by Jerry Ludwig
It’s treacherous negotiating this steep descent in near darkness. “Miracle that car hasn’t exploded,” Harry gasps as he tears his trouser leg on a rusted half-concealed car fender. Remnant of a past disaster.
“No sign of movement down there,” Arzy says. They’re approaching the wreck site. Arzy shines his flashlight on the upside-down sports car. The driver is still inside. Motionless. The two detectives yank at the driver’s door, pull it open. The body of a man falls out onto the ground. Face down. Arzy holds the flashlight, as Harry kneels and turns the man over. They both stare at him. “Now who do we have here?” Harry asks.
31
Roy
There’s a shouting match going on in my living room. I’m having an argument with someone who doesn’t even exist and the worst part is he’s winning.
“‘Go, go, GO!’ Those were your exact goddamn words,” I say, “as in get the flock out of there!”
Schmuck, I didn’t mean go to Barstow, Jack Havoc says. I meant drive away a block or so, so we can watch. See what’s going on between your fan and your friend the cop and—
“—and risk getting spotted! That’s dumb. Safer to get out of the entire neighborhood!”
I’m wearing a hole in the carpet with my pacing. He’s sitting as cool as Cary Grant in the big easy chair, smoking and flicking ashes on the carpet to emphasize his points. I’d kill him if I could. Without a blink.
But now you don’t know if little Reva spilled her guts and gave him the locket and told him she found it after the screening in the back of your car with the rest of Addie’s so-called stolen stuff—
“C’mon, if she did that, they’d be here already pounding on the door—”
I stop. Because someone’s knocking on the front door.
“Quick. Get out of the room,” I whisper to Jack Havoc.
I won’t say a word. I’ll just sit quietly.
“Out!”
Can’t make me. He smiles and blows a smoke ring.
I go to the front door. “Who’s there?”
Muffled voice. Through the door. Female. “It’s Kim.”
I swing the door open and there she is. Just like I’ve been imagining. Beautiful. Shiny. Caring. Coming back to me. But scared. She rushes into my arms, pressing her face against my shoulder, holding me very tight. The perfume in her hair is intoxicating. It’s the best moment I’ve had in days.
“Why didn’t you answer the door?” she whispers. “I kept knocking.”
“Didn’t hear you.”
“Who were you yelling at?”
“Nobody, I was running some lines. From Henry V. Might do it at City Center in New York.” Going into declaiming mode. “‘Gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here and hold their manhoods cheap while’s any speaks who fought with us on St. Crispin’s Daaaaaay!’”
She laughs. I put my arm around her shoulders.
“So you’re alone?”
“Not if you’re here.”
“But whose car is that?” She points at the rental in my driveway, near her car.
“Loaner from the shop. My T-Bird’s in for servicing.” Actually it’s parked inside my garage, but why open that can of worms?
“I need a drink,” she says.
“You came to the right place.”
We walk with our arms around each other into the living room. Where Jack Havoc is still sitting. I ignore him. Settle Kim into the couch as if she’s a delicate piece of porcelain.
“When’d you get back?” I’m at the bar pouring her drink.
“Just a couple of hours ago. I got all your messages. I would’ve called you but—”
“Doesn’t matter, you’re here now.” I hand her the drink. Sit down on the couch next to her. “I missed you. A lot. These last few days—”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here. But I thought it’d be for the best.”
“Then you knew—about Addie?”
“That’s why I left. If I stayed I’d have only made it worse for you. And maybe now I have.”
Jack Havoc is pretending not to listen. Studying his fingernails.
“There was this detective,” Kim says. “He came to my apartment. I was hardly in the door.”
“Marshak? Or Tigner?”
“Sergeant Tigner. He wanted to know about us, of course.”
“It’s okay,” I say. I don’t want her to be scared. “What’d you tell him?”
“Everything. More or less. How we met. What I did to you. How you found me again. And how I told you Addie hired me. He already knew that. How we began dating. He smirked. I told him it wasn’t something dirty. He smirked again. He’s a vile person. He wanted to know where I was the night Addie was killed. I told him I was with you at the movies.”
