But why did Zuckerman trash the Flagmoor house? Did Falstaff have a history with this house? If he did, what was it? After a station break, we’ll take you back to the origins of Vic Zuckerman’s obsession with destroying Michael Falstaff. Please stay tuned.
Vic was attracted to Sybil the moment he saw her in 1942. In fact, one look was enough to cause his heart to race and his breathing to become labored. The asthma that had plagued him since his youth and the fact that he was a junior in UCLA’s School of Applied Art kept him out of the war. He went to the office where she worked as an administrative assistant, their eyes met, and something inside of Vic sparked. The next day he returned on the false pretense of inquiring about registration for the next semester, and asked, “Would you like to see a movie sometime? This Gun for Hire with Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd is playing at the student union Friday night. I’m dying to see it. We could grab a hot dog and beer before the show starts. What do you say?”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Vic. Vic Zuckerman. I met you yesterday. Remember?”
“Oh yes. You needed a transcript?”
“Right. What do you say to a date Friday?”
“I guess so,” she said with a smile.
Their relationship blossomed in quick order and they were talking of marriage in just three months. At the end of the second semester, they tied the knot. They saved money by living in student housing but even on their tight budget they always allotted movie money, their favorite pastime living in the country’s movie-making capital of Los Angeles. Vic saw every new Veronica Lake movie, in fact seeing each one several times. After a while, Sybil let it be known that she was tired of Lake’s movies, but they were like an addiction to him.
Vic’s infatuation with Lake drove a wedge in their marital bliss. Sybil told him she thought a baby would bridge the abyss that was growing between them.
Vic fell in love with his daughter when he first viewed her through the window of the Beverly Hills Hospital nursery on Thursday, May 31, 1945. Vic insisted on naming her Veronica against Sybil’s wishes. Against her greater protestations, he nicknamed her Ronni. She seemed to be perfect in every way and he doted on her from the beginning.
Every day after work, he barely greeted Sybil, but swooped Ronni in his arms and headed out the back door to play with her and their schnauzer, Jiggs. Or they were off to the park as Sybil called to them, “but dinner’s ready now.” His saddest days were when he had to work late, as he often did, and missed his time with Ronni.
Sybil sashayed around the house in her short shorts trying to get his attention, but he had lost all interest in her and in sex as he became obsessed with his daughter and with protecting her from any real or unimagined danger. Ronni was small, blonde, and beautiful just like her namesake. He wanted more than anything to spare her the downward spiral that Lake was following. Lake was a has-been before she was thirty.
One day in 1954 Vic came home to an empty house to find a tear-stained note written in Sybil’s shaky handwriting, “Ronni next door at the Andersons. I can’t take it anymore.” Vic and Ronni never saw her again.
As the sole supporter of a nine-year-old, he could ill-afford the long, unpredictable hours of a commissioned architect. He needed a regular schedule and when the position designing sets and overseeing construction at MGM opened up, he went for it. He earned less money but had a predictable paycheck every month. His training in architecture and more than ten years of experience in the field sealed his hiring by MGM. Designing building facades for MGM suited him perfectly.
As Ronni grew, he barraged her with constant questions, “Did you brush your teeth? Did you eat candy after school? Did you brush after that? Are the tires on your bike inflated? Did you talk with Aunt Audrey about that, you know, becoming a woman? What about pencils, notebook paper?”
“Dad, pleeeease. The only thing I need is a bike basket so that I can take Jiggs.”
By the time she was sixteen, Vic struggled to meet Ronni’s material and emotional needs. She was beginning to assert her independence, second-guessing the thoughtful advice he doled out. Her clothes budget quadrupled and she asked for—and expected—a car for her sixteenth birthday. Her grades dropped and she fell out of advanced placement classes. She lost all interest in college, looking for acting workshops instead.
“You’re going to college, young lady,” he told her every time the subject came up. “I always expected you to go to college so that you could get a good job. I want you to be able to take care of yourself. I won’t be able to take care of you forever.”
