Make Believe aefm-3

by Ed Ifkovic

  “How did Ethan take that?”

  “He walked out, headed downstairs to get a cab.” Liz glanced down at her watch, and jumped. “For chrissake.”

  “So you decided…Max…your visit.”

  “I decided, what the hell, retrace my steps.”

  “Max?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why didn’t you call him?” I asked. “Instead you went to see him.”

  She deliberated. “When we parted company, well, I had a few harsh words to say to the man. I ain’t a woman to mince words. I told him I hated him, that we all hated him. You know, over the top dramatics.” She preened. “I am an actress. So I figured he’d hang up on me.” Her eyes suddenly got moist. “I didn’t hate him, Miss Ferber. I liked him. I thought that he would see me standing there, all pretty in my new dress and my hair done nice like it is now, platinum and shiny, and he’d give me a break.”

  “And did he?”

  Gingerly, she patted her hair with her fingertips. “You know, Miss Ferber, I got something nobody else has. Nobody believes that, Max didn’t. But I got something. I watch movies and I think, yeah, I could do that. I’m perfect for this part or that one. I know I’m not Ava Gardner, but who the hell is? She comes along, a nobody, some cotton-picking gal from the backwoods, but God gave her that shape, those green eyes, that dimple. Christ! I swear when she looks at you, you sort of melt. But there’s something else there in those eyes…like a speck of gold dust. If you got the eyes, you make it out here. Look at my eyes. Gray, no? Drab. But I can make them sparkle.”

  “Liz, tell me about going to see Max.”

  She waited a while before answering. “Are you going to the police?”

  “I think you should. You didn’t kill him.”

  “Oh God, no. Will they think I did it?”

  “I can’t speak for the police, but probably not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure, but honesty is best, Liz. Sooner or later, they’ll know and knock on your door. They will, Liz. Rest assured. It’s better if you tell them yourself.”

  She debated that, but I could see her rejecting the idea.

  “I don’t know. I can never decide anything.” She waved a forkful of cheesecake at me.

  “Throwing Tony out is a decisive act.”

  A wide, pleasant grin, her head tossed back. “Maybe you’re right. Thank you for that.”

  “What did Max say when he answered the door?”

  She had a faraway look in her eyes, as though she now reconstructed the scene. “I could hear him talking on the phone to someone. He yelled, ‘Just a minute.’ When he opened the door, he smiled at me. Well, I started to cry, Miss Ferber. I guess I’d been hungry for someone to smile at me. Tony grumbles all the time. Ethan frowns. Frank snaps. Christ, what do you gotta do to get a smile out of somebody these days? Anyway, he steps back inside, motions me in, and I tell him, ‘Can we talk, Max? I made a mistake.’ Direct as I could be. I could see he didn’t know what to think of that, but that was all right.”

  “You went inside?”

  She shook her head. “No, because I noticed his bandaged jaw. I’d heard that Frank knocked him down, but seeing that small man…battered like that…well, I asked him how he was. He was all groggy from painkillers, and he said he was going to sleep. Alice was out with you and Lorena, but come in. So I backed off. I said, ‘But will you call me, Max?’”

  Liz started sobbing now, and globs of makeup bunched in the corners of her eyes and mouth, splotches of caked rouge. “‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘don’t worry. There’s always tomorrow.’”

  She dabbed at her face with the cloth napkin, but that only seemed to make it worse. Her face looked ravaged and pocked.

  “And so you left?”

  “Yes. ‘Go to sleep,’ I said. He reached out and shook my hand. A gentleman, that Max. I stood on his doorstep and realized I was shaking.” She grimaced. “So now I’m back to bad-mouthing him ’cause I got to when I’m with the boys. I hate myself when I say nasty things about him.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard you.”

  “I ain’t proud of myself, Miss Ferber. I do what I gotta do.”

  “You have to tell this to the police.”

  A sigh. “I know.”

