by Ron Goulart
The kid in the beanie was saying to his pal, “Superman’s tougher than Batman and Tarzan and Ty-Gor.”
Twenty-one
As Groucho slouched in a dignified manner toward the entrance of his office building, a thin woman in a cloth coat thrust an eleven-year-old boy into his path.
Groucho came to a stop, eyebrows elevating.
“Go ahead, Stanley,” urged the bespectacled boy’s mother.
Stanley wrinkled his nose. “But Ma, I don’t want Groucho Marx.”
“Few people, outside of a few rural sheriffs, do,” Groucho said.
“Stanley’s already got Ginger Rogers, Lew Ayres, and Lyle Talbot,” said the woman.
“My advice is to hold them for ransom,” advised Groucho. “Lyle Talbot isn’t worth much, but Ginger Rogers should bring a pretty penny. Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen the new pretty pennies, but they’re the ones that depict Abraham Lincoln dressed as Scarlett O’Hara.”
“Stanley would very much like your autograph for his collection, Mr. Marx.”
“Aw, Ma, do I have to?”
“It’ll be a wonderful souvenir of our visit to Hollywood.”
“Nobody in East Moline gives a darn about Groucho Marx.”
“You can inform them in East Moline, wherever it may be at the moment, that I don’t give a darn about them. So there.”
“Hand him your autograph album, Stanley.”
“Okay, if you say so.” He thrust a ragged blue album at Groucho.
After scrawling his name, Groucho patted the lad on the head in a kindly way. “Bless you, my lad,” he said as the boy winced.
With the grace of a Fairbanks, so he later told me, Groucho went bounding up the stairway. “Nanette,” he exclaimed as he burst into the outer office, “I am definitely a public idol and a darling of the masses. Fans are flocking to me like … like some kind of birds that are known for their flocking.”
“It won’t last,” said his secretary. “Someday you’ll be as obscure as Ramon Navarro.”
“Who?”
“See what I mean?”
He headed for the door of his private office. “Once I’m snugly installed in there, with my favorite pipe and shawl,” he instructed, “ring up Zeppo and tell him his favorite sibling wants to talk to him.”
“The last time I told him that, he got awfully mad when he found out it wasn’t Harpo.”
“Be that as it may.” Groucho entered his office.
A moment later his desk phone rang. “Black Hole of Calcutta, Reservations Desk,” he answered. “What do you mean flippant, Zeppo? You don’t expect a chap of my jolly nature to greet his beloved youngest brother with some trite greeting like, ‘Howdy, Herbert,’ or What’s cooking?,’ or … No, I’m not calling you simply to get some free information pertaining to the Spellman murder case that I happen … of course I’m interested in how you’re feeling. Stick out your tongue and say, ‘Ah.’ Now, then … I promise not to mention the late Randy Spellman at all … . Well, perhaps the newspapers exaggerated my … I am moderately interested in … you ought to wait, Zep, and get your information from the horse’s mouth or at least some part of the horse. No, I do enjoy chatting with you when I don’t have an ulterior motive … . Well, maybe I have an interior motive, since I have this dreadful pain right about here, but … I haven’t said you’re not a brilliant conversationalist, and I will say that if I can get a word in edgewise. Although the last time we tried to insert a word in Edgewise, he made such an unholy fuss … . No, truly, Zeppo, you are known far and wide as a witty fellow. Indeed, some hint you’re as witty as I am, but most of them are the same people who believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Orson Welles … . In fact, you’re as droll as Oscar Wilde. Now then … No, I’m not accusing you of being a sissy. At any rate … I am getting to the point. There are a couple of tidbits of information I hope you can provide. I can only tell you that the fate of a nation may well hang in the balance … . What nation? Well, I think it’s Albania, though it might be that little purple nation on page 43 of the Atlas we used to … Every time I try to have a cozy familial chat with you … Very well, I’d like to know something about an actress that I think you know, even though you don’t represent her. Her name is Laura Dayton, and I’ll be ever so grateful if you can find out where the lady was on the night that Spellman expired amidst the foliage … . How’s that again? She was with you? With you and about sixty other people … at a cocktail party at Carole Lombard’s … . What time was the … She was there from six in the evening until nearly eleven? And that included dinner and music by Warren Sattler and His Spurious Hawaiians? Well, that’s a load off my mind, and if you know my mind, you’re aware it isn’t up to heavy lifting … . And I promise, Zeppo, I’ll telephone you again soon and we’ll do nothing but talk about the old days. The two old days we’ll be discussing are Tuesday and Friday, so bone up. Farewell.” He hung up.
