The Hollywood Op by Terence Faherty

Author:Terence Faherty [Faherty, Terence]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Stories (Single Author)
ISBN: 9781935797081
Google: XX_YswEACAAJ
Amazon: 1935797085
Publisher: Perfect Crime Books
Published: 2011-01-23T11:00:00+00:00

TWO

Grauman’s Chinese Theater looked like the MGM set department’s idea of a chop suey house, with its jade green pagoda roof, red pillars, and its dragons, large and small. Grauman’s warehouse, on the other hand, was strictly out of Omaha, Nebraska, its facade lacking any decorations whatsoever, unless you counted the oversize garage doors. The walls were poured concrete, naturally. Grauman’s used so much of the stuff, they probably got a discount. I wondered if the workmen who’d built the place had signed their names before it dried.

The pedestrian entrance had a doorbell, but Paddy tried the knob first. It turned in his hand, and we waltzed on in. The first thing we came to was a giant gorilla’s foot, cut off at the ankle and big enough inside for Paddy to use it as a bathtub.

“Forgot they did the King Kong premier,” he said as we circled the prop. “That was a night.”

Beyond the foot were racks holding scenery flats and enough spotlights for a chain of theaters. Four very special lights came next, the giant, wheeled searchlights Grauman’s used to light up the night sky during big events.

Paddy kicked the nearest searchlight’s tire and said, “If the Japanese bombers had made it over here, old Sid Grauman would have been ready for them.”

We heard voices and saw a trio of men standing in a sunny square beneath a skylight. One of them saw us back and hurried to meet us, a very thin man with sunken cheeks, big sad eyes, and wavy hair that looked like it had been pulled at recently.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said, sounding as sincere as the greeter at a funeral parlor. “I’m Frank Findley, vice president of public relations. The police are still here”—he gestured toward the men he’d just left—“so maybe you’d like to wait outside.”

“The police are old friends of ours,” Paddy assured him. “We’ve helped them out any number of times. Before we join them, why don’t you tell my associate, Mr. Elliott, about what happened last night.”

Findley blinked. “You haven’t briefed him? I must say I’m surprised.”

Welcome to the club, I thought, though it had actually been years since I’d been surprised by Paddy’s managerial style.

“I wanted him to hear it from you,” the great man said. “I was afraid he’d start theorizing before he had all the data. That’s a big mistake in our business.”

“He keeps his cigars in a coal scuttle, too,” I told Findley, but the allusion sailed over his head.

He blinked again, focused on me, and began. “Last night someone broke in here and stole three concrete slabs we had in storage.”

“Three? I thought only two had been yanked when the box office was renovated.”

Findley was impressed. “Two of the slabs were ones we’d removed for those box office repairs. They belonged to actresses of no consequence. The third was quite different.”

Paddy didn’t nudge me in the ribs, but I felt it anyway.

The theater representative cleared his throat. “Please understand that what I’m about to tell you is in the strictest confidence, Mr.

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