  Watching her now, this woman who believed excess defined her-the skyward platinum hair and the garish lipstick, the brilliant spangled blouse, and the chunky rhinestone earrings and necklace-I felt sorry for her. Probably in her early forties, she most likely wrestled with late-night reveries about fame on the screen, though she felt, to the marrow, that life was somehow a dirty trick. The shadowy mirror she peered into in the bathroom at four in the morning told her a story she’d rather not hear, and so each day she renewed her dream with a grim resolve that you had to applaud. A cheap dream, this sad romantic, but it was hers. And, therefore, I supposed, wonderful.

  “You went home?”

  She shook her head. “No. Seeing Max really made me…fierce. I headed home but I was going nuts, so I drove around for a while. I even stopped for a hamburger and sat there almost crying. It got late but I decided to tell Tony what I’d done. So I drove to the Paradise bar because I knew he and Ethan would be there in that damn booth. Tony wasn’t working so he’d be drinking all night.”

  “What did he say?”

  She lifted her eyes, a gesture of disgust. “He was slumped in that booth. Drunk, staring at a wall, in a stupor. I doubt if he even saw me in the doorway. I didn’t bother to go in. I changed my mind. Why bother?” She reached for her purse and searched for the compact again. “I’d have to repeat the conversation the next morning anyway.”

  “So you went home?”

  “Yeah. Cried myself to sleep.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I woke with a start: the face of Max’s murderer flashed before me. A suspicion, yes, but I felt it to the core of my being. Only one person, without a doubt. I lay there, trembling, as Ava’s provocative words spun around in my head. Those casual words-how she dwelled on that last evening of Max’s life and the whereabouts of the featured players in this Hollywood dark movie. The Hollywood script we both were living.

  Dressed, refreshed with two cups of coffee and orange juice, I phoned Ava, afraid I’d be waking her after a night of insomnia. But she answered on the second ring, her voice hurried. For a second I heard disapproval. “Ah, Edna, good morning.”

  “Ava, I’m sorry to call so early. You were expecting another call?”

  I heard her lighting a cigarette, the striking of a match. “Francis was supposed to be here. We’re going to Metro today. I have work to do and he has to talk to one of Dore Schary’s minions about his canceled contract.” She seemed out of focus, as though she’d pulled the phone away from her ear. “A desperate attempt. He’s not happy.”

  “Is he ever happy?”

  She laughed. “Edna, of course. But it’s never when you’re around.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  She rushed her words. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. Lately, he’s…”

  “I know,” I broke in, impatient. “Ava, something you said the other night got me thinking about Max’s murder.”

  A nervous titter. “My God. What?”

  “I know something, Ava.”

  Suddenly I could hear her start to sob in quick, choked gulps. “I don’t know if I want to hear this, Edna.”

  I had little patience, so my words were sharp. “Of course, you do.” I breathed in and went on. “Ava, this is between you and me. No one else. Listen to me. Here’s what I think happened.” And methodically, as though checking off a to-do list, I spelled out my reasoning. Ava didn’t say anything, though now and then I could hear her sighing or clearing her throat. When I was finished, I waited, pensive, listening to the eerie silence. “Say something, Ava.”

  She hesitated. “You have no proof, Edna.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Do you h
ave any ideas?”

  Another hesitation. “Check Max’s files. His letters.” She clicked her tongue. “His papers. I always joked that he kept a tell-all diary, but I don’t know. He did jot things down. Maybe…”

  “I’ll call Alice.” I was ready to hang up.

  “Call me, Edna. I’ll be at Metro all day. I’ll wait for your call.”

  “I may want to see you there. Late today.”

  “I’ll leave word at security.” The striking of another a match. Another intake of smoke. “Edna, be careful. Murder.” As I started to replace the receiver, I could hear her voice quivering. “Please be careful. This story already has an unhappy ending.”

  When I told Alice what I wanted, she immediately invited me to her home. I didn’t mention my suspicions, and strangely she didn’t probe. “I can’t go into that room yet,” she confided. “I will eventually.” Then her voice dropped, melancholic. “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the Max that I want to remember.”

