Dangerous to Know

by Renee Patrick

  Gretchen climbed onto her knees and nodded her head, ready to snap into action at once.

  “Any other possibilities you can think of?” I pressed. “Places Jens would go all the time. A place where, where … when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

  “I know that. That’s from a poem.”

  “Yes. Robert Frost. ‘The Death of the Hired Man.’”

  “About home, isn’t it? The place where they have to take you in. Jens didn’t have a home anymore. None of these people do.” She raised an arm to take in the others around Salka’s yard. The gesture rang false, some instinct telling me Gretchen had an answer she wasn’t immediately keen to share.

  “But they have Salka’s,” I said. “This is as close to home as many of them will get. Did Jens have another place like this? Where, sooner or later, he’d always turn up?”

  Gretchen chewed her lower lip. Her resolve gave way first. “I don’t know if this is what you mean. But he played a few times a week at a nightclub.”

  “Which one?”

  “Club Fathom, on the Sunset Strip. Do you know it?”

  By reputation only, I thought. No wonder he kept it a secret.

  “Jens swore no one would take him seriously if they knew he worked there,” Gretchen continued. “I said it was like one of those clubs he’d played in Berlin, but he told me Americans thought differently about such things.”

  I nodded in the general direction of the sea. “I understand he also used to play on the Lumen.”

  “Not for long. He hated boats. Said he’d been on the water enough coming over here.”

  “Did he ever mention Malcolm Drewe, who owns the Lumen?”

  Gretchen thought a moment. “Yes. He said Drewe really had this country figured out, and he should act more like him.”

  Emulating a gangster didn’t sound promising. “I also wanted to ask about Felix and Marthe Auerbach.”

  “I don’t really know them,” Gretchen volunteered too quickly.

  “You said that. Still, they’d come here on Sundays. And Felix works at Lodestar, like you.”

  “In the music department. He might as well still be in Berlin.”

  “You really had no idea Jens was studying with him?”

  “No.” She pouted. “He probably didn’t want me to know he was on the lot. Keeping me at arm’s length. He didn’t like when I’d go to Club Fathom to hear him.”

  “This is an indel—”

  The widening of Gretchen’s eyes alerted me a second before Gustav Ruehl roared in my ear. “You again! Why have you returned to this place?”

  “To pay my respects to Jens Lohse.”

  “You lie! You did not know the man! You ask about the Auerbachs, more people you do not know. You inquire about Jens and he is killed! Is Felix next?”

  Once again we were the center of attention, and Ruehl was merely getting warmed up. Edith stepped toward us, prepared to intervene. I surreptitiously shook her off. “Mr. Ruehl, please lower your voice. I’m a guest like you.”

  “Guests are welcome! Are you welcome? No! You are here under the false pretenses. You are here to spy, ja?” He spat on the ground at my feet. At least I hoped he hit the ground. “This is how it began and how it will begin again. With people asking questions and making reports in secret. With people who should trust one another—”

  Gretchen slapped Ruehl’s face, the sound carrying. Across Salka’s garden, Edith flinched. Even the few people who’d tried to ignore our argument were fixated on us now.

  “Shut your mouth, you wicked old troll,” Gretchen said. “Why are you here? Not to honor Jens’s memory. You hated him. You’ve always hated him. If you want to dance on his grave, you’re too early. You’ll have to wait until he’s laid to rest in a potter’s field.”

  Gretchen stormed past Ruehl, his head hanging to one side as if her blow had knocked it askew. She marched toward the house and the music room where we’d spoken before. I caught up to her at the door.

  She’d regained control of her emotions. More than that, she’d sublimated them, her voice without affect. “I know why Jens didn’t tell me he was studying with Felix. What clearer way was there to say he wanted nothing to do with me? Had I known he was coming to the lot, I would have treated him to lunch. I always treated him. I had money and he didn’t. He’d rather deny himself a free meal than spend time with me. God, I’ve been such a fool.” She faced me, her expression calm. “You were going to ask about Marthe Auerbach. If she and Jens were lovers.”

  I nodded, admiring the ease with which she said the word.

