by Helen Jacey
The atmosphere was electric. I studied the other members of the band. Alberta was enjoying herself. She knew Dolly was free, she had limited opportunity to play in her life, and she was letting rip.
If Bertha, Carmen and Jewel were exhausted, they kept up a good front.
I felt a pang of envy of their love for their playing, for their passion for something creative. I had no idea what it felt like, but I still envied it.
Only Zetty was frowning.
Maureen wasn’t among the Colombo gangsters on the other side of the tent to me. Was she classed as too low in the pecking order? Probably. I’d seen Roberto, Maureen’s husband, smoking outside and gathered from his stance that he was on look out, not a guest.
Was Maureen stuck in her room for New Year’s Eve? Was it that she could come along for the ride, but at the destination, she was put in her place?
Floriana had put me on a “young” table with her daughter Simonetta, who had flung her arms around me. There were also four dashing young male actors who were the life and soul of our table, and easy on the eye. They were all signed to the same major studio, and kept the table entertained all night with Hollywood gossip. Lastly there were two businesswomen, a beauty magazine editor, and Deborah something, the owner of the Starlight modelling agency.
During dessert, Deborah took an interest in me when I told her I lived in the Miracle Mile Hotel. She was looking to move her agency to mid-Wilshire from Downtown, and did I know if the owner was open to renting an office?
I gave her Dede’s name. It was ironic that Alberta, who was on stage entertaining the crowd that very moment, could give her an answer then and there.
In another world.
Deborah asked questions about the hotel and its residents. I did my best to answer, wondering how a model agency might be of benefit to a fledgling detective agency.
And then it came. A loud bang, violently ripping through the tent.
The band stopped playing, frozen on stage. Silence, followed by more shots. The guests screamed, everyone jumping under the tables. Desserts flew everywhere. I crouched down and crawled behind a column, my hand landing in a meringue. I peered around.
A masked figure, a gun in a gloved hand. Tall, thin, a dark cap over his head. He stood by one of the tent’s side entrances.
His line of fire went straight to Stefano Colombo’s table. He fired again, and a volley of shots flew back in reply. Roberto ran into the tent, aiming at the shooter.
Another loud bang came from an altogether different direction.
The stage. I spun around.
Zetty! Fury in her eyes and jumping off the stage, she fired her revolver at the gunman. The other band members were cowering behind the drums and the double bass, now lying on the floor of the stage.
Another blast and Zetty was thrown backwards, a bullet searing through her chest.
I turned back to see the shooter, also hit. Clutching his arm, he slipped out through the tent.
Mobsters were surrounding the Colombo table, loud voices shouting in Italian. Roberto ran back outside, pursuing the assailant. More gunfire, then silence.
The petrified guests stayed under the tables. Women whimpered.
Floriana was the first to stand up, cautiously. She called out for Simonetta in Italian. No answer. Floriana called out again, more desperately. Someone shouted back that Simonetta had gone to the powder room before the shooting started. Floriana’s relief her daughter had escaped the bullets was palpable.
Slowly, guests started raising their heads.
I ran over to Zetty. Alberta and Wanda were bending over her. ‘She’s bleeding!’
‘I’ll press on the wound!’ I said. My fingers gently tried to stop the blood flow, but it surged like warm water through my fingers.
You couldn’t save Billy, either.
I shook the image away. A grim-faced Alberta sat next to Zetty’s head, stroking her hair.
We met each other’s eyes. We were losing her.
Floriana swooped in. ‘My Zetty, my Zetty! No!’ She leaned close to Zetty and spoke in Italian very fast, stroking her face. She looked up and screamed at a waiter. He nodded and ran out of the tent.
‘A doctor is coming. Santa Maria, ti prego.’ She looked desperate and torn, whether to stay with dying Zetty or see to the Colombo mob. Duty came first and she got up.
