Horton took this news like a punch to the sternum. “My son stole your money?”
“Everything I’ve done, every dollar I’ve earned has been about opening my store. But Linc snatched all that away.”
“Miss Gwendolyn, I’m truly horrified to hear this. I thought I raised my son to be a better man than that.”
Gwendolyn wanted to give Linc’s father a chance to do the right thing without her having to nudge him, so they stood in the semidarkness for a few moments. The chill of the tunnel was starting to seep through her silk, so she crossed her arms for warmth. She heard “The Trolley Song” muffled through the concrete and wood; the smell of burning dust from the lightbulbs filled the air.
“Miss Brick,” Tattler said at last, “may I ask how much Lincoln took?”
“Of my money, four thousand.”
“And when you approached me this evening, was it your intention to get your four thousand dollars out of me?”
“It was.”
“But I didn’t steal your money, Lincoln did. He’s of age, which means I am not responsible for his debts.”
So you’re like all those other moneybags. Tight as a bug’s butt when it comes to parting with your cash. “Four grand is a hell of a lot of money to me, but you probably spend that every month on your cigars and brandy, and presents for your ‘friend.’ I assume all those camisoles and teddies you bought from me weren’t for Mrs. Tattler?”
“Are you threatening me with blackmail?”
The crisp, sour way he said the word blackmail made Gwendolyn realize she didn’t have the nerve for something like that. She fell back against the wall. “No. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I’m going to share information with you that I haven’t even told my wife. The truth of the matter is, I’m broke. Flat stony broke.”
“You’re not!”
“It’s true, I’m afraid. All three of my clothing factories were converted to making uniforms. I was happy to do my bit for the war, and if only two of them had been requisitioned, I’d have made enough money to break even. But all three has sunk me. Each one was taken over by a different branch—army, navy, and the marines—and they do not talk to each other very well. They each told me to take my case to someone else. They’ve been giving me the runaround for four years.”
“But the war’s nearly over. Surely you can convert them back—”
“That takes money. Before the war, I invested heavily in Japanese silk and Italian linen. I don’t need to tell you how those investments worked out.” He let out a poor-little-me sigh. “I’m selling Linc’s house on San Ysidro, plus the one I live in with my wife. At least my mistress has disappeared, so I don’t have that expense anymore.”
The man I came to retrieve my four thousand from is worse off than I am. The pensive silence that followed gave Gwendolyn time to piece things together. “But if you’re so broke,” she said, “how come you could afford to sponsor this shindig tonight?”
“Don’t be fooled by that sign out front.” Tattler ground the end of his cigar into the bare concrete. “I’m sponsoring this shindig, as you call it, in name only. The whole thing is being underwritten by Primm Valley Realty.”
“Clem O’Roarke, huh?”
Horton Tattler sported a pair of bushy eyebrows every bit as oversized as his moustache. Gwendolyn watched them rise to their maximum height. “How in the world would you know about that?”
“Linc was studying your company’s books. He noticed a lot of money flowing back and forth between Tattler’s Tuxedos and Primm Valley Realty.”
“O’Roarke has been propping up my business for the past year now. Although I fear it’s all been a waste of time. We can’t go on much longer.”
“It hasn’t been a waste of time for Clem O’Roarke,” Gwendolyn said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know how he’s managed it, but Clem O’Roarke has bought up all this land in and around some podunk nowheresville called Las Vegas.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Billy Wilkerson plans to build a casino there.”
Horton’s eyes lost their focus as his gaze drifted down into the murky end of the tunnel. “You old fool,” he murmured.
“What is it?”
“Clem and I have the same accountant.” His voice had taken on a dreamy quality. “I’m not good with ledgers, so when I started to become successful it was the first task I handed over to someone else. I asked Clem if he knew of a good accountant and he said, ‘Use mine, he’s terrific.’ So I did.” He paused to think things through. “I haven’t repaid Clem one thin dime of the money he’s lent me. Those books should have only shown money going from his business to mine.”
“Linc suspected money was being laundered. He thought it was you.”
