Free The Glitter Dome by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

sucker to Big Q.”
    Herman III had exhausted every piece of police jargon he had learned from his father’s six cop movies and still had gotten no smiles. “How about a drink?” he said finally.
    â€œBourbon.” Al Mackey smiled.
    â€œVodka, if you have it.” Martin Welborn smiled.
    Having gotten a friendly response at last, Herman III cheerily buzzed for Tiffany Charles, ordering booze for the cops and Perrier for himself. Herman Jr., as well as Herman The Original, had both been globetrotting moguls who pretty much ignored their offspring during the children’s formative years. Herman III was never able to begin any conversation unless he felt his listener either liked him or might learn to like him. The cops’ smiles were reassuring.
    While the detectives sat on the slate-gray sofa and put away two drinks each, and ate corned beef sandwiches from the comissary, he told them all he knew about his bachelor uncle’s last night on earth. This took one and a half minutes: “What the hell was my uncle doing at a bowling alley? My grandfather had a bowling alley in his house and Uncle Nigel never used it. Uncle Nigel told the houseboy he was going out for an hour and never came back.”
    Then he talked about himself. Which took forty-five minutes and might never have ended until he started thinking of jungle animals. “Do you dig karate, Al?” Herman III asked while Al Mackey wondered whether or not he should put away the third bourbon. It was only two o’clock.
    â€œCan’t say as I do, Herman. Actually, I’m in lousy shape.”
    â€œYeah? That’s too bad. I run in all the ten K races. Actually, I do six miles a day. Pulse rate, fifty-two. This is a tough and dangerous business, Marty. You got to stay in shape. These fuckers go for your throat . Just last week some midget of an agent tried to hold me up for a million out front and ten points from the first dollar! It’s a fucking jungle , Marty. You can’t believe it. They’re animals!”
    â€œI can believe it, Herman,” Martin Welborn said, serenely sipping at his vodka.
    â€œKnow what they say these days, Al?” Herman III said. “They say a million is scale! That’s what these fucking agents say. A million is scale . Can you see why we’re all starving to death in The Business these days? Nobody can make a dime anymore. Greedy pricks! What kind of gun you carry, Marty?”
    â€œGun? Uh, just a four-inch Smith .38,” Martin Welborn shrugged.
    â€œThat’s all?” Herman III was visibly disappointed. “I dig a .357 magnum.” Then he pointed his imaginary magnum and yelled, “Bloo-ee!” which startled the crap out of Al Mackey and made him spill the third drink.
    â€œI know how much your uncle Nigel was revered,” Martin Welborn said, “but can you think of anyone who might want to kill him?”
    â€œUgh!” Herman III said. “That was so crude. My dad did a film about a killing like that. I never would. I don’t like that kind of violence. All that gore, I just don’t get off on it. I get stoked on clean shootings, not in the face. You know, Al, you have to get a really good makeup artist to do the blood bags or no one will buy it when you do a tight closeup of a .357 blowing holes. Audiences are sophisticated these days.”
    â€œI can believe it,” said Al Mackey.
    â€œSee those naked little guys?” Herman III pointed to a bookshelf behind his desk holding three Oscars. “You don’t make the audience happy with bullshit bullet holes. That’s what it’s all about. See what I mean, Marty?”
    Both detectives nodded. Herman III was buying the drinks.
    His caps sparkled through the suntan. He was sure these guys liked him. He was sure they were okay guys. He would love to solve a murder case with okay guys like this. Imagine what everyone would say if he helped solve the murder