This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Teal: The Retrieval
COLOR BOX
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright 2011 Lucius Parhelion
Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-229-3
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: May 2011
The Retrieval
By Lucius Parhelion
I
Few people waited at the station in Pasadena for the Santa Fe Chief this early on a Tuesday in October. Morning arrival aside, the train was a Pullman express, a pricy ticket in times as lean as those with a grip on 1932. The passengers who still took the Chief tended to be ones who’d rather ride through to the grand Moorish station in downtown Los Angeles where cub reporters waited to interview anyone even slightly famous disembarking. Such passengers wanted all the attention they could get from the press.
For his part, Charles Prescott Hunter preferred to keep quiet about yielding to the financial seductions of Cosmic Pictures. Being noticed could be dangerous for men of his sort, and he’d long thought it silly to boast about serving some movie company as the literary equivalent of a cloisonné vase wired as a table lamp. While his new work would be as honest -- or dishonest -- as any other writing, Hollywood frayed away the artistic self-delusions authors could wrap around themselves for warmth back in Manhattan. But his job at the studio would also pay his bills with plenty of money left over, a strong attraction these days.
The thin turnout here in Pasadena meant Charlie had a simple time spotting where his friend waited. As usual, Jake Mor was loitering around the rear of the sparse crowd with the cagey air of someone who expected to be accosted any second and asked to justify his existence. Charlie would have blamed the manner on too many unwilling hours spent in Hollywood studios if he hadn’t seen a juvenile Jake behaving the same way backstage on Broadway while the twenties were still roaring.
At least Jake visibly brightened when he spotted Charlie descending the metal steps from the sleeper car.
“Hi, Charlie!” Jake’s shouted greeting sounded cheerful, too.
After turning to take his suitcase from the sleeping car attendant, Charlie tipped the fellow before getting out of the way of a local matron and her matched set of annoyances masquerading as dyed calfskin luggage. He got to keep his own bag for about fifteen seconds longer before Jake snaked past the other passengers and their suitcases to grab the worn leather handle of Uncle Prescott’s old Moroccan case.
“Now, now. You don’t have to play porter for me.” Hopeless, but Charlie felt duty-bound to try even as he released his grip.
“You bet I don’t. Or say please when I ask for the salt, or cover my mouth when I sneeze. But I’d want to give you a hand even if I wasn’t going to ask you for a favor, which I am.” Jake’s smile was likely warmer than he knew it to be. “Let’s go find my parking space.”
Perhaps it was the favor he needed that accounted for the return of Jake’s glum and wary manner as they walked to his automobile. Not even the convertible Cadillac coupe they stopped by cheered the gloom for long. But no matter the mood, some wheeled shrines of the modern age demanded universal reverence even from automotive heathens like Charlie. The dark green roadster before them was an inarguable beauty.
“Exquisite. The ‘32 model?” Charlie asked Jake, who was stowing the suitcase in the rumble seat.
“Uh-huh. A birthday present from Laura, of course, for our twenty-fourth. She really went overboard, but I think she felt guilty about what happened to my jalopy after I drove down to Tijuana to help give her boyfriend the old heave-ho. He thought they were getting married and meant to make clear before the wedding bells who would wear the trousers. What a jerk.”
“Which jerk was he?” Charlie glanced briefly at the passers-by, all potential eavesdroppers. “That famous, well-muscled movie star she wrote me about?”
“Not him, the band leader. Mr. He-Man is okay if you ignore him believing in his own Photoplay articles. If I ever catch Laura starting to do that, there’ll be hell to pay. But she won’t.”
“No, she won’t,” Charlie agreed. Laura was Jake’s fraternal twin, so he likely understood her as well as any male ever would. Even Charlie, who’d only known the pair of them since they were both sixteen, thought Laura too practical to buy into most of the nonsense that went along with Hollywood stardom. She was still as much a Broadway canary as a movie star who sang, and singers tended toward realism.
Jake, who’d slipped into the driver’s seat as Charlie climbed into the roadster beside him, now gripped the steering wheel with both hands and sighed instead of reaching for the starter.
Charlie felt himself frown. “Permit me to return our conversation to that favor you want. Given how you’re behaving, it must be a wonder.”
“Oh, it’s a lollapalooza, all right. Particularly since I was supposed to be the one doing you a favor, looking around for places you might like. I meant to show you a lot of nifty real estate today, not too far from Cosmic in case they force you to come in and work on screenwriter’s row. Then I thought we could catch up on the news before we headed over to Laura’s for dinner. Afterward, we’d decide where to store those trunks you shipped, and then she’d refuse to let you use the hotel reservation I’d bet you didn’t make in the first place.”
“No, I didn’t bother. By this time, I know better. The favor?”
“Two favors. Okay, three favors, but you could enjoy the third one, so it might not count.”
After pursing his lips to hide his amusement, Charlie said, “I feel compelled to point out that you’re not getting anywhere with all this stalling.”
“Yes I am. A passing airplane might crash into us before I have to explain.”
That earned Jake a snort.