  “I found them in this house once. This very room, in fact. I was desperate for a moment alone with him, and saw him having a moment alone with her. I didn’t even know they knew each other. It’s why Ruehl hated Jens, I think. The Auerbachs are the only people who like him, aside from Salka, and he thought Jens was going to tear their marriage apart. I assumed those were Marthe’s hairs on Jens’s coat the last time he stayed with me, and I teased him about it without saying her name. I shouldn’t have.” Gretchen smiled tightly. “Do you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to make sure Jens’s music book isn’t hidden in my home somewhere.”

  “You don’t see it here, do you?”

  She gave the room a cursory inspection. “Salka’s would be a terrible place to hide anything. She has too many visitors.”

  I longed to ask Gretchen if she knew her fellow Lodestar employee Simon Fischer and could shed any light on his character, but I’d intruded enough on her fragile state.

  After Gretchen left, I searched for Edith. Spotting her in conversation, I signaled I’d be outside. I bid a hasty good-bye to Salka, needing to clear my head.

  Down the street, a man in a brown sedan scratched on a newspaper as if deeply immersed in a crossword puzzle. I didn’t buy his act for a second.

  Emboldened by Edith’s example I stared the man down, letting him know I knew he was there. It didn’t seem to have the desired effect, so I stared harder. So much so I didn’t notice the woman who sauntered up next to me.

  “Many cars today,” she said in an accented voice. “Salka is having a party?”

  “A wake.” My eyes remained on the sedan. “Her friend died.”

  “Yes. The piano boy. A shame. I wanted to use the pool.” I sized her up quickly. Her hair was tucked into a broad-brimmed sunhat shading a face bare of makeup. Her brown overalls could have been swiped from a public works truck, the legs rolled up over cheap canvas sneakers. She looked like she’d gotten lost on her way to the beach to pick over whatever jetsam had washed ashore. The woman yawned, stretching both arms over her head. From the flashes of flesh visible in the resulting gaps in the overalls, I deduced she was naked underneath. Just another day in Hollywood. Santa Monica, anyway.

  The man in the brown sedan shifted position, drawing my eyes back to him. The daft woman clapped her hands. “A walk shall be my exercise then.” She weaved around me, stepping onto some damp grass at the edge of Salka’s lawn. As she passed I happened to glance down at her footprint, already fading in the heat. It was about the same size as my own, which was admittedly on the large side for a lady of my gender. The woman’s broad strides had carried her out of earshot by the time Edith trotted up to me.

  “What did she say to you?” she demanded.

  “She grumbled about death queering her plans.”

  “You know who that was?”

  “Yeah, an odd duck.”

  “Quite. Named Greta Garbo.”

  Dumbstruck, I squinted down the block. I couldn’t see the woman. Or the brown sedan, for that matter, which had taken off after her.

  “I’d have put her in something more flattering,” Edith said.

  19

  “WHY ON EARTH are we putting this dresser back together?” my friend Violet Webb asked. “This is your chance to toss it for good.”

  “But whoever broke in unstuck the bottom drawer! If I knew who was responsible I’d send a thank-you
note.”

  “Yeah, delivered by Gene and his pals in blue.”

  I’d telephoned Vi for the skinny on Club Fathom. She suggested coming over to chat, and I explained why that was a bad idea. She then insisted on helping me restore order to my apartment. With the tiny blond dynamo’s help, the place was neater than I usually kept it.

  Vi might have been small, but she had a powerful set of pipes. Lately she’d caught on with a dance band. I’d booked them at several of Addison’s parties. What good was pull if you couldn’t use it to give your friends a leg up?

  Having rebuilt my bureau, Vi roosted on the windowsill. “I’ll say it again. I wouldn’t go to Club Fathom without a bodyguard. Who had his own bodyguard.”

  Club Fathom promised a rollicking good time on the Sunset Strip, a stretch of unincorporated land that, if not exactly lawless, was where local ordinances were less stringently enforced by the sheriff’s department. Consequently, it was home to a concentration of nightspots. Club Fathom, on the lower end of the iniquity scale, wasn’t dangerous so much as seamy, an establishment to which the word “demimonde” was frequently appended. In short, an unsuitable venue for a solo appearance yet a possible resting place for Jens’s music book.

