The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  Craine was a good dancer and Gale let him lead. He kept his back straight and held her eyes as they swayed and turned with the music. Their heads remained just a few inches apart but if he wanted to say something, apologize or compliment her, he never once gave it away. Craine remained mute, satisfied in holding her close without discussion or debate.

  Gale was the first to break eye contact. She opened her mouth to speak before shaking her head, defeated.

  Craine said, “I didn’t know whether you’d come here. Tonight, I mean.”

  “I couldn’t be at home alone. Joan offered to have me stay but I needed to get out. I couldn’t sit there doing nothing, stewing.”

  “It’s good to keep busy. I found it helps.”

  Craine waited until the awkwardness had passed then added, “Well, you seem to be very popular here tonight.” He had been conscious of the dismayed stares for some time but was too drunk to care.

  “The gawping looks, you mean? People are staring, aren’t they? They’ve been doing it all night.”

  “They’re looking out for your interests. It’s good to have support.”

  “I feel like a caged animal out on display for all the prying eyes to see. They want to know that I’m still here in one piece. I bet you they’re dying to see me break down in tears. I’ve spent all evening hearing people say how sorry they are but it’s all for show. Why are they sorry? Sorry for what? That he’s dead, or I’m alone? Most of them didn’t even like Herbert.”

  “People never know what to say.”

  “Then why say anything at all? Why not tell me it’s good to see me? Why not talk about something else? Don’t they think I’ve thought enough about Herbert?”

  “It makes them feel better about themselves. It makes them feel like they’ve done their duty.”

  “Then you’d think they’d come across as a little more sincere. I mean, honestly, they’re supposed to be actors.”

  Craine stifled a laugh.

  “There’s that smile of yours again. What’s funny? You think I’m joking.”

  “I’m agreeing with you.”

  “Nonsense. You’re too polite to tell me I don’t appreciate my friends.”

  Craine changed the subject. “You know, I think this is where we were first introduced.”

  “Really?”

  “Years ago. Only in passing, I think.”

  “It seems funny that we’ve never really spoken.”

  “Funny, how?”

  “Just odd. Considering our proximity: your work; Celia.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “And you’re different. Than what I thought; than how I expected.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Just different. You look different now, already, without your coat and your hat, your policeman’s glare. Here you are in a dinner suit, and I barely recognize you.”

  “How am I different to what you expected?”

  “I can’t explain it. It will sound silly.” She laughed then bit her lip. She considered him with steady eyes then stated sincerely, “You’re kinder than I thought.”

  “Kinder?”

  “Oh, don’t push me into saying something ridiculous.” She smiled. “Kindness is very underrated these days. I should know.”

  “I’m grateful,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

  “You should be. Anyway,” she continued, “why did you come tonight? Don’t you have work to attend to? Other . . . crimes? No; cases. Isn’t that what you say?”

  “I’m not working tonight,” Craine replied. “I was asked to come. I was invited.”

  “Why did you come tonight, Jonathan?” she asked him again with a sudden seriousness, knowing he was drunk enough to be confessional. There would be no avoiding it now. They could both drop the polite facade. A part of him felt relieved, the tension purged.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he conceded. “To apologize for today.”

  “You apologized already. You called me.”

  “I wanted to apologize face to face. I wanted to see you.”

  “You wanted to see me,” she repeated. “You know, I should have been the one apologizing. I was rude. You were perfectly cordial—a gentleman.” Her throat constricted and she had to pause. “It’s difficult, you see.” She lowered her eyes again, embarrassed. He was close enough now to see the tears glaze her eyes. When she spoke again she looked around the room. “You were asking me questions and I should have known the answers, but Herbert and I were living separate lives. There was so much we didn’t know about each other. Our marriage has been . . . had been . . . over for years. Neither of us was brave enough to admit it.” The curve of her cheek fluttered and her voice became high and strained. “Christ, it’s all such a mess,” she went on. “It’s a mess and I don’t know how to cope with it.” Her eyes started to well but Craine said nothing. She placed her head on his shoulder and they swayed together until the band brought the song to an end. Couples stepped apart and politely applauded. Gale wiped her eyes, pulled away and silently turned toward the stairs.

  “Gale?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Gale, please—” he called out after her but his words were lost to the noise of the hall.

  She walked straight into Russell Peterson and Whitey Hendry. Craine watched as Peterson twisted her to one side and whispered urgently into her ear. Hendry stood firm in front of them, a curtain to the scene. Craine saw Peterson hiss at her emphatically. What was he saying? Gale nodded acquiescence, all the while shrinking away and wiping her cheeks with the side of her hand. He watched Peterson put an arm around her by way of reconciliation but Gale recoiled, as if afraid that the small gesture of intimacy wouldn’t escape attention. She lifted her dress from the knee and escaped up the staircase.

  Peterson seethed red but quickly flashed a reassuring smile to enquiring guests. He caught Craine’s glare and held it for a fraction of a second before Hendry herded him away.

