by Mary Daheim
she should have slipped him five dollars. Or ten. Or
twenty-five, considering that she was at Capri’s.
Moments later Morris Mayne dashed out into the
hall. “What is it? What’s happened at the studio?” Not
nearly as tall as Judith, he peered up at her through
rimless spectacles. “Wait! You’re the bed-andbreakfast lady, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” Judith said, hoping to look appropriately solemn. “I think we’d best go downstairs to the
bar. Perhaps they’ll serve us a drink.”
“A drink?” Morris’s sparse tufts of hair stood out on
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his round head. “Yes, I could use a drink. Though of
course I’ve already had . . . Never mind, let’s talk.” He
hurried down the winding staircase.
Charles the maître d’ expressed great pleasure at
serving the duo. Judith ordered Scotch rocks; Morris
requested a Bottle Rocket. Judith had never heard of it,
but it appeared to consist of several alcoholic beverages and a slice of kiwi.
“Tell me, please,” Morris begged after Charles
handed him his drink. “Why am I being recalled?”
“Recalled?” Judith’s dark eyes widened. “Is that
what I wrote? Oh, dear. My handwriting is so bad. I
meant you’d been called by the studio to . . . well, I
didn’t quite catch the rest of it, so I thought I’d better
come in person to make sure you got the message.”
Morris slumped in relief. “Oh! Thank God! I
thought I’d been fired!”
“Why would you think such a thing?” Judith asked,
still wide-eyed.
Morris gulped down some of his Bottle Rocket.
“Because of this Gasman mess. I mean,” he amended
quickly, “it’s not exactly a mess, but it does present
some problems. With Bruno dying and all, you see.”
“Yes, that complicates matters,” Judith said in a
sympathetic tone. “What do you think will happen to
the movie now?”
“Who knows?” Morris spread his arms, knocking
over a candle on the bar. “Oops! Sorry, Charles.” The
gracious maître d’ picked up the candle and turned discreetly away.
“Hasn’t the studio given some instructions?” Judith
asked, taking a small sip of Scotch. It was excellent
Scotch, maybe Glenlivet. She sipped again.
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“Paradox is waiting to find out what happened to
Bruno,” Morris replied.
“What do the studio executives think happened?”
Judith asked.
Morris drank more Bottle Rocket. “Whew!” he exclaimed, passing a hand over his high forehead. “That’s
strong!” He leaned closer to Judith. “What did you say?”
She repeated the question. Morris reflected, though
his eyes weren’t quite in focus.
“Paradox is sure Bruno had a tart ahack. I mean”—
he corrected himself—“a heart attack. He’s had problems, you shee. See.” The publicist hiccuped once.
“You mean he’d had a history of heart trouble?”
Morris grimaced. “Not exactly.” He hiccuped again
and drew himself up on the bar stool, which luckily
had a large padded back. “Strain. That’s what Bruno
had. He worked under a lot of strain. That’s why he—”
He stopped abruptly. “I shouldn’t tell tales out of
school, should I?”
“You’re not,” Judith assured him. “I’m not in the
business. I don’t count. I’m nobody.”
“Thash shtrue,” Morris agreed. “You’re not.” He
took another gulp from his glass. “Anyway, Bruno
worked too hard. That caushes strain.”
“Yes,” Judith said amiably. “And strain can lead to
many things. To help him cope, of course.”
“Cope!” Morris’s arm shot out, striking a calla lily
in a tall black vase. “Oops!” He giggled and put a hand
over his mouth. “Mushn’t drink this too fast. Had a lot
of champagne upstairs.” He jabbed at the ceiling with
a pudgy finger.
“Yes, to cope,” Judith said patiently. “People cope in
many ways. Sometimes those ways aren’t healthy.”
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245
Sadly, Morris shook his head. “True, too true. Like
Bruno. Not healthy. Don’t blame him. Too much
presshure. Not all his fault. Blame Big Daddy Dumas.”
Judith was taken aback. “Big Daddy Dumas? Who’s
that?”
Morris giggled some more and shook a finger at Judith. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes,” Judith said seriously, “I would.”
At the desk by the bar, the phone rang. Charles
picked it up. He appeared to be taking a reservation.
“Phone,” Morris said. “Musht phone the studio.” He
patted himself down, apparently searching for his cell.
“Hunh. Musht have left it upstairs. Here I go.” He
picked up what remained of his Bottle Rocket and
staggered off to the iron staircase.
Judith was on his heels. “But, Morris,” she said urgently, “you can tell me about Big Daddy Dumas. I’m
nobody, remember?”
On the second step, Morris turned around. “Doeshn’t
matter. Big Daddy’s dead. Ta-ta.” Clinging to the iron
rail, he wobbled up the stairs.