They were dancing in the streets of Santa Francesca. I’d parked my Chevrolet in an impromptu parking lot that was taking advantage of the festivities to charge a whole buck for the privilege. It was five blocks from Main Street.
Walking in that direction, I began to hear music from guitars, drums, and tambourines. When I reached Mission Boulevard, I encountered a full-fledged parade. A platoon of dark-haired young ladies was dancing by. Wearing lacy mantillas and white dresses rich with lace, they were clicking castanets and stomping their feet frequently on the bright afternoon street.
Strung across the street from lamppost to lamppost was a large canvas banner proclaiming in red and green, FIESTA WEEK! On both sides of the wide street were two rows of watchers—local citizens and tourists.
Marching in the wake of the dancers were several bands. The first bunch, clad in much-embroidered charro outfits and wearing bright white sombreros, was playing guitars, mandolins, and what looked to me, if such a thing exists, like a portable marimba. The second band consisted of about two dozen Boy Scouts. In addition to their uniforms, they were wearing many-colored serapes. After a few more assorted groups of musicians, sixteen handsome white stallions came prancing. They had jewel-encrusted silver bridles and ornately carved leather saddles. The riders, a few of them on the plump side, possessed real moustaches of an elegance and size that would’ve made Groucho envious. They wore the sort of costumes that the Cisco Kid might have had his tailor whip up if he’d won the Irish Sweepstakes.
Bystanders on both sides of the broad boulevard were clapping, calling encouragement in both English and Spanish, waving American flags, Mexican flags, and, in one instance, a USC pennant.
Somewhere on the far side of the mounted riders, a string of firecrackers started popping. The sudden noise spooked one of the front-row horses. He whinnied, rose up, and went lurching toward the crowd across the way. Jerking on the silver-studded reins, the rider lost his bright sombrero, which spun into the parade watchers.
The white hat smacked into the chest of a fat man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a camera. He reacted by dodging to his left and into the young woman standing next to him.
Even though she was wearing dark glasses and a gray scarf over her blonde hair, I recognized Dorothy Woodrow.
I started working my way toward the corner, nearly tripping over a short, squat woman who was standing on an orange crate, the better to view the passing parade.
The hatless caballero got his mount under control, the company of stallions moved on. In the gap between the last of the white horses and a massive crepe-paper float depicting the founding and development of California, I managed to sprint to the other side of Mission Boulevard.
Dorothy, by the time I got there, was no longer standing next to the fat man who’d been hit with the flying sombrero.
Hopping up onto a milk crate that had been abandoned, I scanned the crowd in both directions. I caught a glimpse of her half a block to my left. She was hurrying away at the edge of the parade watchers.
I was pretty sure she hadn’t seen me, since t
hat immense load of crepe paper had shielded my dash to her side of the boulevard. I started following her. Dorothy had no reason, far as I knew, to avoid me, but I decided not to call out to her. Curious, I figured to tail her and find out just where she was going.
That turned out to be a mistake.
Twenty-two
Midway along the side street that Dorothy was hurrying down sat a parade float. It consisted of a replica of Mission Santa Francesca, built chiefly of flowers. The tile roofs were made of big red roses. Somebody had left it parked in front of a narrow yellow-front saloon called EL CAMINO CANTINA.
I slowed, keeping distance and wandering pedestrians between me and the fugitive stuntwoman. At the corner she turned to the right. I sprinted ahead, and as I passed the deserted float, a small shower of yellow rose petals fell free, scattering in my path.