  Craine moved to follow Gale but felt a tug at his arm. It was Jack Rochelle. He looked tense, a bow tie loose around his neck, his eyes dark and wild.

  “Craine, I’ve been looking for you—”

  “One minute, Rochelle.”

  “Craine, I need to talk to you.”

  “Let’s talk later.”

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “I’ll come find you and we’ll talk,” Craine said, uninterested.

  “Please, Craine, come on. I need your help.”

  “Why, Rochelle?” Craine was drunk and spoke bluntly. “Tell me why I should help you of all people?”

  Rochelle implored him. “Please. I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t important.”

  Craine pulled away. “If it’s so important we can talk tomorrow. This isn’t the time or the place—”

  “It’s something you need to know.”

  Craine looked at Rochelle. Why was there so much desperation in his face? “Okay, fine,” he said to placate him, “but give me a few minutes.”

  “Craine, it’s the pictures—”

  “I’ll be back in two minutes, I promise.” He gave Rochelle a conciliatory squeeze on the shoulder and skirted the edges of the dance floor toward the stairs.

  He found Gale alone on the rooftop terrace overlooking the rear gardens. She was hunched over the balcony railings, studying the dark shapes of distant trees with a cigarette between her fingers. It was cool outside, and he could see her shivering with the leaves.

  “Gale?” he said to her profile as she stared at the night.

  She flinched, taken aback. “You startled me.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, I just needed a little space,” she said, looking away. “I couldn’t be down there any longer. And all the rooms are taken. There’s barely a corner not occupied by someone I know.”

  “What did Peterson want from you?”

  “Nothing, it’s not important.”

  “He u
pset you.”

  “I was already upset.”

  “He told you something. He was angry with you. Why?”

  She faced him again. “He has concerns; he wants to protect me. Protect my image. We have a picture to promote and I’m supposed to start rehearsals next week for a new production. I shouldn’t be out there dancing with everyone watching. This isn’t the time to make a scene.”

  “You should do whatever you feel like. It’s nothing to do with Peterson or Mayer.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she pressed a balled fist to the corners of her eyes then wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m so tired with the whole thing. I should never have come tonight.”

  He moved nearer, taking off his jacket and draping it around her shoulders.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry. Please understand, it’s been a difficult few days. I want to be alone.”

  “Do you, honestly?”

  “I don’t know.” She let out a long breath and dropped her cigarette to the floor. “No, not really; not from you. But all night people have been coming up to me murmuring condolences when all I really want to do is forget about everything. I think that because I’m an actress people treat me like a character in a tragedy, expecting me to be locked away in mourning but really I think that life moves on. The truth of the matter is I feel like I’ve been a single woman for years, held back because I never wanted to upset anybody. Now I’m sad and upset but I also feel so guilty because I can’t help but feel liberated. Did you feel the same?”

  “No, I didn’t feel liberated. But I know what it’s like to be the outsider. When you feel people staring, hear them whispering.” She was trembling. He wanted to hold her in his arms, tell her it would be alright, that she’d get through this and move on, but he couldn’t lie to her. He could barely get through the days, let alone the sleepless hours that haunted him each and every night. The truth was that the hurt had never stopped. The guilt seemed endless. “I understand what you’re going through.”

  “You seem to understand more than anyone,” she said honestly, before she leaned forward and kissed Craine on the lips. Craine felt strangely warm, caught off guard; instinctively, he pulled her toward him and held her tight. She twisted away, catching herself but left her hand resting on his shirt. He wondered if she could feel his heart thumping in his chest.

  When he said nothing, she said, “Something’s happened so quickly and it’s come at the most inopportune time. I keep telling myself I’m being foolish but I can’t help how I feel.”

  Her eyes started to well again but still Craine said nothing. “I’m being silly,” she said, biting her lip. “Herbert’s just died and I’m kissing a stranger.” She held his stare for a few seconds before saying, “It’s getting cold. We should go inside.”

  “Yes, we should go inside.” He breathed in deeply and tried to avoid those dark, contemplative eyes. What were they doing? “It’s cold. Too cold for May.”

  As they reached the door, Craine leaned in toward her and kissed her again. She was reluctant at first, then slowly, her body shaking, Gale’s lips opened under his.

  Chapter 20

  Margaret sat next to her husband in the small upstairs screening room. Sitting to their right were the producers Mervyn LeRoy and Arthur Freed, who had threaded the reel himself in the small projection room behind them. When Louis had told her they wanted to have a screening tonight she begged him to let her join them. Although it bothered her how stressful the production was on her husband, Margaret loved the picture and thought “Over the Rainbow” was the best part. Why would anyone want to cut it?

  Four minutes in and that sweet girl Judy started singing. Margaret held on tight to Louis’ arm and leaned on his shoulder. She whispered the words to herself, wondering how such a young girl could sing lyrics she couldn’t yet know the real meaning of. “Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue. And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true . . .”

  Hidden in the dark projectionist’s booth behind the screening room, Craine and Gale stood face to face in the flickering light with their bodies pressed against the wall.

