The Song Is You

by Megan Abbott

  “That be so, my friend.”

  “Did you follow the Kirk trail? You know, the ‘Dear Kirk’ note they found in her purse?”

  “Yeah. Because it was a sexy angle, I spent a lot of time trying to wade through the moat around Kirk Douglas. He was in Palm Springs at the time, though, so as bad as he lied about knowing her,

  he couldn’t lie his way into becoming a real suspect.”

  “You think mangled abortion?”

  “It sure seemed the straightest line, Hoppy. And it’s one the cops

  shrugged their way into.”

  “But you don’t buy it.”

  “I don’t have to buy it,” he said, wiping a slick of syrup from his

  chin. “It’s been bought, sold, and put into storage.”

  “You got pushed off the story.”

  “Not in so many words,” he said, waving his fork. “There were just

  other stories with more gas.”

  “If you’d had two more days to run with it, where would you have gone?”

  “To the Little New Yorker or Sherry’s to talk to a couple of Cohen’s

  boys. But I doubt it would have gotten me anywhere.”

  “Why?”

  “They were all lying low because of Davy Ogul’s vanishing act. Spangler had dallied with Ogul, or so said those in the know. But they’d parted ways a while back. I couldn’t find out much more, since both parties were conveniently dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “Some coincidence, Ogul getting invisible the same week, eh?”

  “According to my PD sources, the last true-blue sighting of Spangler wasn’t by her cousin when Spangler left the house. Later that night, she was eyeballed at a restaurant—I think the Cheesebox —with some goons.”

  “Yeah?” Hop said, trying to recall all the jazzed-up tips he’d passed to reporters and even a few cops. He was pretty sure this might be one of his own fictions being rolled back out to him. Fuck, Hop, you really make your own trouble.

  “So she’s no longer a possible victim of some snazzy sex criminal. Instead she becomes, well, you see it, a two-bit mob whore.”

  “And a much less interesting case to the press, who have plenty of richer Cohen ore to mine?”

  “Something like that. And you know, this was when there was some bad blood brewing at the old LAPD. But I didn’t stay for the dance. The bosses tossed me over to cover the Cohen crew shakeup. Gave Stanger—”

  “Spangler.”

  “—Spangler to the girl.”

  “The girl?”

  “The girl. Frannie Adair.”

  Twenty minutes later in the Examiner city room, Hop straightened his tie.

  “Tell me, Miss Adair, what’s it like being the only lady in the pen?

  She had been easy for Hop to spot, the sole pair of heels and the only ass worth a glance in the sweeping room full of sweat-stained, unshaven ginks. Frannie Adair, all ginger curls and round cheeks, like three months off the farm, until she spoke. Twitching her freckled nose, she shot back at him, “What’s it like going over to enemy lines, turning stooge for the plastic factory?”

  “It has its advantages,” Hop said, rolling with it. This girl didn’t look like she suffered fools.

  “Likewise,” she said, nodding and angling her head toward the smoky newsroom. “These boys don’t tip their hats and there’s the occasional pinch in the elevator, but I haven’t bought my own beer yet. And you?”

  “Likewise. Only they do tip their hats to me.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said pointedly. “I hear you’ve done more

  whitewashing than Tom Sawyer.”

  “If I was that good, you wouldn’t know about it, would you?”

  “Well,” she said, eyes narrowing, “it’s just a rumor, but we’d all like to know how you pulled off that Simmons deal. One night, Mr. Wild West himself punches a cop in the jaw, resisting arrest—we hear—for getting caught with a needle full of horse in his neck, the next thing: the Herald-Express, our near-and-dear sister paper, runs a story about how Mr. Busted-Jaw Cop is no hero. In fact, he sent his wife to the emergency room the week before, beaten so raw they had to slide her nose back into the middle of her face.”

  Pausing, she poked her pen on Hop’s lapel before adding, “Then, a day later, charges against Wild West Simmons go puff.”

  Hop tried not to smile. “I know the story you’re talking about, but only thirdhand. I hear it was all an honest mix-up.”

  “I’ m sure.”

