The Last Embrace

by Denise Hamilton

  Lily whistled. “Is that how they shot King Kong?”

  “Exactly.” Max looked pleased. “That was Willis O’Brien too—the older guy who just left. He invented all this. Bloody genius. People had no idea how he made that movie. They guessed it was a man in an ape suit, or a bunch of people inside a giant ape costume, moving different parts. Obie’s a true Renaissance man. What Michelangelo is to sculpting the human form, Obie is to animation. But few artists are appreciated in their lifetime.”

  Lily said she’d sensed a sadness clinging to Willis O’Brien, the feeling of something lost or broken.

  “His family was killed in a tragic accident,” Max said. “And his pictures often get scrapped because producers decide they don’t want to spend the money. All they care is whether they can get it in one shot, fast and cheap. The world got lucky with Kong, it was a masterpiece.”

  “I’m sorry about Obie, I think his work…your work…is marvelous. It’s too bad Kitty never appreciated the artistry behind it. You mentioned she was hanging out with nightclub people when she disappeared? Ever hear her mention any names? Louie or Monty or a skinny little guy with reddish-brown hair and a mean face?”

  But Max had shut down. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “Look, can I give you a ride home?”

  “I thought you had work to do.”

  “I can work at home.”

  Lily explained she was living at Kitty’s rooming house.

  “I could drive that route blindfolded. Come on.”

  They were traveling north on La Cienega when the radio interrupted the music program to report that the body of a strangled woman had been found in the Hollywood Hills. Lily felt the car lag as Max took his foot off the gas. In that moment, she realized she was alone with a man the police had interviewed about Kitty’s murder. A man Kitty’s roommates had warned her was eccentric and prone to obsessions. It was nighttime and no one knew where she was. When Max’s large hand reached out, she flinched, then realized he was just turning up the volume.

  Florence Kwitney, twenty-eight, had last been seen waiting for the bus to her midtown apartment after a night out with girlfriends. Her body had been discovered below the Hollywood sign late this afternoon by two boys hunting for arrowheads. The announcer said Kwitney was the second girl within a week to be found strangled and dumped in the hills with only one shoe. But unlike Kitty Hayden, a Hollywood starlet, Florence Kwitney was a secretary at an electronics store and had no connection to the movies. The newscaster said speculation was building that a new killer was on the loose in the streets of Los Angeles, preying upon its most vulnerable citizens.

  “Should we drive over and see what we can see?” Max asked eagerly.

  Lily thought of the dark hills, the isolated streets.

  “Are you crazy?” she said. “Take me home.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Shorty drove to Palisades Park, cut his lights, and watched the breakers roll in. He’d spent the afternoon on the phone. Mickey had eyes and ears all over town, found it useful to tip extravagantly and often. It sharpened the memory. Waiters and valets, whores and servants, suddenly remembered things, were happy to pass on information. The boss had friends in Hollywood too, but he kept it on the q.t., the way the movie people liked it. Oh yeah. They’d drink his liquor and borrow money and gamble at his clubs, but they wouldn’t be seen in public with him. Shorty knew that hurt the boss’s feelings, though Mickey would never admit it. Still, the studios and the rackets had always worked together behind the scenes; Shorty had helped break up a few strikes himself.

  But today the well was dry and nobody seemed to know anything about the Hayden murder. After exhausting all other possibilities, Shorty had dialed a number he tried not to use too often.

  A little after ten p.m., a Cadillac pulled up and Shorty got in. The car took off, nosing its way down the California Incline and onto Pacific Coast Highway.

  “So,” said the driver, cloaked in darkness. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about that actress,” Shorty said. “The one they found in the hills.”

  “Yes?” The man’s voice was wary.

  “I need to find out what happened.”

  There was a small cough. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Oh really?” Shorty chuckled nastily. “Then let me jog your memory. Tell me about her and…” He repeated the name Jimmy had whispered in the alley the night of the Sinatra rehearsal.

  The prickly silence that followed told Shorty a lot.

  “That’s ridiculous,” the man finally sputtered.

