by Ed Ifkovic
“I’m Edna Ferber.” I held out my hand. He shook it.
“I know. I’m pleased to meet you. I once acted in a high school production of Dinner at Eight.” He smiled thinly. “A walk on.”
“A bit player?”
“Sort of.”
“I’m not surprised.” He narrowed his eyes, not catching my meaning, but I hadn’t intended that he do so.
“You’re part of Jimmy Dean’s circle?” I asked.
A long pause, Josh frowning. “I didn’t know he had a circle. I just know him from, you know, around. I met him when he did some television—the Kraft Playhouse. I was working wardrobe. We’d go out to the clubs. A bunch of us.”
“How did you all know Carisa Krausse?”
He cleared his throat, looked at Sal, who was shuffling from one foot to the other but finally sat down. “Well, strangely, I introduced her to Jimmy. You see, I went to high school in San Francisco with Carisa. She was Jessica in those days. We drifted down to Hollywood right after high school. She wanted to be in the movies. I just wanted to escape my family. She was escaping into escape.” He must have thought his own words clever because he stopped, widened his eyes, and grinned. But then, probably remembering the context, he sobered. “We were best friends for a long time.”
“Were you still friends?”
“No. I mean, I stopped in now and then. We’d lived together for a while, but not in that hell hole she moved to a few months back. We sort of drifted apart. But she’d be in for a fitting, and I was in wardrobe and we’d catch up on things.”
“So you introduced her to Jimmy?” I said.
“Yes, I told you that,” He looked peeved. “I mean, that probably wasn’t the best thing I could have done.” He looked at his nails, and I noted they were bitten to the quick: a thin line of dried blood on each fingertip.
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s hard to talk about. I mean, she’s dead and all. I mean, well, Carisa started getting—odd. Frantic, sort of. Jobs not coming her way. No rent money. She was always a little eccentric. You know, saying outlandish things. But then I think she couldn’t help herself. Like madness came into her. And she met some bad apples. Drugs and all. That’s when I kept away.”
“What kind of drugs?”
He looked at Sal. “I don’t know much about drugs. Just what people tell me. Like heroin, I guess. I’m not saying for sure she did it, but it was around the apartment. I saw it. She said it was nothing. It scared me. One night, I bumped into her and Lydia, when they were still talking, and then Jimmy came along. She liked him. He liked her. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
Josh waited a while before he spoke. When he did, his voice was hard. “Miss Ferber, Jimmy likes to play people. Experiment. See what they’re about. Push people. He’ll do things just to get people to, you know, go to the edge. He fools with their lives. If they fall apart, that can’t be helped.” The more he spoke the more bitter he sounded.
Mercy said, “That sounds cruel.”
“Well, he’s a bastard.”
“To you?” I asked.
“Yeah, for one.”
Sal was edgy. “Josh, this is Jimmy we’re talking about.”
Josh sneered. “Sal moons over Jimmy. Doesn’t know he’s in love with him.” He spat out the word. Sal frowned, looked around, his face becoming flushed, and he seemed ready to bolt. But Josh continued, “I’d seen Jimmy a few times, with his friends. Even at one or two parties. We drank together in bars. But then he started to avoid me. Was rude to me.”
“Why?”
Josh groaned. “You wanna know? I’ll tell you. I’m too girlish, he said. He actually said that. He’s uncomfortable around guys like me.” Josh bit his lip. “It’s not my being a male that bothers him. It’s the kind of male I am.”
“I’m not following this,” I said, exasperated.
“Jimmy likes more masculine men.”
“What are you saying?”
Nasty, his voice purposely loud, “I already told you Jimmy likes to experiment.”
Sal jumped up, twisted around. “Josh, please.” He looked down at Josh. “I’m sorry.” He backed up. “Come on, Josh.” Pleading.
Josh seemed hesitant. “You see, I don’t like Jimmy Dean. He does.” He pointed to Sal. “I’ve seen the beast in him, so I regretted that he got involved with Carisa, because I still liked her.”
Bluntly, I probed, as Josh stood, “Do you think Jimmy killed her?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“That’s quite an accusation.”
“Well,” Josh said, “he once beat her up so bad she hid away for days, black and blue.”
I sat up. “Jimmy?” I turned to Mercy. “Do you think that’s possible?”