  Truth was, it had been a combination of hustle and luck. He hadn’t been sure the cop’s wife was lying (although he was pretty sure she was). Why should that stop him from passing along the story to a salivating reporter? It wasn’t his job to find out who was telling the truth. He knew what his job was.

  “So it turned out the cop’s wife had an ax to grind?” Hop shrugged. “That reporter should’ve checked his facts before condemning the guy. I’m sure you would have.”

  “You got that right, Mr. Hopkins,” she said, capping her pen. “I don’t fall so easy. Not even if you batted those long lashes at me all day long.”

  He took her for a bowl of chop suey at a small place around the corner. She smoked while she ate, digging for stringy pork. They sat on adjacent stools at the counter—”So I don’t have to look into those big blue eyes of yours,” she’d said.

  “Spangler. Yeah, I had the story for about a week,” she said, then lifted her eyes from her food and crooked her head toward Hop. ‘You must know more about it than me. She was with your studio, right?”

  “I wasn’t working for them then.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. What do you want from me? What could I tell you that you couldn’t read in the papers?”

  Hop pushed his food away and rested his elbows on the counter, turning his head toward her.

  “Nothing. Maybe. I don’t know.” He was trying to be careful. To strike a balance. He wanted to find out if there were any leftover threads dangling from the case without pulling a few new ones loose in the process. He said, “A friend of mine who knew the girl came to see me. She was a little shook up.”

  “Why? That was almost two years ago.” She was getting more interested. He could tell by the way she lowered her fork from full

  keel.

  “I don’t know. She left before I could find out.”

  “So go ask her. Telephone her.”

  “She’s left. No forwarding number.”

  “Close friend, eh?” She wiped her lips with her napkin. “So why do

  you care?”

  Hop tried to decide if this Adair girl was attractive or not. He thought so when he first spotted her in the newsroom, breasts like

  hard little peaches against her tailored suit. Big cow eyes and a firm mouth. Legs that worked coming and going.

  But something in the way she spoke seemed like each word she uttered sent out a hundred-yard stretch between them. Or like she was behind a pane of glass. And not in a way that made him want to rap on it, asking for admittance.

  “The point is,” he said, resting his finger on the edge of her sleeve, “I can’t seem to puzzle out what got her so shook up. I figure if I find that out, maybe I can help her.” This wasn’t all true, but it was true enough. Maybe. Hop couldn’t untangle his motives. There was something about covering his own tracks—tracks he thought he’d long ago covered. And sure, there was something else. Something about Iolene’s accusations. And something, too, about the coltish fear in her eyes and the idea that maybe he—the fixer—could make it disappear.

  Frannie shook off his finger and speared herself a water chestnut. “Mr. Hopkins, I’d like to help—well, no, actually, I don’t care. But I couldn’t help even if I did. Read my stories. That’s all I know.”

  Something in the way she returned so intently to her congealed chop suey, which was among the worst he’d ever tasted, made him more sure of her interest. She had something. He wondered what it could be and how you’d
get something like that out of a girl like that.

  “How would I get something out of a girl like you,” he said, taking a chance on the honest approach. “And note: I’m not batting my eyelashes.”

  She grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. Somehow, the sight of it stirred Hop and a few dozen yards fell away.

  “Let me think on some things, Mr. Hopkins.” She set her fork down and grabbed for her purse, the grin slowly giving way to concentration. Slowly.

  “Call me Hop.”

  “I can’t call a grown man Hop.”

  “That’s right.”

  At the end of a long afternoon at the studio spent mostly trying to coax a fresh-faced, teenage star out of marrying a Mexican mariachi musician she’d met in Tijuana, Hop drove out to Lincoln Heights to find the address Central Casting had given him for Iolene.

  As he got closer, he realized he’d been in this area before, back in his short stint working for Jerry at the Examiner when he first came to town. He’d covered a story about a gambling shop above a Salvation Army. Bettors were strolling in, having some coffee, listening to a little of the gospel, then slipping upstairs to lay down some green on the Cardinals over the Sox in five.

