‘Lillian. I came from Mr Ramsey’s office. How do you know Clyde?’
‘From around.’
‘Around where? Maybe prison?’ I scraped up a smile I didn’t feel. ‘Some of us have heard Clyde’s story.’
‘Figures. What, did this give it away?’ Again he slapped a finger near his damaged eyeball and I almost screamed. ‘Yeah, Clyde and I met in stir. Folsom, it was, years back now. I knew right away he was smarter than me, had it knocked. Caught on to this writer’s racket. Me, I’m no good with words, so I’m just a humble actor.’
‘You are?’
‘Trying to make a go of it, anyway. Just extra work so far, but I’m signed on at Central Casting. You mighta seen me in The Cornerman, boxing picture RKO did. I’m one of a row of plug uglies in the gym. Roles like that are my specialty. Providing character, which I got to spare.’ He waggled his eyebrows, the left one still responding to direct orders. ‘My look helps me get on any lot I want, provided I come by after lunch.’
I stared at him, not understanding. For the third time, he smacked his face near his eye, this time with genuine hostility.
‘I tell ’em at the gate this is make-up and I got to get back to the set. It’s not like the guy’s gonna come in for a closer look. Works every time. Worked today. I’m here, ain’t I?’
I agreed with him. He certainly was. ‘Are you hoping to catch on in Clyde’s next picture?’
‘Figure it never hurts to ask. Streetlight Story is sure to be a doozy.’
My hand began to ache. I realized I’d rolled up my copy of the Streetlight Story script, clenching it until my fingers had gone numb. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Based on a real caper. Clyde told me the story. He’s been carrying it around for years.’
‘And he’s always on the level?’
‘Always. If he says something happened a certain way, you can believe it. He’s got great respect for his whatchacall craft.’ Conlin nodded crisply for emphasis. ‘I help him sometimes. Keep my ear to the ground and my eye open.’ He thrust his left orb toward me and chortled. I willed myself not to recoil. ‘Anything I hear from the boys, any good stories, I pass ’em along, see if he can use ’em in pictures. He throws me a few bucks if he does. He’s a good egg, Clyde. Had some choice scuttlebutt to share with him today, a real corker of a yarn, but I got here too late.’ Conlin slid along the railing closer to me. ‘Say, maybe we can find ol’ Clyde together. You know where a fella might wet his whistle around here?’
I stared levelly into his right eye. ‘Sorry,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got no idea.’
STREETLIGHT STORY
A-4CLOSE SHOT – NEWSPAPER HEADLINE
The banner reading: ‘STRING OF ROBBERIES BAFFLES POLICE.’
After a moment, THE CAMERA BEGINS TO MOVE BACK.
A-5THE EXTERIOR OF THE CLUB MADRID
The marquee is dim. It reads ‘Eric Richlieu and his Continental Orchestra – Dining – Dancing – Entertainment.’ Many people bustle past during the lunch hour. They ignore the young newsie outside the nightclub, doing his level best to sell papers.
NEWSIE
Read all about it! Get your paper!
Eddie Lawrence walks up to the lad, a nickel already in his hand. He flips it into the air. The newsie hands Eddie a paper and snatches the coin. Eddie stops to survey the front page.
EDDIE
Baffled, it says. Who’s baffled?
NEWSIE
If the paper says it, it’s got to be so.
Eddie grumbles and raises the newspaper, making as if to swat the kid. The boy sticks out his tongue at Eddie and scampers away.
EDDIE
(talking to himself)
Nobody’s baffled. We’re just stuck.
(yelling after the kid)
We’re just stuck, that’s all.
He walks toward the entrance of the Club Madrid. A sign dangles from the door reading ‘Closed.’ Eddie smirks at the sign, nudges it aside, and goes into the club.
A-6INSIDE THE CLUB MADRID – FULL SHOT
The elevated stage is bare. Most of the tables arrayed around it have been draped with cloths.
A-7EDDIE
He walks into the club and stops at the only table that has been laid out for the evening. He picks up a linen napkin and inspects it, then waves it daintily in the air, finding it a bit frou-frou. He tosses the napkin back on the table.