A crimson stain seeped over the entire span of Zetty’s green embroidered bodice. Her eyes were flickering, manically. She was desperate to say something, vainly attempting to twist her head to meet Alberta’s eyes.
‘Hush, honey. Don’t move, don’t talk.’ Alberta was soothing.
‘Where’s that doctor!’ yelled Wanda. She marched off. Jewel, Carmen and Bertha clung to each other, sobbing.
Zetty’s skin felt cold and clammy. Her face contorted in agony.
‘Hush, now. Take it easy.’ Alberta was soothing but it only seemed to make Zetty’s anguish worse.
‘Okay, honey. What is it?’
Alberta and I leaned closer to Zetty’s face.
‘Say to Dolly…I sorry…’
Zetty, even now, was still torn up about Dolly. Alberta looked decisive—she had to give Zetty peace of mind. ‘Zetty, relax, Dolly’s okay.’
‘No. I…sorry…I kill Ronald Hunter. I kill him.’
With that, her head lolled back.
Zetty just dropped a bomb on the case. I had no time to process it. Somehow, I did have the foresight to casually slip her revolver under my garter. Survival instinct, again.
Floriana rushed back over, with more staff. They surrounded Zetty. Floriana addressed us. ‘You can leave. We take care of her.’
Alberta sadly looked at the others. ‘Nothing we can do.’ They slipped out of a side door in the tent, the one for staff. They didn’t want to hang around to be grilled by the Santa Barbara sheriff’s boys.
I hesitated. Zetty was not the only victim. Stefano Colombo was obviously hurt. I had no idea if he was dead or alive. Several of his men were crouching around him.
Another guy burst into the tent, shouting in Italian. Colombo’s men looked around. The man gestured outside. But the others didn’t move.
Floriana stood up, queen over the commotion. She made a grand reassuring speech to the guests. There had been a tragic incident. She needed to call the police and she understood if anyone had to leave quickly.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going. A surge of rich and important guests surged out of the tent.
Was Floriana purposely delaying her call to the cops, buying her more important guests a head start?
I had to find Maureen.
Think, what are you going to do exactly?
The opportunity to kill her had been lost. I was secretly relieved.
So move!
I could hitch a ride. The guys on my table had fled but if I was quick, maybe I could catch them.
My hands were thickly coated and sticky with Zetty’s drying blood. I had to wash but I wouldn’t need to change. My red velvet dress didn’t show much of the blood on the skirt.
You look good in red velvet.
Outside the tent, Floriana’s people shone flashlights over the grass. A trail of blood drops just disappeared in the middle of the lawn. It was like the shooter had been spirited away.
Others were surrounding a body.
A beam of light lit up the corpse’s face. Roberto, a bullet through his forehead, his mouth sagging open.
And then a monstrous wail of grief.
Maureen. Running from the house, hysterical, her arms high. She flung herself over Roberto, kissing his lips, his face, even the wound. ‘No! No!’
The mobsters tried to calm her, to pull her off. She shook them off, like a tiger protecting her cubs. ‘Roberto, Roberto!’
So this was love.
Roberto was the guy Maureen had dreamed of, all those drunken nights in her squalid South London flat. Her knight in shining armor had finally shown up for her, taken care of her, and s
tayed by her side.
And now he was gone. Ripped from her by the hazard of his profession.
Maureen looked up, tears streaming down her face. She caught sight of me. ‘Jemima, Jemima! Look what they’ve done to him! My baby!’
She had to shut up with the “Jemima”. Somebody could hear. I went over to her, and did what the mobsters couldn’t, dragged her off him. ‘Come on. Let them take him inside.’
Maureen reluctantly stood up. She collapsed into my arms. ‘I want him! No, no.’
The ruthless me should kill her now. Take her for a walk. Do it quietly, quickly. But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t bear to see the betrayal in her already suffering eyes.
I held her in my arms while she sobbed her heart out. My mind wandered. Would the Colombo gang take care of her now? Let her stay in the LA house they’d given her?