  “Why is it ridiculous?” Shorty said with singsong sarcasm.

  “He didn’t have anything to do with it,” the man behind the wheel said.

  “They were seen together.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Bellhop at the Chateau Marmont who I ran into in an alley the other night saw her slipping into one of the VIP bungalows where he was delivering champagne.”

  “So?”

  “A couple hours later he brought breakfast for two, and the place was registered to one. Caught a glimpse of them when he knocked, wrapped around each other like snakes. Says this fellow always checks in under a false name when he’s on the prowl.”

  “Ah,” the driver said, groaning. “This is not good.”

  “Everyone knows he can’t keep his trousers zipped.”

  The man sighed. “It is highly indiscreet of both parties. But I can assure you—”

  “The fuck you can assure me. Go pound the truth outta that cocksucker or my people will.”

  The man passed a hand over his brow.

  “We’ve already talked to him about it,” he said. “It was an affair, and it’s over. He feels terrible, but he doesn’t know anything about what happened.”

  “You and the boss,” said Shorty, “have always helped each other out in the past. He would be hurt to learn you wasn’t telling the truth.”

  “I swear it on my mother’s grave,” the man said.

  There was silence in the car after that, just the purring of the big motor.

  “Shall we head back?” the driver asked after a while.

  “No,” snapped Shorty. “I need to think.”

  Several more miles passed. The houses were more sparse now, moonlight reflecting along the empty beach and the bare rolling hills.

  “Say,” said Shorty, his voice genial. “I saw one of your flicks the other day. Mighty Joe Young. That ape was amazing.”

  “We’ve got one of the best trick men in the business working for us,” the driver boasted.

  “Oh yeah, who’s that?”

  “Guy by the name of Max Vranizan. He can animate anything. Give him a pile of dog shit and he’d have it tap dancing and blowing kisses in five minutes.”

  “No kidding,” Shorty said. “So he did the whatchamacallit on the ape?”

  “Yeah.” The driver grew suspicious. “Why?”

  “My nephew,” said Shorty. “He’s nuts for that stuff. I told him I’d find out.”

  “I’ll put a couple movie passes in the mail,” the driver said, relieved. “If we don’t get more kids going to the pictures, this industry is sunk.”

  Shorty grunted out a thanks. The driver, his courage restored, said, “Your interest in this girl still puzzles me. If there is anything that I can do to—”

  “You can keep your eyes open,” Shorty said. “The boss wonders if this is connected to the disappearance of two of our guys he holds close to his heart.”

  “Ah,” said the man. “All three were acquainted, then?”

  “She was a gal who made friends easily.”

  “These are dangerous times,” the man behind the wheel said. “Young women should not be so free with their affections.”

  “You use what you got.”

  “She had it. In spades.”

  “Spades,” Shorty said. “Spades of dirt, falling on her head. That’s all she’s got now.”

  “I’ll
ask around,” the man said. He cleared his throat. “But I can’t say I’m sorry about the way things have turned out. It’s certainly solved my problem.”

  The Caddy dropped Shorty at his car. Marine air had fogged up the windows and he had to wipe them down to see. He turned the car around and headed for Slapsie Maxie’s.

  Once inside, he made for Mickey’s table. The gangster was holding court, as usual. Shorty saw Dean Martin walk by with an entourage and salute Mickey from across the room. Mickey extended two fingers, pointed them toward his eyes, and stabbed the air in Martin’s direction. Then he disentangled himself from a young lady wearing pasties and harem pants and patted the seat next to him. Shorty sat down.

  “Our friend at the studio don’t know nothing about it,” he said without preamble.

  “He’s a lying sonovabitch,” Mickey responded. “Look into it some more. And what about Dragna?”

  Shorty winced. Mickey had asked him to track down rumors that the Sicilian was behind it, but he hadn’t gotten anywhere yet. “I’ve put out feelers,” he said.

  “We are going to whack this killer, even if it’s not Dragna. And now, with a second girl? The city will thank me.”