Judith returned to the bar, took another sip of fine
Scotch, and considered her next move. She was still in
a quandary when Bill came through the main entrance.
“Hi, Bill,” she said, waving from the bar stool. “You
aren’t really Big Daddy Dumas by any chance, are
you?”
Bill stared at Judith. “Why do you ask?”
Judith stared back at him. “Do you know who I’m
talking about?”
“Of course,” he replied. “Dumas is a famous psychological case study from about twenty years ago.
Where did you hear the name?”
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Mary Daheim
Quickly, Judith explained. “So what do you know
about this Dumas?”
Bill looked pained. “Dumas was a black gang lord
in L.A. He was involved in drugs and prostitution. He
was atypical because he didn’t allow his hookers to
take drugs, though he used them to sell the stuff. He
was interesting from a psychological standpoint because the control he exerted over his girls was paternal,
rather than intimidating or enabling. He was creating a
familial bond between himself and the prostitutes. Almost all of them had had no father figure in their lives,
or if they did, he was abusive. Big Daddy never had intercourse with the girls. He protected them and made
sure they were checked out for disease. He acted like a
real father, which was all the more intriguing because
he was only in his twenties and had a large brood of
children of his own. This was one of the first case studies that showed how young people got caught up in
gangs and prostitution rings. It emphasized how the
gang provides a surrogate family and a sense of belonging.”
“What happened to Dumas?” Judith asked. “Morris
Mayne told me he was dead.”
Bill nodded. “I suppose Morris knows the sto
ry,
being based in L.A. Dumas was quite a legend there
for almost ten years. One of his girls killed him. He
was also involved in the local music scene, though
whether with promoting talent or just peddling drugs
and sex, I can’t recall. This particular girl, who was
from Mexico, felt Dumas could help her get started as
a singer for the Hispanic audience. He couldn’t or
wouldn’t, so she stabbed him in a fit of rage, claiming
he’d betrayed their family bond.”
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247
“A father-daughter quarrel,” Judith remarked.
“Speaking of children,” Bill said, starting up the
steps, “I’d better join mine before Renie and our kids
eat all the food.”
Judith watched Bill disappear at the top of the staircase, then resumed her place at the bar. The glimmer of
an idea was forming at the back of her brain.
Charles cleared his throat. “Will you be rejoining
your party upstairs?”
“Ah . . .” Judith paused to take a quick sip from her
glass. “Yes, in a few minutes. I had to get away.”
“Oh?” Charles tried to hide his puzzlement.
“I mean, I know I just got here,” Judith explained,
“but those people can be very . . . difficult.”
“The Joneses?” Charles inquired politely.
“Yes, the Joneses.” Judith smiled confidentially.
“They’re relatives, you see.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed tactfully. “Sometimes family
members can be taxing.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my drink down here,”
Judith said, wondering if she should call a taxi and go
home. Renie and Bill would be stuck with the future
in-laws for at least an hour or two.
“Of course,” Charles responded.
Before Judith could say anything else, a pair of
hefty legs and sensible black pumps came down the
stairway.
“There you are,” Eugenia Fleming said in an accusing tone. “What’s this about the studio calling Morris?
And how did you get him so drunk?”
“He got himself drunk,” Judith declared. “I’ve never
seen anybody drink a Bottle Rocket before. It’s a wonder he didn’t launch himself across the lake.”
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Eugenia turned her head in every direction. “What
lake?”
Judith gestured at the slanting windows that faced
the length of the restaurant. “There’s a lake out there.
Two lakes, in fact. And mountains. You can’t see them
because of the fog.”
“Miserable weather,” Eugenia muttered, planting
one black pump on the single step up to the bar. “Now
tell me what’s going on with Morris and the phone
call.”
Judith feigned innocence. “I’m only the messenger.”
“Morris was too drunk to call Paradox,” Eugenia
huffed, her majestic bust heaving. “I wouldn’t let him,
so I called for him. No one there knew anything about
trying to contact him. Vito is very annoyed.”
“That’s a shame,” Judith said placidly, then took another drink of Scotch. “Morris isn’t in trouble, is he?”
“Of course he is!” Eugenia shot back. “We’re all in
trouble!” Abruptly, she put a hand to her large crimson
lips. “That is,” she said in a much softer tone, “this
Bruno incident presents several challenges to all of us
who are involved.”
“I would imagine,” Judith said, sounding sympathetic. “You’ve lost a very important client.”
“Yes,” Eugenia said, then turned to Charles. “Give
me a shot of Tanqueray, straight up.”
Charles complied. Eugenia downed the gin in one
gulp. “Producers like Bruno don’t come around every
day,” she grumbled. “In fact, I was with him from the
beginning, right after he won that film-festival prize.
You might say he owed a lot of his success to me.” She
gave Charles a curt nod. “I’ll have another, please.”