“You want me to be a nurse and clean bed pans? A teacher babysitting bratty kids?”
“I want you to find a career that will support you financially, but one you like.”
“I just want to act. If I can make it big, I can take care of you.”
Ronni found Vic poring over an old dog-eared edition of Architectural Digest and enjoying a quick coffee at the Intermission Café. When he saw her, he took his car keys out of his pocket and held them out for her to take.
“Thanks, Dad. See you at six,” she said as she collided with a man entering the café. Their eyes met, they both apologized, and they glanced back at each other as they continued on their ways. Vic caught the moment between them and frowned.
Michael approached his table. “Do you know that pretty girl?”
“She’s my daughter. She’s sixteen, for God’s sake. Don’t even think about her.”
“All right.” Michael laughed at him. “Let’s talk business. Do you see any ideas for my house in that old magazine? You must need some extra money with the added expense of a teenager. Come on, say you’ll design my house.”
“Why don’t you hire a real architect?”
“You’re a real architect, Vic. You can cut me a deal and I’ll give you extra pocket change. What do you say?”
Vic was worried about paying for Ronni’s college education. He suddenly realized that Michael’s constant pestering him about designing a house could pay off. The fee would help defray the cost of Ronni’s college education. So he agreed.
Vic felt utter disdain for Michael Falstaff, and at first only the thought of the extra money kept him working on the house plans, but gradually Michael’s enthusiasm inspired him and he began to enjoy the process. They met often, changed and tweaked, tweaked and changed, until between them they had designed one damn quirky house. Michael signed the contract, Vic hired a contractor, and they broke ground in November 1962.
Michael’s lot nestled into the side of a hill, offered no view of the surrounding hills or of the city. It was less than half a mile to a ridge with the city spread out below, but there were no sidewalks in the Hollywood Hills and the narrow, curvy roads didn’t afford safe walking.
One Saturday near the end of construction, Vic convinced his busy daughter to drive out with him to see the new house. And he rued that day forever.
Ronni’s baby fat had long since melted away and playing on the tennis team had honed her body and given her a golden tan. Her muscles were defined and firm but not overly developed like a ballet dancer’s. She looked great that day in hot pink shorts and an old white T-shirt that revealed her tight midriff. At eighteen, she was a stunner.
As they arrived, they saw Michael with his arm around the waist of a tall redhead, peering in one of the front windows. “Vic, I’m glad you’re here. I hope you have a key. This is Eva from Kansas. She’s…” His words trailed off as he saw Ronni climb out of the car. He pushed his sunglasses to his forehead and their eyes met. Vic knew at once this meant trouble.
Vic’s life began to unravel after that day. Ronni insisted on going with him to the house every weekend on the chance that she could see Michael. But she now carefully selected her clothes and set her hair. At eighteen, she was of legal age and Vic could only appeal to her intellect.
Welcome back, viewers. Our investigation has revealed that Zuckerman’s daughter, Ronni, was a model child who adored her
father as much as he adored her. Mildred Anderson, who lived next door to Vic and Ronni when Sybil left, talked to us from her assisted-living facility. “Ronni was a dear. A beautiful, obedient child. She made straight As, never had to be coaxed to do homework, helped her dad around the house, took care of the dog. She babysat kids around the neighborhood. All around good kid.”
But by her teen years, she changed. Her grades dropped, she had no interest in college, she cut tennis practice. This wannabe starlet in 1961, with long naturally blonde hair, looked eerily like her namesake, Veronica Lake. To Vic’s dismay, she was interested only in acting workshops. By the time she was eighteen, she had fallen in love with a man, talent agent Michael Falstaff. It wasn’t unusual to see this handsome couple, who loved to party, shouting and shoving each other after a drunken night on the town. Rumor had it that she was nice arm candy for Falstaff and more beneficial to him in that role than any part he could have ever found for her, given her extreme good looks and limited acting ability. And like Veronica Lake before her, Ronni Zuckerman’s life would end early and in tragedy.
