The Last Embrace

by Denise Hamilton

  “Where to, fella?” the cabbie asked Alex as they climbed in.

  Lily rattled off the rooming house address and Alex said the cabbie could take her to Silver Lake after that.

  “Do you know who the bartender was talking about?” Lily whispered after they set off.

  Alex looked out the window and said nothing.

  “I thought you were going to help me. If this man knows something, he’s got to come forward before more lives are lost.”

  Shrouded in the big coat, hands shoved down pockets, Alex murmured something.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” Lily said.

  “God forgive me.”

  “For what?” said Lily.

  “For what I’m about to do. You’ll have to lean in, darling. I’m not going to broadcast it.”

  Lily did and Alex whispered a name, breathing minty bourbon breath her way.

  With a sound of disbelief, Lily pulled away. “That’s who was in the bar?”

  Alex nodded solemnly.

  “But Rhett Taylor’s a heartthrob. The girls are crazy for him.”

  How could it be? Rhett of the sculpted face, the sexy, sleepy blue eyes. The inarticulate mumble, the blond hair, the aw-shucks poses for the camera.

  Alex gave a sad smile. “Metro’s sent him away for ‘rest cures’ several times already.”

  She stared out the window. “I feel like a traitor.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It was late to be shopping at the Hollywood Ranch Market, but Harry Jack had been busy all day. He’d pocketed a clean hundred bucks from the Mirror for his exclusive photos of Kitty’s purse and shoe, then given an interview about how he and Gadge had found the evidence. They’d barely returned home when Pico and Magruder arrived. In a black rage, the cops had searched the apartment, then taken him and Gadge downtown for questioning. Four hours, including fingerprints. Then a lady from Children’s Services had shown up. Harry said a prayer of thanks as he recognized a gal he’d gone to school with at Brooklyn Avenue Elementary. The gal had taken Gadge with her, assuring Harry she’d place him with her cousin’s family while they sorted out where he belonged. Gadge had cried, perking up only after he learned that his new foster father was a fireman and he’d get to tour the station. Harry promised to visit in a few days and agreed, after much grumbling, that Trouble could stay with him temporarily.

  Harry had a loaf of rye, a pound of bologna, and six cans of tuna fish in his basket when Florabel Muir walked in with her husband, Denny Morrison. The queen bee of Hollywood correspondents scooped up all the evening papers, bantering with the clerk as she paid. Then she spied Harry.

  “Well done on the Scarlet Sandal photos. Looks like this fellow’s going to keep us all busy for a while. Say, how’d you like to go with us to Sherry’s tonight?”

  Harry considered. Stars often dropped by Sherry’s after dancing and clubbing on the Strip and you never knew who’d deck a rival or smooch someone else’s wife. He might get a pic he could sell.

  “I need to stop at home first,” Harry said, thinking he’d dump the groceries and grab a camera. He flashed on Lily. She might get a kick out of it. “Can I bring a date?”

  “So long as she won’t embarrass anyone.”

  Harry thought of Lily’s cool poise. “She won’t.”

  Despite the late hour, Lily was the first one home. She waved good-bye to Alex in the taxi, locked the front door, then ran upstairs to Jinx’s room. It was empty.

  She called Pico, but neither he nor Magruder was in, so Lily left an urgent message saying she feared the murdered girl in the paper might be Jinx.

  “Lady,” said the LAPD operator, stifling a yawn, “we got everybody and their brother calling tonight, saying she was their daughter, wife, sister, and neighbor. We even got two callers confessed to killing her.”

  “But I was her roommate, and she hasn’t come home, and I think that’s my coat in the picture. Do you want me to come down and look at the body?”

  “Don’t waste your time, hon, they wouldn’t let you in. I’ll ask the detectives to call.”

  Uneasy, Lily hung up. Despite their night together, she had no idea where Detective Pico lived or how to reach him outside work.

  She jumped when the phone rang. Finally! God she wanted to talk to him. When Harry Jack’s voice came on instead, she felt a crash of disappointment. She told him she couldn’t go to Sherry’s and had to keep the line free in case Pico called.

