by Ed Ifkovic
Tony sputtered. “We drove him there.”
“They wanted to know my alibi. My alibi? Jesus Christ! I got none. I was in the desert all night.”
Ethan was matter-of-fact. “The matter should end now. Finished. Your word is good.”
No one paid him any mind.
“The police have a job to do,” I offered.
Ethan pursed his brow and eyed me. “Frankie doesn’t lie.”
Frank let go of Ava, dropping into a chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling his head. “I guess I lost it a little down there. I played the wise guy at the precinct.”
“Oh, Francis, no.”
“I told one cop who pushed me around—‘You’ll get a belt in your stupid mouth.’ I don’t like cops.”
“So now what?” From Ava.
“I gotta make a statement. Go back with my lawyer tomorrow.” He looked at me now, hurt in his eyes, disbelief. “They might charge me with murder.”
“I think that’s premature,” I began.
But Tony roared over my words. “Christ Almighty.”
“I didn’t kill Max, Ava.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Frank eyed Ava. “You and me, baby. They don’t like us. The hillbilly and the guinea.”
No one spoke for a while. Finally, Ethan broke the dead silence. “We need to identify the murderer.”
We all stared at him, flabbergasted.
Ava smiled. “And just how do we do that, Ethan?”
“I mean, offer the police possibilities.”
Again she said, “How? Do you have a list?”
He ignored her, staring directly into Frank’s face. “It seems to me a simple scenario. Sol Remnick killed Max. Then, remorseful, he hung himself.”
Clamor in the small room: Ava gasping, Tony choking, Frank whistling. Except for me, sitting there in stunned, dreadful silence, as cold as a meat locker. I was surrounded by dinghies, I thought suddenly, all loosed from their moorings.
Ava stammered, “Are you out of your mind, Ethan? Do you really believe that preposterous story?”
A long pause. “Well, no, of course not. But it works. We plan a story, make believe it’s true, and at least it gets the police thinking…maybe, maybe.”
I flared up, the hair on the back of my neck bristling. “Have you people all lost your minds out here? Is that all you can do? You fashion clever storyboards for real life, like you’re sketching out the next scene of a Metro thriller? Do you hear yourself, Ethan? You’re talking about peoples’ lives here.”
He looked at me with cool deliberation, eyes shiny. “They’re both dead, Miss Ferber. Let them solve a situation that implicates…Frank.”
Ava covered her face with her hands, muttering, “Why do I put up with this?”
Tony bubbled over, excited, rolling in his seat. “Maybe Sol did kill Max. Maybe Max screwed up his career, too. He killed himself because…”
I stood, raised myself to my full five-foot height, and my voice cut through the blather in the room. “Enough. You’re maddened…all of you. Frank”—I cast him a steely eye—“do you agree to something so absurd and deleterious?”
He waited a long time. Finally, he sputtered, “No, of course not. I’m not crazy… I may be a lot of things but…not crazy. It’s nonsense.” Another pause, a heartbeat. “Sol loved Max.”
It was, I thought, a simply beautiful statement, and took me by surprise.
Ethan broke in. “People kill folks they love.”
Frank held up his hand. “Come on, gang. No.”
Ava snarled, “Why don’t you turn in Sophie Barnes? You always made fun of her, the crazy secretary with the hots for Max. Maybe she got tired of her pain, her loneliness, and…and she shot him. Remember Harry said she stormed out of the Paradise Bar in a fury, sending the candles flying. In a rage. Maybe she killed Max because…” She stopped.
“She did run out of the restaurant. We saw her.” Tony glanced at his brother.
Ava screamed, “Francis, stop them. Now. The police are doing their job, just as Edna said. You know that. Nobody is going to arrest you. You’re allowing these fools to enflame you. Come off it.”
Frank nodded at us. “Let’s get out of here. Screw this!” He pointed at the brothers—bang bang, as though he had a gun—and turned away. The brothers leaned into each other, their voices overlapping, doubtless formulating other outlandish suspects: perhaps the headwaiter at Chasens’…or Greta Garbo…or…Lana Turner. Why not? Eleanor Roosevelt, sneaking into town…I imagined their scrambled minds teeming with such absurdities.