Vic Zuckerman never recovered from the loss of his daughter. And he never forgave Falstaff. But why did Zuckerman wait almost fifty years to seek his revenge? When we return, we’ll explain.
Vic was powerless as he watched Michael seduce Ronni and escort her around town. The tabloids showed them at the Pink Pussy Cat, or Dino’s, or Whisky á Go Go, or wherever the beautiful people of L.A. hung out. In the photographs, by the end of the night Michael still appeared unmussed and smiling whereas Ronni’s clothes were disheveled, her hair unkempt, and her eyes glazed over in a drunken haze. Vic watched his daughter relive the life of her namesake, but with sensationalism instead of newsworthiness, with infamy instead of fame. His heart ached and ironically, he took to drink himself as he watched his daughter spiral down into alcoholism and promiscuity.
Five years later as he turned off the eleven o’clock news and savored a pleasant booze buzz, his phone rang. He picked up the receiver and before he could say anything, he heard, “Mr. Zuckerman? Are you Victor Zuckerman?”
“Yes, yes, I am. Who is this?”
“I’m Ann. I’m a nurse at Cedars-Sinai Hospital. We have your daughter here. She’s been in a car accident.”
“What? What happened? How is she?”
“We have her sedated, Mr. Zuckerman. The hospital is on Beverly Boulevard—”
“I’ll be right there.”
Vic found Michael in the ICU waiting area, sobbing, apologizing, pacing around, favoring his left ankle. It was the first time he had ever seen Michael other than perfectly ordered: His rumpled clothes were torn, grass-stained, and covered with dirt, his Gucci loafers scuffed, and his left eye was swollen shut.
“What have you done to my daughter?” Vic gave Michael a shove and realized how powerless he was against a younger, stronger man. If Michael fought back, Vic was in trouble, but Michael only turned away.
“Oh, God,” Michael says holding his head in his hands. “I swerved to miss a cat or something in the road. I lost control. The car rolled down an embankment. My car is totaled. We were both thrown out. I couldn’t revive Ronni, but she was still breathing.”
Later Vic learned that Michael had landed on soft ground, shaken and bruised, but remarkably with no broken bones. Ronni was not as lucky. She landed at an odd angle on a boulder that severed her third thoracic vertebra and the underlying spinal cord, leaving her permanently paralyzed below the waist.
When Ronni could leave the hospital, Vic took her home and cared for her, just as he had when she was a child. He wheeled her to the same park where she used to play. He bought her a schnauzer puppy, but she named him Doom. She lived for just eight years, years spent in a haze of opiates, barbiturates, alcohol, and bitterness.
One day Vic came home to find her splayed out in her wheelchair with empty vials of morphine and Seconal beside an overturned vodka bottle. She had no pulse when he called 9-1-1.
Even after she died, his neurosis convinced him that he could still take care of her. He kept her bike in the closet and inflated the tires every month or so. His walls were adorned with framed photographs of Ronni at every age through her teens. He thought she was most beautiful in her senior prom evening gown. He kept no pictures of her after she started seeing Michael, but he did keep tabloid clippings of the two of them in a desk drawer. Every year on her birthday, he placed an urn of Asiatic lilies on her grave.
Vic lost his daughter twice, once to Michael Falstaff and finally to her physical passing. Vic never sought revenge but he also never experienced any solace from the resentment and hate he harbored for Michael Falstaff. When Michael died of cirrhosis at age fifty, Vic raised a glass in celebration and as he dusted the framed photographs of Ronnie, he called out to her, “Don’t forget to feed Jiggs.”
At ninety-four, Vic was frail and feared he wouldn’t be able to take care of his daughter much longer. In the spring of 2015, he moved from his apartment at the retirement home to assisted-living. As he packed, he discovered a crumpled envelope among Ronni’s things. In it he found photos he’d never seen before of Ronni and Michael together in the bungalow. They gave Vic a shock, a realization that his nightmare started when he agreed to build that bungalow and it would end with it.