  Shorty saw his opening. “Maybe, for once, our movie friend speaks the truth.”

  “It is a language with which they are unacquainted.”

  “Because there is also this special effects fuck.”

  “What special effects fuck?”

  “Guy by the name of Max Vranizan. Turns out he was in love with her.”

  Mickey didn’t say anything. You could almost hear his brain whirring. Mickey had a phenomenal memory and never forgot a name. He was so smart he could have headed up a Fortune 500 company, become president, if he’d grown up different.

  “She was boning him too? Jeez, that gal got around.”

  “She just went with him to premieres. Maybe he finally snapped.”

  “Special effects, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Shorty screwed up his face and flapped his fingers. “He builds flying saucers and dinosaurs and apes and shit for the pictures. He worked on Mighty Joe Young.”

  “Mighty Joe Young? I loved that movie,” Mickey interrupted excitedly. “How’d they do that, anyway? Was it a man in a gorilla suit?”

  “I don’t know, boss.”

  “Find out, will ya?” Mickey said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “The scene at the nightclub, with Joe swinging on the vines and all a them lions, that was amazing.”

  “I’ll say. So, boss, you want us to take care of this special effects fuck?”

  Mickey’s caterpillar eyebrows drew together. “Don’t be an idiot. I still think Dragna did it. But you need to nail it down.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “And be discreet, will ya, Shorty? I can’t have any more heat coming down on me.”

  CHAPTER 14

  October 14, 1949

  Lily wondered when Pico and Magruder slept. They looked bleary and unshaven, arriving this morning at six-thirty to quiz the boarders about Florence Kwitney. But none of the girls had known her. Other than the fact that she’d been strangled and dumped in the Hollywood Hills with one shoe, there appeared to be no connection.

  “Maybe whoever murdered Florence Kwitney wanted police to think that Kitty’s killer had struck again,” Louise suggested.

  “Or maybe Kitty’s murderer killed a second girl as a decoy, to throw everyone off the track,” Lily said.

  Pico and Magruder refused to speculate. After reminding the girls to lock all doors and windows and avoid walking home alone at night, they left and Lily hurried upstairs to get properly dressed. She arrived at RKO at 9:20 and breathed a sigh of relief that Selznick and Myra weren’t in yet. The phone was ringing.

  “Hello,” she said, trying not to sound out of breath.

  “Where’s Myra? I’ve been calling for twenty minutes.” It was a peevish Selznick, phoning from home. “Don’t you know the rules? It’s nine a.m. around here, no exceptions. Who is this, anyway?”

  “It’s Lily the temp, from yesterday. I don’t know where Myra is.”

  “Well, Lily the temp,” said David O. Selznick, “is your steno pad at hand?”

  Lily’s neck and shoulder were throbbing from holding the phone while taking dictation when Myra walked in two hours later. At noon, Selznick finally finished and said he’d be in soon. Lily hung up and massaged her neck.

  Just then a woman walked in holding some papers.

  “I’m here from the agency,” she announced brightly.

  Lily’s heart galumphed. This wasn’t the same temp she’d bribed away yesterday. Something had gone haywire. She braced herself. Myra looked at the woman, then at Lily, who was suddenly busy with her stenography. She asked to see the newcomer’s papers.

  Lily jumped up. “I think I’ll go to lunch.”

  “Hold it right there, both of you. Lily, where’s your paperwork?” Myra asked in a quiet but deadly voice. “I was so distracted yesterday I forgot to get it from you.”

  “I, uh…” Lily began.

  The temp sat down and lit a cigarette. Myra’s gaze grew flinty. “We’ll soon get to the bottom of this,” she said. She called the agency and began asking questions.

  “As I suspected.” Myra slammed down the phone. “Miss Kes—”

  Just then Selznick blew in.

  “Look at you three, just sitting around when there’s so much work to be done,” the producer said.

  “Mr. Selznick.” Myra pointed accusingly at Lily. “This young woman has been masquerading as a secretary from the temp agency. She’s an imposter.”

