Palm Springs Noir

by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand like she was training a pup to sit. “The old lady knows what a podcast is. Have even listened to a couple.”

  She must have flipped some switch because all at once the kid was on. “Ours examines organized crime, but from a different angle.” He leaned in, his formerly passive features animated. “It’s an anthology focusing not on made men, the gangsters themselves, but on the women who, often through circumstances not of their own choosing, find themselves caught up in the gangsters’ world.” Each word came out with a polished enthusiasm, addressed, it seemed, to an imaginary audience of thousands rather than one old woman at her kitchen table.

  Donna waited till his evangelical fervor cooled. “Not my cup of tea, but you think people will listen? A lot of people?”

  “We haven’t released any episodes yet. We want people to binge, the first season at least. But with stories like yours, I’m sure we’ll pick up a massive following in no time.”

  “With stories like mine.” Donna laughed and saluted him with her drink. She sipped her cup, dribbling wine on her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. He watched her, patient, impassive. Maybe he hoped the wine would loosen her tongue, but the joke was on him. If her tongue got any looser, she could slip it out with her dentures.

  He slid the mic a touch closer to her. “Perhaps we could start a bit earlier? What brought you to Palm Springs?”

  Donna feigned surprise. “Why, you must know. I was an actress,” she said, rolling the word in deep plush drama. She read his noncommittal expression as skepticism. “I had some roles. Look it up. They were small but they were speaking. You should’ve done better research before showing up at my door.” She rose, her knees protesting. “I’ve got something I can show you.” Donna shuffled, her steps heavy, tired, to the bookshelf in her living room, and took down the thick coral-colored scrapbook—a gift for her seventy-fifth last year from her boys. A warmth filled her chest as she thought of sharing it with the kid. It was crazy. He wasn’t anything special. Not a prize by anyone’s standards. But he was here, and she wanted him to see her as she’d once been. She made her way back, pausing at the threshold. The kid sat there, futzing with his phone, kicked back in his seat and looking bored.

  “Sorry for the wait,” she said, chagrined not to be returning to a rapt audience. “You’re going to like this.” She set the book before him, detesting the sight of her mottled hand as she flipped open the cover. She watched him, studying his face, waiting for his reaction to the decades-old headshot.

  His eyes scanned the photo but didn’t warm at the sight. “This is you?”

  Donna examined the photo. It was glossy. Black-and-white. Even so, it was clear that her eyes were crystal blue, her hair a buttery blond—natural.

  The kid turned the page, flicking it over with the nail of his index finger like he was afraid to touch the book.

  A couple of candid snapshots. Donna in a zebra-stripe one-piece that gave her the look of a vintage Barbie. A faded color shot of Donna lounging in an aqua-blue peignoir set. That one was a warm-up to a few private “artistic” nudes that helped her make rent when the roles didn’t come rolling in.

  “I bet you would like to get together with her.” The kid’s eyes darted to her, then away. “She’s still in here, you know.” Donna’s tongue grew thick and heavy, feeling like someone had pumped it full of cement. She felt the pulse in her temple. “I don’t mean …”

  The fly buzzed past.

  “You were beautiful,” the kid said, then looked back at her and flashed a grin. “And you wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”

  Donna didn’t feel gratitude often, but she did now. She’d stumbled into deep water, and he was offering her a chance to surface. She shifted around the table to her chair. “No, I wouldn’t have.” She nodded at the scrapbook. “Go ahead.”

  He turned the page using the same odd nail flick.

  A call sheet. Her two lines from the same movie, a western, cut from the script. A clipping showing the movie poster—on which she had not been featured. “So, you were performing—”

  “I was putting in my dues. Just like everybody else back then.” She removed the lid from the ice bucket, and with her forefinger and thumb plucked out two fresh cubes. She dropped them into the wine. “You couldn’t pop out a sex video and become a star. You had to work for it.”

  “You believe you had the talent to succeed?”

  “I sure as hell did. And the backbone. That right there.” She nodded at the scrapbook. “Shows you I had the looks too. All I needed was to get noticed. That’s what brought me here … in answer to your question.”

