“That’s too creepy to contemplate.”
“But isn’t that why you’re talking to me? Because I can come up with ideas too creepy for you to contemplate?”
He’s got you there, sport, said Errol Flynn, a man reputed to have known a thing or two about underage sex.
“Okay,” Jack went on, “what if the boys somehow found out what their caretaker’s day job was, and, being twelve year old boys, they tell her she’d better take them to watch a filming or else they’ll squeal about her to their mom.”
“But their mom may already know about her past.”
“Maybe the boys tell Elena that if she doesn’t do what they say, they’ll tell their mother she abused them.”
“That’s pretty cold.”
Jack took a long swig from his beer. “It is pretty cold,” he said, “but your description of these two doesn’t make them sound like models of warmth.”
“True.”
“Well, let’s just cut to the chase and start with the boys being on the set of the porno, however they got there. We know they were on the set, because you saw them in the movie. So they’re there, one thing leads to another, and the director or producer decides to put them in the film. Maybe he didn’t realize how young they were.”
“Boy, that’s a tough one to accept,” I said, wiping my mouth with a real, cloth napkin. “I mean, one would have to be blind to not realize they’re underage. But let’s say for a moment that the director was either blind or just stupid. Elena still knew they were only twelve.”
“Right, which is a potential motive for her murder.”
“How so?”
“Mom finds out that her kids have been sexually exploited and realizes it has to be the fault of the assistant. So she flies into a rage and kills her.”
“Doesn’t wash, I’m afraid,” I said. “The mother was killed before the assistant.”
“Oh, right.” There was a pause of about four seconds, and then Jack said: “Ooh! Ooh, I got it! The killer is the twins’ father, and he’s the one who finds out how his boys are being exploited. He confronts the mother who tries to put the blame on the assistant, but Dad doesn’t care, because the kids are still her responsibility. He’s loses control and kills her. Then he goes after the assistant, since she was in on it too. Then he tries to get you because he thinks that you might have realized that he’s the killer.”
“Well, that one makes sense,” I said. “But there’s still the aunt, who wasn’t killed, and the missing boys.”
“Dad could be the one who took the boys. As for the aunt…what if Dad goes after the aunt with the intent of killing her, but when he gets to her house, the boys are there. He’s already killed two people in order to protect his sons, but they don’t know that, and he doesn’t want them to find out. Most of all, he doesn’t want them to see him murder someone right in front of their eyes, particularly someone they know. So he subdues the aunt just enough to take the kids and run, but doesn’t kill her.”
“That’s not bad, Jack, but there’s a wrinkle.”
“I hate wrinkles.”
“And you’ll hate this one. Alan, the father, told me he doesn’t believe the boys are really his kids.”
“He told you what?”
I repeated myself, then went back to my chowder.
“Hmmm, that’s a good one. Why would someone believe his kids are not his kids? Maybe he really is bughouse crazy.”
“I haven’t ruled that out completely,” I admitted.
Jack drained his glass and then held it up. “This, my dear Watson, promises to be a two-pint problem.”
I laughed and flagged down the barmaid, so Jack could order another ESB. When it arrived he went through the same ritual of sipping it, savoring it, and commenting on it, and then said, “All right, where were we?”
“We both agreed it’s possible for the dad to be insane.”
“Right, he’s nuts. Or…oh, I like this…he’s nuts like a fox. What if he’s only telling you that the boys aren’t really his in order to deflect his real motive, which is to get rid of the mom and regain custody of his children?”
“It’s possible. The thing is, Jack, I’ve seen pictures of the boys when they were babies, and they looked different. They were a lot more identical than they are now.”
“My two nieces looked like identical twins when they were babies, and they were born three years apart.”
“Point taken. But could there be any other explanation for the guy’s claim, outside of insanity or deviousness?”
“Well, sure,” Jack said, finishing off his sausage roll. “He could be telling the truth. Maybe they really aren’t his kids. Hey, wait a minute.…” I could practically hear the sound of the engine in Jack’s mind shifting into high gear. “Maybe all this has nothing to do with that porno movie. Maybe the father is pissed because he’s discovered that the mother got rid of their real kids and substituted two other ones, and that’s why he killed her! The assistant knows about it, maybe she was even in on it, so she has to go, too. The aunt, though, she doesn’t know anything about the switch, so she’s spared.” He took a swig, set the glass down, and sat back triumphantly.
“Okay,” I said, “but how does one go about discarding their twin children and replacing them with others? Last time I was in Target, I didn’t see a twins section.”
“And if this story were set anywhere other than Hollywood, I’d agree with you,” Jack said. “But you know that twins are always in demand here because of the film industry.”
“Yeah, I know all that.”
“So does everybody else. If you live in Enid, Oklahoma, and the doctor says you’re going to have twins, you start thinking about moving to L.A. and get the kids working.”
“Okay, let’s say you’re right. But how would one go about finding another set of twins? Craig’s List?”
“Ha ha. Were it me, theoretically, I’d start with a casting director.”
“Oh.”
“Dave, that was an awfully meaningful ‘oh.’”