  “The third girl they’ve just found, I have an awful feeling it might be Jinx Malloy, one of the girls here. She’s not home. Nobody’s home except me, and—”

  “You’re all alone?” Harry erupted. “Jesus Christ, do you have a brain in your head? I’m coming over right now and get you.”

  “But what if the detectives need me?”

  “When’s the last time you saw Jinx?”

  “Yesterday. She drove off with a man in a convertible. She said they were going to La Jolla.”

  “Did you get a license plate? Could you identify him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything about her life, her friends, her dates?”

  “Not really. You know I just moved in.”

  “Then you’re not going to be much help to the detectives.”

  “What if they need someone to identify the body?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. It might not even be her. I don’t know how you can tell anything from that awful grainy picture they ran. I would’ve taken a better photo than—”

  “I still think I need to wait here.”

  “If Kitty’s killer has struck again, you shouldn’t be alone there like a sitting duck. I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

  “But I feel so helpless, Harry, I—”

  “Look at it this way. Kitty mighta known some of the people who will be at Sherry’s. They get a Hollywood crowd. We’ll keep our ears open for talk about Kirk. We find out who killed Kitty, we may nail the other two as well.”

  Or maybe Rhett Taylor would be there, Lily thought, and she’d find a way to talk to him. Anything was better than sitting here stewing.

  “All right,” she said morosely.

  Lily changed into her one cocktail dress, an off-the-shoulder black crepe number by Dorothy O’Hara, and went downstairs to wait for Harry Jack. When she heard a key turn in the front lock, she jumped and ran to the hallway.

  “What took you gals so long?” she called. “Have you heard the wretched news?”

  The door opened and in walked Jinx, carrying a small bag. “What news?” she asked.

  “Jinx? Oh my god, Jinx, you’re alive.” Lily grabbed the bewildered girl and hugged her tight.

  “Lily, what’s wrong?”

  Still stunned by Jinx’s miraculous return from the dead, Lily said, “You gave me such a scare. No one’s seen you since yesterday.”

  “Well,” said Jinx, a deep blush rising along her throat, “we motored down to La Jolla and ended up staying overnight. And Lily, he’s wonderful, I have to tell you all about him, he’s a professional golfer and—”

  “I thought you had an agreement to tell the other girls if you were going to be gone overnight.”

  “I did. I called yesterday afternoon,” Jinx said.

  “Then maybe everyone knew but me. I was so afraid the girl they found was you.”

  “What girl?” Jinx said.

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s been a third strangled girl dumped in the Hollywood Hills with just one shoe on. Like Kitty and that Florence Kwitney. I guess I got a little hysterical and…well, I thought it was you because of the—”

  “I’m sorry. I figured Louise would tell everyone.”

  “Never mind. You’re safe. It was silly of me to think the worst, but when I saw the photo and the girl was wearing a coat that…”

  The doorbell rang, drowning out her last words.

  They raced to answer it and found Harry Jack.

  Jinx put a hand on her hip. “Who are you and why are you ringing
our doorbell so late? I’m Jinx Malloy, by the way.”

  Harry Jack squinted at her. “You look plenty alive to me.”

  Lily noticed he’d left the car idling.

  “Are you ready,” he asked Lily, “now that she’s turned up safe and sound?”

  Lily glanced at Jinx. “I don’t think I want to leave her after—”

  “Bring her along. Feel like hitting Sherry’s tonight, Miss Malloy? It’s a great spot for stargazing.”

  “I’m bushed,” Jinx said, stretching languorously. “All I want to do is crawl into bed.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to stay here by yourself?” Lily asked.

  Jinx waved aside her protests. “The others will be home any minute.”

  “What could be taking them so long?” Lily asked.

  Jinx yawned. “Maybe they tagged along to the dinner afterwards, and then there’s usually a party. Go, Lily, have fun. I’ll be fine. Anyone tries to break in, they’ll be sorry when I land a few kicks below the waist.”

  Seeing the startled look on Harry’s face, Jinx giggled. “Sorry, but a gal in this town has to defend herself.”