“I think Alice did it,” Tony blurted out. “Before she left for the Paradise.”
“No,” I said. “Remember Lorena called from the bar and spoke to Max. He was alone. Someone knocked on his door. He hung up. Alice was on the way to the restaurant.”
“I don’t care,” Tony said. “She snuck back in.”
His words suddenly made me wonder about that knock on the door. Who did arrive that night? Sophie before she joined the party at the Paradise Bar? A mysterious woman, this Sophie Barnes. Blighted love, anger, passion, a volatile temperament.
“How do we know Lorena’s even telling the truth?” Tony added. “Maybe she was there first. Maybe. You see how she’s weeping for Max, Frankie. Like she’s out of control. She was always so friendly with him. Maybe an affair…maybe he turned on her…” He was counting off the reasons on his fingers, the none-too-bright schoolboy trying to do sums.
Ethan glared at his brother. “Leave my wife out of this.”
“She ain’t your wife anymore.”
Ethan raised his voice. “You heard me, Tony. Lorena isn’t part of this. She spoke to Max, and she then told you to call him. I was there. You mean she’s making that up about the job he’d get you?”
Suddenly, Tony crumbled, his eyes tearing up. Looking at Frank, he blubbered, “Liz told me to get out—now that I lost that job at Poncho’s. She’s leaving me, Frankie. I thought that if I can get another job, she’ll…you know…take me back.” He faced his brother. “I promised her I won’t drink. I got nowhere to go.”
Ethan softened. “Tony, I told you. She won’t leave you. She won’t.”
Tony smiled at him. “She used your favorite word, Ethan. Failure. I’m a failure. She called us both failures. Me and you, Ethan.”
“Me?”
“You ain’t got your dreams, she said. Nobody does…except some. She wants to be rich and famous and I’m a…a burden.”
“She called me a failure?” Ethan looked stunned.
“Because you came out here to make millions, and you took that job in accounting at Metro.”
Ethan was furious. “I will be rich. Someday. Why else come out here?”
His eyes narrowed, Frank mimicked him. “I want to be rich, too, boys.” His voice became mocking. “Why else come out here?”
Why else come out here?
It was brutal imitation of Ethan’s whiny declaration, and Ethan glared at him. I expected him to say something but he watched, eyes slatted. “How can I become rich when I got to support Tony? Lenny left us nothing.”
Frank sang in a silly singsong voice: “I wanna be rich. I wanna be rich. Listen to the two of you. Your brother Lenny knew the game. He had smarts. That’s what Lenny had that both of you don’t. He built a fortune out of grit and sweat. That man understood honor and loyalty. I wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t stepped in. They were gonna take me out. You two are pale imitations of that pal of mine.”
“All right, Francis. Enough.” Ava was blinking wildly.
Tony sagged into his chair, moody, hunched over. Looking up at Frank, he moaned, “You’re rich, Frankie.” At Ava. “You’re rich, Ava.” At me. “Even she’s rich. Show Boat fills her pockets with gold. She doesn’t even have to work anymore.” He turned back to his brother. “We’re the only two poor people in this room, Ethan. You and me.” He started sobbing and wiped away tears with the backs of his hands.
> “Oh, Christ,” Ethan muttered. “Stop it, Tony.”
“Are they smarter than me? Frankie? Ava? Her?”
Her had already answered that question some time ago, but decided now silence was preferable. Why articulate the obvious? Let them rattle on, I thought, these destructive hangers-on.
Ethan snickered. “Actually they are, Tony.”
“No, they ain’t. Mr. Adam and Miss Ava. You told me Frankie was just plain lucky. Luck is the game in this town.”
Ethan squirmed. “Not everyone is lucky, Tony.”
“You deserve to be rich, Ethan.”
“Okay, enough, Tony.” He stared at Frank, nervous.
I broke into the brotherly keening. “Who gains from Max’s being murdered?”
My startling outburst, intentionally off the subject, silenced the brothers’ inane bickering. All eyes landed on me.