By the time I reached the corner, Dorothy was cutting across a cobbled street toward the walled courtyard of the actual Mission Santa Francesca. Compared to all the other southern California buildings built in the mission style, Santa Francesca looked somewhat worn and shabby. Its high, thick adobe walls were thick with moss, some of it brown and dying.
Dorothy’s advent into the courtyard caused several mourning doves to go flying up off the mossy flagstones surrounding a venerable fountain. I watched, unobtrusively I was sure, from the arched entryway, and I saw her open the heavy carved door of a small chapel that formed a sort of annex to the mission itself.
The few doves that had returned to peck at the scatter of bird seed someone had left alongside the fountain went fluttering away again when I made my careful way across the sunny courtyard.
I stopped at the door to the chapel, listening. The carving, I noticed, depicted Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. I couldn’t hear a thing through the thick wood. Reaching out, I took hold of the dark, timeworn metal latch.
Something extremely hard whapped me across the back of my neck. Lurching forward, I dealt the door a substantial thump with my forehead.
I tried to turn to see who’d hit me, but instead I crumpled to my knees. I was sapped again, hard, across the temple.
Collapsing to the flagstones and sinking into oblivion, my last thought was, Damn, I promised Jane this wouldn’t happen.
The sun was shining brightly on Rodeo Drive. Groucho, quietly whistling “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” was wending his way along a row of currently fashionable Beverly Hills shops and restaurants. When he came to a lingerie shop called Françoise, Groucho ceased whistling and entered. A tiny bell tinkled.
A thickset man in a blue double-breasted suit and a very red tie was holding a black latex girdle out in front of him, discussing the garment with a pretty blonde clerk who stood behind the highly polished darkwood counter. “I’m undecided,” he was saying.
“This one is extremely popular just now, Mr. Silverlake,” the young woman told him in a barely believable French accent.
Noticing Groucho, the hefty accountant waggled the girdle, causing the garters to flap. “How do you think Corky will look in this, Groucho?”
“Thinner.”
“No, seriously now.”
“Who or what is Corky?” Groucho moved closer to Ira Silverlake.
“I thought I introduced her to you at that party at Zanuck’s last month.”
“No, that was my night to bowl with the fellows from the plant, and I missed the party,” replied Groucho. “Could we, perhaps, chat a bit about Doug Cahan?”
Silverlake frowned at his platinum wristwatch. “This is a busy week for me, Groucho, since I’m just back from San Diego,” he explained. “That’s why I asked you to meet me here. Kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”
“You know, Ira, I’ve never been able to do that,” admitted Groucho. “Though once in Ireland I killed two snakes with one scone.”
“I think I’ll take this.” Silverlake handed the garment to the young clerk. “Gift wrap it and have it sent to Miss LaViolet. And stick in the usual message.”
“‘To my dearest one’ again?”
He asked Groucho, “Does that sound too flowery?”
“Not for someone named Corky LaViolet, no sir,” he said. “Can we go someplace and talk about Doug Cahan?”
The accountant had started writing a check. “Thanks so much for your help, Delphine,” he said, sliding the check across the glass top of the counter.
“A pleasure, as always, monsieur.”
Silverlake, taking hold of Groucho’s arm, led him over to a love seat that faced a counter display of three manikin torsos wearing frilly bras. He sat down, saying, “If you ask me, Groucho, Doug got a raw deal. The kid was framed, I’m damned certain.”
“By whom?” Groucho seated himself as far from the bulky man as the narrow chair would allow.
“One of those bastards out at Arthur Wright Benson, Inc.,” he answered. “Doug wasn’t the kind of kid who’d tap the till. He worked for me for nearly four years, and he was honest.”
“Okay,” said Groucho, glancing at the laciest brassiere, “if Cahan was honest, trustworthy, reverent, and brave and didn’t swipe any dough—why’d he run away?”
“I think Doug, once he realized they were trying to set him up for an embezzling rap, took off for the tall grass,” said Silverlake. “He wasn’t all that happy, last time I talked to him, about the whole setup out at Rancho Tygoro.”