  Sitting with Alice in her living room, I had no desire for pleasantries, though I nodded and smiled. Instead, my mind was riveted to that workroom behind the closed door. Ava’s words and my wide-awake suspicions. Max’s murderer was out there, cocky perhaps, confident, because the L.A. police had no substantial leads. Yesterday a back-page mention in the Times noted that the police were stymied. Neighbors spotted nothing unusual, and no one had come forward with information. Nothing. A blank page. I suspected the authorities were beginning to chalk the cruel murder up to a political killing, perhaps a random, maddened one, the embittered public rhetoric on Communism fueling some fringe fanatic’s dubious quest to purify America from unsavory elements. My mind sailed to America First, the group Desmond Peake belonged to-and Larry Calhoun.

  Alice detected my edginess, so our socializing ended abruptly when she stood, pointed to the door of the workroom, and said, “Whatever you want, Edna. Please feel free.” She waved toward the door. “Max’s world.”

  “Alice, did Max keep a diary?”

  “Just a journal in which he jotted down things.” She smiled. “Ava always joked about Max’s secret diary, a treasure trove of inner sanctum gossip that Hedda Hopper would kill to get her hands on. He always laughed about it.”

  “I suppose the police have gone through the room more than once?”

  “Yes, three times, in fact, before they unsealed it. I know they leafed through the journal because one of them mentioned it. But what could they find? Business receipts, appointments, innocent stuff.”

  “Did they take anything away?”

  She shook her head. “A list of his clients. Addresses, phone numbers. Mainly former clients, of course.” A pause. “I never got it back.”

  “Do you know who was interviewed?”

  Again, she shook her head. “I mean, I guess they spoke to Frank Sinatra-because of that stupid threat. Ava told me that. I think Sophie Barnes because she worked for him. They talked to the folks at the Paradise. Harry the bartender. Ethan and Tony, I think. I’m not sure. Lorena, I know. Mainly because I was there that night. Checking in on me.” She shuddered and smiled sadly. “I’m still suspect number one, I suppose.”

  “Do you believe Frank would kill Max?”

  “Of course not. Frank threatens to kill someone any time he’s out drinking. It’s the way he is.” She paused. “Edna, Frank has never said a mean word to me. Not one. Even though Lenny and Tony and Ethan constantly badmouthed me.”

  “A knight in shining armor?” Sarcasm in my tone.

  She smiled. ”In some way, yes.”

  She left me alone in the small, cluttered room that hadn’t been dusted since the murder. I’d walked into the room the last time I was at the bungalow, observing the clippings piled on the desk, the sloppy mess of scripts, the accordion files. Nothing had been moved. Max’s desk and chair and file cabinets still bore the faint patina of fingerprint residue. At first, daunted by the messy piles of papers, sagging cardboard boxes stacked in corners, accordion files bunched in heaps, I had no idea what to do. My cursory look-over last time had told me nothing, but that was idle curiosity. Now, focused, I tried to reason out my calculated moves. Had the police actually spent time sifting through all of this? I doubted that. A week’s work here, hours of drudgery. The death of a Commie might not warrant such fastidious attention by the sheriffs in town.

  I sat at Max’s desk and stifled a sob as I touched the desk mat and his favorite fountain pen. Notoriously he’d always gnawed on the tip of the stem, a nervous habit I now found endearing. A desk calendar was filled with notations, deadlines, scribbles. I checked the dates listed. Another tug at my heart as I observed a dark line drawn through all the days of my visit, with nothing else scheduled. One word: “Edna.”

  But I got busy. One drawer held nothing but receipts bound by elastic bands. Another held trade magazines, issues of the Hollywood Reporter and Variety; another was jam-packed with abandoned scripts and headshots. The desktop was cluttered with clippings relating to the blacklist, his most recent and passionate obsession. A few jottings in the margins, but mostly dotted with angry commentary: “Ridiculous!” “Impossible!” “C’mon now!” “Oh, really?”

  I could hear Max intoning these fevered exclamations as he annotated the clippings. But no name was highlighted, other than those of his friends…and his own.

  But I stopped looking through this pile because I believed, to the depth of my soul, that the blacklist, while playing a crucial role in this horrid murder, was tangential to finding the murderer.