  “I still don’t think I should have left her alone,” Lily said in the car.

  Harry glanced at his watch. “She’ll be fine. It’s late and the others are probably on their way back.”

  “Do you think it’s the same killer?” Lily asked after a moment.

  “Because of the shoe, you mean? Could be. Or else a couple of other killers have decided it’s a good MO to pin on Kitty’s murderer. Copycat killings.”

  Lily shook her head. “I don’t know about Florence Kwitney, but I could have sworn the dead girl in that photo was wearing my coat.”

  “You’re just a little jumpy.”

  “That poor murdered girl.”

  Lily thought of Jinx walking into the foyer. She’d been wearing a wrap, Lily realized now, not the borrowed coat. But her relief at finding Jinx alive, then Harry’s arrival, had pushed the coat from her mind. Lily hoped Jinx hadn’t left it behind in La Jolla. It was chilly tonight, she could have used it. Oh well, she’d get it back tomorrow.

  Lily saw Sherry’s up ahead, the marquee lit up in lights, Louis Prima and Keely Smith headlining. Her thoughts skittered in a different direction.

  “Wouldn’t it be wild if Kirk Armstrong was there and I could ask him about Kitty?”

  “You wouldn’t have the nerve,” Harry said.

  “I most certainly would. Not that he’d say anything different than what he told the cops.”

  Harry shook his head. “I’d be surprised if he’s involved in this. I’ve worked in Hollywood enough to know the stars are leery of blackmail and paternity suits. Why would Kirk Armstrong risk sleeping with a fifty-dollar-a-week contract actress?”

  “Maybe he was thinking with the wrong organ.”

  Harry snorted. “This is what comes of consorting with soldiers for five years. Jesus, what a mouth you’ve got.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “And what I’m saying is, these stars got an itch, they can take it to a high-class call girl. One screenwriter I know, he won’t even date a woman unless she pulls down a thousand dollars a week.”

  The idea of so many zeros made Lily dizzy. “He must not get many dates.”

  “In this town? He does okay.” Harry stopped. “Ya know, what girls don’t understand is that the bed is not gonna make a girl a star unless she’s got some objective talent.”

  “Kitty had talent.”

  “But even that’s subjective, if you know what I mean. And these guys are diabolical. One picture I shot stills on, the director was sleeping with his actress. And one day, he’s telling her how to play a scene, and she says, ‘But John…’

  “And right in front of the crew and everyone, he says, ‘You may call me John in bed. On the set, it’s Mr. Ashford.’”

  They pulled into Sherry’s parking lot and saw Sergeant Darryl Murray of the L.A. police Gangster Squad standing outside with Harry Cooper, an investigator for the state attorney general’s office.

  “Whaddaya doing out here, fellas, trying to get shot?” Harry called out.

  “How ya doing, Harry?” Murray responded.

  Once they got inside, Harry understood why the badge boys were outside. Florabel was sitting with Mickey Cohen, some henchmen, and two starlets who looked underage, a pair of San Quentin quail. That Florabel’s got the instincts of a cobra, Harry thought.

  The press had been following Mickey around for weeks because of rumors that the dapper little gangster was marked for death. He made colorful copy, with his ‘youse’ and ‘dems,’ his retinue of sharky derby-clad men that trailed him everywhere, his romancing of strippers like Miss Beverly Hills while his wife sat home in Brentwood, where his neighbors had once gotten up a petition asking him to move out.

  Then, last week, grandstanding California Attorney General Fred Howser had ordered his people to follow Mickey around, announcing that gangsters had the same right to protection as any other citizens. Not to be outdone, the LAPD Gangster Squad had joined the entourage, so that it now looked like a parade anytime Mickey left the house. Harry figured the real story was that neither Murray nor Howser wanted to end the lucrative tribute and favors that flowed from the mobster.

  “You want to meet the ‘King of the Sunset Strip’?” Harry asked Lily.

  Lily looked and saw a small, homely man with heavy black eyebrows and a round face. He was built like a fireplug and had a humble, almost abject look about him. Then he turned and his small black eyes drilled into hers.

