Flo sits propped in an armchair, the white rose in her hands. Right away Richard can see something’s different. Horribly different. She looks washed out. There’s no color to her. Her cheeks are pale, her lips are dry and cracked. She’s not even wearing that damn subtle pink lipstick.
She’s a hundred and seven, he reminds himself. But Flo was never like other old folks. She defied age. Now she seems withered, wilted—nothing like how he remembers her, in her big red bow and bright eyes, sitting in the colorful day room of St. Mary’s, surrounded by her courtiers, clapping her hands and whistling a tune. She sits there with her head slunk slightly forward, as if it’s become too heavy a burden for her to hold up.
“What have you done to her?” he says to Ben and Sister Jean.
“She’s just a little tired,” Ben says.
“Flo,” Sister Jean is saying. “It’s Richard. Richard Sheehan.”
Flo’s eyes flicker up to him. “Hello, Richard,” she says, her voice no more than a whisper.
He sits down in the chair opposite her. Jean stands behind Flo. Ben hovers in the background.
“Flo,” Richard says. “Are you all right?”
She gives him a small smile. “Oh, I guess the miles are just catching up with me.”
“How are you feeling?”
She closes her eyes. “I had a headache earlier. It’s passed.”
“I’ve asked Carla Ortiz to come by,” Jean tells him. “Our attorney. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No,” Richard says, his eyes still held on Flo. “I’d like to meet her. See what she thinks.”
“Thinks about what?” Ben asks from across the room.
Richard turns to face him. “About all of the questions being asked out there,” he says. “About Detective Lee.”
Flo opens her eyes, yet nothing Richard says seems to register with her. She just keeps watching him, not responding, as if he were speaking a language she doesn’t understand.
“Flo,” Richard says, trying to break through. “I heard you spoke with Detective Lee. How did that go?”
She just blinks at him a few times. Finally she says, “Oh, it was fine.”
“Did he ask you some difficult questions?”
She seems to consider this. “No,” she says. “Not so difficult.”
“About Molly, Flo? Did he ask you about Molly?”
Ben steps up quickly. “What’s he doing?” he asks Jean. “Is he doing another interview?”
Richard turns to look over at him again. “I’m just trying to gather how Flo is feeling.”
“You said you had some more information for us?” Jean asks, deflecting Ben’s objection.
Richard sits back in his chair. “Yes,” he says. “Flo, are you aware that there have been articles in newspapers and magazines—this week it was Time—that publicly accuse you of not telling the whole story about Molly’s death, that by implication accuse you of murder?”
“Richard, please. Let’s wait until Carla is here,” Jean interjects.
Something seems to pop behind Flo’s eyes, as if she just suddenly woke up. “No, Jeannie, it’s all right,” she says, taking in a long breath. Her pupils dilate, her chin rises a little. “I’m aware of the speculation out there, Richard. Yes.”
“So don’t you think it would be wise to put it to rest?” He leans in closer to her. “If you could tell us what happened, then we could help you.”
“Look,” Ben says, now striding up almost between Richard and Flo. “Jean and I have been over this with her. Did you think we weren’t even talking to her about it? We’ve got a lawyer here counseling her, for God’s sake. Did you think we needed you to come waltzing in here and set things straight for us? We’re doing fine here, Richard.”
“He just wants to help,” Jean tells Ben.
“He just wants the last chapter of his book!” Ben snaps.
Richard lets out a very long sigh. “Ben, put it aside for now, huh? I’ll get out of here in just a minute and you don’t have to worry about my coming back. I just wanted to say my piece to you and to let Flo know one thing.” His eyes turn back to her. “I’m truly sorry if my article unleashed any pain for you.”
“Oh, Richard,” is all Flo says.
“There’s one other thing,” he says both to Flo and to Jean. He avoids looking at Ben. “If Lee was able to do the research on Margaret Butz and put two and two together about her, chances are he’ll soon discover something interesting about Dr. Lester Slocum.”
“Lester?” Flo says suddenly.
“Who’s he?” Jean asks.
“The doctor who signed the death certificate, who pronounced Flo dead. Or rather, who pronounced Molly dead and identified her as Flo.”
