Come Back Dead

by Terence Faherty

  “What studio’s he with?” I asked, kicking an empty soda bottle out of our way.

  “Don’t give me the tough guy act, Elliott. You know who I’m talking about. Wordsworth the English poet. When he got old, he spent his time rewriting his early poems when he should have been writing new ones. Screwing the early ones up, too, needless to say. Carson has the same tendency, so the notes are no big loss. He’s probably scribbled a whole new set by now anyway.”

  “There was also some vandalism?”

  “Two nights later. Carson found that himself. He got back from the dinner break late and saw that the tires on my heap and on Joe Nolan’s Chrysler had been slashed. Joe’s our cameraman. Carson got a big kick out of that. He has a leisurely dinner, and as a bonus he doesn’t have to buy new tires.”

  “Is security around here that light?”

  “It’s lighter than a thirty-five-cent lunch. And about as hard to find. It consists of some Keystone Kops that the American Standard Tire Company hired to keep the place from walking away.

  “Still, they came through like the cavalry on the night of the fire. It was three days after the tire slashing–night before last, I mean. We’d been working late, talking out Carson’s idea of duplicating some of the old sets with matte paintings. Carson broke it up about nine because he had a date with some Mexican starlet. Joe and I killed a bottle, then he left. I was collecting myself for the same effort when I smelled smoke.”

  I’d been smelling something similar for some time. We rounded the corner of the alleyway and came to another cinder block building. It was one story, like Shepard’s garage, but longer, with a series of outside doors like a racetrack stable. The door nearest our corner was gone, replaced by a rectangular black hole. Through it I could see more blackness. The window next to the door had been broken out. Where the white paint on the block wall wasn’t blistered, it was discolored by smoke.

  “You went in there twice?” I asked.

  “Marvelous stuff, whiskey. Of course, I had noble motives, too. Like money. My wagon’s hitched to Carson Drury’s star, for better or worse. That means it’s hitched to Albertsons. It’s my last chance to turn my years with Carson from a dead loss to a profit. I’ll be damned if I’ll let some son of a bitch with a Zippo take that chance away.”

  The alley around us was decorated with half-burned furniture and ruined equipment: the ends of a long table whose middle was missing; the naked frame of a swivel chair, already rusting; a sofa whose charred cushions had been split open. What had once been editing equipment was now a pile of blackened pieces. Only the empty film reels were still recognizable.

  “How did the fire start?” I asked.

  “Search me. I had the impression that the wire wastebasket under the editing table was the center of the action, but it was only an impression. The fire spread so fast, it seemed to be everywhere at once.”

  “What did the arson boys say?”

  Shepard had left his hat back in his office. He held his little notebook above his eyes to shield them from the sun. “What arson boys?”

  “The fire department didn’t take an interest in this?”

  “We managed to handle it without them.” Shepard pointed to a hydrant ten feet away. A reel of hose hung on the building next to it, dirty hose that had been rewound inexpertly. “Like I said, the Keystone Kops earned their money that night. One of them was walking post near enough to hear me yelling for help. By the time I got the last can of film out, there were two of them here, and they’d figured out how the fire hose worked. They had that little room flooded before I’d stopped sizzling.”

  “They still would have called the fire department.”

  “Yeah, they would have if I hadn’t volunteered to do it for them. I called Ciro’s instead and left a message for Carson to get back here quick. He still had the crazy idea we could keep this production a secret. I knew he wouldn’t want firemen or policemen or, worse, reporters prowling around.”

  “How did Drury handle the guards?”

  “With one hand tied behind his back. You’ve never seen Carson’s God routine, have you? He drops that radio voice of his into low gear, shakes all the slack out of his spine, and brings his black brows together like a pair of rival bulls. Then he either gives you hell or pumps you full of sweetness and light, depending on which he thinks will get him the most mileage.

