Script for Scandal

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Script for Scandal Page 22

by Renee Patrick


  ‘Mr Dolan is here,’ I said, aiming to be helpful.

  ‘I didn’t ask you!’ Max barked. Then, ‘Is he? Hmm. We’ll take this up on Monday, Edith. You have a pleasant evening.’

  ‘Likewise, Max.’

  He walked the length of the row so he could leave without having to pass me.

  I sat down in the rear of the screening room – people stuck gum under the seats in here, too – while Edith finished setting her appearance to rights. An unruly tuft of hair poked out by her left ear, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.

  ‘Projectionists. They see all, and never breathe a word,’ Edith said. ‘Looks like my secret is out.’

  ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘Then why were Max and I skulking around? Two unmarried people.’ Edith pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘The truth is, Max and I were engaged.’

  ‘You were? When?’

  ‘A few years ago.’ Her answer caught me off guard, because until 1938 she had been married. Divining my thoughts, she said, ‘Charles and I were still together. In name, anyway. Max said he wanted to marry me, and somehow that was enough. He didn’t pressure me for a divorce. By the time Charles and I separated, Max and I had also drifted apart. This picture has thrown us back together.’ She sighed. ‘My emotions, I fear, are rather jumbled.’

  ‘Mine always are.’ We sat in silence a moment. ‘There’s nothing stopping the two of you from giving it a go now.’

  ‘Yes, there is. I don’t love him.’ She smiled tightly, still showing no teeth. ‘And a lot has changed. Max and I are at different places in our careers. He has history here, but he’s barely hanging on. If I’m seen being involved with a man at the studio, it weakens my position. If he’s a man on his way down, well …’ She shrugged helplessly at the cruel indifference of the system.

  I’d never heard Edith sound so cold-blooded, so mercenary. Worse, her words struck me as hypocritical after she’d taken me to task for continuing to see Simon. But then I didn’t have to face the demands she did; I wasn’t the sole woman in charge of an entire department at a major company. And it seemed petty to voice any disapproval when Edith seemed as vulnerable and exposed as she did now.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Would you mind watching the Streetlight Story rushes anyway? Max is concerned about Brenda’s wardrobe. And after learning about Sylvia’s agenda, I confess I’m curious about the film.’

  ‘So am I.’

  Edith leaned over to the speaker. ‘All right, Leo. Would you mind starting from the beginning?’

  The lights dimmed. I waited for that giddy anticipatory thrill that ran through me the instant before a movie began, but it didn’t come. Maybe I’ve felt it for the last time, I thought sadly. The price of learning how the sausage is made.

  Rushes, the raw footage shot for a picture, were like peering at the mechanism of a film, peppered with glimpses of technicians hastening to their places and actors consulting with people off-camera. The sight of this behind-the-scenes magic produced a faint rush of pleasure. My love affair with the movies hadn’t ended after all.

  Luddy had filmed the early scene where Jim tries to persuade Arlene to help him talk her husband Eddie into working for him. He’d lit the nightclub set so the shadows around the stage were an almost Stygian black. Fred MacMurray and Brenda Baines were awash in light save for the final moments, when MacMurray stood with his face shrouded in darkness, only his wounded eyes visible, the lighting doing much of the work for him.

  Sylvia, I thought, would have loathed the scene, because MacMurray – handsome, charming, everything I thought Gene was – proved so irresistible despite his obvious shadiness he won you over to his side. Luddy had been right; casting the hugely appealing actor as a heavy made an inspired choice.

  I never should have let you get away. MacMurray said the line in take after take, modulating his inflection, gently boosting the hunger in each reading. In the last version, he reached out of the shadows to seize Brenda’s forearm, and my heart leapt into my throat.

  As for Brenda, she made Arlene bright and devoted without becoming cloying. Plucky, that was the word for her character, and for the actress herself. I liked her wardrobe, and told Edith so.