Tattler scoffed. “I don’t have any left to launder.” He took Gwendolyn’s hands in his. Despite the chill and damp of the tunnel, they were warm and dry. “I’m very sorry my son left you in such a bind. I’d like to think he had good reason.”
Gwendolyn nodded. “Me too.”
“Clem O’Roarke and I go back thirty years.” Even in the dim light, Gwendolyn could see the betrayal cutting into him. He let go of her hands and turned to leave, but then turned back. “What was the name of that podunk town?”
“Las Vegas. It’s in Nevada.”
She watched Horton Tattler trek down the tunnel. The darkness buried him foot by foot until she was left alone with the notes of a Hoagy Carmichael tune filtering in from the bar.
CHAPTER 45
Marcus stirred the ice cubes in his Mai Tai with a yellow paper umbrella. Normally he wasn’t big on cocktails that came with umbrellas, but he figured if you’re standing in a bar called the Seven Seas Club, you might as well drink like a native. The orange curaçao was a bit sweet but the lime juice cut it to a tolerable level. He took another swig; it tasted better the second time around. He felt his body relax and realized it was the first chance he’d had to unwind in the month since Madame died.
His questions about the story behind Taggert’s departure remained unanswered, so he kept calling Taggert and Hoppy’s house until someone finally picked up the phone. Taggert commanded Marcus to meet him at the Seven Seas and be prepared to settle in for a long night.
Marcus parked himself at the end of a row of vacant barstools, closest to the bamboo wall, and listened to a ukulele playing over the loudspeakers. He was halfway through his Mai Tai before Taggert and Hoppy walked in. He waited until they’d ordered Fijian Fireballs before he said, “Out with it. I want the whole story, starting with Mayer’s desk. Is the rumor true?”
Taggert maintained his poker face. “What’s the rumor?”
“That you were fired because Mayer walked into his office and caught you on his desk. Mid schtup.”
The two men burst out laughing.
“That’s not what happened, then?”
Taggert leaned up against the bar. “Oh, there was some schtupping going on when I walked into Mayer’s office, but it wasn’t me with my Brooks Brothers down.”
“Mayer?”
“Um-hm.”
“But doesn’t he have that secret room behind his office?”
“Um-hm.”
Hoppy let out a groan. “Go on, Jimmy,” he said, “don’t make him beg.”
Taggert lowered his voice, forcing Marcus to lean closer. “We’d been hashing out story problems on Garland’s new Harvey Girls picture, and Mannix told me I couldn’t leave the studio until I had finished the latest revision. So I stayed late, got the damned thing done, went to Mannix’s office, but he’d gone. His secretary told me he left word to take it to Mayer, no matter how late it was. So I did.”
“And you caught him going at it?”
“The door to his office was open. He only had one light on, so I couldn’t really make anything out until I was halfway there. You should have seen the look on his face. Talk about your blueballs caught in a vice.”
“So who was he banging?” Marcus had his money on Melody Hope.
Taggert screwed his nose up in disgust. “One of Miss Leilah’s girls.”
Marcus nearly choked on his Mai Tai. He set the glass down on the cherry-red bar with a thump. “Do you mean the Leilah I think you mean?”
“How many Leilah O’Roarkes you think we got in this town?”
“Leilah O’Roarke is a—” Marcus was so astonished he could barely push the word out, “—madam?” Does Gwendolyn know this? Does Linc?
Marcus gazed down the bright red bar. The place was starting to fill up. Floyd Forrester walked in with a guy around his age with unruly red hair and watery eyes; Marcus recognized him as head of casting at Republic Pictures. Behind them tottered a couple of uniformed sailors. Marcus motioned the bartender for another round.
“But that’s not the funny part!” Hoppy insisted. “The hooker was a dead ringer for Katharine Hepburn.”
“Spitting image,” Taggert said. “That long face with those cheekbones, exactly the same hair, and those young-boy hips of hers. For a minute there, I thought it actually was her. Until she opened her mouth. Out came this feeble attempt at a New England accent via the South Bronx.”