Mercy didn’t look surprised. Quietly, “He told me he hit Pier Angeli so hard she passed out.”
I slumped back into the seat. “Mercy, what?” Fury, like a wind through me; a knife. “God, no.”
“It’s what he told me, Edna. He told me he wasn’t proud of his temper.”
“That’s barbaric.” I drummed a finger on the table. “Barbaric.”
Josh, standing, “No, Miss Ferber, that’s James Dean.”
***
When Josh and Sal left, an annoyed Sal muttering into Josh’s side and Josh looking oddly triumphant, I spotted Tommy Dwyer sitting by himself at a table, his back to me. I wondered when he’d arrived, and wondered, too, if he’d overheard the conversation with Josh. He seemed purposely turned away. I nudged Mercy, who shook her head. “Hard to miss that red jacket and manicured pompadour.” As we watched, Tommy scribbled onto a pad, bent over the page intently. Now and then he looked up, drank from a cup, and then resumed writing. “His memoirs?” quipped Mercy.
I mumbled. “My Life as a Shadow Puppet.”
While we watched, Tommy’s girlfriend Polly walked in, glanced around, spotted him, and rushed over. She looked angry, and he tapped the pad. Don’t disturb me, his gesture said. But Polly spotted Mercy and me and, mumbling in his ear, they both turned. Caught watching them, we waved, self-consciously. I motioned them over. Join us, I mouthed. They didn’t move. I waved some more. Reluctantly, the couple walked over.
Tommy sat, Polly didn’t. The tall redhead was wearing a crimson-colored gingham smock that accented her hair, very Victorian maiden. “Polly, sit,” I said. She didn’t budge.
“I saw you two when I came in, but I’m working,” Tommy said.
“Writing?”
“My screenplay.”
Oh Lord, I thought. The dumbbell as diarist. Alphabet soup for the grammar school crowd. Rebel without a dependent clause. I dared not ask about it. He might tell me, and I’d have to take to my bed.
“We’re concerned about Jimmy,” Mercy started.
“Why?” Polly asked.
That remark struck me as unusual. “Well, because of Carisa’s death.”
“We don’t know anything about that,” Polly said, harshly. Reluctantly, she slipped into a seat.
“You know about the letters she wrote.”
Tommy nodded. “Of course. Everybody does.”
Polly’s voice heavy with anger. “Jimmy was foolish, going out with that nut case.”
“You knew her?”
Sarcastic: “We all knew her. No one liked her. Jimmy has his fling, he always has to have his fling, and the rest of us have to dance around the story.”
“What does that mean, Polly?”
“I mean, Jimmy knew she was crazy. He just liked to see how crazy she was.”
Tommy interrupted. “Polly, no. Jimmy liked her. He told me he did.”
“She is a pretty girl who made herself available to men. Any man. Of course, he liked her. You said she was pretty.”
“She was Jimmy’s girlfriend.” Tommy looked at her. Shut up, his look told her.
“Not girlfriend, Tommy. Quickie partner, tryst, tumble in bed. I’m your girlfriend. You’re my boyfriend. There’s a difference.�
�
“You didn’t like her?” I stared into her slender face.
“She ignored me. She saw me as a rival. Not for men, but for parts. I’m young, good looking, and ambitious.”
“Do you think Jimmy killed her?” I asked Polly.
Tommy answered quickly, nervously. “No, never. Not Jimmy. He’s…”
Polly interrupted, matter-of-fact. “Anything is possible, but I’d say no.”
“Why not?”
“Jimmy isn’t into drugs. One of those friends did her in. Everyone is saying that. I know about the letters, but that was stupid stuff. Her drug friends—that’s where to look. Miss Ferber, Jimmy’s a coward at heart. Talk to Lydia, Jimmy’s pre-Ursula Andress, post-Pier Angeli fling. Talk to her when she’s not stoned on the ladies room floor. Ask her what she thinks. If anyone knows that crowd, it’s Lydia.” She sat back.
“Do you think Lydia’s connected to the murder?”
Polly opened her mouth to speak, stopped. Then, slowly, “I can’t say. I don’t like either woman.”
Tommy kept looking at her, shaking his head. “Christ, Polly.”
I baited her. “It’s considered bad taste to speak ill of the dead.”
