Free The Glitter Dome by Joseph Wambaugh

school graduate with lots of top spin, he was dictating a letter to his steno, Gilda Latour. Be ready for lots of dick-tation, they told her, this one’s a lot younger than Uncle Nigel.
    But they dressed the same. In fact, Herman St. Claire dressed much like Martin Welborn. He looked like a Pasadena stock broker. And he was tan. Not that phony sunlamp tan. Not tan like the rest of the world’s idea of a California tan, but tanner than George Hamilton ever thought of being. Tanner than from holding a reflector under your chin six hours a day by the pool at the very top of Trousdale Estates, which was the only place in Beverly Hills to get a real tan. In the silent film days, the Truly Successful had schemed of throwing a Great Wall up around Beverly Hills, but had been foiled by the rest of the citizenry. Now Beverly Hills had more traffic problems than downtown L.A., and only at hilltop elevation could you escape the smog which congested the lungs, scalded the eyes, and broke up more tennis games than a thousand phone calls from theatrical agents. And now the Great Wall idea of yore didn’t seem so zany. Why did the so-called community leaders always fail to listen to the Truly Successful in The Business until it was too late? The Truly Successful had continued to warn them: Vietnam. Three Mile Island. And Ronald Reagan? Christ, he couldn’t get in The Brown Derby when real stars still went there. If they’d stacked those bricks and built the Great Wall, you’d be able to get a decent tan in Beverly Hills without going to a mountaintop like a fucking California condor.
    â€œTake a break, Gilda,” Herman III said to his steno.
    Al Mackey couldn’t believe it. She’s a nine and a half, at least, and she can take a letter? A miraculous place!
    And the office was more like it. Lots of European antiques (recycled furniture, they called it around here), photos of Herman III with stars and statesmen, some original movie posters of studio classics, and a forest of hanging ferns to cast mysterious shadows across the sculptured jaw of Herman III.
    The baby mogul had a crushing handshake. “Glad to meet you.” He beamed, making Al Mackey wonder who did his teeth.
    â€œSorry to have to ask you questions all over again,” Al Mackey said, as the two detectives were nudged toward an eight-foot sofa done in soft slate-gray leather, in front of which were two coffee tables covered end to end with copies of Daily Variety, The Hollywood Reporter , and Box Office .
    The Hollywood Reporter was open to a full-page ad of an aspiring actress, nude from the waist up. She was a beauty, but seemed flat-chested. Al Mackey leaned over for a closer look. The copy said: “Would You Believe I’m Only 10?”
    â€œCute idea, don’t you think?” said Herman III.
    Al Mackey looked at Martin Welborn. The aspiring actress was ten years old.
    Al Mackey then noticed two open volumes the size of telephone books containing pictures of male and female actors. Then there was a smaller book containing the names of directors and their agents along with notations beside the names which seemed to be in some kind of code. “Got to know the enemy’s weaknesses”—Herman III winked—“if you wanna do a deal. Hey, do you know Ralph Wisehart, works homicide at Beverly Hills P.D.?”
    â€œNo,” said Martin Welborn.
    â€œCan’t say I do,” said Al Mackey.
    â€œNo? That’s peculiar. I thought all the guys that worked the Stinker Squads knew each other.” He chuckled at that one, got no response, and said, “I often go to the pistol range with Ralph. Met him when he used to work burglary. He handled a four-five-nine at my house. Channel-lock job. They were going down twice a week until Ralph and I found this latent on the louvered window and convicted some East Side junkie. The print only had eight points, so it was really my testimony that sent the