Can you tell me where you were last night between the hours of eight and midnight?

Uh, oh, I see. You want an alibi. I can assure you, Detective, I had nothing to do with what happened in there. I held Betty Larkin in the highest esteem. She’s responsible for whatever limited success I’ve had in this town.

Yeah, well, still, Alabama, I need to know where you were last night.

I spent the night at Marlene Pace’s, he said with a slightly red face.

Bobby Jean took a deep breath and exchanged another subdued mirthful look with Dylan. She back that up?

Yeah.

Pretty sweet, huh? She’s about the hottest thing in town. She couldn’t help herself. If she were queer she wouldn’t have minded getting her hands on Marlene Pace herself.

Yeah, she is. And, yeah,’ Alabama looked to the ceiling, it is pretty sweet." He smiled despite himself as if savoring the night.

Who all are in this Whip-out Gang?

Being new, I’ve only played with them a couple of times.

I didn’t ask you that, Alabama. You said you worked here. You should be pretty familiar with the members.

Yes, I guess I am.

So who plays in the group?

There is Betty, moisture formed in his eyes, I mean there was Betty.

You mean Betty Larkin played with the gamblers?

She was a hell of a golfer. She could hit the ball with anyone in the Club. Of course, there’s Stevo Dark. He’s the main attraction. Everyone wants to, and does, get into his wallet. He went on to name six others who joined the Group from time to time.

Chapter 2

Traffic from the Hollywood Freeway roared outside the window. The heavy trucks rattled the room as they blasted by. In the distance Jason picked up their initial sound and followed the noise as it grew louder and louder until the full blast shook the room viciously as it passed the open window on its way to torment its next victim.

The large busted woman moaned at each of his thrusts. The trucks consumed his concentration and the titillation he needed refused to come. Desperate, he attempted to turn the sound to his advantage; he’d use it to intensify the lovemaking. He pumped slowly waiting for the next truck. When he picked it up, he increased his tempo, thrusting deeply time after time into the woman’s bottomless pit, searching for that little tingle that preceded ejaculation. The roar from the truck grew louder and then louder until the full crescendo exploded through the room. He pumped and prayed... It wasn’t working. Shit!

The sound of the trucks still worked against him, distracting his concentration. He had to perform and couldn’t. She had screwed him dry all night and now he couldn’t think of anything but these goddamned trucks. He pounded and pounded to no end. How was he going to get out of this?

From nowhere a slight flash of fervor brought hope. He rejoiced as the flash quickly developed into full preorgasmic passion that came from god only knew where, and then the relief as he gushed into her. She screamed when he came, but the noise from a passing truck drowned her out. He rolled off, exhausted.

Gretchen was her name and fucking certainly was her game. Jason picked her up, or to be factual, she picked him up, at a play at The Paula Crenshaw Centre for Performing Arts on Melrose Avenue. She approached him at the first intermission as he looked at the posters on the wall promoting Paula Crenshaw and the Arts Centre.

Hi. She smiled, beckoning his friendship with attractive blue eyes. Did you enjoy the first act? Her voice betrayed a slight accent, German he decided.

Yes. Jason said to be polite, for she worked there. He hadn’t really enjoyed it. When she sold him his ticket, she had flirted with him then. He felt his face flush when she haughtily undressed him with her eyes. She was older than his nineteen years, maybe twenty-five, her blond hair looked real, nice figure, face a little husky. But what the hey.

She waited for him to continue, maybe say something about the play. When he didn’t, she asked, Are you an actor?

How can you tell? He returned her gaze as she gave him a patronizing smile.

We get a lot of them in here. You have the look.

Are you an actress?

Yes. I’m a student here. The ache in her eyes said take me, I’m yours.

She bearded him after the next act and waited for him when the play ended. Outside the apartment where she lived with two other women, they kissed and caressed in Jason’s car, and then he took her to his hotel room next to the Hollywood Freeway to perform the act of darkness with her.

***

Jason Clark had been in hog heaven in his second year at Auburn University when the tragedy struck. Unexpectedly, his uncle called and told him his father had died of cancer. He rushed home.

He suffered for six months with it before he died, said his mother.

Why didn’t someone let me know?

There was nothing you could do. He didn’t want to interrupt your studies.

My studies are nothing compared with this, Mother.

I guess he didn’t want to tell you because of the ordeal he went through.

But, Mother, if he was dying, I should have been told.

"He didn’t want you to see him like he was.