  “The big handsome feller is Johnny Stompanato.”

  “Both real gentlemen, I’m sure,” Lily sniffed.

  “Mickey’s always trying to improve himself, on account of he didn’t get any formal schooling. Florabel’s husband gives him vocabulary lessons. C’mon.”

  Florabel spotted them. “Think you’re too good to sit with the likes of us?” she called out gaily.

  Mickey looked away. Despite his money and immaculately tailored suits, the gangster was sensitive about social snubs. Two more champagne glasses appeared, along with bottles on ice. Mickey was drinking coffee. He almost never touched alcohol, and the cigar clenched between his teeth was rarely lit. He passed Lily a champagne glass, then wiped his hands with a napkin before excusing himself to go to the men’s room.

  Harry nudged her. “Washes his hands dozens a times a day,” he whispered. “It’s like he’s washing off the stain of blood and vice.”

  Mickey returned, wafting clouds of cologne. Florabel was recounting her surprise at finding leather-bound classics in the gangster’s home library.

  “Takes good care of them too,” Stompanato said with pride. “Remember when that little actress asked to borrow War and Peace and you told her be sure and bring it back?”

  Mickey stirred his coffee and his eyes flickered unpleasantly.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mickey, don’t tell me you planned to read Tolstoy,” Florabel needled.

  Mickey cleared his throat. “Not in a thousand years. I got a war and peace of my own to deal with. But I don’t like to see a gap in the volumes, it don’t look so good.”

  The table erupted in titters.

  “But you won’t read about my library in the press,” Mickey said. “The editors just use my name as a red flag to sell papers. Except for the Hearst papers. William Randolph ordered them to start calling me a gambler instead of a hoodlum.” He shook his head. “But the pols? Notice how they’re always vowing to run me out on a rail at election time?”

  Florabel put a hand on his arm. “I hope you don’t take it personally.”

  “It’s just politics. I know it don’t mean nothing. We’re all friends. The last time I was in the pokey the head of detectives brought me up a steak sandwich.”

  “I think gangsters are sexy,” the peroxide blonde announced, thrusting her ample bosom in Mickey’s direction. Lily felt the room heat up.

  “How’s that?” St
ompanato grinned.

  “Well, they take what they want, don’t they?” the blonde said.

  “That’s attractive in a man,” the brunette piped up, not to be outdone by her friend.

  A glow suffused the table. The blonde poured herself more coffee. Mickey picked up the creamer.

  “Some milk with that?” he inquired, pinkie outstretched.

  “Ain’t he a gentleman?” the blonde said. “The other night he let me win at cards.”

  “Why’d you do that, Mr. Cohen?” her friend inquired.

  “Noblesse oblige,” Mickey said, his tongue tripping over the French words.

  “What’s that?” a gangster named Neddie asked.

  “Something a peasant like you wouldn’t understand,” Mickey said.

  The table laughed uproariously.

  “But seriously, folks, Mickey’s very o-bleejing,” Florabel said. “He gets stacks of mail from all over the world, people asking for money and favors.”

  “They’re always putting the touch on him,” Stompanato said, “on account of he’s so generous. Word gets around.”

  Lily watched the girls, wondering how generous he’d been with them. Was this what Kitty’s nights had been like?

  Mickey turned to Lily and Harry. “The place where you live, is it nice?” he asked.

  Did Cohen know she’d moved into Kitty’s rooming house? Was this some kind of obscure threat? She pushed her silverware around on the tablecloth and glanced at Harry, who said, “Lily’s at a boardinghouse here in Hollywood and I’ve got an apartment in Larchmont. They’re okay.”

  “The girls here”—Mickey nodded at the starlets—“have to get out of their dump and into something classy. I’m helping them look.”

  “My building doesn’t have any vacancies right now,” Harry said.

  “Mine either,” Lily murmured. The conversation was skating perilously close to Kitty.

  “Vacancies can be arranged,” Mickey said.

  Around five a.m., they packed it in. The gangster and his entourage stood up first, handing out hundred-dollar bills that had the waiters hitting the ground in supplication.