We made some more small talk. I gathered that Johnny Bristol and Bobby Renfro had only just met on the set of Twistin’ on the Beach, but they were already fast friends. Bobby was a fan of Rockin’ Johnny’s songs, he said. And Johnny liked cruising for chicks on the Sunset Strip with a Hollywood star like Bobby Renfro. The wants-to-be and the hardly-was.
“So, young lady, what did you want to know about Tony?” asked Bobby.
He’d forgotten my name already.
“As Johnny might have told you, I work for a newspaper in Tony Eberle’s hometown of New Holland, New York, and I’d like to ask you a few questions for my story.”
“Shoot.”
“How well do you know him?”
“A little bit. We met a few times during casting and rehearsals. The producer and director wanted to see if we had good on-screen chemistry.”
“Did you?”
“Sure. Tony’s a good guy. I like him. Good actor, too.”
“Did you ever see him away from the set?”
“Twice, I think. We went out for lunch one day after a cast meeting. I had a club sandwich. Don’t remember what Tony had.”
“We can come back to that later,” I said. Right over his head. “Did Tony talk to you about himself? Anything personal?”
Bobby frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Did he confide in you about any problems or worries? Private stuff.”
“Heck, no. He just had soup or a sandwich. Damn. Wish I could remember.”
“Never mind what he had for lunch,” I said. “I’m more interested in his state of mind.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there. We just talked about my movies.”
The waitress returned with two mugs of beer and my Scotch. She said the fries would be out soon.
“What about the second time you and Tony met off set?” I asked.
“Wait a minute.” He paused and considered me across the table. “What are you planning to write about him? What are you planning to write about me?”
I’d rushed in too quickly. Backing off, I reassured Bobby that my intentions were good. In fact, I told him, the article would probably never even see the light of day, depending on how it ended.
“You know we can’t print certain things,” I said. “I work for a family paper in a town that worships Tony Eberle. I wouldn’t smear him in any way.” Then I steeled myself and added, “And I’m such a big fan of yours. I would never write anything to make you look bad.”
Bobby seemed to like that. I launched into a twenty-five-minute, three-beer discussion of what I loved about Bobby Renfro and his movies. I cited his adorable smile in Varsity Letterman, the movie that had inspired my huge “crush” on him.
“Really? No kidding?”
“And don’t get me started on your muscles in Lenny Goes to College. I cut pictures of you out of Movie Teen Magazine and pasted them into a collage.”
“Wow. That’s so cool of you . . .” He stumbled over my name.
To spare his ego, I interrupted to gush some more. “I told myself, ‘Ellie, you’re too old to have crushes on heartthrobs.’ But I’ve always had a thing for cute guys with wavy hair.”
“You’re not too old, Ellie,” he said, picking up on my cue. He gulped the last of his beer and signaled to the waitress for another.
An hour later, with five beers under his belt—now I could see where the extra pounds were coming from—Bobby excused himself to go to the restroom. He promised me he’d tell me about his next film as soon as he returned. I said I couldn’t wait.
Alone with Rockin’ Johnny, I smiled awkwardly at him. A couple of young girls at the counter—recent arrivals—were giggling moon-eyed over him, but he didn’t care. Those two were on the line. What he wanted was what he didn’t have. Poor thing hadn’t said a word in nearly thirty minutes, and even that was in response to Bobby’s giddy question of which Bobby Renfro picture was his favorite. And I hadn’t even looked at him during my long, humiliating gush.
“You’re a pretty girl, Ellie,” he said with a crooked smile, the kind I like. “Can I ask you something?”
Uh-oh, I thought. Here it comes.
Johnny wet his lips, screwed up his nerve, and leaned in to pose his question. His voice a hoarse whisper, he asked if I’d ever listened to any of his records.
Johnny was quite sweet, actually. But like so many people blessed with fame, he’d lost all perspective of what real people thought, wanted, or liked. Everything had to be about him, or his head would explode. I patted his hand and told him I’d seen him on American Bandstand three times. I loved his honey voice and thick head of hair. My God, what was I getting myself into with these two narcissists?
Bobby returned from the men’s room, eager to resume the discussion of his career with me. I encouraged him to have another drink. The alcohol loosened his tongue. Finally I had him talking freely about Tony Eberle.
“What about the second time you and Tony went out together?” I asked.
“He was going to a party and invited me along,” he said, swigging his beer. “In the hills somewhere.”
“Was it Bertram Wallis’s place?”
Maybe Bobby had drunk enough beer to lower his defenses. Or maybe he’d forgotten that Wallis was dead. But he answered yes without hesitation.
“Why did Tony take you there?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. He said it would be a rocking party with lots of pretty girls, so I was game. I didn’t even pay attention to where we were going at first. But when we got there I knew I had to leave.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it was Bertie’s house.”
“And?”
He paused to consider his answer. “Well, I didn’t want to be seen by him. He was producing my picture, after all.”
“Would he have objected to your being there?”
“No, of course not.”
“So you thought he might make an unwelcome pass at you?”