  “He took the high road and the low road both that night with the guards. First he gave them the impression that he would personally mention their devotion to duty to Tyrone McNally and each and every stockholder of American Standard Tire, and maybe even to President Eisenhower. He then said that the fire had been a careless accident and it would be a shame for anyone to lose his position over a careless accident. A terrible shame. Luckily for them, Carson was in charge. They could count on him to handle the situation with superhuman delicacy. It was a nice little performance. He left those sad sacks feeling like heroes who could be fired for cause at any second. They went away quietly enough, let me tell you.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “Carson threw the negative in the trunk of his car–it’s now in a fireproof vault, by the way–and drove me to the hospital. On the way I convinced him to let me go public with the Albertsons reissue.”

  “But not about the fire.”

  “No. We can’t afford to. It’s a shame. I could build a beautiful sympathy campaign out of that.” He swept his hand through the hot air to symbolize the jumbo type he’d need for his headline. “‘Hard luck director’s comeback threatened by phantom saboteur.’ Something like that might even get Hollywood pulling for Carson for a change. Half of Hollywood anyway. The other half would be convinced that the fire was some publicity stunt we cooked up ourselves.”

  “What do you mean you can’t afford to release the story?”

  “I mean it literally. Look, Carson didn’t agree to drop all the secrecy business because he owed me for saving the negative. He only gave in because his cash is running out. He needs to find more money now if he wants to get this production finished.”

  Shepard lowered his notebook visor and squinted upward. “If you’re through here, let’s find some shade.”

  I took a look inside the burned-out editing room so I’d be able to tell Paddy I had. Then we walked back toward Shepard’s office.

  Halfway there, Shepard still hadn’t resumed his story, so I said, “Your boss told us that he’d gotten the negative and the equipment he needs for peanuts.”

  “He did. But this is still Hollywood. The carpenters around here make more than a Corn Belt bank president. So far we’ve only managed to build one lousy set, a three-story curving staircase that Carson plans to use for exactly one shot.”

  “Drury said that duplicating the old sets was the biggest challenge.”

  “What he meant was, paying for them is. We need some backers now. That means publicity–and only positive publicity. No stories about sabotage or vandalism or plain old bad luck.”

  “So this party tonight was your idea?”

  “No. That was Carson staying one step ahead of me as usual. He’d already lined up one potential angel, a buddy of Tyrone McNally’s named Traynor. After Carson agreed to go public with the production, he talked this Traynor into footing the bill for a coming-out party. The hick probably thinks he’s going to meet Jane Russell.”

  Since we’d broached the subject of money, I asked the question Paddy had written on my shirt cuff: “Where did Drury’s first bankroll come from, the one that’s running out?”

  “Eden,” Shepard said. “That’s Carson’s ranch out near Encino. He bought it with his First Citizen paycheck, and he’s hung onto it somehow ever since. He loves that place. It’s a sign of how desperate he is to make good this time that he’d put Eden up as collateral for a loan.”

  “What bank is holding the paper?”

 
“Bank? Banks and Carson don’t speak to each other. He got the money from the Alora Land Conservancy, a farming cooperative.”

  “Why would farmers lend money to Drury?”

  “They’re buying up a lot of land north of Encino to keep it out of the hands of developers. It so happens that a developer named Ralph Lockard has been trying to buy Eden from Carson for years. So Carson went to the Alora people and told them if they wouldn’t lend him the money, he’d be forced to sell to Lockard. He convinced them that either way it played out, they’d win. If he pulls this gamble off, Eden is safe. If he doesn’t, the conservancy gets it. So the farmers forked over.”

  We arrived back at Tara’s garage. Shepard lounged in the doorway, keeping all the shade for himself. “You haven’t asked me yet about Carson’s enemies,” he said.

  “How do you know I’m going to?”

  “Carson told me when he phoned.”

  “He told me he didn’t have any enemies.”

  “That’s Carson all over. Never met a man who didn’t like him. All the same, he wanted me to be sure to mention John Piers Whitehead.”

  “His partner?”

