Read The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery for Free Online Page B

Hold on—here’s a beginning. What do you know about that! Samantha Adams. Here’s the address, on Sixth Street in Hollywood. That’s a sorry block of bungalows turned rooming house a long time ago—so this kid was no millionaire.”
    Masuto copied down the name and address in his pad. There was no telephone number.
    â€œNo payment either,” continued Jenny. “The large sum is for membership,” she told Masuto, showing him the statement. “Almost two hundred with the dues, which is not hay by any means. You see, Sergeant, that’s the initiation fee, entrance fee, lifetime. But it was never paid. Neither was the dues payment—that is, the first payment. Here’s the follow-up statement and the second statement. That finishes the year. So this kid you’re looking for never joined the Guild. She had one job, maybe two—but not three. I mean in the profession. Maybe she went back to slinging hash. That’s another union. And she’s the only one. No more Samantha’s for 1955.”
    â€œYou amaze me,” Masuto nodded.
    â€œYou want me to amaze you some more, officer? I’m only doing it because you’re the sexy type. I’ll tell you something else about this kid. She never played anything real legitimate. Translated, that means adult theatre. She was never AEA.”
    â€œWhat’s AEA?”
    â€œActors Equity. Legitimate theatre. Also, she was never AFTRA, which is TV and radio artists, and she never did the clubs—no stripping, no Las Vegas, not even the crumb joints. That’s because she never claimed AGVA. So either she dumped it all—or else.”
    â€œHow do you know all this?”
    â€œNo mystery. Look, we have this big overall membership fee of two hundred dollars. But there are also three other major theatrical unions, and if one had to duplicate the entrance fee for every membership, some of these kids would die first. So we scale it. If you’re an Equity member, we give a credit of one hundred dollars. We also have a code of notation for the statements. So that’s how I do it. And if your wife locks the door on you, give me a ring right here. Nine to five. You just ask for Jenny. One Samantha, one Jenny. I told you the last name would be a phony too. Samantha Adams—get that.”
    Out on Sunset Boulevard and walking toward his car, Masuto wondered vaguely how it would be to be single and to date someone like this Jenny. He had only dated a Caucasian girl once, and she had been shapely but stupid. It had not been a satisfactory evening at all. He was impatient at himself for allowing his thoughts to wander. It was wasteful and childish, and he gathered them together.
    Sixth Street, east of Gower; it was an old, old Hollywood bungalow built of spit and slats, as they said, almost half a century before, with the sign out, “Furnished Rooms. Transients Accommodated.” In the old manner—the way most California houses had been before air-conditioning—the windows were closed and the blinds were drawn against the hot noonday sun. Masuto rang the bell, and a fat, frowzy woman of fifty or so, her feet in old slippers, her ample body in a bathrobe and her breath alcoholic, opened the door and said sourly. “I know—you’re a cop.”
    â€œYou’re very perceptive.”
    â€œNuts. You got it written all over you, and I ain’t fooled by the Charlie Chan makeup. What do you want? I run a clean, if a lousy house. Only men. This ain’t no Beverly Drive, so I don’t want no hookers giving me heartache.”
    â€œI’m looking for a girl.”
    â€œThen you’re looking through the wrong keyhole, Officer Chan. I only rent to men.”
    â€œThat wasn’t the case eleven years ago, I am sure.”
    â€œGood God Almighty, nothing was the case eleven years ago. I was a hootchie-kootchie dancer eleven years ago, believe it or not. Sure, I took in a