A clatter erupts behind him. Eddie turns around and sees a trio of chorines in their rehearsal togs coming down from the stage. Eddie doffs his hat as they walk past, goggling at him.
EDDIE
Afternoon, ladies.
The first of the dancers giggles at Eddie, her laughter spilling like toppling dominoes through her compatriots as they continue out. Eddie shrugs at their reaction and begins inspecting the flatware.
A-8JENKINS – BY THE KITCHEN DOOR
Jenkins, the nightclub’s general dogsbody, limps in from the kitchen dragging a mop and bucket. He sees Eddie lifting a fork to the light and scowls at him.
A-9JENKINS AND EDDIE
JENKINS
Help yourself, why don’t you. We’re closed.
EDDIE
Yeah, I know. The sign on the door told me.
JENKINS
(angrily)
You don’t listen too good, then. Why don’t you take it on the arches, pal?
EDDIE
Supposing I was invited.
JENKINS
(confused)
Well, were you?
Eddie puts the fork down, taking care to arrange it neatly. Jenkins fumes at him.
EDDIE
I’m looking for Jim Morris. Understand he’s the head man around here.
JENKINS
(belligerently)
Who’s looking for him?
EDDIE
Eddie Lawrence is.
JENKINS
And who’s Eddie Lawrence when he’s at home?
Eddie pulls back his suit jacket, revealing the detective’s shield clipped to his belt. Jenkins gulps.
JENKINS
Why didn’t you tell me you were a cop?
EDDIE
You were busy telling me you were closed.
A-10ARLENE – AT THE CLUB MADRID’S DOOR
Arlene pulls the door open to find Eddie and Jenkins.
A-11CLUB MADRID – FULL SHOT
Eddie spots Arlene entering and doffs his hat with a small smile. Jenkins sees her and shakes his head.
JENKINS
You’re too early.
ARLENE
Excuse me?
JENKINS
Auditions for the chorus are after lunch. Two o’clock.
(looking her up and down)
I’d definitely come back if I were you.
EDDIE
Good thing you’re not.
He walks over to Arlene and chastely kisses her on the cheek.
EDDIE
Hello, sweetheart. They’re closed.
ARLENE
I know. The sign on the door told me.
Jenkins stares from one to the other and back. He starts beating a retreat to the kitchen.
JENKINS
I’m going to—
EDDIE
Yeah, why don’t you?
Jenkins vanishes through the kitchen doors. Arlene shakes her head at Eddie.
ARLENE
Do you have to pick on everybody?
EDDIE
Sure. Part of the fun of the job.
He pulls Arlene close to give her a real kiss. As they do, Jim Morris emerges from the kitchen. He is being fitted for a tuxedo, the jacket still covered with chalk marks. He sees Eddie and Arlene in the clinch and shakes his head.
The kitchen door flies open again and a tailor comes out, his hands knotted in worry.
TAILOR
Meester Morris, I no-a finish your suit.
JIM
We’ve got time, Carlo.
(yelling at Eddie and Arlene)
Easy over there! Around here people pay good money for that kind of show!
Eddie and Arlene laugh. The tailor toddles back into the kitchen in agitation.
EDDIE
That fella who greeted me new around here?
JIM
Second day on the job.
EDDIE
Might want to give him the sack.
JIM
Good help’s hard to find. Haven’t you heard?
EDDIE
Yeah. We’ve lost some good men down at the department lately. You’re one of them.
JIM
Starting this number again. And me without the violins here yet.
ARLENE
(quickly playing peacemaker)
It’s a beautiful club, Jim.
JIM
It is now that you’re here.
EDDIE
Old Silver Tongue. Probably helps in your line.
JIM
Didn’t do much for me when I was on the force. Fella could make a living but not any money.
EDDIE
Fella could also do some good, if he wanted.
JIM
I do plenty of good here. Time away from your cares and woe is a service too. I could use a partner.
EDDIE
Sez you.