“There’s somebody else who’s kind of involved in this, another porn actress who worked on the side in the casting office of a television company. She used to call the twins in to audition for TV shows.”
“You’ve been holding out on me. You didn’t mention her.”
“She didn’t fit into any of the scenarios until now,” I said. I had to admit that a lot of what Jack was saying made sense in an odd sort of way, which is why I called him in the first place. Never underestimate the value of writers, kid, no matter what Jack Warner tells you, Bogie said, helpfully.
“You still there?” Jack was asking.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m here, I’m just thinking. You’ve come up with a couple great theories, Jack, but the problem is I don’t know how to conform them. It has to be one or the other, either the twin substitution or the porno movie, because there are too many puzzle pieces to make only one picture.”
“If this were a story of mine, I’d go with the one where the dad kills everybody because the kids have been put into X-rated movies.”
“And the bit about the boys not really being his?”
“Either misdirection or delusion, in my opinion.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “Okay, Jack, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Thanks.”
“This was kind of fun, you know? Any time you’ve got another problem, give me a—” His face took on a faraway expression that had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d consumed. “Oooh, you’ve given me an idea,” he said. “Of course…damn! That’s how I can fix that problem I’ve been having with my new book!” He looked at his watch. “Dave, I don’t want to appear rude, but I need to get back and get this idea down before it flies away.”
“Not a problem,” I said, “but won’t you still be interrupted by the cleaning woman?”
He drained the rest of his second pint and said, “If she’s still vacuuming, I’ll tell her to stop. Thanks, Dave, I’ll talk to you later.
” Then he got up and lumbered out of the pub.
As I watched him through the window of the bar practically running down the street, I felt glad that somebody was getting a useful idea. The barmaid came back and asked if I was ready for the check. Instead, because the chowder had only whetted my appetite, I ordered a fish sandwich. I needed to think, and this place seemed as conducive to it as anywhere. Maybe I’d get a brainstorm, too. Besides, at what I had to pay for parking, I wanted to get my money’s worth. I sat and thought, but no matter how I turned or twisted the facts of this case around, they didn’t all add up to a cohesive whole.
When the sandwich arrived, I was delighted to find that it was every bit as good as the chowder had been, but while my stomach was being satisfied, my brain was still wandering through the desert. If only cases were more like movies, where going over and over something would reveal a new insight. Maybe they were for better investigators. Maybe a more experienced detective could see through the choose-your-own-adventure structure of this case and figure out how all the dead ends tied together.
Don’t beat yourself up, kid, Bogie’s voice said encouragingly. After all this time I still don’t know who killed Taylor.
I had to smile. Bogie was not referring to Taylor Frost (or Kleinbach), but rather Owen Taylor, the Sternwood’s chauffeur, whose limo was pushed off an unnamed pier in The Big Sleep with Taylor still in it. In one of classic Hollywood’s most famous anecdotes, director Howard Hawks and screenwriters William Faulkner and Leigh Brackett could not figure out who offed Taylor, so Hawks contacted source novelist Raymond Chandler, who didn’t know either. It’s the kind of story that has been told so many times it might even be true, though the recently discovered print of the film’s original cut revealed that the killing had, in fact, been attributed to a secondary character, rightly or wrongly, which served to refute the legend. Increasingly, classic Hollywood lore was being rewritten through the discovery of previously lost footage, or even artifacts, like Mac’s poster for The Mummy. Who knew? Maybe all those sequences cut out of The Mummy would turn up, including the one featuring Willy Lipton.
The barmaid reappeared at my table and said, “Luv, I’m about to go on break, so if there’s anything else I can get for you, let me know.”
“Yeah, you can tell me the identity of a murderer.”
“Are you reading a mystery novel?” She grinned broadly. “I like Lee Child, you ever read him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“He’s British, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He’s the best. Not mystery, really, more thriller. But do you want anything else to eat?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
She snaked away through the growing crowd and quickly returned with my check. It was a good thing the food was so enjoyable, given the prices. I left the money, got up and left, vowing on the way home not to, as Bogie so eloquently put it, beat myself up any more over this case, at least for the rest of the day.
Tomorrow is another day, a voice said in my head, so vividly that I looked behind me to see if someone had actually spoken. But there was no one within earshot. The voice that had spoken was not the expected one, Vivien Leigh. It was a man’s voice, an ominous voice, even a menacing voice.
It was the voice of Detective Hector Mendoza.
SEVENTEEN
Even though I had become used to hearing the voices of classic Hollywood in my head (knowing, deep down inside, that they were simply manifestations of some part of my own mind, which, in addition to the fact that I could not afford it, is why I haven’t had myself committed), I have to confess that it spooked me to hear the voice of Mendoza so clear, so vivid, and so threatening. I worried about it all the way home. Once there, however, a combination of the food in my stomach, which was starting to slow me down, and the fact that TCM was airing Lady in the Lake pushed it out of my mind. Lady in the Lake isn’t a great movie—it’s the one where Robert Montgomery plays Philip Marlowe, but he’s seen only a few fleeting times in mirror reflections because the film is shot in subjective camera POV—but it’s better than a network reality show. Unreality is always more interesting (and less dangerous) than reality in my book.