  “Where am I going to scare up an escort?” I asked Vi. “I can’t exactly call Gene for this.”

  “How are things with him, by the by?”

  “Fine. In that they’re exactly the same.”

  “Abigail still playing third wheel?”

  “Some nights she’s a whole sidecar. Let’s avoid that boulevard of broken dreams. I need an unattached man. But who?”

  “I know.” A devilish grin split Vi’s angel face. “So do you, cowgirl.”

  * * *

  “I’M NOT SURE, ladies.” Hank “Ready” Blaylock addressed his comment to the Stetson in his hands. “Kay wouldn’t cotton to this.”

  “Kay doesn’t cotton to anything these days,” I said. “Where does that leave an independent fella like yourself?”

  Long, lean Ready so epitomized the image of the cowboy he might have ambled out of a daguerreotype. All that jeopardized his status as an in-demand stuntman in westerns was a preference for male companionship. Fortunately, he’d met the ideal match for lavender liaisons in my onetime friend turned gossip maven Kay Dambach. Not that Kay was a Sapphic sister; her sole predilection was to reach the pinnacle of her chosen profession. Each provided the other an escort of expedience.

  Ready knew Kay’s column had created distance between her and me. He also possessed an innate chivalry, which I exploited now.

  “All I want is a big fellow by my side to dissuade those of ill intent,” I told him. “You won’t have to say a word.”

  “All right. But let’s leave now before I think better of it.”

  I’d purchased the gown for a formal dinner at Addison’s, the rare event that, at Mrs. Rice’s insistence, wasn’t saddled with one of her husband’s madcap themes. Late regrets from a guest designated me the affair’s seat-filler. Rogers ran me to Tremayne’s Department Store, my former place of employment, where I selected a black sleeveless chiffon dress with a pleated skirt and shirred Lastex waist of flame red. A touch bold for Mrs. Rice’s crowd, judging from her expression that night, but Vi reassured me it would fit right in at the club. For once, I’d take her testimony over Edith’s.

  Vi was providing last-minute advice when a taxi pulled up behind Ready’s car. Kay spilled out, spitting mad.

  “What’s she doing here?” I asked Ready.

  He searched the street for a horse he could crawl under. “I may have told her I was coming to see you ladies.”

  “Oh, Ready. The eyes of Texas are upon you.”

  “Good thing I’m from Oklahoma.”

  Kay made her way gingerly toward us; since achieving a modicum of fame she’d begun applying girdles to her zaftig frame. “Lucky I got here in time. What goes on behind my back?”

  “Hello, Kay,” Vi singsonged. “Fine, thanks.”

  “Nothing’s going on,” I said. “I needed a ride, and Ready was gallant enough to provide one.”

  “Baloney. Addison Rice’s limousine is at your beck and call. What gives?”

  Kay’s tenacity knew no bounds. I had no alternative but to tell all and hope she’d get in the spirit of the occasion.

  She didn’t. Once I’d turned over my cards she wheeled toward Ready. “No. Absolutely not. I forbid you to go near that scandal magnet.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Vi said.

  “You only think that because money changes hands to hush up the worst of it. I hear that hole in the wall’s name more than I care to admit. Every time a half-witted celebrity wanders in to see what all the fuss is about there are consequences, sometimes public but more often private. I, for one, can’t fathom why anyone would sink to that joint’s level.”

  She was already composing copy. We didn’t stand a chance.

  “You should go with them, Kay,” Vi suggested. “They usually have good music.”

  “It’s Katherine. Everyone else calls me Katherine.”

  “But we’re not everyone else. We’re the people who knew you when.”

  “I expected better from you, Vi. After I gave your show a plug in my column.”

  “And a big help it was. Every subscriber to the Tustin Herald turned out in force.”

  I tried to intercede, but Kay had saved her strongest venom for me. “The very idea I’d help you,” she railed, “when you find a body in the hills and don’t give me an exclusive. I’d have at least gotten your job right. You know, that job that earns you enough for those fancy duds and keeps you too busy to call me.”