  Her disembodied voice came out of the darkness. ‘Thank you, Lillian.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Palm Sunday ranked as one of my favorite dates on the liturgical calendar because you were given a prop, which made mass feel like show business. The service commemorated Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, the faithful cutting branches from the trees to lay down a path for him. My uncle Danny frowned on my affection for the day. ‘Don’t become one of those A&P Catholics, pet,’ he’d tell me. ‘Ashes and palms, only going to church when you get something. You’ve got to go to mass when you get nothing out of it.’ His warnings didn’t dim my enthusiasm. I never received an actual palm back in Flushing owing to the climate, just an acceptable facsimile. But in California, you got the McCoy.

  This Palm Sunday began with disappointment. My favorite priest had yielded the pulpit to some mucky-muck from the archdiocese. Instead of one of Father Nugent’s sprightly sermons complete with limericks and references to the latest movies, we were subjected to undiluted fire and brimstone from Monsignor Catlett about what Our Lord would be facing later in the week. The Monsignor cautioned us to be on guard for the Judases in our own lives, willing to betray us for thirty pieces of silver – or less, sounding like a used car dealer. The homily didn’t go over well, judging from how many in the pews fanned themselves with their palm fronds like they were in a bargain-basement DeMille picture. Perhaps Monsignor Catlett should have previewed his effort in Pasadena. Father Nugent had done a whole bit as the donkey the year before, complete with funny voice, that had been gangbusters.

  I walked home slowly, the Monsignor’s foreboding words ringing in my head, letting passersby take note of my palms. I’d place them behind the crucifix hanging in my bedroom.

  Simon’s car waited outside Mrs Quigley’s, the man himself reading a newspaper behind the wheel. He braced his hand against his left temple, concealing the puckered patch of skin on the side of his face. I lurked in the shadows of my building for a moment, watching him as I gathered my thoughts.

  But I hadn’t accounted for the car’s mirrors. Without turning, Simon said, ‘What’s that in your hand? Have you come bearing gifts?’

  Caught, I approached the car. A fifth of bourbon peeked out from under the sports section. ‘It’s Palm Sunday.’

  ‘I have no idea what that is.’ After I gave him a précis on the holy day, he asked, ‘Do I wish you a Happy Palm Sunday?’

  ‘I suppose. I’d hold off on Happy Good Friday, though.’

  ‘I can see that. I didn’t hear back from you yesterday. How did things go with your elusive quarry?’

  ‘Very well, thanks entirely to you. I truly don’t know what I would have done without you.’

  ‘I’m always ready to help you. Even if doing so means I’m also helping Gene. How’d he take it?’

  I brushed the palm fronds against the car’s door. ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not sure how helpful what I found out is. I’m not even sure he wants my help.’ I paused. ‘Things have been a little fraught the last few weeks.’

  ‘He’s crazy if he doesn’t want you in his corner. Speaking of that, I know I’ve been remiss lately. I want to tell you I’m changing my ways.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘I don’t know that you’re hearing it. Or, to be more precise, I don’t know that I’m saying it properly.’ He gripped the steering wheel as if it would help him concentrate. ‘I want you to be with me, Lillian. I want you in my life. Every day.’

  ‘Simon, I—’

  ‘You don’t have to answer. It’s just when I was driving way to hell and gone to Malibu for you, I realized there’s no one else on this earth I’d do that for. I de
cided that has to count for something, and I had to tell you.’

  ‘I … I’m flattered.’

  ‘And unimpressed, by the sound of it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘That’s understandable. I haven’t been at my best. But as I said, I’m changing.’

  I leaned into the car and nudged the sports section aside. Sunlight glinted off the bottle, making the bourbon within look warm and inviting. I could have used a slug of it myself.

  Simon and I both considered the whiskey. ‘I’m not drinking it,’ he finally said.

  ‘You hid it. Within arm’s reach. In the middle of the day.’

  ‘I was bored. It’s a way of passing the time. You don’t need to worry about it.’

  ‘And here you said Gene was crazy not to accept my help.’