  The kid’s head jerked back; one brow raised, telegraphing his incredulity. “You’re saying you came to Palm Springs to advance your career? Can you explain what led you to believe spending time in the desert would improve your chances of stardom?”

  Donna chuckled. “Sure, it sounds crazy now, maybe, but back then this town was something special. Glamorous. Everywhere you went there were producers, directors. Stars. Even here. In Deepwell.” She looked around like she was taking in the whole of the neighborhood. “Liberace. William Holden. Tippi Hedren.” She flung up her hands and mimicked Tippi’s batting away the birds from her bouffant. The kid froze and stared at her like he thought she was having a seizure. She dropped her hands. “Tippi Hedren? No?”

  The kid shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “Elizabeth Taylor? You have to know her.”

  “Everyone knows Elizabeth Taylor. She lived in this neighborhood?”

  “Yeah. For a while. Over on Manzanita, back when she was trying on Eddie Fisher.”

  The kid’s eyes narrowed.

  “Fisher. Eddie. Princess Leia’s dad.”

  “Oh.” His eyes widened with recognition. “Yes.” He leaned back, seeming pleased with himself. “So, you came to Palm Springs to make … connections?”

  “Connections. Is that what whoring yourself is called these days?” Donna laughed. “Yeah, I started coming every weekend or so. I figured it would be easier to catch a director’s eye prancing around a swimming pool than it was on one of those god-awful cattle calls they used to do. Do they still do those?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “No, of course you don’t.” She returned the lid to the ice bucket. “You don’t know Jack.” She paused for the punch line. “Webb that is. Jack Webb. He lived around here too.”

  The kid shrugged. “I’m not familiar with him.”

  “Shame. You two would’ve gotten on. He was all just the facts ma’am, too.”

  The kid pretended—poorly—to be amused and rewarded her with a polite for-the-recording laugh. “Did coming here work for you?” Again, the NPR diction, punctuated by a precisely timed pause. “Did you get noticed?”

  Donna was beginning to get a feel for this podcast business. She leaned into a well-polished contempt. “Oh, I got noticed all right.” Then allowed a beat to pass. “But not by any movie people.”

  “By Joseph Fiato.”

  “And others, but Joey was special.”

  “Were you aware from the start that Fiato was involved in organized crime?”

  Donna grunted. “I was.”

  “This didn’t concern you?”

  “Listen. Back then—here—it didn’t concern anyone. The Hollywood crowd, the mafiosos, even some of the police. It all blended together. A cocktail with a killer kick.” She pointed at the mic, then whispered behind her hand, “That’s pretty good. You can make like you made that up yourself if you want.”

  He closed the scrapbook and studied her with his gray, unblinking eyes, his gaze lingering on her hairline. Donna straightened her wig. The kid seemed as embarrassed as she once might have been. “May I?” he said, gesturing to the shaded window.

  “Sure. Just drop a token in the slot.”

  “I’m sorry?” His head tilted like a dog’s at a high-pitched whistle.

  Donna waved his question o
ff. “Never mind. Go ahead.”

  He rose and went to the window, tugging the chain with a smooth hand-over-hand motion. Sunlight flooded in, and in an instant Donna could feel the temperature rising. The kid stood there, in silhouette, taking in the view. “That’s a shame.”

  “You stop seeing the wires,” Donna said, knowing he was speaking of the power lines garroting the mountain view. “After a while you do. But they’re always there. In the background. Humming. It isn’t so noticeable when people are around, but this time of year, the whole street is empty. It gets pretty damn quiet around here.”

  “Quiet enough to hear the hum of the power lines?”

  “Quiet enough to hear a mouse fart. You can hear them now if you listen hard enough. The wires. Not the mice.”

  “Why don’t they bury the lines?” He began lowering the shade. “Save the view?”

  “Maybe it’d cost too much. Or maybe someone’s afraid what might get turned up once they got to digging.” She leaned in toward the mic. “That’s a joke. I repeat, a joke.”