“Well, sure. I mean why wouldn’t he want to try?” Bobby Renfro was humble to a fault. “I didn’t know him well and didn’t want him getting the wrong idea about me. When I saw him across the room, I told Tony we had to get out of there.”
“Does that kind of thing bother you? Men going with other men?”
“Look, there were lots of pretty boys and lavender lads there. I’ve been around the block. That kind of thing doesn’t bother me, so long as nobody tries to kiss me.” He twisted his lip at the thought.
I took a sip of whiskey. Bobby gulped his beer. Rockin’ Johnny just sat there, surely wishing we would talk about him.
“You say you didn’t know Wallis well, yet you’ve starred in three of his pictures. Four if you count Twistin’ on the Beach.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. He was the producer. I was the actor. I only saw him at the studio or in meetings. So that night at the party, I wanted to get away from there before something happened that could harm my career.”
“So a lot of people knew about Wallis’s peccadilloes?”
“Shoot,” he said, bursting into nervous laughter. “Everyone in town knew about him. And he’s not the only one, either. The list is longer than my arm, and the last thing I wanted was to be on that list.”
“Why did Tony want to go to that party?”
Bobby shook his head. “Damned if I know. He might’ve said he had to meet someone there. I don’t remember.”
Rockin’ Johnny could contain himself no more. He just had to join in on the conversation.
“That happens all the time here. Young actors and actresses trying to make some connections. Some of them’ll do whatever it takes to get a leg up, if you get my drift.”
I got his drift. But I still didn’t understand why Tony would drag a third-rate star to one of Bertram Wallis’s parties.
“When was this party?” I asked Bobby.
“I think it was a Saturday,” he said, trying to recall. “About three weeks ago. Probably the third week o
f January.”
“The twentieth?”
Bobby nodded just as the waitress set down a double cheeseburger that he’d ordered after his fifth beer.
“Any ideas why Tony would light out and miss the first day of filming?” I asked.
“I was surprised to hear it,” said Bobby, and he tore into his burger with his white teeth. “He was really excited about the part. And with the great script we had, he was going places.”
“Did you ever meet him, Johnny?”
His face lit up at having heard his name. He said he’d seen Tony a couple of times, but they’d never been introduced.
“So, was Tony Eberle on that list?” I asked both of them.
Bobby was mid-bite. He lowered his burger and, mouth full, asked me what list.
“The one that’s longer than your arm. The one you don’t want to be on.”
He resumed chewing. “I don’t know anything about that. He seemed like a normal guy to me.”
I returned to the hotel a little past eight. My meeting with Bobby Renfro produced one interesting piece of new information: Tony Eberle had attended another party at Bertram Wallis’s house on January 20, perhaps with the intention of meeting someone there. Probably not Wallis, I figured. He would have had ample opportunity to speak to him any day of the week. At least his phone number in the dead producer’s pocket would indicate as much. I figured Tony had gone to the party to meet someone else. Who and why eluded me. Only Tony himself could tell me that.
It was too late to phone Charlie to fill him in. I didn’t have much to tell him anyway. But I thought a telegram was necessary, if for no reason but to acknowledge his message of the previous day. I scribbled down an update and asked Marty to send it off first thing next morning. I tipped him a quarter and climbed the stairs to my room.
It was still raining outside. Cold and wet. A perfect night to stay dry under the covers. I had just scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth, ready to slip into bed, when a knock came at the door. Damn Marty, I thought, wrapping myself in a robe and crossing the room to answer. But it wasn’t the bellhop waiting in the hallway.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Mickey.”
He stood in the penumbra outside my door. I asked him how he’d manage to get past the desk clerk, though, in truth, I knew the answer. A marching band could have filed by the reception desk without attracting Mr. Cromartie’s attention. Mickey said nothing. He simply stared at me with vacant eyes and a miserable expression. And his nose was broken.
I pulled him inside, sat him down on the bed, and gave him a glass of water. Then, reconsidering his vacant stare, I dug out the bottle of White Label I’d been hoarding in my suitcase.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
“Take a sip of this,” I said, pouring him a finger of whiskey.
He took it without a murmur and threw it back. His face twisted into a grimace, and he nearly gagged. But then he licked his lips and swallowed a couple of times before holding out the glass for another. I obliged. He sipped his second drink slowly, still silent, as he tried to calm his respiration. I thought he was searching for the right words to say to me. Why else would he have slogged through a driving rainstorm to knock on my door on a Sunday night?
I took a seat beside him on the edge of the bed. Did he want another drink? Something to eat? A hug? I surely didn’t know and had no intention of asking. I waited.
His lips moved, and I saw that he’d also taken a punch to the mouth. The tissue was broken and swollen. I couldn’t make out what he’d said, but he repeated it, just as a heavy tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek.
“What happened?” I asked. “Who hit you?”
More tears fell. His lower lip trembled, and he clenched his eyes shut as if closing the lid on a casket. The regrets of a lifetime, perhaps two, would not have weighed so heavily on a body. Whatever sorrow he was feeling, something utterly desperate and hopeless had crushed his spirits. This was a lost soul in search of a thread, a hope, a mercy. I felt the tears welling in my own eyes, and I reached out to take his hand in mine. He let me. Then his head dropped onto my shoulder, and he wept.