JIM
(seriously)
I mean it, Eddie. I could use someone who knows this city the way you do. Who can stop trouble before it starts. The Club Madrid is coming up flush. You could finally make some real money.
EDDIE
The city pays me enough.
Jim smiles at Arlene.
JIM
I’m talking about enough money to treat your lovely wife the way she deserves.
ARLENE
Eddie’s always taken good care of me.
EDDIE
(testy)
You heard the testimony, Your Honor. Is that why you brought me here, to make your big pitch? I thought the three of us were going to load up on chow mein, like in the old days.
JIM
Table at Chao Lin’s is already waiting. I just thought I’d ask again because of what I read in the paper this morning.
EDDIE
(annoyed)
Baffled. Nobody’s baffled. We’re—
JIM
—just stuck, that’s all. Sure, I remember.
EDDIE
We’ll crack this one, I promise you. Reminds me, I should call downtown.
JIM
Got a hot tip in the fifth race, do you?
EDDIE
Yep, and I placed that bet this morning.
JIM
Of course you did. Phone’s at the front desk. Tell them I said it’s OK.
EDDIE
Mighty white of you.
Eddie leaves to make his phone call. Arlene smiles at Jim.
ARLENE
Do I get the grand tour?
JIM
Sure thing. In a minute.
A-12CLOSE SHOT – ARLENE AND JIM
Jim moves closer to speak to Arlene in confidence.
JIM
I could use your help convincing him.
ARLENE
Eddie’s his own man. Always has been. You knew that when you introduced us.
JIM
He’s never faced a united front before. If we both worked on him …
ARLENE
Would it really make a difference? Being a police officer is all Eddie’s ever wanted. Who am I to take that away from him?
JIM
(after a long pause)
I never should have let you get away. Ready for that tour?
ARLENE
(nervous)
I should see what’s keeping Eddie.
She hurries off after her husband. Jim watches her with a crooked smile on his face. He shakes his head and heads for the kitchen.
JIM
(shouting)
Carlo! Get out here and finish my suit!
END OF SEQUENCE ‘A’
FOUR
I read Streetlight Story in a hamburger joint far enough from Paramount to minimize the chance of encountering familiar faces. I didn’t want any interruptions. The movie unspooled across my mind’s eye with the aroma of onions instead of popcorn as accompaniment.
I hated it. Streetlight Story’s script was, to use a word I’d learned back in New York, dreck. One hundred and four pages of claptrap with the occasional snappy wisecrack and spots for two songs. Another version of me – the one who’d stayed in Flushing, perhaps – would have enjoyed the movie made from it. But I wasn’t that me. I was this one, and the notion of this picture playing in theaters shrouded me in dread.
In the script, Gene – sorry, Jim – was a sharpie with a surplus of charm and a quick line forever at his disposal. He bankrolled the nightclub he’d opened after quitting the police force with proceeds from a string of robberies he’d masterminded by exploiting his knowledge of both sides of the law. He also carried a torch for Arlene, who was most definitely not Abigail, the girl he’d foolishly introduced to his tough-as-nails heart-of-gold ex-partner Eddie. Any similarity to Teddy was purely coincidental.
After a big, glamorous nightclub scene that was clearly the cause of Max Ramsey’s fretting, Jim steers Eddie toward a confrontation with his handpicked hair-trigger crew. Following a bank robbery, Eddie is shot and killed – only he isn’t, playing possum so he can get the drop on his old friend, busy with his designs on the (presumed) widow Lawrence. I didn’t buy the plot twist. It seemed needlessly cruel to poor Arlene, a character I didn’t want to feel sorry for. It was crueler still to the gods of plausibility, the whole megillah grafted on to give the enterprise a happy ending. I understood the logic, though; Streetlight Story would be the second half of the bill, meant to send audiences home on an up-note.
Max hadn’t lied. The details were different; as far as I knew, the California Republic bank robbery had never been tied to any other crimes. But I still loathed the tale they told. Clyde Fentress was positing that Gene had not only orchestrated the heist, he’d arranged Teddy’s death to get Abigail. The very thought pained me. What pained me even more was having to tell them about it.