“What about him?” Jean moves in around Flo’s chair. “What might Lee find?”
Flo just stares at Richard.
“Do you know, Flo?” he asks. “Do you know what happened to Lester?”
Her eyes are wide. She just shakes her head, very slowly. Richard believes her. He reaches over, takes one of her cold, dry hands in his.
“He took his own life,” he tells her. “He killed himself in 1941.”
“Oh!” Flo shakes in reaction, as if she’d been struck. Richard can feel the vibration shudder through her frail body. Her hands become warm and moist in a sudden, single rush.
Jean puts her arms around the old woman. “Flo,” she comforts her. “Flo.”
And then something very strange and unsettling occurs. Flo cries. None of them has ever seen her cry like this before. Oh, sure, she’s gotten misty-eyed, and Jean’s seen some silent tears. But she’s never really cried in front of them, not to the point of making noise. Not when she recalled the death of Ducks, not when she spoke of her pain, not even when she told them the sad tale of Annie Laurie. Only now: tears for this man named Lester. It surprises them all.
“He was more than just your doctor, wasn’t he, Flo?” Richard asks.
Her ancient blue eyes, wet and red, peer over Jean’s arm. “He was my friend,” she tells him.
“I’m sorry, Flo,” Richard says. He feels like such a shit heel. How much pain am I going to bring this old woman?
“How did he do it?” she asks.
Richard takes a deep breath before responding. “He hanged himself,” he tells her reluctantly.
Flo closes her eyes. Jean’s gently rocking her in their embrace. Flo struggles to speak. “I saw a man hanging once,” she says. “His face was all blue, his neck all black.” She’s quiet for several seconds. “Oh, poor Lester. Poor, poor Lester.” She begins to cry again, terrible wracking sounds.
By the time Carla Ortiz arrives, Flo’s in no condition to talk further. Jean’s helped her back to bed. Richard turns to say something to Ben, but his brother seems to have slipped out when no one was looking.
“I appreciate the warning,” Jean says to Richard when she comes back out of Flo’s room. “Carla and I will discuss a strategy to put the stories to rest.”
No one sees him to the door. He just lets himself out, and figures that’s the last he’ll see of any of them.
Including Flo.
Ben and Xerxes are striding quickly down Castro Street under the banner welcoming The Biograph Girl to San Francisco. They walk quickly so they aren’t late to their appointment. Sam Glick is in town to see the films at the Castro and to meet Flo in person. He likes the revised script Ben sent him, although there are a few points he still wants to discuss. They’re all having lunch today at the Patio Restaurant. “Nothing very fancy—used to be a favorite of mine,” Glick told Xerxes on the phone. “I used to spend a lot of time in the Castro in my youth.”
Xerxes takes a last drag on his cigarette and tosses it onto the sidewalk. “Did you see Crossfire?” he asks Ben.
“Crossfire?” Ben replies. “No. Why?”
“They were going on and on about getting tough on crime,” Xerxes tells him. “Buchanan brought Flo’s name up, using her as an example of a no-excuses poli
cy, saying just because she’s a hundred and seven shouldn’t qualify her for special treatment if she’s found guilty.”
“Jesus,” Ben says. “What, has he already tried and convicted her? Like, just throw her in prison and that’s it? Maybe electrocute her? Goddamn right-wingers.”
Ben feels sick to his stomach. Maybe it was Flo’s tears. Maybe it was his brother’s fucking superior attitude, asking what they had done to her. Maybe it was the sausage he had for breakfast—it had seemed a little pink. He should’ve sent it back.
“Buchanan’s off the wall,” Ben says. “Of course Flo should be treated differently if she’s guilty of anything. It’s been sixty years and she can barely walk on her own.”
“If she’s guilty?” Xerxes lights another cigarette. “Don’t say that to Glick. He’s banking on a good murder mystery.”
“Well, Flo doesn’t have to be the villain.”
“Glick doesn’t want her to be. He just wants a little scandal.”
Ben stops walking. “Xerxes, you should have seen her just now. She was crying. I mean, really crying. She’s a wreck. All of this is turning out to be too much for her. She’s tired.”