  “They haven’t been partners since Albertsons died young–or pen pals or even nodding acquaintances. Whitehead’s been here in Culver City, though, sniffing around.”

  “For what?”

  “Redemption, Carson said. I don’t know what he meant, exactly, but that’s nothing new. He won’t even speak to Whitehead. The one time the guy actually knocked on our door, I dealt with him. But he didn’t know me and wouldn’t tell me his business. I bought him a drink and sent him on his way. He seemed like a harmless enough bird, but I guess you can never tell.”

  “When was this?”

  “The morning before the fire.” Shepard took a business card out of his shirt pocket and passed it over. Whitehead’s novel-length name was printed on the front of the card in small, raised letters. On the back of the card, a shaky hand had written, “59 Belmont Street.”

  “Easy enough for you?” Shepard asked.

  “Too easy,” I said.

  “It won’t stay that way, pally. Not with Carson in the game. Take my word for it.”

  6

  I decided that my interview with John Piers Whitehead could wait. An arsonist who left engraved calling cards had a certain fish-in-a-barrel quality that made rushing around seem undignified. My boss thought that money might be behind the attacks, and Paddy’s nose for a motive was seldom wrong. So I decided to follow Drury’s windfall back to its source. Besides, I hadn’t had the DeSoto on a really open road in a week. I topped off the tank and headed north to Alora.

  My route took me across the Santa Monica Mountains and back in time. I’d lived in the foothills of those mountains after the war, in a cabin on the estate of an old pal from my Paramount days. So the drive made me nostalgic. I also felt sad because my old benefactress was dead. She’d drunk herself to death in a patient, deliberate way, and the memory of that and the little I’d done to stop it added guilt to my emotional mix.

  My friend’s problem had been obsolescence. For no particular reason, her comfortable career had ground to a halt in the late thirties, as had Ruth Chatterton’s and Ann Harding’s careers earlier and any number of others since, including my own. The solution I’d worked out for my obsolescence–punching a clock–hadn’t fit her. Her own solution had arrived twice a week in brown parcels too discreet to clink, and that had been that.

  South of Encino, I drove through miles of inexpensive houses that looked as if they’d all been shoved off the back of the same flatbed. Each instant neighborhood had a different pretentious name painted on its billboard-size entrance sign, but there was a common denominator. Almost all the signs bore the words Lockard Development Corporation.

  I’d actually been to Alora once, five or six years earlier. I remembered it as a crossroads town in a dusty corner of the valley. My previous visit could have been the week before for all the place had changed. Its outstanding features were still competing produce markets, one to the north of the town and one to the south, and a Spanish mission–style church nestled, with a few stores and shops, between the bookend markets. In front of the church, an old man was sweeping a broad stone plaza with a narrow broom.

  I pulled up as close to the plaza as I could and asked the man for the Alora Land Conservancy. He shrugged and suggested I try the café next door. While I had him on the line, I asked how to get to Eden.

  “You can never get back there once you’ve left,” the old man said. “That’s the whole problem with this life.”

  He laughed, and I did, too. Not at his joke, but at the pleasure he took in it. He was sun-browned and bent, and his white hair was cut like Moe Howard’s. When we had collected ourselves, I thanked him and drove the half block to the café. The old man watched me until I opened the front door. It was a slow day in Alora.

  The café was doing better than the town square. Two of its four tables were occupied, as were three of the six stools at the counter. I made it four. The lone waitress brought me a glass of water and a menu card. I’d only come in for information, but the smell of frying onions altered my priorities. I ordered coffee and a hamburger, and made small talk with my neighbors at the counter.

  They were farmers. Growing up in Indiana, I’d learned that there were only two kinds of rain as far as farmers were concerned: not enough and too much. My luncheon companions told me that this year’s problem was not enough. I made sympathetic comments and kept my questions general until the waitress came by for my empty plate. Then I asked for the Alora Land Conservancy.

  “Follow Highway 27 north,” the woman said. “You’ll see their place. The office is in an old schoolhouse.”