Before the movie came on, I was tempted to call Marcy, but I really had no reason to do so. I did not have any new information about the twins, except for the fact that they appeared in a porno, which I did not think would make her day. I should probably have phoned Colfax with this information, but decided it could wait until later. The movie started, played and ended the same way it had the last time I’d seen it, but I managed to notice a few new things along the way, notably that the set department had misspelled the name “Philip Marlowe” on the door of the detective’s office, giving an extra “l” to Philip.
Next time they should get the “l” out of there, a raspy voice drawled. Thank you John Huston. I’ll forward your message to Mr. Montgomery, who also directed the picture.
I was also somewhat amused by the fact that part of the action is set in “Bay City,” which was Raymond Chandler’s disguised version of Santa Monica, where I’d been earlier with Jack Daniels. No one ever disguises Los Angeles for a book or a movie. I guess it’s just too big to be offended by what anyone might say about it.
The film ended, and I decided to turn in early. There was no reason not to.
I arose the next morning early as well, which was okay. I got up and put the coffee pot on, then went into the bathroom to shave, and got in the shower. I treated myself to a particularly long, hot shower this morning, since I was now able to afford the water bills for the near future, thanks to Nora Frost. When I finally shut off the water and slid the shower curtain open, though, my heart nearly stopped when I saw the figure standing in my bathroom.
“Jesus, where did you come from?” I screamed, reaching for the towel to cover myself.
“San Bernardino, originally,” Alan Kleinbach said. “Hey, sorry if I startled you, man.”
“Startled me? You nearly gave me a heart attack! You don’t sneak up on a man in the shower! Haven’t you ever seen Psycho?”
“Hitchcock, right?”
“Yes, Hitchcock. Why are you here? How did you even get in?”
“Your door was unlocked.”
“Okay, so I left my door unlocked. How did you get inside the building? It’s supposed to have a security door.”
“I waited for someone to come out and then went in.”
“Who?”
“Older woman who didn’t seem to speak English.”
I sighed. I must have been Mrs. Zarakanian, who lives at the end of the hall. In my experience she has never spoken in any language, communicating instead by giving the stink-eye to anyone who walks by. Somehow I was going to have to try and convince her not to let strangers in the door when she leaves, since the next time it might not be Kleinbach, but someone with a gun. “Fine, Alan, but how did you even know where I live? Did you follow me here as well?”
“Naw. I looked in the phone book.”
“Really?”
“You don’t even know that you’re in the phone book?”
“I don’t call myself all that often,” I said. The truth was, I didn’t realize that my address was listed in the phone book. You have to pay not to be, Jack Benny in my head said, and after a pause added: I’m still listed in Waukegan. To Kleinbach, I said: “Would you mind if I finished drying myself and got dressed?”
“Go for it.”
“Would you mind leaving the bathroom while I dried off?”
“Oh. Okay.”
He shuffled out while I quickly toweled off and, wrapping the damp towel around my waist, ran to the bedroom where I pulled out the first clean clothes I found, a pair of green slacks and a purple polo shirt, and put them on. When I went back out, he was standing in my kitchen, drinking my milk out of the container.
“Alan, why are you here?” I asked.
He wiped the white residue off his moustache. “Did you
tell the police where to find me?”
“Yes. I was trying to clear you.”
“Some guy came to see me, asked me questions.”
“That would have been Detective Colfax.”
“Didn’t get his name, but he looked like Lyle Lovett, sort of. He looked around my apartment to see if I was hiding someone there.”
“You weren’t were you?”
“Of course I wasn’t. There isn’t enough room to hide anyone.”
“I imagine he was looking to see if you had the boys.”
“I don’t. They aren’t even mine, remember?”
“Did you tell Colfax that?”
Kleinbach remained silent for a second or two, and then shook his head. “Sounds kinda crazy,” he said, softly.
“Yeah, well, I’ve stumbled on something that’s even crazier,” I told him. Then I outlined the fact that the twins…at least the twins that I had met…had turned up in a porno film.
“Isn’t that against the law?” he asked.
“It’s against every law. But there they were. I saw them myself.”
Kleinbach shook his head as though he was trying to rattle a gnat out of his ear. “Man, if this is really what normal life is like, I’m kinda glad I went a different route.”
“Alan, I know you didn’t take the time and trouble to come here just to say hello and drink my milk,” I said. “So why did you come here?”
He sighed heavily, and put the milk carton down on the counter. “Either I’m nuts, or I’m being followed,” he said.
“I thought you were the one following people.”
“So did I. But I keep seeing the same car everywhere I go.”
“You’re sure it’s the same car?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Can you get a license number?”
“I haven’t been able to. Hey, you got any cookies?”
“Cookies?”
“You know, sweet crunchy things?”
“Alan, I know what cookies are! Wait a minute, I may have some. Let me check.” I opened a cabinet and found half of a package of Hydrox, and handed it to him.
Kill the Mother! Page 17