  He’d sized up Iolene for classier digs. In fact, he had a vague memory of her saying she shared a small apartment with a girlfriend in one of the sparkling pink and gray high-rises of Westwood. “The manager thinks I’m her maid, but I’m not particular,” Iolene had said with a shrug.

  This particular strip of road was a big step down. And when Hop began to get closer, he felt kind of lousy for her. Sure, a Negro girl, no matter how finely turned-out or how talented, was never going to be the next Ava Gardner, but Iolene had always worked steady in the past, small parts singing in supper clubs, dancing in large revues.

  When he reached the right number, he saw it was a house, small, with a sagging overhang and split into apartments. One set of windows was covered over with sun-rippled newspapers. An overflowing, rusted metal trash can teetered on the lean strip of brown lawn.

  Hop, feeling conspicuous in his pressed linen suit and his lemon-yellow pocket square, dashed up the walk as quickly as possible. A directory, just a faded index card taped beside the door, revealed no clue as to which apartment Iolene lived in, if she lived there at all. Her name didn’t appear.

  Hop paused a moment before trying the door, which wobbled open. There were two apartments on either side and an old pine staircase leading to the second floor.

  “What the hell,” Hop decided out loud before rapping on the door marked no. 1.

  No answer.

  He turned instead to no. 2, from which he could hear a faint thrum of bop. He’d barely completed a brisk knock when the door flew open and a petite colored woman in a red wrap stood before him.

  “Honey, I, honest, don’t know where he dusted. He could be clearway to Chicago with those stones for all I’ve been made aware,” she said, shaking her head.

  Hop stared at her. Had everyone in this building skipped town? “What stones?”

  The woman curled her mouth in thought. “You ain’t the fella from Treasury.”

  Hop tried a smile. “No, ma’am. Another white guy.”

  She laughed, tugging her wrap closer to her chest, hand still on the door. “You ain’t so white.”

  “Well, then help a brother out,” he said with a grin. “I’m looking for an old friend, Iolene. She still live here?”

  “Oh, you her daddy?” She smirked, shaking her head. “No Iolene here, boy. Another colored chick.”

  “Are you sure? Lived with a man. I talked to him on the phone.”

  “So why didn’t you ask him where your girl went?” Her eyes slanted, just perceptibly. ‘You sure you ain’t law?”

  “So sure it hurts,” Hop said, as lightly as he could. “We worked together, sort of.”

  She paused a minute, locking eyes with him. Then, “A man, Barber, lives in number four upstairs. He had a woman here now and again. Name of Louise.”

  “Pretty, about so high, light skin?”

  She nodded, tilting her head knowingly. “That the way you like’em, Mr. High Yella?”

  Hop skipped over her question. He wanted to be sure Louise and Iolene were one and the same. “With a really distinctive voice, low and soft?”

  “Oh, man, what you take me for, Arthur Godfrey? Yeah, Louise sang,” she sighed, as if deciding. Then, “At a joint on Adams near Jefferson Park. King Cole is the name.”

  Hop felt a ripple of relief. Not a complete dead end. He looked back at the woman, leaning on the door frame. “What’s your name?”

  She smirked. “Just call me Gorgeous,” she said, beginning to shut the door.

  “Thanks, Gorgeous.” Hop quickly pulled out a five-spot. “You’re swell…”

  Smirk sliding away, she tucked her fingers around the bill and the door swung shut.

  King Cole

  It was a large place with green damask walls, long, narrow tables, and private booths with heavy curtains. On the long wall behind the bar was a smoke-patina mural of a bushy-browed king enthroned with pipe and bowl. It ran all the way behind the small stage, where it depicted three fiddlers looking more like German barmaids than musicians.

  A white girl in a spangled gold dress sang Rosemary Clooney style, while a long-fingered Negro played piano. The crowd was just as mixed.

  Hop slid into a seat at the bar and ordered a soda to keep things simple. The bartender didn’t quite roll his eyes at the order but perked up when Hop left a two-dollar tip.

  “Is Iolene singing tonight?”

  The bartender lifted his eyes, pausing a second in wiping a glass.