“For instance?”
“Alicia Benson, for instance.”
“The lad was supposed to be engaged to Benson’s daughter.”
“He was, more or less. I only met her once, at a party at Selznick’s, but from the hints Doug dropped, I’d say she was a very possessive young lady. He’d been thinking about breaking off the whole damn relationship, but was afraid it might cost him his job. And old Benson paid well.”
Groucho nodded. “And what other problems did he encounter in that tropical paradise?”
“You know the son? A first-class putz and a champion kvetcher,” said Silverlake. “Didn’t think Doug was much of an accountant and told him so. Also told him Alicia deserved a lot better than him.” He stood up. “Afraid that’s all I can tell you. Doug was a good kid, and I trusted him. He didn’t steal anything. Now I’ve got to get back to the old grind.”
Rising, Groucho asked, “You haven’t heard from Cahan?”
Shaking his head, Silverlake headed for the door. “Not a word, Groucho, but I figure that’s because he’s lying low for a while.” He stepped out onto Rodeo Drive. “You ought to talk to his sister. She might know something.”
“Where might I find the lass?”
“Last time I heard, which was a couple months back when I ran into her at a party at the Rathbones’, she was singing at a nightspot down on the beach in Santa Monica,” he answered. “She calls herself Kitty Kahane. She’s some kind of jazz singer. Myself, I don’t understand swing, and if it’s not Guy Lombardo, I leave music alone.”
“What’s the name of the nightspot?”
Silverlake thought. “Oh, yeah, it’s called the Mermaid Tavern,” he told Groucho. “How does Doug Cahan, by the way, tie in with Randy Spellman’s murder?”
“Possibly not at all,” answered Groucho. “But I have a hunch he might. Before I had a hunch, I had a rash, and, let me tell you, this is much less painful.”
Twenty-three
The smell of incense was strong, and my head ached.
“Often we tend to overindulge during fiesta time,” someone was saying in a soft, understanding voice.
I found myself seated in a wooden pew at the rear of the small, shadowy chapel. Up near the narrow altar several red rows of votive candles were flickering. Watching the flames flickering seemed to increase my head pains.
Watching me from the aisle was a dark-haired priest in a long black cassock. A string of wooden rosary beads was wound around his weathered right hand.
After making certain I was still capable of breathing in and out, I said, “Strange as it may seem
, Father, I haven’t been drinking.”
“You needn’t explain your sorry condition, son.”
When I attempted to rise, the pale orange adobe walls started to wobble. Closing my eyes for a moment, I tottered into the aisle.
The priest steadied me with his left hand. “You’ve been hurt,” he noticed now.
Gingerly, I touched at my temple. It felt sticky, and my fingers came away smeared with drying blood. “I must’ve fallen.”
“Perhaps you need medical—”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” My proclamation would have been more convincing had I not made such a staggering exit.
The brightness of the sun outside seemed to have doubled in intensity. I meant to exhale, but it came out more like a grunt.
The soft-spoken priest advised, “I wouldn’t drink anymore today.”
“I intend to quit for life.” It took me a while to cross the courtyard and reach the street. This time the doves didn’t stir, probably realizing that I was at present no threat to them.
By the time I’d walked to the Francesca Mission Inn, which lay three blocks from the scene of my conking, I was no longer wobbly. My headache continued, and my pace was slower, but I felt I was, slowly, recovering.
It bothered me that I was apparently the sort of person who attracted blows to the skull. I’d been hoping, now that fatherhood was so near, that being knocked silly was a thing of the past.
The hotel was built in a modified Spanish style. The main building, three stories high, had slanting red-tile roofs, a bright white-stucco façade dotted with many grilled windows. There were high hedges and tall palm trees, arched doorways and mosaic-tile paths.
The large oval lobby was floored with colored tiles, ringed with potted palms. The air-conditioning was on too high. Holding my hand so that it, unobtrusively, covered my bonked head, I made my way to the rest rooms. A sign on the left-hand redwood portal announced, HOMBRES. I went in.