  There were no bedroom doors they could find open, although neither could admit to really searching. The door to the small projectionist’s booth was closest and both had gone inside without either asking the other.

  Inside, he drew his face to hers, uncertain whether she might pull away at any moment, and kissed her gently on the lips. She drew back for a second, looked down as if to stop then kissed him again.

  Their lips opened and as the tips of their tongues touched she let out a soft sigh before pulling him toward her. He shut his eyes then opened them again. Hers were closed. He wondered what she was thinking.

  He put his hands on her shoulders then gently ran his fingers down her back. Her spine arched and she stopped still for a moment before frantically pulling at his shirt and tugging at his cummerbund.

  He couldn’t really think about what he was doing or why. He hadn’t been with anyone else since Celia. Hadn’t touched another woman’s body in all the time he was married. And now here he was, with a virtual stranger. And all he could think of was how natural it felt. How there was no guilt.

  He pushed her hard against the wall and grabbed her around the waist. She bit his ear then gnawed at his neck. He pulled back, clenched her waist tighter and kissed her again. Their heads rolled and turned, she grasping at his hair and he running his fingers up her thigh and pulling up her dress. His hands were shaking now, his palms sweaty with the anticipation of what was about to come.

  They locked eyes and she nodded without moving. She wanted the same thing and it was exhilarating to know. I remember this feeling, Craine said to himself. I’d forgotten it existed.

  Without speaking, he positioned himself below her. He thought she might hesitate but she remained still, biting his neck with her arms clasped tight behind his head as he slowly loosened her underwear.

  Kamona pulled into the driveway of Loew House and parked his car near the exit gates. He turned off the engine and reached over for his case. Checking he wasn’t being watched, Kamona took out the Mauser and two fully loaded magazines fitted with large-bore Parabellums. He inserted one of the clips and chambered a round.

  He looked again at the pictures of the target the client had given him. Where he’d got them from he’d never know. He memorized the target’s key features then ripped up the photos. He tossed the remains in the footwell and stepped out into the darkness.

  Treading lightly on his wounded leg, he crossed the parking lot and headed toward the back door to the kitchen at the side of the building.

  The kitchen was loud and busy and the line cooks barely noticed as a man in a long gray trench coat came through the back entrance. Kamona moved through untroubled with the Mauser holstered under one arm. The double doors into the main house at the end swung back and forth as servers came in and out carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and canapés. He checked for security guards then strode through into the reception room.

  O’Neill stood at the bar and watched the party unfold. The band was playing swing jazz again and couples everywhere were dancing the Lindy Hop. O’Neill never danced. Maybe he should try. No; he’d need someone to dance with first.

  He looked around the room. There were plenty of girls here. Pretty girls too. He’d definitely seen some things tonight, that was for sure. There were men dragging girls into the washrooms, people so drunk they had to be carried out by security. He’d even seen a group of midgets swimming naked in the outside swimming pool. He hadn’t expected this level of debauchery. Where was the old-fashioned Hollywood glamour he’d heard so much about? And why had Gale Goodwin been dancing with Craine? It didn’t seem appropriate. Did they already know each other? Were they friends?

  A blond woman walked over to the bar. As she waited to be served, O’Neill took a moment to look at her. She was younger than him, perhaps no more than nineteen or twenty. She had sharply penciled eyebrows and p
latinum blond tresses curled tight around her ears. She caught him staring.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. Her voice was shrill and buttery.

  “Hi. Hullo.”

  She fanned her face with a paper napkin. “Hot in here, isn’t it?” she chirped. “Makes me so thirsty!”

  The barman handed O’Neill a whiskey straight then turned to the woman.

  “Good evenin’, ma’am.”

  “Can I get a brandy highball, please? Thank you.”

  As he left, she looked back over at O’Neill. She took a step toward him and held out her hand.

  “I’m Delilah, by the way, Delilah Deschamps.”

  O’Neill took her hand in his palm and shook it clumsily. He felt so suddenly self-conscious he could barely remember his own name.

  “O’Neill. Patrick. That is, Patrick O’Neill.”

  She leaned into him and smiled. “So, what do you do?” she asked. “Are you in the movies?”

  O’Neill blushed. “No.”

  “Oh?” she seemed disappointed. “You’re not one of Louis’ boys? You’re not part of the club?” A moment of silence hung in the air as she waited for an answer.

  “Um, no,” he stuttered. “I work for the, um . . . for the L.A.P.D. The police. I’m a detective.”

  She squealed with delight. “A detective! Like those guys in those Hammett books? I love those stories!”

  O’Neill smiled politely as the barman passed over her drink. “Something like that.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be a detective?”

  He was still blushing. Christ, it was hot in here. “I’m older than I look,” he said, succeeding only in sounding younger.

  She took her drink and immediately turned to leave. “Well . . . nice meeting you, Patrick.”

  O’Neill thought about following her but knew he would never have the nerve to ask her to dance; he watched as she glided over to a scattering of M.G.M. contract players and draped her arm around one of them, whispering in his ear.