Wherever she settled, being a widow and hitting forty would mean one thing. She’d soon be broke.
Destitution meant hunger, hunger meant determination. Maureen didn’t have my full name, or my profession. But she knew I was alive and how to locate me. In time, she would hunt me down. And if she fled back to London, she could easily sell me out to the Salvatores to extract a reward from them.
Even in grief, Maureen O’Reilly very much posed a risk to my health.
A doctor ran towards the tent, passing me, followed by ambulance men with stretchers. Maureen followed Roberto’s body, slowly carried by his colleagues, towards the main house.
I raced past them. Inside, I poked my head around the dining room. Hoodlums occupied the corner table, a haze of cigar smoke over their huddle. More of Colombo’s crew?
One looked up, but I turned away and ran out. The less they got to know my face, the better.
I bumped into Floriana gliding into the hall. Her expression was strange. A mixture of stress and something else. Disappointment?
‘Stefano Colombo is injured, badly. My girl Zetty is unconscious. A man is dead. How dare they bring their battles here! The police are on their way. Where is my daughter when I need her?’
‘Poor Zetty. Hey, please leave my name off the guest list, if the cops ask for it.’
‘The police will not trouble anybody, once I have explained it was a hit. The Colombo family have many enemies. Only they can explain this.’
Floriana could make it worth the sheriff office’s while to ignore the majority of guests.
And then I saw it. A fleeting twinkle in her eye? Then it was gone.
‘What?’ She demanded.
‘A bad blow, for the hotel and spa?’
‘My business will not be affected.’ She touched my arm. ‘But sweet of you to worry.’ She kissed me dramatically on both cheeks.
I lowered my voice. ‘Hey, there’s a woman with the Colombos. Maureen O’Reilly? She’s married to the guy who died.’
‘The one in that horrible pink dress?’
‘That’s her. If you see her, please give her my number. Only her, not the people she’s with. But don’t give her my surname, or tell her I’m a PI.’
Floriana raised a brow. ‘You know these people already? You are in some trouble?’
Damn, she was perceptive! But I couldn’t be honest with her. Not yet. ‘Nothing like that. We got chatting. I feel bad for her.’
Floriana mused, looking curious. ‘Okay. I will do as you ask.’
I thanked her and dashed upstairs.
Alberta was hurrying down, a coat over her blood-stained dress. She was loaded with cases. They must have been packed up already.
‘This is awful. I pray Zetty’s gonna make it but what was she saying?’
‘No idea.’
Alberta looked warily around. ‘We can’t talk now; you should scram, too.’
Her emphasis on “you”, meant one thing. Whatever I’d said to her when I was sauced, she knew I was in trouble with the law.
‘I’ll hitch a ride. See you in LA.’ We instinctively hugged each other.
Wanda was on her way down, with a bag. She eyed us coolly. Alberta broke away. I went on up the stairs.
‘Wanna ride with us?’
I stopped and turned back. It was Wanda, looking up at me.
A peace offering? Maybe because I’d tried to help Zetty. Wanda moved in mysterious ways.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Then move it. Wash that blood off your hands. Any trouble on the road, jump into the hatch right away. If they find you, you say you snuck on in the dark. We didn’t even know you were with us. We’ll say show was over and we were on our way out as the shooting started. Period.’
‘And nobody says nothing about Zetty,’ snapped Alberta. ‘Okay?’
I nodded. In my room, I scrubbed my hands and shoved everything in the case. As I left, something made me go back to the nightstand. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed the box of bullets.
The photograph of Zetty and the child. I would take that, too.
Why? Instinct. I had no obvious need for it. Maybe Dolly would. She could take it to Zetty in hospital. Surely the first thing she would do is sit by her pal’s bedside.
I heard something, coming from a small door at the end of the corridor. A groan?
Ignore it! You don’t have time!
I tiptoed along the carpet towards the door. It looked like a broom closet, or a toilet. Another groan. A woman, crying?
