Vampyres of Hollywood by Adrienne & Scott Barbeau Page B

decorated with ink. It took me a few seconds to realize I was looking at a smiley face needled on someone’s penis.
    Little John bustled about, cleaning up after his last appointment, getting ready for the next. Every available inch of his skin was covered in tattoos, designs flowing into patterns, shapes morphing into letters, into animals, into creatures. Like that painting Astral Circus by Venosa. Some of it was crude and blotchy, but a lot was vivid and pristine. I briefly wondered what his penis looked like and then quickly shut that thought down.
    “So I guess you’re not here for some ink.”
    “Not this time. Looking for a little information—”
    “Aw, Peter, I’m no stoolie—,” he began, face falling.
    “On a movie star.”
    He brightened up. “Well, that’s different. My specialty. Who?”
    “Ovsanna Moore.”
    Little John’s face morphed into mush—I swear he was in love. “The Scream Queen. Third-generation Hollywood royalty,” his high-pitched voice went higher. “I’ve got her grandmother’s gloves from Birth of a Nation . I’ve got a letter her mother sent to Senator McCarthy refusing to attend a hearing, and I’ve got Ovsanna’s costume from Tell Me What You’ve Seen .” He stopped suddenly. “Why are you asking?” Then the color actually drained from his face. “Don’t tell me…don’t tell me something’s happened to her?” This huge tattooed monster was on the verge of tears.
    “She’s fine,” I said quickly. “Her name’s popped up in an investigation. I just wanted a little background.”
    “Well, you won’t find anything nasty. She’s a sweetheart, does a lot of charity work, funds a couple of theatre scholarship programs. If you buy her signed photo online the money goes right to Paul Newman’s Hole in the Wall Gang.” He went over to his battered metal filing cabinet and produced a photograph. It showed Little John standing beside—well, towering over—the diminutive Ovsanna Moore. It was signed in silver ink: “To Little John, my ‘biggest’ friend.” Her signature was an ornate loop.
    “Very nice.” I handed it back to him. This wasn’t what I had come here to find. “Any scandal, any dark secrets, addictions, husbands, lovers?”
    “Nah, not Ovsanna. She’s blameless. No scandal, no addictions, no husbands. I think she’s got some old boyfriends that she’s still friendly with, even after they split.”
    My antenna went right up. No one—not even the Pope—is that blameless. “What’s the story with her assistant?”
    “Ah, now there’s the secret! You discover that and the National Enquirer will give you a pension. No one knows. Maral McKenzie’s been with her for about ten years. There’s talk that they’re gay or bi, but no one knows anything for a fact and they never say a word. There’re some reporters who come right out and ask, too, but Ms. Moore just smiles and keeps her mouth shut. Part of the mystery.”
    In my job mysteries usually turn out to be nothing more than dirty little secrets. “Hmm, pity. I thought there might be some angle there.”
    The big man frowned. “Not your worst thought.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    Little John went rooting through his cabinet again. “I’ve got something here…. You know about the guy her assistant killed, right? The one in the house on Mulholland: the Canyon Killings. It was just before she started working for Ovsanna. Girl woke up and found a guy standing over her with his pants around his ankles. She never gave him the chance to explain before she sliced him up real good.”
    Little John had his back to me, so he didn’t see the look that must have crossed my face. I hadn’t worked that case, but I’d read the file. Just never connected that McKenzie with this one. Some detective I was.
    I kept my voice level. “Yeah. Vaguely. She did it with a knife, didn’t she? Right in his gut.” I love it when some piece of a puzzle clicks into place.
    “Twelve-inch-long Sabatier kitchen