Callback for a Corpse

By Teel James Glenn

A murdered stoolie leaves behind a tip for “Moxie” Donovan, freelance reporter. A glamorous actresses appears too perfect. Could she be connected to multiple murders and occult magic?
In between takes for a musical version of Alice in Wonderland, Donovan’s wife Maxine (“Maxi”) joins the investigation. Within a strange animation studio lurks an alchemist with a unique method of “remaking” starlets.
MOXIE DONOVAN is a tough Irish reporter married to red-haired, Jewish movie star MAXI KELLER. Relocated to Universal Studios in Hollywood in 1938, the duo investigate mysteries spinning into the realm of weird tales, often with the Nazi menace and occult matters looming behind the famous Hollywoodland sign.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005086305

Teel James Glenn

A native of Brooklyn, NY, Teel--or T.J. as most know him, has a long career as a performer, teacher, stunt expert that has informed his writing.

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Copyright © 2022 Teel James Glenn. All rights reserved.

Maxie and Moxie TM & © 2022 author. All rights reserved.

Bold Venture Press, February 2022

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places and events depicted in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, and places or events is coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author or the publisher. This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. If you are reading this and didn’t purchase a copy, please purchase your own. Thanks for respecting this author’s hard work.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Callback for a Corpse

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

The Reporter Hero

About the author

More from Bold Venture Press

To Carol

Always an inspiration

Acknowledgements:

To the members of my writer’s tribe — Jaime, Nancy, Lee and Wayne — you keep me sharp.

Callback for a Corpse

Chapter 1

A Close Death with Brush

Let me state it right up front: I hate bloodsuckers and that includes mosquitoes, leeches, divorce lawyers and most of all, vampires! That brings me to being a press flack. Whether for a Burley Queue house or a movie studio it’s a job that, for a real reporter, is like the difference between a vampire bat and a mosquito; only of degree. They both suck.

That’s right, I, Moxie Donovan breathed the same rarified air as Hedda Hopper and Walter Winchell. Although it was more like hot air most of the time. There were more false fronts on the Hollywood elite than on the buildings on the old western towns where they shot horse operas.

So after a sojourn of plastering the walls of glass houses to defend the honor of aging stars who had none as a public relations man for Universal Studios, I went back to my first calling —the Fourth Estate. I started doing a little work on the side for Hollywood Secrets Magazine.

I know, gossip guru is supposed to be below the purview of a real reporter, but I got bored just writing fluff pieces for the studios at a salary considerably less than my movie star wife, Maxi. The thrill of the hunt, the smell of a hot story still called me. And, besides, a paycheck is a paycheck, and if you turn over enough rocks you sometimes find a pot of gold along with the creepy crawlies.

One of those creepy crawlies was Abner Mantley (everyone called him Mental Abner), a British transplant reporter turned studio publicity man who was actually so strange even the corrupt studio system had to admit it and canned him from the inner circles. But he still had contacts and for the moolah I could sling his way, he came out into the sunlight of an October afternoon to meet me at a hash joint on Cahuenga Boulevard in North Hollywood.

Moxie, pal, he said, half rising from the diner booth. He was so painfully thin his clothes hung on his frame like a second-rate scarecrow. He had watery blue eyes and a tick on his left cheek that made it seem as if he was winking all the time.

His hair was longish and stringy, and his teeth looked like they hadn’t been brushed since grade school. His hand had long fingers and long nails that made me want to not touch it, but I sucked it up and did my best to give a hearty handshake. His grip was like a dead fish.

So what’s so urgent that you had to come out in the scorching sun? I asked. I hoped he didn’t see me wipe my hand on my pant leg.

I needn’t have worried; he was preoccupied with adjusting the hearing aid in his left ear to hear me better. At least I hoped so — he might have been dialing in a baseball game for all I knew.

Our booth was tucked off in the back of the joint near the washrooms, I guess because the management was afraid of Abner scaring off business. The waitress who finally made her way back to us was a dish of a disher, hoping to boost her tips by wearing a little pink waitress outfit two sizes too small for her. She had my vote for a few extra cents.

I smiled up at her and ordered a coffee and a side of fries to munch on. I flashed her my winning Irish smile that got a wink from her. My wedding ring heated up, so I contained my charm at just the smile.

Abner kept his own council and fidgeted more than usual until she left, then h leaned in to offer a theatrical version of a whisper.

Danielle Scarlini, he said, with great importance. He slid a copy of Hollywood Reporter across the table at me then sat back as if he had given me the secret plans to the Hindenburg. The gorgeous brunette on the cover of the rag was the aforementioned Italian beauty, wearing just enough to be legal, with a headline The New Flavor from Rome!

