Marg Beale and Mr. Oliver married after making two films together, both of them flops. Mr. Oliver then committed the ultimate flop when his vehicle plunged six hundred meters off the North Youngas Road in Bolivia. He’d been scouting rainforest locations, albeit reluctantly. He often complained that movies were tilting towards an authenticity that was wasteful and expensive. Marg was devastated by his sudden death, and Florian was indifferent until he learned that Youngas Road was sometimes called Road of Fate. That was also the name of the film that Mr. Oliver was hoping to produce.
How many lovers? A few, Florian supposed. He did not want Dr. Boyle to think he was confused by the term, “lover.” All he knew was that his mother was no longer as famous as she used to be, so they spent more time at the bungalow instead of in hotels. Marg even bought Florian a very pretty cat. Antoinette came with her name. Marg said that a pet would help Florian “understand mortality.”
Nearly two years into Florian Beale’s institutionalization, Dr. Boyle became dissatisfied with their talk sessions, so he gave Florian the task of writing a letter to the possessor of The Juliet.
He started well enough.
Dearest Thief,
Then he stopped writing and asked for medicine. Any medicine at all. He was fatigued and wanted care.
The next day he tried again. He added a single line: I did not survive.
Boyle asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“I will finish,” said his favorite patient, but Florian slipped into a melancholic, quiet mood.
He left the letter for several days. One morning an orderly noticed that there was more on the page. The script was larger, sloppier, and at first Boyle thought it was a prank played by another patient, but Florian confirmed that he had written the words himself:
Here are my instructions. Here is what you must do.
There were no instructions. Days later more words and phrases appeared, but they made no sense, scrawled in the margins of the page.
After more than a week of this, Dr. Boyle came to Florian’s room and read the nonsense letter out loud. Florian sat on the edge of his bed looking like a man who couldn’t remember if it was time to sleep or time to rise. The orderly stood next to the doctor.
Boyle shook his head. “Florian, we’ll return to our former protocol. Won’t you like that? We’ll have our chats again.”
Florian did not respond.
“Shall we meet in my office? Florian?” Dr. Boyle was used to commanding attention, but in this case he had to crouch to look his patient in the eyes. “Or we can start here.”
The orderly’s expression was a mix of sympathy and skepticism that irritated Boyle. He dismissed him.
When they were alone, Boyle asked Florian, “Are you hungry?”
Florian said, “Yes.”
“Are you tired?”
Florian said, “Yes.”
Florian said yes to everything the doctor asked him.
* * *
Eventually, Dr. Boyle stopped treating him altogether. Florian retreated into silence and was transferred to a wing for catatonics. Sometimes he appeared to pray, but no one actually heard him. After a wordless year, he started to make some noises and then words again, but his phrases were gibberish. He’d also started to smile again, but in combination with the nonsense he was talking, his company was unsettling even by lunatic standards. He had no friends, and he’d killed his only family.
His new doctors took the praying seriously and encouraged him to measure his days with the rhythm and repetition of his religion. It was known that Florian had always prayed, even as a child, but there was no history of any formal spiritual education. Marg was never a churchgoer, and no one had any idea what odd orthodoxies the nannies may have left behind.
Florian became a very predictable patient. He could not hold a conversation, but he could wash himself and feed himself. And he could pray. When Florian was released, no one would call him cured. It was as if they’d merely tired of him.
* * *
November, 1956: Hollywood, CA
The day after Thanksgiving 1956, Laskowski and Taylor were ready to rob Bixby’s Jewels. The store was loaded with stock for the holiday season, and there were little crystal statues of Santa Claus draped with gold-plated chains in the front window. Glass beads, molded to look like diamonds and sapphires, hung from the branches of pink and yellow Christmas trees, and under their boughs, tiny filigreed treasure chests lay open, spilling bounty. It was a classy establishment.