  She stood there holding my plate, politely giving me the chance to explain my interest in the conservancy. The farmers on either side of me were equally curious.

  “Are you gentlemen members?” I asked them.

  “Members of what?” the waitress asked me. I’d heard both men speak, so I knew they could, but in the waitress’s presence, they were suddenly mute. She reminded me of Brian Donlevy, sans moustache. That is, she called to mind the foreign legion sergeant Donlevy had played in Beau Geste. She had the same ramrod posture and suspicious eyes.

  “Members of the cooperative,” I said. “The Alora Conservancy.”

  “That’s no cooperative,” the waitress said. “Who told you that was a cooperative? Whoever it was was pulling your leg. That’s a private company. It’s going to be the biggest farm in the valley someday. It may be already.”

  “Except they’re not farming,” the man on my left said. “Not above ten percent of their holdings.”

  “You want them to farm in a drought?” Miss Donlevy asked. “Is that how you build an empire?”

  “And they’re not extending their leases beyond a year,” the man on my right said, as much to divide the waitress’s wrath, I thought, as to contribute to the conversation. To me he said, “They leased most of their land back to the farmers who sold it to them. That was part of their sales pitch. But they never give anyone more than a year’s renewal.”

  “If they renew a lease at all,” the man on my left said.

  The woman let out the breath she’d been waiting to use and drew a deeper one. “So they’re going to farm the land themselves, so what? It’s what I’ve been telling you all along. They’re putting together the biggest farm in the valley. In the state, maybe. That’s the only way to make money farming these days.”

  “Only they’re not farming,” the man on my left said.

  I broke the cycle by dropping some money on the counter and heading outside. I looked for the old theologian, but he had finished his sweeping and gone off, perhaps to nap. I felt a little like a siesta myself after I’d settled into the DeSoto’s front seat, its leather heated to the consistency of putty by
the afternoon sun. I drove north instead.

  Two miles outside of Alora I spotted the schoolhouse. It was red brick with a metal roof that had recently been painted silver. The building looked so much like a country train station that I glanced around, after I’d parked my car, for the tracks.

  The name of the conservancy was painted on the front door in letters that had just begun to fade. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open, setting off a tinny buzzer that buzzed on until I’d closed the door behind me.

  I had time to note that the receptionist’s desk was unstaffed. Then a man appeared in the doorway behind the desk, pulling on the jacket of a pin-striped suit as he came.

  “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were my ride.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  He looked down at the cluttered desk between us. “I gave my girl the day off.” And the month preceding it, to judge by the dust on her desk. It was the same yellow-brown stuff the DeSoto had collected, only thicker. “What can I do for you, Mr. …”

  He was a young man, and he would look that way for years yet if his hair held out. His boyishness was due to his slight build and to his inability to remain at rest. He didn’t appear to be nervous or even especially curious, but he was still in a constant state of motion: buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket, shooting his shirt cuffs, smoothing his glistening black hair, and adjusting the knot in his tie so many times that I felt an urge to garrote him with it.

  “My name is Elliott. I’m interested in selling you some land, Mr. …”

  “Faris. Eric Faris. I’m the land agent for the conservancy. You don’t look like a farmer.”

  Where I hailed from, that was a compliment. I considered returning it; Faris certainly didn’t look like a land agent. He looked like the kind of errand boy common around Hollywood, the kind with a college degree in his hip pocket.

  Faris checked the dusty window to my right for his ride and then said, “Come in, won’t you?”

  He led me into his office, which was smaller than the reception area, but cleaner. He opened a window, started to take off his suit coat, stopped, and then started again. He was still working at it when he hit his chair. A calendar hanging on the wall behind Faris’s head featured a young redhead in bib overalls cut off at mid-thigh. She’d forgotten to wear anything underneath the overalls, but then, it was July. I decided she was there for the enjoyment of Faris’s clients. He looked like the type who preferred his pinups painted in oil.