When I failed to react, he scrunched up his bushy eyebrows and hissed, Laura LaBrite! As if that would explain it all. Then he dropped a copy of Hollywood Nitelife with a stunning blonde on the cover.

When that didn’t seem to impress me, he added, Jean Harrow!

The name of the star of yesteryear didn’t seem to connect with the two starlets he quoted so I just waited for him to elaborate. He started to make me nervous because he kept looking around as if he expected a raid from the Revenue Bureau, his glance darting to the door and watching out the windows to survey the street.

I’m sorry, Abner, I said, with a shrug, but I don’t see how mentioning two starlets and a has-been is even worth the price of lunch, let alone any real Jack —

He got an annoyed look again and leaned in. You ain’t no genius of journalism then despite your Pulitzer, Donovan, he hissed, ’cause if you ain’t noticed, the one disappears and all of a sudden the other is the latest craze.

It was true; the two European starlets had burst on the Hollywood scene, all curves and eyelashes to wow the cameras about six months apart. Scarlini was the sudden ‘it’ girl over at RKO for about half a year, and there was talk about her staring opposite Cary Grant; then, one day, she up and disappeared.

Most of us figured she had a bun in the oven and was off somewhere waiting to let it out. About a month after she went the way of all flesh, LaBrite showed up. They didn’t seem to have much pedigree but they were stunners so most camera jockeys didn’t care. Harrow was less of a mystery--she had some sort of car accident after her husband killed himself some time ago and she went to a ‘sanitarium.’

Why is that news? I asked. Aside from Harrow, those are just two more dames looking to make a splash. Probably both more likely from Des Moines than Milan.

Because in Europe the starlets both did films right before and just after the war as female leads under the names Renee Korval and Alicia Simons.

So? I queried. I had a feeling my time had been wasted by an old hophead who was too ashamed to directly put a touch on me for cash without an excuse. Child stars sometimes actually have careers as adults!

He shook his head so violently I thought he might fall over. No, no! he said, Scarlini was an adult lead as Korval. And the LaBrite dame was playing middle-aged aunts, for gosh sakes! Middle aged!

That — can’t — be, I said, neither one off them look over twenty-two.

He nodded and grew a jack-o’-lantern grin that showed off his yellowed teeth. Now ya see. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. And I know how they did it; and it ain’t no regular cosmetic surgery, not even close!

I was about to quiz him when my coffee and fries showed up so I clammed up. He looked around still waiting for the G-men to storm in and check his pockets for change.

I gotta powder my nose, he said, springing up and heading for the men’s room at the back of the diner without waiting for any comment from me. I was pretty sure he was being literal about the powder but now he had me interested so I waited.

My mind was whirling about all the press releases I had to get out that day to justify my salary. I let my thoughts drift to my personal redhead I was going to have a nice dinner with that night, and to the cocktail party I was supposed to attend with my wife, Maxi, and her evil compact compatriot, Kiki Gold the next night over at Bela Lugosi’s house. He always threw a great shindig. The last thing I needed was to sit and wait for a washout like Mental Abner to do a line of cocaine in the john.

I was vaguely aware of someone else moving toward the bathrooms and felt sorry for them if they had to try and wrestle the room away from the hophead; any surface he touched should be scoured with fire.

I found myself wishing I had something a bit stronger to flavor my coffee besides cream. Nevertheless. I sipped my coffee, munched my fries and steamed while wearing the face off my wristwatch with my eyes. Then I heard a scream from the back of the diner.

I was on my feet and running, java juice flying, before the scream was finished.

Mental Abner was sprawled awkwardly in the small hallway outside the lavatories with the sexy dishette doing a Judy Cannova impersonation by hopping around and squealing. The back door to the alley was open but Abner wasn’t going to be using it.

The little hophead didn’t look any less grotesque in death than he had in life, but one thing did look more interesting; there was the brush end of a long thin paintbrush sticking straight up out of his right ear.

I guess it’s true — you never hear the one that gets you!

Chapter 2

In Between and Out of It

It looked like I wasn’t going to get any office work done any time soon and might well miss dinner with my gal.

Instead of my redhead I was stuck ogling the traumatized waitress, drinking too much coffee and listening to Los Angeles’ finest tell me how great he was at solving crimes.

