Tough Luck L.A. by Murray Sinclair

Author:Murray Sinclair
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2019-09-24T16:00:00+00:00

34

The phone rang. It was eight o’clock.

“Hello?”

“Crandel?”

“Yes.”

“You fuck-up, Crandel.”

“Who is this?”

“You fuckin’ sonofabitch. I oughta bust your ass. If you think you can go runnin’ around stickin’ your nose into everybody else’s business, you’re in big trouble, buddy.”

I recognized the voice. It was Bradford Bobby. He sounded great on the phone. Like George C. Scott playing Patton. Very commanding.

“You hear me?”

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”

“What I’m so upset about,” he mimicked me. “I talked to Herbert. He told me what you’ve got up your sleeve. If you’re so cunt-crazy and stupid that you’re going to blame the murder of some whore girlfriend of yours on anybody in sight, I feel sorry for you, buddy.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Let’s get this straight. I’m not cunt-crazy. I’m not stupid—you got that? And my girlfriend was not a whore.”

“You can call her anything you like. But if you think you’re gonna hook up what happened to her with anything I might be responsible for, you’re outa your mind.”

“Who said I was going to?”

Then he really started screaming. “I can put one and one together. I get two. What do you get?”

“If you can’t get a hold on yourself, what you’re going to get is a nice long dial tone because I’m going to hang up.”

He lowered his voice, although it still threatened to blow up at any second. “OK, so you stumbled upon a little bit of info. Just because Harv Herbert comes to me with a set-up on a movie doesn’t mean I’m involved when the girl gets killed. I don’t even know why I’m even bothering to tell you this.”

“I guess you must be worried.”

“You make me sick—know that?”

“The only thing that confuses me is how you used to poke fun at me for writing porno when you were shooting it. That’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”

“Crandel, I don’t shoot porno movies. I finance them only very occasionally when I need revenue.”

“Oh.”

“I had nothing to do with that girl. I never even met her, and if you think you’re going to try to rub my nose in some bad PR, I—”

“I don’t suspect you or Herbert.”

“Then why have you been hassling him? He’s goin’ nuts.”

“I had a hunch that I was wrong about him. And now I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, then, I think you owe the man an apology.”

“Thanks, Brad. Now that you’ve got me straight on my etiquette, maybe life will be better.”

“The only way it’s gonna be any better is with you out of it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You can take that any way you want to,” he said, banging his end of the conversation down at my ear.

Boy, there’s nothing a pseudo big man gets more upset about than his PR. I knew that B.B. was out of the picture. His involvement with Herbert and Vicky’s theory had both been red herrings. That whole avenue had fit together too well, too easily. I thought it would be fun, though, to fuck up Bobby’s PR just for the hell of it.

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