  The kid returned to his seat.

  “It’s Deepwell,” Donna said. “They’ve always been here.”

  “Always have been doesn’t mean always have to be.”

  “Aren’t you the philosopher?” She pasted on a parody of a smile and batted her eyelashes at him. “Listen,” she said, letting her voice drop an octave, “if they aren’t gonna hide the wires for Elizabeth Taylor, they sure as shit aren’t gonna hide them for me.”

  “You have a point.” He glanced down at his computer. “Let me make a quick adjustment to the balance.” He fussed a bit, his focus on the monitor. “I’m curious,” he said. “The intake guard. What did you say?”

  “I said she was bawling—”

  “I’m sorry. I meant, what did you say to her? When she began crying in front of you?”

  “What could I say? Sorry for your loss? I said, That’s terrible. Or something along those lines.”

  “Were you worried that she might mistreat you later to make up for this display of weakness?”

  “Damned straight I was worried,” she said, the memory of her vulnerability turning prickly. “I was terrified. I was in prison.”

  “For the murder of Joseph Fiato.” He looked up from the screen, his eyes locking in on hers. “A crime you didn’t commit even though you confessed to doing so at the time.”

  She snorted. This kid thought he was so flipping smart. Pretending to mess with his computer. Jumping her around in her story. Poking around for a sore spot and trying to catch her off guard. “Don’t be stupid. Why would I say I killed Joey if I didn’t?”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  She sloshed the wine in her cup, then rested the cup on the table. “What makes you think I wasn’t the one who killed Joey?”

  “There were rumors—”

  “There’ve been rumors since Eden. You want the truth? The unembellished and verifiable truth? Here it is—the son of a bitch needed killing. I did it.”

  “Why?”

  “Rumor has it …” she drawled out the words, “he was cheating on me, and stealing from me too, though he called it ‘investing.’ Claimed he’d lost it. That same night I saw him out with this bimbo. My investment was hanging around her neck.” She shrugged. “I snapped. Crackled. Maybe even popped a little too. I shot Joey in the gut. Twice.” She lifted her hand and feigned a tremor. “My hand was shaking. I was aiming for his balls.” She stilled the trembling and reclaimed her wine. She lifted the cup to her lips and wet her mouth. “No regrets. No regrets at all. No, wait, that isn’t true. I do have one. The DA offered me a plea deal if I waived a jury trial. I would’ve enjoyed a chance to go on the stand before my peers. I could have given Susan Hayward a run for the money. All I got was an old gray judge flapping around in his black robe.”

  “Wasn’t she executed at the end of the film?”

  “Ah, so Susan Hayward you know.”

  “I’ve seen the movie.”

  Donna nodded. “Based on a true story, it was. Could’ve been me.” She rapped her knuckles on the table, a practiced move she often used at this point in her account. “The DA told my lawyer he’d pursue the gas chamber if I didn’t accept his largesse. I knew he meant business, so I plead down.”

  “You were convicted of willful manslaughter.”

  “Yes. That was the plea.”

  “And you were sentenced to three years.” His words hung between them for a moment. “A light sentence—”

  “Not if you’re the one serving it.”

  “Your actual incarceration lasted only four months. I understand this was before mandatory sentencing, but—”

  “They take time off for good behavior.” She swirled her cup, watching the diminished ice cubes spin. “Mine was … exemplary.”

  “This degree of leniency implies you had influential friends pulling strings for you.”

  Donna shrugged her response.

  He slapped his palm on the tabletop and leaned in, turning all bad cop. It was almost cute. “Someone was protecting you. Who was it?”

  The kid was trying to trigger a response. All he got was her indulgent stare. “Nobody was protecting me. Joey was a bastard. Maybe someone was grateful to me for taking him out.”

  “Was that somebody Johnny Giancanna?” “Never heard of him.”

  “I’m sure you have.” The kid riffled in his beat-up messenger bag and pulled out a manila folder. “You used to date each other. I’ve come across photos of the two of you together. Here, in Palm Springs.” He took a pair of photocopied pictures from the folder and slid them to her. The images were a bit grainy, but it was certainly her own foolish young face staring back at her. To the mic, “Donna is now looking at the photos.”