I’m telling you, Donovan, the flat foot said, a hophead like old Mental Abner just ticked off some other sewer rat and they offed him. The lecturer was Detective Jack Maloney, two hundred pounds of boiled Irish beef, with a nose like a pickle, male-pattern baldness he was ashamed of and a suit so cheap I was ashamed for him.

If that was so, Sherlock Homely, I said, how is it that the sewer rat could afford an expensive Windsor-Newton sable brush to kill Abner with?

Maloney’s expression gave lie to all of Darwin’s theories that we had actually made it past the ape stage. He pushed his Fedora back and looked at me with his head tilted to the left like a bloodhound that saw a vixen giving him the bird. A brush is a brush, Donovan.

Not so, oh Pooh-bah of policing, I said. That thing sticking out of Abner’s delicate sound shell is a top-of-the-line professional artist’s grade brush. I reveled in his confusion and his sudden belief I was the Answer Man himself. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by telling him my lady’s friend Kiki was a fashion illustrator and Maxi and I had bought her a set of those brushes for her last birthday.

So why were you here meeting with that punctured loser? the cop asked. His humanitarian tone truly touched me with its sincerity, so I lied.

"I owed him money from a tip he gave me on Flynn’s behind the scenes behavior on The Charge of the Light Brigade, so I agreed to meet him here and give him the Jack."

So, you’re saying this was just lousy timing?

Worse for him than for me, I said, with my sweetest smile, but yeah. I put down my cup of Java and made a silent promise to myself to never drink another cup. I’d break the promise come the morning, but I like to pretend I have will power. I make the same promise with eighty proof three times a day with the same results. I have lots of will power, just not a lot of won’t power.

And you are saying you didn’t see anyone heading back to the john?

No one I can identify, I said.

You can’t tell me anything about what he looked like?

I can’t even be sure it was a he, I said. I was not looking that way; it was just a dark shape out of the corner of my eye. I was reading the tea leaves in my coffee.

You are useless, Donovan.

Can I leave now, Shamus? My smile was angelic.

The gumshoe did his ‘doggie looking at a fox’ tilt again but decided to let it go.

Get outta here, he said, as if he was clearing his throat, but don’t leave town.

Wouldn’t think of it, I threw back over my shoulder. I’d miss the conversations with the colorful local constabulary!

I jumped into my roadster and headed out before any of the rusty sparkplugs in Maloney’s head decided to fire and he called me back for more questions.

I may have seemed a cold egg in there with Maloney, and to be true, I didn’t feel all that torn up about Abner’s passing, as it was a marvel of human will he had held on in life for as long as he had. Still, nobody deserves to die the way the little hophead did. Besides that, he was my snitch and I like to think I can at least protect my sources from irate fashion illustrators!

Not that I knew his death was connected to the vague facts he’d jawed at me, but it gave me something to do besides write fake bios for Universal stars and my tabloid snout was twitching with suspicion. I smelled some kind of story connected to him and the hunch was it had something to do with the info.

Besides, it’s bad for business if people think they can’t spill to an inkslinger because they end up with a trowel in their think box!

I wanted to consult my red-headed wife to see if she knew either of the two starlets from parties and such. I knew she hadn’t met Jean Harrow when the star had worked in Hollywood, as Maxi was still back on the vaudeville circuit then.

Unfortunately, my wife was on the set of a Jonny Mack Brown western up at Bronson Canyon, so instead I drove to the home office of Hollywood Secrets Magazine. They had a morgue file that rivaled the New York Times when it came to over-the-hedge shots of the hoi polloi and knew a lot of what went on behind those hedges as well.

Hey Moxie! Delores the receptionist greeted me as I lumbered through the door. She was a former showgirl, about five-foot ten who, besides answering the phones, functioned as keeper of the gate. She was a gargoyle in gingham who could and had kept out process servers, irate stars and down on their luck reporters looking for a touch. Still this knight of the nite-sheets sallied forth and bearded the dragon with my best smile.

Hey, D, I ventured, is old man Oldman in?

Hiding in the stacks, she casually called back as she did her magic with the switchboard. "Hollywood Secrets, she called into the phone, if it’s true, we’ll tell you! How can I help you?"

Go on in, Donovan, Delores threw at me. He’s in a good mood today.

That was a good thing, as the boss was even more formidable than she was.

I went straight back through the narrow hallway which was made more so by stacks of old issues and file folders that clogged the way. I half thought it was intentionally made into a maze to discourage a full-scale attack by some disgruntled crooner or movie mogul.

Zebulon Oldman was the assistant editor, a ball of energy who was older than water and tougher than leather. Most of us in the business figured he had been