John Malloy-Private Dick (9) *Scotty Bowers- Pimp to

John Malloy-Private Dick (9)
*The Blackmailed Beauty*

 (Scotty Bowers-Pimp to the Stars)

Me and Lana were tooling up Laurel Canyon Boulevard, north of Beverly Hills, getting closer to a Hollywood version of the boondocks. The cool spring breeze was wafting off the Pacific and blowing though our dancing top-mops.

I was bopping along at forty-five, in my two-seater, canary-yellow, ragtop Hudson. The big six was humming real sweet, and I felt like I had the world by the short and curlies!

"Be on your best behavior when you meet Mister Bowers," Lana warned me. "He may be known as a Hollywood prostitute falicatater, but he's really very nice man!"

We were getting higher in altitude and I noticed more and more trees were showing-up in the passing scenery.

"I'll be good as a rookie priest," I promised. "I need him to locate a blue-plate-special of a sadistic prostie for me. I don't wanna rustle his feathers, none."

I took a quick look-see down at Lana's pink, springtime skirt. The   hem of the light, silky gam-cover was hiked about an inch above her pretty knees.

I made a mental note to thank her for not hanging any padded shoulders suit-things on that darby frame of hers; the kind with the hemline around her ankles, like Joan Crawford and her crowd.

She lifted a slender bare arm toward my windshield, pointing a finger at a street sign coming up. "That's Strathern Street!," she erupted!.. "Turn right!"

I cranked the wheel and motored into an upscale neighborhood, with a gaggle of expensive-looking shiny buckets, parked in the concrete driveways of some very pricey real estate.

Lana pointed to a spanish hacienda, with a double garage that took up a half an acre. "That's Scottie's house!," she yelled in a mild panic.

I turned the wheel, pulling over to the curb. "Some digs!" I announced, with a whistle. I opened the heavy car door and ankled around past the hood to let Lana out.

We had to waltz by a gated driveway to pass through an arched pedestrian entrance. It was attached to a black, six-foot wrought iron fence.

I opened the short gate and we strolled up the cement walkway, past a pair of four-foot, Greek-looking statues of naked Adonis-types.

We step up on the covered  outdoor-carpeted porch. "Are you sure he's clued we're landing here now?"I asked.

She straightened her white, silk blouse and answered,"I called Mister Bowers this morning and told him of my problem. He wants to help me, if he can! He hates blackmailers, too!"

 I was poised to rap on the big oak door when it swung open.

 He didn't look like any pimp I'd  ever seen! He seemed to be in his mid-twenties; lean and athletic. The Hollywood pimp was a cheese cake-magnet of obvious Irish descent, with a curly carrot-top and an easy smile.

He held out his open meat-hook and said, "You must be John Malloy! Lana told me you want to help her."

I took his firm grip. He pumped my mitt like I was an old pal. "Have I got a girl for you!" he chuckled.

Bowers was shirtless, and sporting a pair of gray, loose-fitting pleated trousers, belted just below this ribcage. He stepped back and waved us in. "Welcome to my humble abode!" he piped, with a dramatic bow, and sweep of his freckled arm.

The Hollywood dandy strode across his big living room across plush, brown carpeting, matching color with an eight-foot davenport.  The glitteratti plopped down and planted his unsheathed dogs on the glass-top coffee table.  

He signaled at a couple of overstuffed chairs across the room, with another sweeping motion of his arm. "Please ...have a seat! Let's talk a little business, shall we?"

Lana sort of glided across the thick carpet and settled into one of the cushy chairs. Ditto for me,  only with a lot less glide.

"So, tell me, Mister Malloy, how are you planning on using our sexy Mona?," Bowers asked. "She says her name is Mona Lott...and who am I to question the lady's veracity?"

He flashed the pearlies that apparently got him in like flint with the hotsy-totsy Hollywood movie elete.

"Well, Bowers," I start off, "this crooked flatfoot's a rotten-apple, piss-gulping, schnook of a scumbag masochist! Outside of that, I hear he's a pretty swell guy."

He put up an open paw in protest, " "Please call me Scotty!" He looked at me, quizzically. "May I call you John?"

"That's affirmative, Scotty!," I shot back, starting to cotton to the Irish lad, already. "What I'm scheming  on is a way of luring this blackmailing, dirty vice-copper to a cheap motel room that I'll have wired for sound and installed with hidden home flicker cameras."

I gave him a few seconds to digest that bit of Intel. "That's where your sadist hooker comes into the act  I wanna be in cahoots with some date-bait bimbo who can help me cut this fat sleazeball down to size!"

Bowers tilted his reddish casaba back and opened his trap, wide. He started cracking-up like he'd just heard the joke of the century. He went on for a good thirty seconds before he wound down to a giggle.

Finally, he took a lungfull and let it out, slow. "Blackmail the blackmailer!,"he hooted. "That is the best damned idea I have ever heard, John! That L.A. vice squad is riddled with dirty cops who've shaken down a lot of my Hollywood clients and friends!"

He shot a sympathetic look at Lana and said, "Let's nail the blackmailing bastard, sweetheart!"

Then he suddenly bolted upright to his pins and clapped his hands a couple of times. "Hey, Mona!," he called over his shoulder, "It's showtime, baby!"
.