  “Yes, indeed, Donna is.” She raised her eyebrows. Shook her head. “I don’t know. There were so many men back then. Did I date some guy name Giancanna? Maybe. Probably even. But I don’t remember him if I did.” She placed her hand over the photos. “You should let me keep these for the scrapbook.”

  “He’s dead. Giancanna.” The kid opened up the folder once more and took out a clipping from a newspaper. He passed it to her. Again, to the mic, “I’ve given Donna a copy of Johnny Giancanna’s obituary.”

  The article was from some local Long Island rag, dated two months earlier. She scanned the piece and handed it back to him. “My condolences to Mrs. Giancanna.”

  The corner of the kid’s mouth twitched. He returned the clipping to its folder and the folder to the messenger bag. He looked up. “I think you were alternately pressured and bribed to admit to a murder you didn’t commit.”

  “Manslaughter. Court said it was manslaughter.”

  “You were covering for a mob-related killing. At Giancanna’s behest.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” She slapped her palm on the table and leaned in, mimicking his tough-guy charade. “There was never any kind of mob activity here.”

  “It’s been well-documented that many mafiosos spent time in Palm Springs in the 1960s. You yourself moments ago said—”

  “Yeah, sure, but they were here vacationing. That’s why there were never any dirty deeds. You got to understand. Palm Springs was the goddamned Switzerland of organized crime. The guys came, brought their nearest and dearest with them, the wives, the kids, the mistresses, sometimes all of ’em hanging out together at the El Mirador’s pool. That’s why I stayed on here. After my parole ended. I figured I’d be safer here.”

  “You feared reprisal?”

  Donna nodded.

  “I’m sorry, could you answer aloud.”

  “Yes. I was afraid of reprisal.”

  “From Fiato’s associates? Or from someone else?”

  She studied the liver spot on her hand. “I still spend a lot of time at the El Mirador. I go there for trysts with a handsome younger man. I am sad to say that man’s my doctor, and he’s only interested in checking my blood pressure, not raising it.” A tr
ansient wrinkle formed between her visitor’s brows. She guessed she’d lost him. “The old hotel is a medical center now.”

  “All right.” He gave a slight nod that, combined with the softening of his gaze, seemed more to signal a decision to change tack than an expression of satisfaction.

  “All right,” she echoed him.

  “Fiato,” he said, dragging the name out, “was made in Detroit.”

  “You make him sound like a sports car.”

  “He was rumored to get around like one. My source says he liked going fast and taking chances.”

  “There you go again with your gossip.”

  “Annalisa Scarpa.”

  “Another stranger,” Donna said, modulating her tone between amusement and contempt. “Is she your ‘source’?”

  “Miss Scarpa was the niece of the head of one of the New York families.”

  “So?”

  “I’ve found reason to doubt your account of the evening, and to believe that you weren’t the one following Joseph Fiato the night of his murder. It was Annalisa Scarpa. She watched Fiato slip away from another woman’s hotel room. She followed him to the house he rented. Miss Scarpa shot him twice in the stomach, then turned to her uncle to clean up the mess.”

  “Strange that I didn’t see her there.” The fly found its way to the rim of Donna’s glass. She swiped at it and almost upset the wine. She’d about had enough of both of her pesky visitors. “Check the police records if you can find the stone tablets they’re engraved on. I was there. I called the police. That’s why the DA went easy on me. ’Cause I turned myself in.”

  Tiny lines formed at the corners of his eyes. He was enjoying this. “She left him,” he continued, ignoring her, “with a tricky situation. He needed to cover up the crime, but he couldn’t make it look like a hit by another family. As you have said, Palm Springs was neutral territory. An allegation against the member of another family could have triggered a war between the families. Worse, it could’ve broken the peace and ruined Palm Springs for everyone.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms. Donna knew a thing or two about bluffing. He was trying to project ease and confidence.