“What happened, Mickey?” I asked again sometime later after he’d composed himself. “Who did this to you?”
He shook his head slowly and mumbled that he didn’t know.
“You mean a stranger beat you up?”
He shrugged. Was that a yes, a no, or a maybe?
“What did the police say?”
“I didn’t tell the police.”
“Why not? You should call the police.”
“I can’t call the police,” he said.
“Then I will.” I rose from the bed and crossed over to the desk to pick up the receiver.
“Don’t!” he yelled. “Don’t call the police.”
I stopped and regarded him closely. He sat listing to one side, shoulders sagging like a pair of old stockings. His beautiful nose was swollen and scarlet. A rivulet of fresh blood had sprung from his right nostril and run to the top of his bruised upper lip. Under his red eyes, two bluish rings had begun to ripen, promising a double shiner come morning. His cheeks were flushed as if he’d been out on a chilly wintery evening. I replaced the receiver in the cradle and rejoined him on the bed.
“Did you get a look at the person who attacked you?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, miserable. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“But the police?”
He turned to face me, anger, not panic, in his eyes. “Who do you think did this to me?”
I choked. “The police? But why?”
“For fun,” he said, turning away.
He fell silent after that. I wiped his face clean with warm water and a hand towel, got him out of his wet clothes and into my robe, and laid him down on the bed. I stretched his trousers and blue-and-tan panel shirt onto the radiator to dry. Then I settled into the chair at the desk where I watched him. He stared at the wall for some time, sniffling, dabbing his eyes, and sighing, drowning in his private grief. I switched off the light, but he immediately asked me to leave it on. I flicked the switch again. We stayed that way for hours, him lying on his side on the bed, me sitting at the desk puzzling over why the police would have beaten up poor Mickey Harper. And then I decided I couldn’t protect Tony any longer. As Mickey slept, I wrote a long article on the disappearance of hometown hero Tony Eberle.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 12, 1962
In the morning, I slipped out to visit Marty downstairs in the lobby. I sent him off to fetch some eggs and bacon and coffee. By the time he knocked on my door twenty minutes later, Mickey had crawled off to the bathroom. I was careful to block the bellhop’s view of my visitor’s clothing on the radiator, grabbing the paper bag from him instead, and tipping him a quarter.
Once he’d put some food into his stomach, Mickey looked less green. Still black and blue, but he seemed stronger.
“Thanks,” he said at length. “For letting me stay.”
I tried to coax information out of him, starting with innocuous small talk. The weather. Wet. The Lakers? Mickey didn’t know what they were. Franny and Zooey? Mickey didn’t know them either. I told him they were a novel by J. D. Salinger, and it was a best seller.
“I don’t read,” he said.
“All right, if you don’t want to discuss sports or books, let’s try talking about you.”
“I don’t want to talk about me. How about you instead?”
I considered it. “Okay. Here’s something interesting. I live in a small town in upstate New York.”
No reaction.
“I work for a newspaper, as I told you.”
He blinked slowly.
“It’s a place called New Holland.”
“I know. You already told me you were from Tony’s hometown. Actually, this isn’t very interesting.”
“But it is. It’s remarkable because you’re from the same little town, ar
en’t you, Mickey?”
That got his attention. He tried to deny it for several minutes, but I told him I knew everything.
“Sorry, but you’re wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know where you got such an idea.”
I drew a sigh. Why was this kid intent on lying to me? “Fine, we’ll put that to one side for the moment. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Sure,” he said without conviction.
I reached into the desk drawer where I’d stashed my Tony Eberle research materials and retrieved a book.
“I like looking at pictures,” I said, flipping through the pages until I found what I’d been looking for. “Let’s talk about how your name and photograph happen to appear in this yearbook from New Holland’s Walter T. Finch High School.”
There, sandwiched between Margaret Halvey and Mark Haver, Michael C. Harper, dull and uninspired though strikingly beautiful, stared out of the black-and-white recesses of another rotten senior portrait. Beneath his name, his future plans read “Learn to fly.” There were no activities listed except one: Stage Crew, Drama Club.
I handed him the yearbook and showed him the page. He set the book on his knees and, hunched over, seemed to be reading it. His eyes ranged over the faces he’d left behind in New Holland, and I wondered what was going on inside his head. Was he reminiscing? Looking back over his past with dread? Refreshing his memory that Anthony Duchessi had been the center on the basketball squad? Or perhaps Mickey had never seen the yearbook before? He did strike me as a loner. A misanthrope, even. No big man on campus he. Despite his singular beauty, I knew in my heart that Mickey Harper had never been popular in school. Surely he’d had few friends besides Tony Eberle. And I realized in that moment that I’d never seen Mickey smile.
“That’s you,” I said. “You can’t very well deny it.”
Mickey looked up and closed the yearbook.
“Why won’t you tell me the truth?” I asked. “Just once, trust me, Mickey.”
“I trust you,” he said. Then he thought about it. “But not with everything.”
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