A smile flickered on Jake’s lips, but it was gone before he said, “Anyhow, all three favors are related. First, or maybe third, Laura wants you as her escort this evening. She’s going to a birthday party for Henry Lowery, who’s a big noise at Cosmic. You’ll have to be sophisticated, witty, and charming after a long train trip, but you’re familiar enough with that brand of baloney to slice it in your sleep. So you might have fun.”
“Have fun talking in my sleep. And I suppose I’ll be well fed, too. As I slumber.”
“The food will be about as good as it gets in Los Angeles.”
“How lovely. And where will you be during this whoopee-fest?”
Jake grimaced. “Right alongside you, pal. Mrs. Henry Lowery likes having me at her table to even up the girl-boy numbers although I don’t know why. Do I look like a movie star?” He’d taken one hand from the steering wheel to jab a thumb into his own chest, right over his only-slightly-atrocious tie.
That was the cue for Charlie to consider Jake at length. It was a pleasant task, especially given the eight months that had passed since their last meeting.
Jake kept himself lean and fit, although his tanned complexion was a gift to him from the Southern Californ
ia sunshine. Whenever his hair looked this good, Laura had made him get a haircut, but the combed-back dark waves were attractive nonetheless. Charlie also knew Jake had the long fingers that hinted at another charming attribute, not that most audiences would ever notice or care. However, even though his features were even enough for the cameras, they were too sharply defined for him to play a hero. And Jake’s oddly pale brown eyes were a big strike against any potential screen glamour, as were his all-too-vigorous gestures and his overly-expressive face.
Shaking his head, Charlie said, “You don’t look like a talkies star… Maybe someone from the silents. A character actor, perhaps.”
“That’ll be the day. As I said, not a star, and not anyone with influence, either. There’s no reason for Mrs. Lowery to want me around that doesn’t mean trouble.” Jake turned his face forward and frowned at the windshield so alarmingly that Charlie appreciated their not already being out in traffic. Jake’s expression would have been too much even in a bad second feature.
“I will admit,” Charlie told him, “a dinner party doesn’t sound especially dire, only wearying. And I do need to meet more people in Hollywood than immigrants from the same old Manhattan literary circles. So what other delights does this day promise to put you into a state theatrical even for you?”
In a way that should have caused him neck pain, Jake whipped his head around so he could glare at Charlie from point-blank range.
Charlie held the indignant gaze with ease, raising his eyebrows in what he hoped was mild inquiry. He’d long ago realized Jake could be trouble and had meant to stay far, far away. The terrible twins were the ones who’d insisted on drafting him as the stand-in they wanted for an older brother back in Manhattan. Now they would have to keep bearing the consequences of their decision out here in Hollywood, just as Charlie would have to endure the unsettling pleasures of Jake’s company.
Yielding ground, Jake grimaced. “You know something about old furniture and knick-knacks.”
“A bit. A tiny bit, in fact. I never made any sort of official study of antiques; my general familiarity is only a lingering symptom of Boston Brahmanism.”
“A tiny bit is more than I know. We’re picking up a birthday gift for Mr. Lowery. Laura’s hoping you’ll inspect the items before I hand over her check, to be certain she isn’t being too obviously conned.”
Wonderful. Charlie allowed himself to slide down in his seat. It certainly was a comfortable and luxurious seat. “At least you’re realistic about what I can do: put on a show of knowledge.”
“Keeping up a decent façade matters in this town.”
“Fine. Since I’m browsing for my breakfast and speaking for my supper, I’ll want a superb lunch.”
“During which you’ll eat two bites and then give me an earful about Thornton Wilder or some fellow like that.” Jake started the roadster at last. “No wonder you’re always so stringy. More catgut than cello over there.” Given the affection in his eyes, no one could have mistaken Jake’s wisecrack for anything other than one of the standard taunts that insulated warmth between males.
Charlie made his own retort as mock-imperious as he could to hide both a wistful twinge and his smug satisfaction. “Desist from your feeble efforts. Your puerile judgment of my physique leaves me unmoved and undistracted. Do not delude yourself that this attempted diversion is keeping me from noticing that another favor remains unexplained.”
“This is me tackling one problem at a time. My second favor will show up soon enough.”
“Well, goody, goody. I can hardly wait.”
“Oh, yes you can. But will my favor wait for you?” Jake asked, doing a decent job of playing cryptic.
***
As was increasingly the case with popular New York writers, Charlie had visited Hollywood enough times to be slightly familiar with the Los Angeles landscape. But he didn’t have anything like Jake’s feel for the area given that the twins had been out here since sound in pictures suddenly made pretty singers valuable property.
To Charlie’s eyes, Jake was motoring down miles of indistinguishable highways and byways between brush-covered hills and intermittent clusters of modern buildings. Young palm trees lined several of the straighter streets, but palm trees were always nearby in Southern California. As were eucalyptus trees and out-of-season flowers, none of which helped identify particular locations.
Charlie wasn’t too proud to ask, “Where are we?”