On May 25, 2015, Vic got up at seven o’clock as usual, shaved his smooth, pallid face as usual, and sat down to enjoy his oatmeal and the L. A. Times as usual. After that, nothing was usual. He pulled the yellowed architectural drawings out of the back of the coat closet and with a ruler calculated the exact distance between the two middle stone pillars fronting the bungalow. Then he precisely measured the width of his Oldsmobile. He fired up his Olds, stopped by the florist to pick up an urn of Asiatic lilies, and took them to Ronni’s grave.
He then drove to 2309 Flagmoor Place and rammed the bungalow repeatedly until both of them succumbed.
Victor Zuckerman’s life was ruled by his obsessions. The first one: Hollywood sensation Veronica Lake. He was so haunted by her beauty that he named his daughter after her and transferred his adoration to Ronni. When he wife left, he devoted his whole life to the girl’s care. He became consumed with the design and construction of Michael Falstaff’s bungalow, and blamed himself and the bungalow for bringing the two of them together. He mourned Ronni’s journey down the same tragic path that led Ms. Lake to alcoholism and debauchery. Then that horrible car wreck left Ronnie crippled for life, both mentally and physically, and dead at age thirty.
But on Ronni’s seventieth birthday, Zuckerman got his revenge. With the final lurch of the car, both Zuckerman and the bungalow collapsed leaving him buried in the rubble. As the first responders dug him out, they heard him murmuring, “Veronica, Veronica.” The ambulance sped away with sirens blaring. At Cedars-Sinai he was pronounced dead.
Good night. Please stay tuned for our next True Crime Story.
Back to TOC
Glitz and Glam
Sharon Bader
A broken zipper can be fixed. I’m not sure why I’m so upset about a broken zipper. I will sit here on the tufted ottoman in the middle of your closet, eyes closed, while I count slowly to one hundred to calm myself.
You may be curious to know how my obsession with your clothes—such amazing couture—led to this moment. It’s a short story that began several months ago, when you married Mr. Moneybags. You invited me, your destitute little sister, to move in with you until I found a job. The first thing I did was to sneak into your lingerie chest and borrow a pair of Victoria’s Secret thongs. I loved the feel of silk and the look of sheer lace against my skin. I got bolder when you failed to notice the pair was missing. Scarves, purses, anything that languished in your closet became fair game. Those thigh-high boots you thought you’d left at your ex-fiancé’s Mardi Gras party? I wore them with my newest miniskirt, the one with the heart-shaped cutout over each bun.
Those small raids on your closet led to that confrontation last week when you disc
overed the beer stain on your leather pants. I had so admired the way they snugged that tight ass of yours, I just had to wear them. I’d have gotten them cleaned after you flew to New York the next day for an interview, but you decided to take them with you. I’d never heard such a soul-wrenching scream. You descended on me like a hawk on a rabbit, accusing me of theft and destruction of property. Such venom in your voice! What did you expect? That I would fall to my knees and surrender to your tongue-lashing with humility and sorrow? Cower behind your closet door?
I’m almost sorry about the black eye.
I do admit I was at fault for borrowing the pants in the first place, but the blame actually lies with the gal who sat next to me at the bar. I told her that I admired her silver and turquoise necklace but that it did not do justice to the citrus-plaid jumpsuit, lime-green boa and black knee-high boots that she sported like a lion tamer in drag. She shouldered me so hard that my mug wobbled as I brought it to my lips and beer splashed all over the front of my…um…your…leather pants.
You called me an ungrateful slut. Really, that was your best shot? Sure, you’ve shared clothes with me in the past. Worn or out-of-date handoffs. But since the leather pants episode I strut through your closet—a feast for the senses—only when I know you’ll be out for an extended period of time. I’ve died several times now and gone to heaven in your closet. I love the glittery vision of your jewels and gems, secured with such care in the nine drawers of your jewelry armoire. I luxuriate in the smell of leather shoes and bags, the texture of cashmere sweaters, the prickle of wool in your coats and jackets.
Carolina Crimes Page 15