  Simon stared at me as if my words had wounded him. Then he abruptly announced, ‘You’re right.’ He snagged the bottle and launched himself out of the car. With a flourish he unscrewed the cap and poured the amber liquid into the gutter. He then pitched the empty vessel into a garbage can, the ringing clatter it made sullying the moment’s effect. ‘Unlike him, I have accepted your help.’

  It was an audacious gesture. My time in Hollywood had taught me not to put stock in those. ‘I appreciate that. You know there are stores where you can buy more.’

  ‘I won’t if you’re beside me.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that. If liquor is a problem for you, you won’t have any whether I’m beside you or not.’

  ‘Then I won’t have any. Because of you. I’ve learned what’s worth protecting, what lengths I’m willing to go to for it. I’ll go further than Malibu. But I had to drive all the way there to figure that out.’

  He sounded sincere enough for me to want to believe him. I tried to determine if I did.

  Simon rushed to fill the resulting silence. ‘Can you eat on Palm Sunday, or do you have to fast or something?’

  ‘You really don’t know Catholics, do you? We’re not a cult. We just don’t have fish on Fridays during Lent. And on certain other days. And some people do fast, but that … Never mind. Are you asking me to lunch? Because I can have lunch. Just let me bring these palms upstairs.’

  I shouted good afternoon to Mrs Quigley and nodded formally at Miss Sarah, in her usual lounging position in the lobby. Upstairs I put the palms on display and asked myself what exactly my feelings were for Simon. Our meetings could be tense, but he was open and honest with me, sharing his insecurities. While invulnerable Gene kept his own confidences and erected barriers between us. Simon’s promise to go to great lengths for what was worth protecting whirled around the echoes of Monsignor Catlett’s sermon, the words colliding with each other.

  Until they detonated. And a horrible suspicion overtook me.

  I sprinted to the street. Simon grinned, an offer on his lips. I couldn’t allow myself to hear it.

  ‘I’m sorry. Something’s come up.’

  ‘While you were inside?’

  ‘It’s partly your fault. What you said gave me an idea, not a good one, and now I have to test it.’

  Simon nodded, reached for the ignition, started his car. ‘Where do you have to test it?’

  ‘Abigail’s house, if she’s home.’

  ‘Get in. I’ll take you there.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  He gunned the motor. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I know how far I’ll go for you now. Abigail’s house is nothing.’

  I had Simon drop me a block from Abigail’s and told him not to wait. With a sober ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he drove off. On my brief walk I passed two women in beautiful spring hats carrying palms, and smiled at them.

  Abigail did not seem surprised to see me, only embarrassed. She had a scarf wrapped around her hair, and wore a faded gray housedress. ‘Sunday’s chore day,’ she explained. ‘It’s either clean or grade more homework, and frankly I’d rather scrub. Come in. It won’t take a moment to fix some tea.’

  I told her such largesse was unnecessary, but Abigail’s innate sense of hospitality wouldn’t be denied. Within minutes she’d spruced herself up and laid on a lovely afternoon spread of tea and sandwiches. ‘It’ll be Easter next week,’ she said as she poured. ‘Do you and Gene have plans?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Nor did I have any idea how to broach the delicate subject that had occurred to me, an unholy combination of the Monsignor’s early morning admonitions and Simon’s protestations.

  Who is the Judas in your midst? How far are you willing to go to protect what matters?

  ‘It ended up being a lovely day,’ Abigail said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘A sticky question.’

  ‘I tell my students the best approach is simply to ask.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘OK. Fine.’

  Abigail smiled over the rim of her teacup, coaxing me. You can do it. She was undoubtedly a wonderful teacher. I could have learned a lot from her.

  ‘It’s about your husband. Teddy. I’m, I was just wondering. And I hate to ask this. But I have to.’ A pause for breath, and to gauge the perspiration under my arms. Abigail had been correct: my only option was to spit it out. ‘Again, I was wondering. If Teddy – I mean, you hear stories. Was he … on the level?’

  I expected her to cry. Not jagged sobs, perhaps, but more stately, low-key tears. Certainly some outburst of emotion. What I did not anticipate was for Abigail to rise, smooth her dress, and quietly state, ‘I’ll be right back.’