“Hey. She’s been very adequately compensated.”
“She’s a hundred and seven,” Ben protests. “Look. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for Glick to meet her right now. She’s … not herself.”
“Quit worrying.” Xerxes urges him along and they resume walking. “All Glick cares about is keeping her name in the headlines until the film comes out.”
Ben sighs. “You know, I’m all for hype, but I don’t want to make trash.”
Xerxes again tosses his cigarette to the ground. “You want to make something that makes money,” he snaps. “Art very rarely turns a profit.” He drapes an arm around Ben’s shoulders as they cross the street. “Remember, Benny, no less a personage than Pauline Kael said, ‘Movies are so rarely great art that if we cannot appreciate great trash we have very little reason to be interested in them.’” He laughs. “I’ve got that pasted on my bathroom mirror.”
Ben makes a little snort of disgust.
The agent stops in his tracks, looking up at the sign over their heads. “Hey,” he says. “This is it.”
They enter the restaurant. Xerxes tells the host that they’re meeting someone. “Right this way,” they’re told, and they’re escorted outside into a sunny courtyard surrounded by lush green plants. In a far corner, at a table by himself sipping an extraordinarily large glass of Diet Coke, sits Glick in a white suit.
“Sammy,” Xerxes bellows warmly, extending his hand. “How are you?”
The large man shakes it. “Coming down with a case of the shingles,” he says.
Ben shakes Glick’s sweaty hand as well. This is the man, he tells himself. This is the one who unlocks the door for me.
He just wishes he didn’t feel so miserable. Goddamn sausage.
“Sit down, Ben,” Glick says, gesturing to an empty chair. “Here, next to me.” He winks.
There’s no chair for Xerxes. The agent looks around awkwardly for a second; then he drags a chair over from the next table.
Ben can clearly detect a change in Glick’s attitude. In L.A., he had seemed distinctly uninterested in Ben as a person. Now he seems almost—well, flirtatious.
A waiter hovers over them. “Would you gentlemen like to order?”
“A turkey burger for me, rare, please,” Glick says. “And another Diet Coke.”
“And for you?” the waiter asks Ben.
“Oh, just a—just a Diet Coke for me, too.”
“You’re not eating lunch?” Glick asks, eyebrows raised. “I flew all the way up to San Francisco and you’re not even going to eat lunch with me?”
“Of course he’s eating lunch,” Xerxes says, laughing. “He was just saying how hungry he was.”
Ben’s stomach threatens to somersault up his throat. “Um. Yeah. I’ll have—” He opens the menu on the table in front of him. “I’ll have a grilled cheese, please.”
“Fries?” the waiter asks.
“Sure,” Ben says.
“I’ll have a turkey burger like our friend here,” Xerxes says. “And make it a round of Diet Cokes.”
The waiter notes it down and moves off.
“So did you see Crossfire?” Xerxes asks Glick.
“No, but I got your fax telling me all about it.” He looks over at Ben, dropping his eyes from his face to his lap and then back up again. “Buchanan wants to send the poor old girl off to the penitentiary. And the boys in the Castro want to make her queen.” He gives Ben a small smile. “Will you be at the theater this week to see her films?”
“Yes,” Ben says. “It should be quite the show.”
“I’ll say.” Glick sips the last of his soda through his straw, making a slurping sound. “Coming up here gave me the opportunity to see her in person. I want to actually meet this woman you’ve been writing about in your script.” He narrows his eyes at Ben. “You’re positive there’s going to be a juicy ending to all of this? A suitable resolution to the Margaret Butz mystery?”
Ben nods. “I’ll be the first to know when Flo finally tells.”
Xerxes’s eyes are twinkling. “In fact, just today Ben learned another fascinating little nugget.” He looks over at Ben. “Go ahead. Tell him.”
Ben feels the room begin to spin. The sun is bright overhead but it’s as if a gray mist has dropped into the courtyard. His cheeks and palms bead suddenly with sweat. Damn it. Why does this always happen when he’s talking with Glick? He grips the sides of his chair to anchor himself against the nausea.