Laskowski was not impressed with his blocky figure reflected in the display window, but he and Taylor both knew he was best suited to play the female role. He had the carriage for it and was better in heels. They’d made a decent investment in the blonde pageboy wig. An error they’d seen over and over on the beat: a mope in disguise could always be spotted because he cheaped out on the hairpiece. For similar reasons, Laskowski’s wife was consulted on the shoes: “The counter clerk’ll be watching you like a hawk if you go in there with crummy shoes,” she said. “Only newlyweds and kleptos go into Bixby’s in dime store flats.”
Taylor applied a mustache to his normally clean-shaven face, and that was enough for him.
All put together, Laskowski looked legit. Despite being a little warmly dressed for a sunny California day, he and Taylor made a plausible middle-aged couple. They entered Bixby’s Jewels at four in the afternoon and browsed a while. Bixby’s was a scrappy shop, trying for a high tone with its doorman and white-gloved clerks, but it was no Harry Winston’s. Bixby’s was to fine jewelry as the Brown Derby was to cuisine—a middle-class attempt at glamour, clean and sturdy, but a compromised dream at best.
Laskowski reached into his handbag just to touch his gun. Taylor had his hands clasped behind his back as they both leaned over a case of watches. There was an old man and a young couple being served by two counter men. Taylor waved amiably as one of the clerks assured him that attention was on its way. Earlier, Taylor admitted to Laskowski that he planned to imitate his grandfather for this heist. Laskowski practiced “being feminine” at home, but everyone who had seen his preparations agreed he shouldn’t do that.
It was their first daylight robbery, hence the disguise. Normally, they would break into an establishment after hours to take what they wanted cat-burglar style, right down to the black shirts, but Laskowski had heard about a gang in Europe that was enjoying great success with disguises and daytime raids. Bixby’s seemed like an excellent testing ground. The security was not sophisticated, and the staff-to-customer ratio was stretched thin during the holidays.
The doorman had a look about him that said ex-cop, even though he was dressed up like a monkey. No doubt he was armed, but that didn’t mean he was an idiot. Worst-case scenario would be that he’d recognize Taylor or Laskowski.
Laskowski and Taylor separated, moving to opposite positions in the store for maximum coverage when the doorman nodded to Laskowski, the way a gentleman does to a lady. Laskowski neglected to demur. Instead he locked eyes on the man with the white gloves, and he knew he’d been made.
The doorman blinked, unable to hide his surprise. Laskowski was fairly well known in the department, near-legendary since the Beale case. Taylor assessed the situation as well, and the three men formed a triangle of silent recognition.
Laskowski improvised. He mouthed the word, “UNDERCOVER,” to the doorman. The doorman understood this to be a lie, but he also knew that playing along would be the only way to save himself. Soon the tension in the room was obvious, with Taylor keenly aware that the clerks and the customers were too quiet. The silent alarm had been activated.
“Honey, we’ll be late,” Taylor said, stepping forward and looping his arm around Laskowski’s. The doorman stepped aside and ushered them out of the store.
* * *
Laskowski’s dazed look, with wig askew and baggy nylons, appeared on the front pages of every newspaper, including the international press. Instantly icon
ic, the photo showed him being led into the police station, bent forward with his arms cuffed behind his back, struggling on the heels that he’d so proudly mastered. Taylor got away with less attention, but under the glare of flash photography his mustache looked cartoonish and colonial.
When The Juliet was found in a safe deposit box belonging to Officer Taylor’s mother, a legendary flame was relit. In the ensuing trial, celebrities packed the gallery. It was easily the most infamous non-crime of the decade, with far-reaching effects. Laskowski’s front page photo showed an image of America that had never been so successfully rendered, and in Europe and Asia the press spared no puns in depicting the US as an effeminate, corrupt power. At home, however, all attention was focused on The Juliet. Shame on those who might suggest that a culture of corruption persisted within the LAPD; it was obvious that good men had been brought down by a cursed jewel.