“Approaching Silver Lake. I mentioned the area when I wrote to tell you about neighborhoods you might like, remember? It’s the one east of Hollywood where artsy types are moving in. There’s this fellow with a house not too far from Walt Disney’s studio who makes his money importing furniture and knick-knacks for the Hollywood crowd. The older shops for the Pasadena and Downtown money get haughty about the movie colony’s style, so he’s doing okay.”
Jake’s expression slid from content toward sullen, which unfortunately made him look like a third-string Latin lover. “Los Angeles is full of snobs. I swear, one of these days I’m going to slug some--”
“Oh, calm down. Lower your fists, and enjoy the show instead. Before the Revolution -- our revolution -- all my swanky ancestors were just so many pretentious New World merchants pretending to be British squires by commissioning copies of Chippendale. Two generations ago, it was the western magnates who lacked refinement and bought like barbarians.” Charlie smiled to take some of the sting out of his lecture. “Now those same families are snubbing the studio chiefs and conveniently forgetting all the elephant-foot umbrella stands and hair brooches their grandparents bought. As for the rest of the so-called vulgarity their ancestors enjoyed, we now view it as the best art of its times. Today’s no different. Once you realize what you’re watching, aesthetic condescension is to laugh.”
“I’d laugh harder if the snubbing was only over new moolah and crude tastes.”
Charlie considered Jake. He knew the Mor ancestors weren’t anywhere near as Anglo-Saxon as they might have been. “Someone’s been playing a round of ‘those people in Hollywood’ while you were within earshot?”
“Try lots of someones.”
“Well, now.” Charlie tried staring upward in search of an adequate answer. He didn’t find it. “Such attitudes also change, but admittedly at a caterpillar’s creep. At least no one jeers at Dutchmen and Germans anymore, much. However, I still believe the humorous perspective, when possible, imparts an air of baffling superiority more maddening to the snobbish than outright hostility will ever be.”
Brows knit, Jake considered this. “Okay, I’ve seen that happen.” The concentration gave way to a smile. “You know, this is one reason I like your being in town. You make sure my head’s screwed on straight.”
“All it requires is a small enough screwdriver and some watchmaker’s oil.”
“Uh-huh. Watchmaker’s oil.” The variety of amusement in Jake’s smile somehow shifted, but at least it didn’t vanish. Then Jake cleared his throat before asking, “Would you get the street maps out of the pocket on the passenger door? I don’t know the exact location of the house we want. Usually Laura’s studio secretary picks up the goods.”
“Hmm,” Charlie said as he groped around. Something about Jake’s latest expression niggled at familiar suspicions, but the atlas he’d just found was distracting. “Miller and Miller Popular Atlas of Los Angeles County with Recent Street Additions. Your company’s work?”
“And my pet project,” Jake said, obviously proud. “Printed on middling-sized book pages bound with wire rings, so your maps won’t blow around when you use them in your automobile. No problems with folding, either. Our standard and wall maps still sell better, but these are doing okay. I got a raise, and I’m already working on revising the maps for a second edition.”
“During this slump? Congratulations.”
“Thanks. See how hard it is to locate Vistavi
ew Terrace.”
Charlie was pleased to report that finding a street in Jake’s atlas wasn’t hard at all, and they pulled up in front of Mr. Tildon’s house about ten minutes later.
Here was a fine example of native Southern Californian idiom in the wild. The place was trying to embody some Midwest fantasy about quaint European cottages, what with those high-peaked roofs, wrought-iron railings, diamond paned windows, and unneeded half-timbers. Ivy was everywhere. Instead of historic, the house’s style ended up being brashly fantastic in a way that was absurdly… cute, for lack of a better word. Charlie found he was more charmed than aesthetically offended.
Without looking to be sure he was being followed, Jake got out of the roadster and was half-way up the herring-pattern brick walkway before Charlie was disentangled from his seat. Behind the house, unseen dogs woofed warning as Jake rang the door chimes.
Just as Charlie reached the front stoop, the door opened. A man, a lean and rather handsome blond of around thirty, had answered the chimes. His tweed coat complimented the domestic architecture, but he had the manner of a visitor, not the master of the house, when he spoke.
“Good morning. Can I help you?” When the fellow got a good look at Jake, he seemed a little startled.
“Uh,” Jake said. “You bet. I guess.” He, on the other hand, looked like someone had beaned him with a brick.
This man at the door was obviously not Mr. Tildon, but he was just as obviously someone Jake knew. For the sake of good manners, Charlie decided to intervene. Taking a step forward, he said, “Good morning. Is this Mr. Tildon’s house?”
After a thoughtful survey, the tweedy man said, “It is. I’d imagine this--” he looked at the still stunned Jake “-- must be Mr. Mor, here for Miss Moore’s purchases.” Then he cocked his head, his eyebrows ever so slightly elevated, waiting for his cue. He’d be right at home accepting a drink from another male in a certain stylish hotel bar off 45th Street after a hard day behind the counters at Bergdorf Goodman’s.
Oh ho, Charlie thought. So that’s what Jake’s stunned look was all about. Given this sudden realization, the elbow he jabbed into Jake’s ribs might have been planted more roughly than it really needed to be.
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