Sitting up, Tony started to say Alice’s name, but Ethan reached out and touched his sleeve. “Not now. Haven’t we embarrassed ourselves enough tonight?”
Ava whispered to Frank. “Get them out of here.”
Frank smiled. “Did you hear them, though? They don’t think much of my brain, Ava. I’m just a lucky so-and-so…”
Ethan pleaded, “Don’t listen to him, Frankie.”
Tony looked helpless. “Do you really think Max found me a job? Lorena said she talked to him.”
His shoulders stiff, Ethan walked to the door. “Maybe Lorena lied, Tony. Maybe she made the whole damn thing up. We’ll never know, will we? Maybe Lorena was trying to make Max look good. Good old Max, unselfish Max, no-hard-feelings Max.”
“But Lorena did speak to Max that night,” I added.
Ethan frowned. “But who knows what that conversation was about? The only part I heard was when she asked for Alice.”
Tony burbled, “I need a job.”
Ethan turned the doorknob. “Good luck.” He focused on Frank. “We need a lift back to civilization, Frankie.” He waited until Tony was at his side. “We’re going back to New Jersey. I’ve had it out here. Lenny is dead. He was murdered, too. It’s too dangerous out here in Hollywood land. God knows when one of us”—His hand swept the room—“will face the barrel of a gun. Little Alice-sit-by-the-fire did him in. It’s you and me, Tony. Back home. People come to Hollywood to die. I’m not ready for that.”
***
Ava and I sat alone in the quiet room, sipping iced tea and eating slabs of chocolate cake. Frank had driven the brothers away, begrudgingly, annoyed with them. We’d watched him careen out of the driveway, nearly clipping some bushes. I surmised the ride back would consist of silence, and a whole lot of groveling.
“I keep failing at my promises to you, Edna,” Ava finally said.
“Not true.” I smiled at her. “You came through with the magnificent fried chicken.”
“Which, you remember, you had to fry yourself.”
I breathed in. “Listen to me, Ava. These things happen, and I suppose they happen more with volatile people. You and Frank are a train wreck, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. You have to play that love game out. You have no choice, toppling chairs in restaurants, knocking over drinks, screaming at each other. And everyone watches. Neither of you is ready to jump off that speeding train.”
She leaned over and poured me more tea as I gazed out the window into the pitch-blackness: no moonlight, no stars.
Quietly, “I know.”
“I don’t like it out here,” I said.
“Who does?”
“But you stay here. I can leave. New York may be a lot of things, but there’s a gritty, hard-nosed reality about it. New York tells me the truth. New York slaps you awake every day of your life. Out here in the constant sunshine with wide boulevards and sparkling cars, well, people come to believe they can reinvent themselves, their failed lives. That’s always been the promise of the West, of course—new beginnings, second chances, new blood pulsating through the anemic body. And, I suppose, it can be true. But not for L.A., not this oasis that looks to Hollywood for answers. Make it up and see if it flies. If it doesn’t, make something else up. A culture of sandboxes with children restacking the blocks that keep falling down.”
Ava had been staring at me, mouth open. “God, Edna. Stay away from the Chamber of Commerce. They’ll crucify you. Tar and feather you and ride you out of town on a rail.” She started giggling.
“And it would be filmed for a scene in some celluloid epic.”
She looked to the ceiling. “But I wanted to come out here.”
“It’s your career.”
“I know, I know. I make my money here. Lots of it. Tons of it. But most don’t. A Tony Pannis. Liz Grable who waits for that talent scout every time someone walks into the soda parlor where she waits and waits, perched on a stool. We keep lying to them.”
“Otherwise there’d be only desert and orange groves. L.A. circa 1900.”
She sipped her tea. “Sometimes I dream of going back home. I wanted to be an actress—I wanted to shine in Show Boat, get fantastic reviews—but I don’t want it. You know what I mean? Francis doesn’t believe me. For him it’s everything. Hoboken is grubby and horrid…and over. L.A. is…is the flashy Cadillac convertible, the big house in Palm Springs, and the screaming girls. I dream of North Carolina because no one bothered me there. Yes, I like the fame, I guess, but I feel owned here. Eaten alive.”