“But how did you know she was one of Leilah O’Roarke’s girls?” Did Leilah try and recruit Gwendolyn?
“She used to be Kate’s stand-in at RKO back when I was a dialogue sharpener over there. But she got in trouble passing bad checks—she ain’t the brightest ornament on the Christmas tree—so she dropped out of sight. I bumped into her about a year ago at the Florentine Gardens, bombed out of her noodle. She greeted me like a long-lost brother and blurted out everything. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together when I walked in on them. Hepburn—the real one—is probably one of his few stars he hasn’t tried to pull something on, which I bet has frustrated the bejesus out of him.”
“So you walked in on him,” Marcus said, “and he fired you?”
Taggert laughed again. “I negotiated my way out.”
“He’s been wanting to leave for a while,” Hoppy said. “Thinks he’s got the Great American Novel inside of him.”
Taggert shrugged as he lit up a Camel. “So I made my demands. He keeps his secret and is free to spin whatever story he wants about my departure. Meanwhile, I get an immediate exit, a termination check big enough to live on for a year, and the right to name my successor. The bastard couldn’t say yes fast enough.”
Marcus blinked. “Name your successor?” He could feel a blush charging up from his chest and flooding his face. “You mean—?”
“Let me guess: Mayer made it seem like it was his idea. Phuh! He wouldn’t have the first idea who to appoint.”
Marcus grabbed Taggert by the hand and pumped it. “Jim, I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you!”
“Ah, cut it out.” He elbowed Marcus away. “Who else was I going to give it to? One of those know-it-all punks we’ve got now? They’re all Dorothy Parker with the snappy lines, and maybe—maybe—one or two of them know how to put a story together.” His eyes turned earnest. “You’ve had some shitty stuff happen to you, but it’s the shitty stuff that gives you something to say. No storyteller worth his weight in typewriter ribbons can tell a decent yarn unless he’s fallen into a ditch or two.” He clinked his Fijian Fireball against Marcus’ Mai Tai. “So good luck, my friend.” He motioned to the bartender for another round. “You’re going to need it. Those Young Turks aren’t too broadminded when it comes to guys like us.”
“I’ve encountered that already,” Marcus admitted.
“Did you square off with them?”
“Not yet.”
“Good,” Taggert said. He tapped his right temple. “Use the ol’ noggeroo. Psychological’s the way to go.” He clinked Marcus’ glass again. “Here’s to screwing with people’s minds.”
By the time he’d drained his second Mai Tai, Marcus began to realize how they could sneak up on a guy. He hadn’t been this loose-limbed in a while, and it felt good. He leaned back in his bamboo stool and looked over at Forrester’s table. He and his friends were already slouched over their chairs, pie-eyed to the gills and not looking to slow down. Forrester met Marcus in the eye, tilted his head into a slight nod, and mouthed the word congratulations.
Hoppy moaned. “Oh Jesus, look out.”
Edwin Marr, bloodshot eyes fired with rage, came at Marcus from a dark corner of the bar. “YOU!” He sounded like he’d been scraping his voice box over a cheese grater. He gripped the back of a bamboo barstool with gnarled knuckles to steady himself. “Everywhere I turn. Now I open the Hollywood Reporter and have to read you head the writing department.” He jabbed a claw at Marcus. “That job should have gone to my boy! Hugo should be running the show, not—not—you!”
Hoppy got to his feet. “Mr. Marr—Edwin, please, calm yourself.” He stepped closer, but stopped when Marr threw him a caustic look.
“I don’t know who the hell you are,” Edwin said, “but this has nothing to do with you.”
“Edwin,” Hoppy persisted, “you know me. It’s Vern. Vernon Terrell. You remember? With the wooden leg? I wrote Forty Acres And A Mule; it was our biggest success.”
Realization dropped onto Marr’s face like a punching bag. “Hoppy,” he croaked.
“That’s right. Hoppy. Now you got it.” Out of the side of his mouth, he murmured to Marcus, “Scoot.”
But before Marcus could collect his hat, Marr exploded again. “Why the tarnation are you hanging around this bucket of scum?”