Every day during his trial, Laskowski made an effort to reassert his masculinity, but reporters constantly referred to his slicked hair and three-button suits as “dapper” and “neat” in an effort to suggest that he might be a sexual deviant, despite the constant presence of the detective’s wife and two daughters. He remained out on bail for the duration of his trial, and when arguments closed and the jury was sequestered, he prepared for the worst.
A good cop takes himself out of play to minimize the damage to those around him. He drove out to the beach and parked there, undecided. Eat a bullet or walk into the sea? He liked the water option, mainly because it was popular in films of late, but under the circumstances a little too fey.
Laskowski split the difference. He walked out into the waves as far as he could, holding a borrowed revolver over his head; his own weapons had been confiscated. When he felt as if he could go no further without losing his foothold on the shifting sands below, he put the barrel end in his mouth and thought about the waves, how they would catch him and carry his body away.
* * *
August 1958: Hollywood, California
Florian Beale shined under the courtroom lights. His hair was combed and his clothes were clean. Florian’s pupils all but disappeared into his gray-blue irises, and he trembled slightly as he unfolded the lined paper onto which he’d written his statement. The artist’s rendering that appeared in the newspapers exaggerated the size of the rosary beads and crucifix balanced atop Florian’s round belly.
“Dearest Thief,” Florian began. He had been coached. He had been cared for and listened to. Audrey Lange, Head Nurse at the Palisades Rest Home, made sure of it.
Audrey sat in the gallery, beaming like a parent at her child’s Christmas pageant. She was a large woman, fond of flower print dresses, and if anyone asked, just barely sixty years of age. As soon as Florian Beale had been admitted to Palisades she’d made him her special ward. He was only in residence temporarily until the trial, after which he’d be sent back out onto the streets, presumably.
The sentencing hearing was the only interesting day in Eugene Taylor’s trial. Unlike Laskowski, Taylor didn’t inspire celebrity interest, and for many the story ended with the older, more glamorous detective’s suicide. Nevertheless the District Attorney, Aaron Fitzgerald, was determined to make something out of the Taylor trial. Fitzgerald had his eye on a Senate seat, and that meant Taylor had to go down hard. The DA presented the State’s case personally. The challenges were two-fold: not only had interest faded, but Taylor’s and Laskowski’s victims were, for the most part, very wealthy, and drumming up sympathy for them was going to be difficult.
And then they found Florian, wandering the streets of Akron, Ohio, muttering his prayers. He was in bad shape but not irretrievable. When it was announced that he would testify, the gallery was packed for his appearance, and Taylor’s attorney fumed silently next to his client. He’d scrawled the word “CIRCUS” across his pad in letters large enough to be seen across the aisle.
Fitzgerald revealed his purpose before Florian took the stand. “Your Honor, I know it is a shock to see Florian Beale in this courtroom, but among Laskowski’s and Taylor’s victims, Mr. Beale’s case is the most poignant. He has only recently been found wandering the streets of Akron, Ohio.” He emphasized the name of the industrial town as if it were some jungle hellhole. “As we know from his tragic history, Mr. Beale is a sick, sick man. By stealing The Juliet, these corrupt officers of the law ensured that he would never have the means to seek help, thus dooming him to life of impoverished derangement.”
It was a breathtakingly bold move to make a victim of a man who had beheaded his own mother.
When Florian took the stand, he read the words he’d written for Dr. Boyle so many years ago. His red fingertips grasped the page by its furthest edges. He sometimes paused between lines to breathe noisily, as if he spotted something in his words that surprised him.
Fitzgerald thought he knew what was coming. Florian Beale had shared with him the text of his statement, a collection of the lines he’d written as a patient, rearranged to form a singular, if not entirely coherent presentation. It was a depressing document, the diary of a sick mind.
“From the moment I touched her, I became a ghost,” said Florian. His voice was weak, reedy, striking several awkward notes at once. “By now you have surely tasted the destructive power of The Juliet. Please believe me when I say you will not survive her curse.”