Jack Havoc looks up. I keep my eyes focused on Kim’s.
“How’d you know I was at the movies that night?”
“The newspapers. They said you were seeing A Star Is Born. One of my favorites, thank God, because Sergeant. Tigner asked questions about it. ‘Hello, everybody, this is Mrs. Norman Maine.’”
She manages a small smile. I’ve never loved anyone so much in my life.
“You believed in me that much,” I say. “You lied to protect me.” My eyes are misting. But Kim looks, well, not scared. Beyond awkward. Terribly embarrassed.
“Roy. I lied—to protect me.”
My eyes fly to Jack Havoc—he’s gazing away out the window. I look back at Kim.
“I couldn’t just say I was at home alone with a migraine. Which is the truth. From the way Sergeant Tigner’s questions were going, I mean, Roy, he treated me like I’m the Devil Woman who’ll kill her own grandma for a buck. He was hinting that while you were surrounded by a theater full of people, I was out knocking on Addie’s door—”
“But they keep saying it was a burglar who got surprised in the act!”
“No, no, Sergeant Tigner says they know it was an inside job, and Addie probably let her killer in the front door, someone she knew, like me. I got terrified, Roy. I needed an alibi. So I used you. Again.” She brushes her hand against her cheek, maybe there’s a tear. “You won’t tell on me, will you?”
“No, I won’t tell,” I say.
“That’s why I rushed over here, to try to beat them, before they checked with you, so you would know what I told ’em. I couldn’t trust the phone.”
That’s why she came.
“How are you going to explain why you never mentioned before that I was with you?”
“I’ll just tell ’em I was being a gentleman. Wanted to keep you out of it, in any way, as long as I could.”
She smiles. “That sounds good. Thank you.”
“Kim—” I start. Hesitant. To his credit, Jack Havoc gets up and walks out of the room. “As far as you and I go, since the last time we saw each other, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking—”
“You’re not the problem, Roy, I am. I wish we could make it together, because in so many ways you’re a terrific guy. But we started off with a lie, and there’ve been too many lies since then—we’d never get out from under.”
“So as far as the future goes—there’s no future.”
She shakes her head.
Well, if you don’t ask, you don’t know.
We sit on the couch. Huddling together. Holding hands. Sipping our drinks. In silence. When the drinks are gone, I walk her to her car. We kiss in the driveway. So sweet. Then she’s gone. And I know it’s forever.
I turn. Jack Havoc is standing in the open doorway.
I’m sorry, kid, he says. I really am.
• • •
Falling asleep that night is easy. All it takes is guzzling a third of a bottle of vodka and smoking half a joint. Staying asleep is harder. I give up all the tossing and
fitful dozing shortly before dawn and go stand under the shower for a long time. Another day, another chance to go ambush a teenager who made the mistake of thinking I’m something special.
I’m dressed and sipping my third cup of coffee, dawdling because it’s time to go stake out Reva’s apartment again, when I’m saved by the bell. The doorbell. I carry my coffee cup with me.
Fric and Frac are on my doorstep. The vaudeville team of Marshak and Tigner. Just like Yogi Berra says, It’s déjà vu all over again.
“Hey,” I ask. “Didn’t we do this early-morning scene already?”
Arzy smiles. Harry never smiles. It’s not in his contract.
“Can we come in, Mr. Darnell?” Tigner says. The man who can make polite sound pugnacious.
“To search and seize?” I figure they’re here to check out Kim’s alibi.
“We’ll settle for coffee if there’s any left.” Arzy the sweet talker.
They look like they need the coffee. Like they’ve been up all night. I lead the way into the kitchen. Pour ’em a coupla cups o’ java. And wait for the jazz to begin. But they’re playing an unexpected tune.
“Do you know a man named Donald Gentry?” Fric says.
That’s an easy one. “Never heard of him.”
“You eat at Chasen’s very often?” Frac says.
“Not much. Once in a while. I’m much more a Romanoff’s guy.”
Where’s this going? They exchange a cop look.