  She left before I could respond, darting away like a purposeful bird. A few seconds later, I heard the shifting of weight elsewhere in the house. She was searching for something. Maybe her late husband’s service revolver, a chattering voice in my head suggested.

  I called her name, asked if she needed help.

  ‘I’m fine. Stay there, please.’ The words spoken in firm, even tones. Her detention voice. Now, Lillian, you understand why you had to be kept after school.

  It was another few minutes before she returned, lugging a leather satchel with worn handles. She had the blank, focused expression of someone who had one final rock to split before calling it a day, refusing to break concentration until the task was complete.

  Her demeanor made me nervous. I started to talk.

  Then she overturned the satchel, and silenced my babbling. A cascade of cash will do that to a person.

  Thick bundles of money fell next to the teapot and the plate of sandwiches. One bounced off the table and hit the floor. Each packet of still-crisp bills wrapped with a now-faded label. I knew what would be printed on it before I picked up the fugitive bundle and read the words with my own eyes.

  California Republic Bank

  I had never seen twenty thousand dollars in cash before, never counted that much money in my life. But I could safely assume that’s the amount I was looking at.

  I had found the fourth man involved with the robbery. The man ‘protecting’ Borden Yates. The man who had turned savagely on his trio of partners. The Judas in their midst. And Abigail’s. And Gene’s.

  Teddy Lomax.

  I was still staring at the money when Gene spoke from the doorway. ‘I guess you figured it out. Somehow I knew you would.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We put the kibosh on the tea and switched to bourbon highballs. Abigail cleared the sandwiches from the table. She left the money where it was.

  Gene explained he’d already arranged a meeting with Abigail to discuss the DA’s investigation. ‘I thought there was lots to talk about before,’ he said, attempting a wry smile. Then, with a wordless glance, he yielded the floor to Abigail.

  ‘Teddy was a gambler,’ she began. ‘Everyone treats it as if it were a hobby, a roguish pastime. Teddy always with a tip on the horses. Even that movie script does it. And it was fun, for a while.’

  Gene gently weighed in. ‘Once he got married, he worried about money. He didn’t think he could support a family on his salary.’

  ‘Plenty of other men do,’ Abigail
said bluntly.

  ‘Teddy wasn’t interested in being like plenty of other men. You knew that when you married him.’

  ‘It was partly why I married him.’ Abigail nailed her wry smile on the first try. ‘He sold some things that had been in my family. Heirlooms. Not behind my back. He told me he was doing it. The items from his family were the ones he hocked in secret. I noticed they were missing and didn’t say anything.’

  ‘He owed a lot of money,’ Gene said. ‘All over town.’

  I couldn’t help myself. ‘Did he owe any to Bugsy Siegel?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ From Gene’s manner, I could tell he’d underlined my query.

  ‘Things came to a head around Christmas in 1935,’ Abigail said. ‘Teddy had to admit we didn’t have money to spend on presents. Which was fine. It’s not like we had children, although that was the plan. But when he told me we couldn’t afford to go visit my sister, I knew how bad it was. Then he started getting these phone calls. Nasty-sounding men calling at all hours, and he’d rush out telling me not to worry. We started fighting. He was drinking more. He struck me several times, which wasn’t like Teddy at all. I didn’t know what to do. So, I went to Gene.’ She maintained her calm as she spoke, recounting the collapse of her marriage as if she were reading test questions to her class.

  Gene took over the story. ‘I immediately worried he’d turned crooked to cover his debts. I looked into it. Quietly, or so I thought. I put some words in Teddy’s ear, hoping to get him to shape up. He did not appreciate my advice. He wasn’t himself anymore. He sounded like a – what’s the word? – a paranoiac, thinking everyone was against him. That’s when Abigail and I began meeting, telling each other all we knew.’

  ‘We were working together to save Teddy,’ Abigail said.

  I could imagine it easily. The two of them had known each other for decades. Gene had introduced Teddy to Abigail. It was like something out of a movie. Like Streetlight Story.

 

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