  In a file cabinet I located the manila folder containing a list of his clients, a carbon copy of what the police confiscated, but was startled to realize how few clients were active during his last year. An alphabetical stack of clients’ folders. I glanced at Sol Remnick’s file, which contained a headshot of the dead comic actor. An early photo. Sol onstage in New York, looking like the sad sack he played, though a younger version. Another in a minor role in some Hollywood movie, dressed as a businessman with briefcase-a debonair and fashionable gentleman. Sol the bit player in grade B movies.

  Tony’s file had a notation that the sad comic had called to terminate his contract. Max had scribbled, “A fool.” Liz Grable’s termination was a day later. Max’s notation was bittersweet. “Tony got to her. Poor Liz, going off in every direction but the one she needs to find.” I liked that. I searched for Ethan’s file, but there was none. Of course, he was not an actor. There would be no headshot. His one script had been rejected by Max-and Hollywood. So brief a moment in entertainment that he didn’t warrant a manila folder.

  Nothing was clicking-nothing. But inside his desk, in the center drawer, I located his journal. It was not a diary, true, despite Ava’s gentle teasing, but a thoughtful man’s random jottings on the course of his day, reminders of conversations, obligations, even some notations on the folks who trooped through his office. Small paragraphs about people whose names meant nothing now-this one stopped in, that one phoned, others demanded meetings. A multitude of anonymous souls, forgotten. Dead end comments: “Fired for the third time.” “Called to say hello…moving to Kansas.” “Hates the part.” On and on. Carelessly dated, with whole months slipping by before another dated entry. I stopped when I came upon a two-page summary of a talk he had with Sol about Frank Sinatra. I read comments about Ava, and, as expected, they glowed with the friendship.

  There was also a paragraph about Liz and Tony, both sitting in that room with him, both berating him for his inattention to their piddling careers. Sad, wistful reflection, Max ruing the day he ever got involved with both of them. “Oh well,” he concluded, “you do a favor for someone and it can come back to give you pain. Or acid indigestion.” Echoes of Max’s soft humor.

  Give you pain. I repeated the words to myself.

  Give you murder, I thought.

  And then I found what I wanted. A scribbled account on one page, Max’s summing up of a brief but troubling talk he’d endured. A spitfire exch
ange, Max acknowledging that he’d lost his temper. I smiled at that: if I jotted in my own journal the times I flew off the handle, usually for trivial matters best ignored, the collected volumes would outnumber the entire Encyclopedia Britannica. Battles royale, Edna Ferber style. High dudgeon, my only gear shift.

  Max had responded to a cheap yet vicious accusation, and he wasn’t happy with his own anger. That didn’t matter to me. What did was the fury hurled at him. Not death threats, nor some intractable ultimatum, not even a cruel personal jibe. Nothing the police would latch onto as motive for murder. But the dreadful words, illuminated as they were on that yellow page, especially filtered through my early-morning suspicion, told me that my hunch was on target.

  I slammed shut the journal and sat there, my fingers intertwined, my knuckles white. Yes, I thought. Yes.

  Alice watched me as I walked into the living room where she sat, tense, her face rigid. “Edna, did you find anything?”

  “We’ll see,” I muttered.

  Alice stood. “You did, Edna. I can tell.”

  “We’ll see,” I repeated. “I have to go, Alice.” My mind was elsewhere. “Could you call me a taxi?”

  While we waited, standing in the doorway, she touched my shoulder. “Edna.”

  I looked at her and attempted a smile. “I’ll call you, Alice. I promise.”

  “Edna, I’m worried now. You seem so…determined.”

  “Alice, I know what I’m doing.”

  As I stepped outside, walking the pathway toward the approaching taxicab, I started to tremble. The projectionist was running the last reel of a sad movie, and I was now the unwitting protagonist.

  The taxi scrambled to an abrupt stop in front of Hair Today on Hollywood Boulevard, and I lurched forward, banging my shoulder. “Am I to believe the state of California actually gave you a license?” I asked. The cabbie was obviously a movieland hopeful, a sandy-haired fresh-scrubbed lad with hooded hazel eyes and a pile of headshots on his passenger seat. When he thanked me for the meager tip, I heard a Midwestern twang. Iowa, I thought, or Kansas. Flat and nasal, reminding me of an enamel pan dragged across a sidewalk. Welcome to Hollywood.