1 The Hollywood Detective Read Online Free

dancer. She seemed to strut and glide in time with the music, lobster heels or not. Within five minutes she came back with an address scribbled on a napkin.
    “You know the funny thing is,” she said, “now I’ve looked round, there’s not a single person in tonight who left for that MGM party yesterday. Not one of them. Guess they must have sore heads, or something.”
    I could only hope a hangover was all Clara Lockhart was suffering from.

4
    The Garden of Allah was a notorious joint up on Sunset Boulevard. But now I knew how Benny Bowers paid some of his bills, it wasn’t surprising Red thought I’d find him there. It had been owned by some actress in the ’20s with a reputation for sin, and ever since it has attracted residents with exotic tastes. I’d been there once before and remembered it looking like an upmarket trailer park: a smallish plot with ten to fifteen rental bungalows secluded from each other by generous shrubbery. There was a clearing in the middle if you happened to be an exhibitionist. People usually rented them a week at a time when they were in town to make a picture. Red’s contact had told her Bowers was attending a party there: I had a fairly good idea what kind of party it would be.
    I had barely made it through the door before an elegant, manicured hand clasped my arm and a woman of about fifty started purring in my ear.
    “Did Artie send you?” She had an accent. European.
    I figured answering “no” would get me precisely nowhere, so I nodded and said: “Sure.”
    “He always seems to know what I like. Come with me.”
    She led me further into the house. She was wearing a sheer gown that didn’t leave much to the imagination—and the dame had a good figure for her age. She opened the door into the main room and instantly the music from the gramophone got louder. Ahead of me was quite a sight: at one end of a leather couch was an older guy with his shirt undone and his pants round his ankles, a girl on her knees in front of him. At the other end of the couch, like a matching bookend was a half-naked girl, and a guy kneeling between her legs.  
    “Do you want a drink, or shall we go straight to my room?” the foreign lady asked. I decided her accent was Swedish, because she reminded me of Ingrid Bergman.
    “I think I’d like that drink, if it’s all the same.”
    She squeezed my arm a little harder. Her face told me she liked what she felt. “I have some wonderful rum my husband brought back from the Caribbean.”
    I looked again at the man on the couch. Was that her husband? “Rum sounds good.” I’ve never been a big drinker but I had the feeling I would be grateful for a shot.
    “Are you going to at least take your jacket off, darling?”
    I obliged as she reached for the liquor inside a dark wood cabinet.
    “Cola?”
    “No, I’ll take it straight, thanks.” It was hard to concentrate with the slurping and moaning coming from the couch. I had to remind myself I was there to work.
    The woman handed me my rum.
    “You worked for Artie long?”
    “No, can’t say I have.”
    “This isn’t your first time?”
    “Not exactly.”
    She placed her hand on my chest and fingered the strap of my empty holster and started smoothing my shirt flat against my flesh.  
    “You a cop, honey?”
    “No, bounty hunter. Thought it best if I left the shooter in the car.”
    “Shame. There’s something attractive about a man with a gun.’ She spread out her fingers and massaged my chest. Then started to unbutton my shirt.
    “Shall we agree on payment first?”
    “Okay.” I took a slug of the rum. It was sweet and hot.  
    “There’s twenty dollars on the side over there.”
    By now my shirt was open to the waist.
    “You’ve got more muscles than Johnny Weissmuller. Are you an athlete?” she asked as she ran her hand across my shoulders.
    “Surf rider.”
    That seemed to meet with her approval.
    “And how old are you, honey?”
    “Just turned