Polly made a fake laugh. “I’ve never been accused of being society’s good girl. Speak ill of the dead? I didn’t like her. I don’t like most people.”
Tommy, unhappy, “You’re giving Miss Ferber the wrong impression.”
“I don’t really care, Tommy.”
Tommy leaned into me. “Is Jimmy in trouble?”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head. “Damn.”
I stared from one to the other. Polly, the deliberate harridan, angry, moving the conversation her way; Tommy, meek, Jimmy’s slavish lapdog. The two like discordant bookends—almost a vaudeville routine. What was going on here?
Suddenly, I heard Tansi’s voice from the entrance. “Edna.” She rushed over. “I heard you were here.”
“From whom?”
“Sal Mineo. He’s not happy.”
“He’s a sissy,” Tommy noted.
Tansi glared at him.
“What is it, Tansi?”
She drew in her breath. “Jimmy told Warner he wants to issue a statement to the press, professing his innocence, and Warner blew a gasket. It seems Sheila Graham called and said she’d heard that Jimmy had dated Carisa. Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons were dealt with, but Graham is another story. But that’s not the real news.” She stared at me. “Some reporter found out that Carisa had been picked up for prostitution when she first came to Hollywood, a couple years back. Cotton told Jake the police already knew of it. So Warner’s not happy. Some heads will roll.” She paused. “And that’s not all. Even though Jimmy is still Cotton’s prime subject, he told Warner that when they went to question Max Kohl, he ran from the cops. Can you imagine battling the cops?”
“Is he in jail?” From Tommy.
“Do you know Max Kohl?” I asked, surprised.
“Sort of. He rode bikes with Jimmy. In the hills. Jimmy said he’s a tough customer. A bully.”
“Jimmy doesn’t ride with him anymore?”
“No.”
Polly snickered. “One more person Jimmy abandoned.”
“Stop it, Polly.”
Polly turned to me, speaking in a mocking tone. “Tommy is afraid his time is coming. Fairmount loyalty only goes so far in this land of make-believe. Jimmy is a big star now. Three big pictures now. Interviews in Look and Life. Vogue says he’s ‘in’ now.” She faced her boyfriend. “It’s only a matter of time, Tommy. You’re history.”
“Stop it.” A whine.
“You better finish that goddamn screenplay. You can’t park cars all your life.”
Tommy stood up, tugged on the red jacket. It seemed too tight for his broad chest, and I thought, darkly, that perhaps it was Jimmy’s size, not his. A hand-me-down? Jimmy tossing off bit parts, pieces of clothing. Polly stood now, tucked her arm into his.
I touched Tommy’s sleeve. “Would you two like to be my guests for dinner tonight? Someplace nice?”
“No.” From Polly.
“Yes.” From Tommy.
A pause, uncomfortable. The two looked at each other. Tommy looked back at me.
“Indulge an old lady, please.” I smiled.
Polly nodded. “All right. I guess.” Her tongue licked her upper lip slowly.
“The Brown Derby at eight?” They nodded.
When they were gone, Mercy seemed tickled. “Dinner with those two?”
“Something bothers me. Is that an act or are they for real?”
“Of course it’s an act, Edna,” Tansi said, smiling. “You’re in Hollywood.”
CHAPTER 9
The phone was ringing but I didn’t pick up. I was weary of people. So I bathed, soaking in lilac bath salts, my eyes closed, and then relaxed with a martini and a forbidden cigarette. The phone rang again. “Edna, I’ve been calling.” Tansi sucked in her breath. “My mother, by the way, sends her regards, and says you should convince me to return to New York.” A harsh laugh. “Fat chance.” I started to say something, but Tansi interrupted. “But I have news, Edna.” Again the breathing in. I could tell she was smoking a cigarette. “The studio just learned from Detective Cotton that Carisa was pregnant. Pregnant! Can you believe it?”
Jimmy, you’re the father of my unborn baby. I’m gonna tell…
I put out my cigarette: a taste of burnt ash in my mouth.
Tansi repeated her story, but I told her I had to go. When I said goodbye, raising my voice, she was still talking.
I dressed slowly for dinner, my mind dwelling on Carisa and her unborn child. What a horrible ending! Sadness gripped me, and I found myself near tears.