“We’d like you to come with us,” Tigner says.
“To lunch? It’s a little early.” Then: “Let’s get this straight. Am I under arrest or something?”
Tigner sighs. He looks like the garbage truck ran over his favorite bloodhound. It’s the most passion I’ve seen him display.
“Why would you think that, Roy?” Arzy gives me choirboy.
Might as well get it out. See what their cards are. “You guys have been all over town asking everybody about me.”
“No, you’re not under arrest,” Arzy assures me. “But we’d like you to come with us. As a favor. Maybe you can help us out again.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m kind of busy.”
“Please,” Tigner adds.
What the hell. He did say, “Please.”
• • •
We’re in their unmarked cop car. Tigner chauffeuring. I’m with Arzy in the back seat. No conversation, just looking out the windows at the passing parade. They don’t want to say where we’re going, and I’m content to wait and see. Been driving a while. We’re on Franklin, past Vine, when Tigner takes a left onto Beachwood. He wends his way up the hill, past old bungalows, newer apartment houses. Looming above us is the HOLLYWOOD sign. We rise closer and I’m impressed by the size of the letters, each propped individually on the mountainside. Legend has it that a young actress back in the ’20s or ’30s was so depressed by her failure to succeed in Hollywood that she climbed to the top of the sign and jumped to her death. Give me an H.
Tigner signals left and pulls into the driveway of an old Spanish-style apartment court built up against the hill. The regular parking slots are mostly empty, the residents off at work. But there’s a police car and a forensic van parked toward the rear. A uniform cop is leaning against the fender of the van, reading the morning edition of the Examiner. He lowers the paper, comes to inspect us. Looks in the driver’s window. Recognizes Tigner, waves us on. We park and Tigner and Marshak guide me along a narrow path to the center of the court. More Spanish motif, gone ripe. Mossy. Overgrown. Adobe walls flaking. Red tiles above. An occasional one missing makes the roof look gap-toothed. Several of the neighbors clustered together, chatting quietly, like at the site of an accident. They eyeball us to the ground floor entrance of a pool-side apartment. Another uniform cop on duty at the door. Small laminated, lettered card fixed to the door below the bell: Don Gentry. We go inside.
Inside is a surprise. Not seedy as you might expect. Sharp. Still Spanish decor. But high-end stuff. Hand-tooled furniture. Precious fabrics. A large Tamayo original framed over the wood-burning fireplace. Silver candlesticks on the mantel. The two detectives whiz me along into the study. There’s a good Miro painting behind the oversize desk. It’s flipped back to reveal an open safe. Sparkling goodies cover the surfaces of the desk, the bookcase counter, the coffee table and the leather couches. Baubles, bangles and beads. Cops photographing and cataloguing each and every one. Looks like a fire sale at Tiffany’s.
“Mr. Gentry has excellent taste,” I say.
“He shopped in all the best places,” Arzy says.
“What we’d like you to do,” Tigner says, “is go through the things on display. Tell us if you find anything that looks familiar.”
“Like it was Addie’s?”
He nods. “Take your time. There may not be anything here. Or maybe there is. Either way, let us know.”
They step back. Setting me loose. A kid in the toy store. Look at all the shiny stuff. Resplendent stones gleaming in a rainbow of colors: red, blue, green, turquoise, milky white, and purple. Glittering gold, silver, and platinum objects. Rings, pins, necklaces, broaches, cufflinks, money clips, Swiss watches, pearl and diamond earrings, Dunhill cigarette cases and lighters. I go slow, studying each assortment, while my mind is speeding. Doing a hundred-and-fifty on the straightaway. Donald Gentry obviously is the Hollywood Hills serial burglar. The cops have run him to ground. This is his stash.
The $64,000 Question for me is can I find enough trinkets in this treasure trove that match the descriptions I gave Marshak and Tigner earlier of Addie’s missing merchandise. Because if I can, I’m in the clear. Even if Donald Gentry denies it, who’s going to believe him? Of course, one of the other burglary victims might identify the same objects, but, hey, from this kind of confusion I can only gain. After all, the cops are going to be pushing my case, because I can tie Donald Gentry to a murder.