  Kay’s sense of entitlement never ceased to amaze. “Part of my job is keeping the names of Addison and his guests out of the columns.” Even the ones no one reads, I thought.

  “Ready is off limits.” Kay scolded him again. “We’ve talked about this. You have to be squeaky clean for our wedding.”

  As Ready nodded obediently, I said, “Congratulations. When’s the happy day?”

  “As soon as I’m big enough to have the ceremony covered by other columnists.” She plopped into the passenger seat of Ready’s car. “Let’s go. You’re taking me home.”

  Hat in hand and head held low, Ready kissed Vi good-bye. After doing likewise to me, he whispered in my ear. “At Fathom, ask for Rory. Tell him I sent you.” He got behind the wheel, Kay waving to us like she was Eleanor Roosevelt en route to her next charity event.

  “This is a kick in the head,” Vi said. “And here you are all dressed up. Now what?”

  “Now I try one more idea. A bad one, and a long shot to boot.”

  * * *

  “WHY IN HELL would you want to go to a pit like Club Fathom?” Simon asked on the other end of the line.

  I still harbored doubts about Simon, owing to the happenstance of his being with me when my apartment was searched. But the way to allay doubts was to test them. Besides, should those suspicions prove unfounded, he’d already demonstrated a willingness to come to my aid.

  “Jens used to play there,” I told him.

  His response—“I’d prefer to take you somewhere classier, but I’ll be right over”—made me wish I’d called him in the first place.

  20

  A BEGUILING SEA nymph swam over to lead us through an underwater paradise, our cares drifting away on the tide.

  That, presumably, was Club Fathom’s desired effect. The execution played a good bit tackier.

  The interior was painted a murky blue, its walls studded with bogus portholes. Fishing nets drooped from the ceiling. Tanks near the entrance contained actual denizens of the deep, mostly elegant angelfish and dapper neon tetras. A fish floated upside down at the surface of one aquarium. I hoped it was waiting to clock in for its shift.

  The waitress who met us at the door had been sewn into an iridescent azure dress meant to look like scales. Our nimble nereid guided us to a table by the stage on which Kidd Cap
tain and His Merry Mermen were billed as featured attraction.

  Simon, the scent of pomade still fresh in his hair, asked my poison. “I doubt we’ll be here long enough to enjoy a drink.”

  “You have to have something,” he said. “If you want people to talk, spend money. And I’d trust alcohol over water here.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Doesn’t matter. They all have rum.”

  When the waitress returned, Simon placed our order and I asked for Rory, adding that Ready had sent me. I received the fisheye in multiple senses before she paddled away again.

  The cocktails arrived at the same time as the night’s first act. A brunette singer approached the microphone, her mouth a streak of overripe red. “This one’s for a friend of the establishment. We’ll see you there, Jens.” Piano and guitar backed her thin but not unpleasant voice.

  I’ll see you there wherever I may be

  An easy chair or on a stormy sea

  If I am where I never dreamed I’d be

  I’ll see you there

  The song would have been mournful under any circumstances. Simon reached across the table and touched my hand. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s nothing. Rum always makes me cry.”

  Distraction came in the form of a man striding into the club garbed in ostentatious camouflage: a brown slouch hat and a camel hair coat as long as a duster. His body language seemed familiar, prowling with a feline grace verging on feral. He doffed the coat like a matador working his cape, and my suspicions were confirmed.

  “That’s Errol Flynn,” I whispered to Simon.

  Simon turned his head slightly, nonplussed.

  “Robin Hood!”

  “Right. I’ve heard of that one.”

  “You really don’t gawk at anybody, do you?”

  “As far as I can tell, the only person worth gawking at here is you.”

  His matter-of-fact manner with the words, tossed down like greenbacks onto the tablecloth, threw me. We weren’t on a date. At least I wasn’t. I had an agenda.

  I watched a compact figure fly to greet Flynn. His slicked-back hair and trim wardrobe of vest with no jacket gave him the profile of some aquatic mammal, like an otter. He leaned close to the actor and said a few words accompanied by a salacious hand gesture. Flynn howled with laughter. The man led Flynn up a few stairs toward a secluded row of banquettes.