Gene had inherited Teddy’s seat at a cops’ poker night. He said he’d be happy to back out of it. He’d lost enough money lately.
Abigail told me it was a pleasure to hear my voice. She only had a quiet evening at home with the radio planned, so getting together would be no imposition at all. Fun, even. It had been too long since we’d seen each other.
The prospect of being hemmed in by exhausted strangers on streetcars drove me mad, so I splurged on a taxicab to take me to Gene’s house on Bunker Hill. The taxi pulled up outside the ramshackle Victorian, and I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I hiked past the Shell station on the corner to a drug store I didn’t like and ordered a coffee I didn’t want. I let it cool in front of me, then drank it out of spite. Having summoned Gene and Abigail, I was the one who would be late.
I finally knocked on Gene’s door. He answered at once. His brown hair and his shirt collar hung limply at the end of a long day, but his eyes crackled with life. ‘It’s our mysterious mistress of ceremonies,’ he said loudly, then pulled me inside his home and his arms.
‘Hello,’ he whispered in my ear.
Making sure we remained in the privacy of the tiny entry alcove, he kissed me. The stubble on his chin scraped my face, the corner of a table dug into my back, my knees buckled. For a moment I thought about taking his hand and rushing out into the night, leaving Los Angeles and the picture business behind us.
Abigail waited in the front room. She hadn’t changed after work, wearing a navy blue straight skirt, an ivory blouse, and a baby blue cardigan with an openwork pattern on the front that she’d probably knitted herself. She flitted over and embraced me, so delicate I could feel her heart beating against my chest. She was right; it had been a while since I’d seen her. Gene and I had withdrawn from her over the past few m
onths after deciding – mutually, I reassured myself – that the three of us were spending too much time together. She was her usual lively presence, the little girl breathlessness of her voice making you want to draw her close and protect her.
I hadn’t missed that quality, I had to admit. Not at all.
A few moments of idle chatter and snacks foraged from Gene’s poorly stocked kitchen followed. Schoolteacher Abigail was already looking forward to the summer but needed another job; did I know if Tremayne’s, the department store where I’d once worked, was hiring? Gene groused amiably about work, sending me reassuring glances. I’d convened this little meeting. He’d hold the floor until I felt ready to address it.
My nerves frayed, I placed the copy of the Streetlight Story script onto the coffee table, the pages beginning to curl up like waves from my constant worrying of them.
’I should have guessed,’ Gene said with a smile. ‘You visited Edith.’
‘You already know the story in her new picture,’ I said. ‘Just not told like this.’
I laid it out from start to finish. I rued my decision to have a cup of coffee, the liquid congealing in my stomach, but with determination I saw the tale through. Finally, I sat back, the silence broken only by the rattle of ice cubes as Gene massaged a tumbler of whiskey between his palms. He stared at his reflection in the bay window, the better to admire his sideways grin of disbelief.
Then Abigail unleashed a huge, wrenching sob.
I didn’t wait for Gene to console her. The sisters at St Mary’s had trained me well. I ran to Abigail and she flung herself at me, hot and trembling, the shudders wracking her frail form coming from a deep and contained place.
‘Why are they doing this?’ she asked through tears. ‘Why can’t they leave us alone? Teddy’s gone and we want some peace.’
Us? I thought as I tutted and stroked her head. We?
‘Maybe no one will make the connection,’ I said. ‘But people involved with the movie are touting it as a true story and I thought you both should know.’
‘What’s this jailbird writer’s name? Clyde Fentress?’ Gene’s voice was even. ‘Don’t know the man. But I’ll find out all there is about him by tomorrow.’
Abigail turned toward Gene. ‘You have to tell Lillian.’
I fought off a shudder of my own. ‘Tell me what?’
‘More big news!’ Gene set his glass down. ‘Our esteemed district attorney Buron Fitts has quietly reopened the investigation into the California Republic bank robbery. Specifically they’re looking at the circumstances of Teddy’s death.’
Script for Scandal Page 3