  Selznick’s intelligent brown eyes looked Lily over. “Takes pretty good dictation for an imposter.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Selznick,” Lily said. “The truth of the matter is—”

  “Not to worry, I can use all three of you. Even imposters.” The producer winked at Lily. “I’ll work you in shifts.”

  “You don’t understand, sir. She’s some kind of spy, from the questions she’s asking.”

  “Really?” Selznick rumpled his hair. “Did Joe Schenk send you? That dirty bastard. What he knows about making movies, you could stuff up a cat’s ass. Tell you what. I’ll pay you double to report a pack of lies back to him. Ha-ha. That’ll fix him.”

  “Nobody sent me, Mr. Selznick. I’m…I’m…” Lily glanced at Myra. “The truth is that I’ve come here to RKO in the hopes of being discovered. I’m a wonderful actress, really I am. My drama teacher at Sioux City High School said I could do anything. Oh, please, won’t you give me a screen test? I’ll do anything.”

  “I knew it,” Myra said triumphantly. “Mr. Selznick, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I think we should get Security to throw her off the lot.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Pity to lose such a good stenographer, though.”

  He disappeared into his office with the real temp and a few minutes later a uniformed guard arrived to escort Lily out.

  The guard was surprisingly chatty. Lily tried not to gape as he pointed out the Atlanta train depot from Gone With the Wind in the distance.

  They were passing Max Vranizan’s workshop when a familiar figure shambled out and headed down the street, bent in thought.

  “Max,” Lily called.

  The guard protested, but Lily explained that he was an old friend and hurried over, the guard trailing behind.

  Lily hoped the animator would understand the pleading expression in her eyes. When she explained the “mistake” in Selznick’s office, Max seemed to get it. He nodded and told the guard Lily was visiting the studio at his invitation and must have gotten lost. The guard studied the animator, trying to determine whether he was important enough to cross.

  “If anyone asks, tell them I insisted,” Max said. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “Suit yourself.” The guard shrugged, then left.

  Max turned to her, frowning. “What are you up to now, Lily?” He began walk
ing. “And make it snappy, because I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  “Who with?” She fell into step.

  “Maynard Wylie.” Seeing her blank look, he added, “The legendary producer. He’s flush with cash from several war films and wants to do a special effects picture about a monster octopus.”

  “Max, I need your help. Would you introduce me to the makeup and wardrobe people and say I’m your friend so they’ll talk to me?”

  “When I get back,” Max said. “This is like getting an audience with God.”

  They turned a corner and Lily saw Myra gesticulating to another security guard.

  “Oh no,” Lily said. “I can’t let them see me.”

  “Lily, if you scupper this meeting, I swear I’ll never talk to you again. I already wasted several hours trying to convince those damn detectives I’d never met Florence Kwitney.”

  Lily stopped. “Did you go out there last night?”

  “Naw. That was a stupid idea. They showed up at the studio this morning. Now, really, I’ve got to go.”

  “Just tell me where Makeup is.”

  He gave her directions and strode away.

  Lily hurried across the lot, scanning nervously for Myra. Several little kids sat on a pile of gravel in the sun, flicking pebbles at one another and looking miserable. A girl with a pink ribbon in her blond ringlets curled in her mother’s lap, sucking her thumb.

  Seeing a soundstage, Lily popped in to see if there was anyone to talk to. It smelled of fresh paint. High on the catwalks, technicians stood, adjusting equipment. Onstage, a man with a clipboard was blocking out shots. The only action seemed to be around a small circle on the soundstage floor, where grips, gaffers, and crew members were on their knees, faces tight with concentration, shooting craps. Lily moved on.

  When she reached Makeup, Lily found a row of actors sitting in chairs, having their greasepaint applied and their hair done. Some of them looked familiar, like faces Lily had seen in the movies, but she couldn’t place them. They weren’t headliners, though—all the really big stars had private trailers. Lily scanned the makeup girls, looking for a friendly, open face. She spied a likely candidate swabbing a damp cotton ball across the forehead of a fortyish man in a toga who was reading a folded-over sports page.