“You are so good in Show Boat.”
A wide grin. “Keep telling me that. I don’t like myself most of the time.”
I sipped my tea. “What do you want, Ava?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I want Francis. But I also know that he’s…Hollywood. Exciting. He’s L.A. He’s Palm Springs. He’s beautiful at the moment but he’s temporary. Everything out here—even people—are rented for the short term. Ironically he’s probably the love of my life. Paradox, no?” She chuckled. “I learned that word from Artie Shaw. He described me that way.”
“Well, you are.”
“Everyone is.”
“True. But some more than others.”
She drew her bare feet up under her legs, snuggled into the cushions. “I will always make movies. I’m supposed to.” She struck a pose. “‘The most beautiful woman in the world.’” Said with a bittersweet wistfulness. “But I want to live in Europe. Spain, probably. When I was there, I felt…comfortable. Everything is old and they like it that way.” Now she grinned. “And the bullfighters wear such tight pants, Edna.”
I ignored that. “Does Frank know about this dream of yours?”
“I’ve told him, but he’s not one to listen. He thinks Hollywood is paradise on earth. El Dorado. The seven cities of Cibola, acres of gold all contained in one big movie contract. You know, he’s so…soft a man, Edna. He’s afraid he’ll break.”
“He reminds me of a mischievous little boy.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes got merry. “It must be illegal to go to bed with a little boy in Hollywood.” She laughed outright, long, full.
My mind wandered. “Ava, I go back home in days and Max’s murderer is still at large.”
Ava leaned into me and smiled. “But you’re doing something about it, no?”
Startled, “How do you know?”
“I see the way you look at folks, Edna. You know, I’ve watched you at the cocktail party and at dinners and the public melees that Francis and I stage for Hedda Hopper and her ilk. This is a puzzle you’re working on. You got a bag of pieces and you’re shaking it.”
I nodded. “I owe this to Max.”
“You know all the players in this little costume drama.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a stranger?”
“Of course not. This was a deliberate killing…and personal. Somebody had something against Max. Some vendetta. No Commie nonsense. That was a convenient excuse, used by someone. Think about it, Edna. Someone took advantage of the moment to kill poor Max.” She locked eyes with me. “We agree about that, don’t we,
Edna?”
“I know that.”
“It’s about timing here. Timing.”
I sat back. Everybody in Hollywood talked about timing. The glib catchphrase covered a multitude of sinning. The players. Who gained by Max’s death? I asked that question over and over. What satisfaction did someone have in seeing him dead?
Ava got reflective. “The night he died, Edna. Think about it.”
Yes, I thought: the night he died. Where were all the people? I counted them in my head. Who?
“You know the answer, Edna. I suspect you know most things before they happen.” She smiled.
“Tiki voodoo, Ava?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pointed a finger at her. “There’s always black magic in paradise.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Miss Ferber.” A scratchy voice, grating. For some reason Desmond Peake glanced over my shoulder, toward the doorway. “Miss Ferber.”
I looked behind me. “Are you seeing double, Mr. Peake? Perhaps a visit to the eye specialist…”
He glared at me and the pencil in his hand snapped into two. “What I need to say, well…needs saying.”
He made no sense, of course, but I let it pass. Desmond Peake, Metro’s troubleshooter, had reached me at my hotel, insisting I visit Culver City for a short luncheon. When I said no, he announced that the studio car was already in the Ambassador parking lot, waiting. “It’s important.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why would you say that?” Real concern in his voice.
“Because such words usually introduce topics that don’t live up to the promise.”
He blathered for a bit and I almost felt sorry for him, so I consented.
Delivered by a taciturn chauffeur to Culver City, then sequestered in a private room, I dined quietly with Desmond Peake, though he wolfed down his pot roast with such alacrity I feared we were being timed in some competition no one had told me about.
“Tell me why you’ve summoned me here, Mr. Peake.”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You must be joking, ma’am. Four words. Max Jeffries. Show Boat. No, make that five words. Murder. Let me add two other words. Hedda Hopper. Very chilling words.”