I was torn. The bus wouldn’t wait for me. Then a wail of agony. I rapped on the door. Silence.
‘Everything okay?’
No answer. Just a whimper.
I turned the handle.
Simonetta, Floriana’s daughter!
Her eyes blazed in fury. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and a long streak of blood stained her dark clothes, pants and a black shirt. She was clutching her arm. Kneeling next to her, the maid Valeria stared up at me, too. Caught in the act.
She had a pair of tweezers in her hand, hovering over a violent raw wound rupturing Simonetta’s supple bicep. Blood-soaked pads, bandages and disinfectant lay on a tray.
A hasty bullet extraction? Simonetta was the assassin?
Simonetta hissed, ‘Get the hell out, or I kill you!’
I slammed the door fast, heart pumping.
Low voices. I spun around. At the far end of the corridor, Earnestine, the bus driver, was being handed a case from someone inside a room. Was it my imagination or did her head spin back to the door too fast?
Carmen came out and shut the door. Earnestine met my eyes as they went down the stairs.
I hurried after them.
46
Silent sadness pervaded the bus journey, each woman lost in her own thoughts. Earnestine put her foot on the gas and the bus hurtled along the dark, deserted roads.
I dozed intermittently. Too wired, too thrown to sleep. I couldn’t make sense of the shocking twist of events. Simonetta’s hit. Zetty’s confession. Was she saying she had committed a crime passionel? Odd. I couldn’t see Zetty and Hunter together in a million years. And if and when she pulled through, what state would she be in?
Dolly, Agnes and Pauline were all a type: petite white girls, vulnerable-looking. Zetty was lithe, tall, muscular, tanned. An amazon, really. And while her face was striking, it didn’t fit the mold for any beauty magazine.
And she wanted us to say sorry to Dolly for killing her man.
Again, the only people linking Zetty and Hunter were Dolly and Vivienne. Dolly, because she and Zetty were close. Vivienne, because she worked for Hunter, and Floriana wanted to buy her shop.
Unless Hunter had been having an affair with Zetty, which seemed highly unlikely, I could see no motive.
And on top of everything, Simonetta had rubbed out Stefano Colombo. Clever to do it at the party, with her mother, Floriana, standing very near Stefano when it happened. That alone meant Floriana wouldn’t be blamed. The Colombo clan would suspect an enemy. There would be reprisals. The LAPD would be busy.
Was Floriana herself in on the
hit? Or had Simonetta taken things into her own hands? That had backfired spectacularly. Hurting Zetty, a beloved servant, possibly fatally. Was that just a terrible accident? Was Zetty in on it, her gun conveniently hidden on the stage somewhere?
I tried to curl up on the bouncing bus. I needed Beatty’s genius brain.
Eventually, the purring of the bus’s engine over the long road helped me fall asleep. 1946 arrived during our dreams.
I roused; the bus was coming to a smooth stop. Had we arrived? Everyone else was asleep. I peered outside. The bleak darkness of the wilderness. No city lights, in fact, the middle of nowhere. I could just make out brush blowing in the wind.
Earnestine was getting off the bus. She was stretching her legs, swigging from a bottle of root beer. A break for the driver.
I decided to join her and crept past the slumbering bandmates.
Outside, she nodded to me. ‘Can’t sleep?’
I shook my head. ‘Guess it’s New Year now, so Happy New Year.’
She nodded. ‘Except it ain’t so happy.’ She whistled. ‘You see it go down?’
I whistled. ‘Everything.’
Earnestine offered me a cigarette. I declined. ‘Know Zetty well?’ I asked.
‘Not as good as the other girls. Why?’
I pulled out the photograph and handed to her. ‘She ever mention a kid?’
Earnestine used her lighter to see better. ‘Not to me. But that boy sure looks like her.’
I nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
She handed the photograph back. ‘I guess Mrs. Luciano will tell who needs to be told. What you doing with it, anyway?’