  “Not these days, pal. She doesn’t come around here anymore. Not in weeks.”

  “That right? How come?”

  “Most people here knew her as Sweet Louise. Guess you’re kind of a friend.”

  “I am. Haven’t seen her in a while, though.”

  “Not so much of a friend if you don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  The bartender set down the glass and pointed, rag still in hand, to a man sitting alone at the far end of the long bar. He looked like he’d been drinking for several hours or years.

  “That’s the man you want to talk to. Jimmy Love. Played piano for her when she was on regular.”

  Hop thanked him and made his way down the bar. The man spotted the approach and gave Hop a long, unblinking stare the whole way.

  ‘Tour name ain’t Hippity Hop, is it?” he muttered. And the minute he spoke, Hop recognized him as the man he’d spoken to on the phone when he’d tried to reach Iolene.

  “Uh, no, Gil Hopkins. They call me Hop, though.”

  “They do, do they? Who’s they?”

  Hop smiled. “Just about all the theys.”

  “Oh, then you’re the one,” Jimmy Love said slowly. His voice,

  coated with drink, still had a funny kind of dignity that made Hop sit up straighter in his seat. “I thought so when you called.”

  “The one what?”

  “The one Iolene went to see. She said she’d done you a favor, a big one, of the ‘mouth-shut’ variety, and now, with all her trouble, you would step up.” His eyes turned from the mirror behind the bar to Hop.

  “I don’t know what…” Hop felt three hairs above sea level, and sinking fast.

  “Those boys have been closing in. Boys you don’t want to make unfriendly with, Hoppity.”

  “Connected?”

  “Hell, ain’t we all?” He shrugged, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. “You can’t live in this town without it sticking to you like tar paper. But no, these fellas were up some notches.”

  Hop lowered his voice. “Cohen connected?”

  Wiping a drop of Jack Daniel’s from his upper lip, Jimmy Love shook his head. “What did I just say, greenhorn? You’re much slower than she let on. She acted like you knew a damn thing.”

  “She was wrong,” Hop said. Boy, was she.


  “More ways than one, looks like. You didn’t help her for jack, Jack,” he said, shaking his head again and slipping his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Now it’s later than you think.”

  Recognizing he’d been dismissed, Hop stepped out of Jimmy Love’s way. He was starting to tire of conversations where he only followed a whisper of meaning. Each step into Iolene’s world made him feel like he was pulling away filmy veil after filmy veil and never getting any closer to her honey skin. This was how he’d always felt with Iolene. With some other women, too. These days, he’d come to prefer the ones whose secrets lie only behind a thin layer of nylon, if that.

  As he watched Jimmy Love drop a few bills on the bar and walk out without another word, Hop waved over to the bartender.

  “Bourbon,” he sighed, pushing his soda aside. “Bourbon.”

  “Does that mean bourbon twice or are you playing for emphasis?”

  “Do you get extra tips for the Oscar Levant routine?”

  “Not from your type.”

  Had he even made her any promises? Not that he could recall. He was very careful, his entire life, to avoid making any promises to women at all. He remembered Iolene showing up at the Cinestar office the day after Jean Spangler first went missing, eyes red as grenadine, hands shaking, clattering against the tortoise clasp on her purse. At the time, he was sure the girl—this Jean—would show up. That she’d just gone off on one of these joy rides that these starlets live, breathe, and tramp themselves all over town for.

  “Listen, Iolene, what could you tell the cops that would help them find her, really? Stay out of it. You want to end up in cuffs on the cover of tomorrow’s Mirror? Guilt by association, baby. Who needs it? Let me do the talking for us. Fix it real nice.”

  And he had. He knew what to do to make it all go away. Drop a few ideas —ideas that were code for “girl of questionable habits.” “Girl running in dangerous circles.” “Girl not long f0r this town.” It wouldn’t take much. He knew that, too. Girls like this turned to smoke every day.

  “I guess I’m going home,” Hop told the bartender at the King Cole, pushing the empty glass forward with his two index fingers. His head wobbled and he knew he’d had at least two drinks too many. Fuck me, I’m innocent.