I was still in a daze when the studio car dropped me off at the Brown Derby. Within seconds, Polly and Tommy pulled up in their sputtering, noisy car, a tired convertible, the top down, with Polly driving. Reluctantly, the parking valet assumed possession, receiving the keys from Polly with the attitude of someone acquiring a lethal virus. Polly stood there, looking after the sagging car as though losing a friend, a worried look on her face. Curious, this West Coast car culture. Automobiles attached to lives like love notes worn close to the heart. Did Tommy own a car? True, he parked cars for a living. Maybe, sadly, he couldn’t afford one. And, indeed, Polly seemed to be the dominant gene in that sociological construction called the modern couple. The car disappeared behind a bed of Bird-of-Paradise that I thought too garish, indeed—especially under the indigo-black sky, with a line of royal palms nearby, accented with spotlights. El Greco, I decided: a tourist postcard.
I wasn’t certain why I wanted to be alone with the couple, other than that earlier intuitive and impulsive moment. I expected a wearisome meal in the company of boors. But I was convinced that they had something to tell me, though I had no idea how it related to the murder and my helping Jimmy clear his name. Because that was exactly what I was doing—helping Jimmy. Yes, he’d pleaded for help that awful night at Mercy’s; but, later on, as I soaked in my bath, eyes closed, I’d had an epiphany: Jimmy was innocent. Jimmy, the spoiled brat, the caustic boy, the cooing charmer, the brilliant actor. These were the contradictions that sometimes accompanied genius—and, I liked to believe, similarly defined myself. Not that observers could spot them in me, maybe labeling me an aging novelist with a tendency to acerbic comment and a short fuse. No, as the bath salts soothed and swirled, I thought, there may be a lot of the unsavory in the lad but not the stuff of murder.
I was pleased to see that Tommy and Polly had altered their costume for the fancy eatery. Tommy wore a simple black turtleneck and creased trousers, and a somewhat rumpled wheat-colored linen jacket, a little too big and a little too thrift shop. Polly’s dress was a marked-down Woolworth’s rendering of June Allyson—flair and flourish, faded pink roses on a mauve velveteen cloth. Her face bore just a trace of pink lipstick, becoming on her, and in the shrill light of the restaurant m
arquee her auburn hair looked like burnt cinnamon.
They were nervous, which is what I wanted. Frankly, I was used to people being nervous around me. Inside, they sat stiffly at the table, waiting.
Polly took the offensive. “I don’t know why you wanted to take us to dinner.” She stared directly into my face, challenging. “Especially a place like this.” Tommy watched, with drowsy eyes.
“Why not? I’m a writer. Young people fascinate me.” It was a brazen lie. Young people, in the main, were callow, dimensionless; at best, they were static characters in a novel I was living. There were, of course, exceptions, and marvelous ones, but I knew, without a bit of doubt, that these two weren’t among them.
Tommy half-bowed. “Thank you.”
I stared. What had I said that warranted a thank you?
“You know,” I began, “when I saw you sitting by yourself in the Smoke House this afternoon, I thought you were Jimmy.”
Polly rolled her eyes. “It’s the red jacket.”
“Well, I like the look.” Idly, he fingered the sleeve of his sports jacket. “Other people besides Jimmy wear red jackets, you know.” Said emphatically, he sat back, fumbling for a cigarette.
“What you like is having people think you’re Jimmy.” Polly glared at him. She turned to me. “Since Jimmy started wearing that red jacket, people associate it with him. It’s from Rebel Without a Cause, and that’s not even released yet. There were some photos in fan magazines, and that’s all it took. Suddenly, his fans are clamoring for the jacket.” Polly went on, her voice weary. “It’s the way Jimmy dresses off camera. But now and then. Not every day,” she emphasized. “Tommy rarely takes his off.”
Tommy grunted.
Polly stared into my face. “Jimmy has a powerful hold on Tommy.” She looked around the room, then glared at the waiter placing menus before them. She waited until the man left. “Tommy can’t get away from Jimmy’s influence.”
“You’re talking like I’m not even in the room,” Tommy whined.
Polly spat out the words. “It’s hard enough living your own life without copying another person’s.”
“Actually,” I volunteered, “I suppose, it’s easier to copy someone else’s life. Making your own up is hard work.”