The DA’s only purpose in orchestrating this display was to inspire pity. He never expected the slow horror that bloomed from the stand. Every line provoked gasps from the gallery, and the watchers in the courtroom leaned forward, straining to hear what Florian had to say. Gasps modulated into whispers of distress, and by the end it was clear that someone within the crowd was crying.
Florian concluded by saying, “You are my thief.”
Taylor listened respectfully throughout, with hands folded and head inclined. This letter, after all, was for him. It was a good thing Laskowski wasn’t there to hear it; he would have huffed and rolled his eyes during the recitation, impatient and unbowed.
The judge thanked Florian and instructed him to step down. As he walked through the gallery, silence prevailed, except for a slight rustling as Audrey searched for a handkerchief inside her purse. Even the attorneys on both sides appeared chilled by what they’d heard.
His mother would have wanted him to make the most of his exit, so Florian tried to smile.
* * *
September, 1958: Del Rey, CA
Taylor got twenty years. Audrey Lange got Florian. She had gambled and won, but it wasn’t clear yet what winning meant.
Most days, Florian watched television, sitting on the floor cross-legged like a boy. If Budge, Audrey’s nephew, was between acting jobs, he could be found sprawled out across the sofa, hung over but keeping his Aunt’s new pet company. He visited more now that Florian had moved in. He claimed he wanted to keep an eye on things—Florian was a killer, after all—but Audrey detected other motivators, such as opportunism braided with jealousy.
There wasn’t much to keep an eye on. Florian ate, watched television, prayed, and slept. He rarely stepped out, and that was fine with Audrey, seeing as every time they tried to leave her tiny apartment in Del Rey they were accosted in one way or another. Still she couldn’t understand his fascination with the television. She preferred the radio herself, but only at night as she drifted off to sleep. Florian watched television all day long.
Audrey had moved Florian into her apartment right after his testimony, and that proved more inconvenient than expected. He’d become a minor celebrity. Every day there was someone knocking on her door. They couldn’t go to the shops without being eyeballed by strangers. And young girls, holy Jesus. Girls wrote Florian letters and sent him packages as if he were a soldier overseas.
Today’s mail brought a box of cookies and an envelope stuffed full of pictures of a young woman in her underwear. Budge had intercepted both. That sort of thing got under his skin. Budge was an actor, and he’d been in eno
ugh shows and movies to be almost recognizable, but not quite. Strangers were always coming up to him and asking if they’d served together or went to the same school. It was a struggle.
“Maybe I shoulda cut your head off, Auntie Aud,” he said.
She shushed him and busied herself in the kitchen, out of sight. Florian wasn’t listening anyway. He was glued to the television, Channel 17, his favorite. The tiny local station played old movies and Sunday sermons, exclusively.
Audrey had raised Budge after her sister abandoned him as a baby. He was slowly becoming a baby again, relying on her hospitality more and more now that the acting roles were drying up. Though he retained the style of a vaguely ethnic greaser, his face had thickened too much to play teenage ruffians anymore. Worse than that, a hack studio dentist had applied some quick-fix brightener to Budge’s teeth that turned them irreversibly dark after only a few short months.
Budge liked Channel 17 too, or any movie on television because it was all in black and white like it used to be, when a mouthful of green teeth didn’t matter so much.
Sometimes Channel 17 showed Marg Beale movies, but never the ones in which she was the star. Before she hit the big time, she played a lot of conniving secretaries, scheming waitresses, and on one occasion an eavesdropping nurse. Florian watched these films with respect, but the Westerns were the ones he enjoyed most. That was a preference he and Budge had in common. Budge’s roles these days were limited to saloonkeepers and mule team drivers. He’d been typecast as human scenery.
It was a Western that they were watching now. Florian said, “Do you see that building in the background? The one that is supposed to be a Spanish mission?”
“I guess so.” The prints that Channel 17 showed were murky and fuzzed, as if the movies were being shown in an old mirror. The frames jumped and the dialogue was sometimes chopped into nonsense.
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