“Now just hold on a minute,” Marcus began, but Marr was too worked up.
“You may have L.B. fooled, and you may have everybody fooled, but I know the truth, and you know it. You killed my son.”
“You got one thing right,” Marcus spat back. He felt Taggert’s placating hand on his arm, but he pushed it off. It was time to have this out. “The real truth is you gambled your way so deeply into debt that you had to sell out your own son.”
“Marcus,” Taggert whispered, “what are you talking about?”
Marcus ignored him, keeping his focus on Marr. “Industrial espionage, isn’t that what it’s called?”
Edwin Marr let out a tortured screech wrenched from somewhere deep and spiteful. He raised his hands and lunged at Marcus. “You son of a goddamned bitch!” Hoppy tried to grab Marr by the arm, but the old crank sidestepped him. “You and your wicked lies. You profited by my son, my poor innocent son. He trusted—”
Marr gasped and reached out for the nearest bar stool to catch himself, but missed it by barely an inch. He seemed to hang in midair at an impossible angle, trying to say something but finding only air caught in his throat. His gaunt body collapsed on itself as he dropped to the mottled red carpeting.
Marcus heard Hoppy yell, “Someone! Call emergency!” and the sound of running feet.
First Hugo, then Alla, and now Edwin?
He turned to Taggert. “I just wanted to clear the air. Set the record straight, you know? He’s been running all over town, accusing me of murder and—” He looked down at the figure sprawled on the floor. “Oh, jeez, look at him.”
He bent down and loosened Marr’s firmly knotted necktie. “Help’s coming. Try and relax. It won’t do any good to—”
Edwin’s eyes were open, still so blazingly defiant and so sure of his facts that any argument Marcus could muster evaporated on his lips.
CHAPTER 46
Anticipation draped over Los Angeles like a low-hanging cumulus, heavy with hope. Another bomb had been dropped, this time on a city called Nagasaki. The end was so close people could taste it. To Kathryn, it tasted like French champagne, real pâté de foie gras, and chocolate cake with frosting made from genuine sugar.
Meanwhile, she had a radio show to record. Normally, Kraft Music Hall was broadcast live, but Bing Crosby was set to entertain troops on the USS Missouri battleship currently steaming into Tokyo Bay, so they’d taped an entire show pretending that the
news had been announced. Kathryn found the experience a surreal rehearsal for the real thing. When Dinah Shore finished singing “Thank Your Lucky Stars,” even the radio crew, normally the most dry-eyed bunch of guys this side of an undertakers’ convention, was dabbing at wet cheeks.
Kathryn stepped out of the NBC studios bursting with pep and ready for her four o’clock shift at the Hollywood Canteen. As arranged, she met Gwendolyn on the corner of Sunset and Vine.
“I thought I’d be exhausted,” Kathryn declared, “but I’m ready to dance with every serviceman in the whole Canteen!”
A familiar voice called out her name.
Kathryn and Nelson Hoyt had an arrangement. If she needed to speak with him, she placed a classified ad in the Reporter. She was “Paul,” he was “Eric,” and they had a list of coded meeting places. After telling him where Bogie was the evening of Leap Year Day, she placed three successive ads in an attempt to meet with him and formalize the end of their association, but had heard nothing back.
Now you show up? Kathryn thought. She turned to Gwennie. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Gwendolyn, isn’t it?” Hoyt stepped forward.
Kathryn waved a hand in his direction. “This is Mr. Hoyt.”
“I have some news for you,” he said, “regarding your brother, Monty.”
“Oh?” Gwendolyn’s eyes glinted with expectation. Kathryn felt something in the back of her neck cramp up.
“He was involved in the Battle of Okinawa.”
Gwendolyn gripped her purse more tightly.
“He wasn’t active in the fighting, so don’t you fret. He’s on the USS Iowa, somewhere off the coast of Japan. Miss Brick, you have every reason to believe you’ll see your brother again.”
Kathryn watched her roommate’s face dissolve with relief and joy.
You slimy ingratiating little toad.
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 33