“Well,” he begins, “it seems that …”
Glick’s face fades in and out of focus. Oh, Christ—I’m going to puke all over his white suit.
“Are you all right?” he hears Glick asking.
The sun seems to burn through the mist enough for him to respond. “Yes,” he manages to say. “I just felt a bit dizzy there.”
“Told you he was hungry!” Xerxes laughs.
“What is this new discovery?” Glick asks.
“Flo’s doctor,” Ben says thickly. “The one who identified Molly Butz as Florence Lawrence. He killed himself a few years later.”
He was more than just your doctor, wasn’t he, Flo?
He was my friend.
“They were … friends,” Ben says.
“A—ha,” Glick says, his eyebrows rising up on his enormous forehead. “Perhaps out of some ethical guilt for contriving the fake death certificate?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“All along, Ben’s suspected some sort of collusion,” Xerxes tells Glick.
Ben looks off across the restaurant. He can’t get the sounds of Flo’s sobs out of his head. He’d never heard her cry before—hadn’t even imagined it was still possible. Hadn’t all her tear ducts dried up or something?
“Of course,” Xerxes is explaining, “the final act will depend on how the current situation turns out, whether Flo gets charged with anything.”
“But you’re quite confident that we’ll have some resolution within the next few weeks?” Glick asks Ben.
He nods. “I am,” he says. “I am.”
The waiter brings them their Diet Cokes. Ben quickly takes a sip. It seems to settle his stomach for the moment.
“Well, I’m prepared to make you an offer,” Glick says. “On one condition. The script has everything—mystery, intrigue, scandal—but it is missing one very important element.”
“What’s that?” Ben asks.
“A love story at its center. Look. With Titanic making such waves—pardon the pun—that’s all anybody wants. The trappings of a story can—and perhaps should be—monumental. Luxury liners sinking. Asteroids heading toward the earth. Old-time movie stars thought dead turning up alive—and implicated in murder. But at the heart, we need a love story that will transcend all that.”
He burps, just a little, covering his mouth with his fingertips.
“Ask yourself,” he challenges Ben. “What role could DiCaprio play in your script? Or Brad Pitt?”
“Harry,” Xerxes interjects from across the table. “Harry was the great love of Flo’s life.”
Glick scoffs. “But Harry’s such a shit heel in the script. There’s nothing worse than a shit heel.” He looks over at Ben, who quickly drops his eyes and takes a sip of his soda. “We cannot make a hero out of someone who steals the heroine’s baby. Can you imagine DiCaprio doing that to Kate Winslet?”
“Then the Greek kid—the kid on the island,” Xerxes offers.
“I thought of that,” Glick says. He turns to look at Ben. “Do you think we could beef up his part in the story more? Maybe he and Harry get into a slugfest over Flo. And they have to meet cute. Maybe Flo falls off the hay wagon or something.”
“I don’t think it was a hay—”
“Let’s see. What else?” Glick glances down at Ben’s script in front of him. “Yes, there’s a good sex scene on the Greek island, but we need more. A movie without sex is like an Almond Joy without the nuts. Which is a Mounds. Which is not a good movie.”
“Right,” Xerxes agrees. “More sex. Absolutely. It’s a romance, after all.”
Ben swallows. “I thought it was more of a mystery.”
“It’s a romance,” Glick says, “with some mystery and true crime thrown in.”
Ben steels himself. “With all due respect, Mr. Glick, just because herring tastes good and ice cream tastes good doesn’t mean they taste good together.”
Glick raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And how many screenplays have you written, Mr. Sheehan?”
Xerxes is eager to smooth over Ben’s impudence. “He’s just being wry, Sammy. We get your point.”
The producer takes a sip of his Diet Coke and looks back down at the script, dripping soda on the pages as he does so. “Oh, and the girls,” he says. “Linda and Molly. We can’t have there be any suggestion of lesbian tendencies toward them on Flo’s part. We’re not doing Fried Green Tomatoes here.”
“I’m sure Ben didn’t mean to imply any such thing,” Xerxes says.
“Your lunch, gentlemen,” the waiter says, appearing behind them with their sandwiches.
The Biograph Girl Page 48