“Really?” Judith remarked. “How does that work?”
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249
Eugenia scowled at Judith. “How does it work? I do
the work, that’s how. I start a buzz, build an image,
play publicist as well as agent. It wasn’t easy with
Bruno,” she said, downing the second gin. “He had
hang-ups, phobias, problems. But I connected him to
the right people. Nobody gives agents credit for the
grunt work involved in building a reputation.”
Judith inadvertently neglected the agent’s efforts as
she zeroed in on a word that had captured her attention.
“You mentioned hang-ups?” Again, she wore her air of
innocence.
“Family background,” Eugenia said, snapping her
fingers at Charles for another hit. “His parents may
have moved to California, where Mr. Zepf worked in
the business, but they were very strict. What would you
expect with a German father and a Midwestern
mother? It’s a wonder Bruno’s creativity wasn’t stifled
before he could leave home.”
“I understand he went in search of his roots,” Judith
said, trying not to stare as Eugenia knocked back a
third gin.
“He did,” Eugenia replied. “He went to Germany to
discover his father’s past. Josef Zepf had come from
Wiesbaden, the son of a shoemaker. Bruno loved Germany, especially the music and the literature. No doubt
Wagner influenced him, which may be why his pictures always ran a bit long.”
“As long as The Gasman?” Judith asked as Eugenia
signaled for yet another drink.
“Not that long,” Eugenia said. “But even the picture
that won the film-festival prize— No Prunes for Pru-
dence—was over two and a half hours.”
“That’s a lot of prunes,” Judith murmured.
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The agent, however, was in full spate, and apparently didn’t hear the remark. “He visited England as
well, since his mother, Helena, had been stationed
there before being sent to Germany,” Eugenia continued. Her voice had taken on a lilting quality, as if she
were narrating a documentary on Bruno’s life. Or
quoting from an A&E Biography. Judith was reminded
of Winifred’s dissertation on Bruno. Maybe all his associates had been forced to memorize the producer’s
life story.
“After more than a year,” Eugenia went on, “he returned to the States. The farm in Iowa where his
mother had been raised was gone, the fields plowed
under for a development, but the house was still there.
Grandfather Walls had died, but Bruno’s grandmother
still lived in the old house with its rickety steps and
shutters which hung by a single hinge and clattered in
the wind. Grandmother Walls was very old and ill.
Bruno stayed with her until the end came, almost a
year later.”
“That’s admirable,” Judith said, thinking there
should be a violin accompaniment to Eugenia’s recital.
“Bruno sounds very compassionate.”
“Oh, he is. He was,” Eugen
ia corrected herself with
a start. “My God, I can’t believe he’s gone!” She requested a fifth drink. “To Bruno,” she said, holding up
her glass.
“To Bruno,” Judith echoed, finishing her Scotch.
She tried not to stare at the other woman, who seemed
completely sober. Maybe her size accounted for her
ability to drink like a fish. Bracing herself, Judith
posed a question: “Who was C. Douglas Carp?”
Eugenia didn’t bat an eye. “You mean the man who
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251
wrote The Gasman novel? Some relative, I believe. I
never read novels, unless the book is adapted for a picture, and even then I skim. Books are inevitably dull.”
With surprising agility for her size and the amount of
gin she’d consumed, she slid off the bar stool, planting
her sensible shoes firmly on the floor. “I must go upstairs. I do wish you hadn’t disturbed Morris with that
silly message. He’s very drunk. Tsk, tsk.”
Charles smiled at Judith. “Would you care for another?” he asked, pointing to her empty glass.
Judith shook her head. “I should go, I suppose.”
“But I thought you were with the Joneses.” Charles
looked a trifle tense. “Or am I mistaken? You also seem
to know the people attending the Smith dinner.”
Judith wondered if the maître d’ suspected she
might be a groupie or a party crasher. “Charles”—she
sighed—“it’s a long story. Some members of the Smith
group are . . . ah . . . staying at my house.” She refrained from mentioning that her house was a B&B.
“Mrs. Jones is my cousin. It’s a coincidence that both
parties are here at once.”
“Ah.” The maître d’ offered her a conspiratorial
smile and seemed to relax. “Then you know these
Smiths are movie people. I recognized Dirk Farrar
right away. He came late, though.” The last sentence
almost sounded like a question.
“He came from someplace else,” Judith said,
“though he’s staying with us. How did he seem?”
Charles looked around to make sure no one could
overhear. But the lower part of the restaurant was still
vacant. Even the waiters seemed to have gone to
ground.
“I thought he looked kind of grim,” Charles said,
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keeping his voice down. “Is that because of the producer who passed away last night?”
“That’s part of it,” Judith said, then curbed her
tongue. She mustn’t gossip about Angela La Belle.