But I’ve got to be careful.
There’s an opal ring pretty close to the one I bought Addie in Hawaii. I examine it, find someone else’s initials inside. I put it back. Feel Marshak and Tigner’s eyes on me. Move on. By being picky and cautious I eventually pluck out five items from the booty that I think will hold up. I show them to the detectives.
“These were Addie’s,” I say. Mentally crossing my fingers.
“Had a hunch you’d find something,” Tigner says. He doesn’t sound glad. He and Arzy swap another cop look. Put their heads together, low talking. Checking a sheet Tigner takes from his inside coat pocket. I wander around the room, taking care to stay away from the 24-carat goods. Arzy appears at my elbow.
“I’ll drive you back to your place,” he says.
• • •
“Okay, lemme hear. Who is Donald Gentry?”
“Was,” Arzy corrects me. Keeping his eyes on the road. “Mr. Gentry cashed out last night. Took a header off Mulholland during a car chase. After breaking into a mansion in Holmby Hills. We traced him back here. You saw the loot. Ties him to every Hillside burglary in the last few months. Including, with your ID on Addie’s jewelry, the one at your ex-house.” Arzy throws a glance my way. “He drove a neat little T-Bird, looked almost like yours.”
You wish. “Still doesn’t tell me who he is.”
“Gentry worked part-time as a parking valet at Chasen’s. That’s how he got a line on the people he hit. Thursday nights were his favorite. Maid’s night off, everybody in Bev Hills eats out. We should have tumbled to that sooner. He’d spot his prospective victims at Chasen’s, get their addresses out of the glove compartment. Then next Thursday he’d clock ’em into the restaurant and know he had a couple of hours to operate. Sometimes he even had house keys. Copied them while parking the cars at Chasen’s. So he could walk right in when he wanted to. Made those burglaries look like forced entry after the fact. Like at Addie’s house.”
“How
much of the stuff he took did you get back?”
“Half, two-thirds maybe. He fenced the rest. But we’re working on that.”
“So if Gentry’s dead, what happens now?”
“We wrap it up. Orders from headquarters. There’ll be a press conference. The big brass will show off the recovered loot for the TV cameras and declare it a win for the department. We tag Gentry for everything. Case solved, investigation closed.” He shoots a glance at me. “Good news, huh?”
I nod. Giving him solemn. When I want to do is dance a jig. Shoot off fireworks. I’m in clover.
We’re passing the spot on the Strip now where Kim’s billboard is. “Pretty girl,” Arzy says. “She ought to be in the movies.”
Meaning Hollywood? Meaning the Academy Theater? I’m not going to touch that one. Unless he pushes it. He doesn’t. We ride quietly together. Beyond the Strip, past the vast rolling lawns and tall sculpted hedges that conceal the dark mansions along Sunset Boulevard.
“I took a TV writing course at UCLA last year,” Arzy says. “Know what they taught us were the two most important words for a writer?”
“‘How much’?”
Arzy laughs. “Better. What if. The professor, he was an old-time screenwriter, wrote The Prisoner of Zenda. He said those two words have launched more stories than you can imagine. What if.” We stop for the light at Rexford and Sunset. “It means taking something that really happened and turning it inside out. Then projecting that possibility.”
He’s dying to tell. So I give him the feed line. “Okay, Arzy. What if…”
We’re rolling again as Arzy considers.
“What if there’s this heavyweight guy, famous, let’s say he’s a—a big time politician. Being blackmailed. I mean, sucked dry. But he’s got a chance to get it all back. All he has to do is bump the blackmailer. Of course, he’ll be the first one everyone’ll nominate. So he needs an alibi. So what if—he arranges that he’s seen entering the er-r Senate Chamber, shakes a lot of hands, then slips off in between, does what has to be done, and slips back in at the end, makes a lot of noise, and hopes nobody can prove he was gone?” Arzy stops in the driveway at my house. “How’s that sound to you? As a storyline?”