“I see,” the young woman replied. “He did come on a bit strong.”
Mace hung up a shirt and then, his stride powerful but deliberate, closed the distance between them. “Are you kidding? What you saw was the man at his mildest. He was only in first gear when he was talking to you. Most times, he has the shifter in high and literally runs you over. And you know what, most women love it.”
“Really?”
“In Hollywood,” Mace frowned, “you are either fast or last. Sparks will never be last. His kind makes me sick.” The man looked past Shelby to a clock on the far wall. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I can tell you how to stay out of trouble and keep on Betsy’s good side. She’s tough but fair. You do what she asks you to do and you’ll have a job for as long as the studio’s gates keep opening. And you really are an answered prayer for her.”
“How’s that?” Shelby asked, more than a bit confused by the man’s unusual observation. “I’m just a country girl who needs a job.”
“She is in desperate need of someone with your skills,” he explained. “None of the women out in the big room can do much more than shoddy work. The two women who did most of the detail sewing were real pros, but Maud Haus died last week and Martha Noon just had a baby.” He paused and looked around the room before adding, “If she comes back to work it won’t be for a while. Betsy was starting to feel the heat. So, while you might be out there in what we call the factory from time to time, I’ll bet most hours you’ll be in here. At least I hope so. And if you prove to be as good as I think you are, you’ll get a raise in no time.”
Shelby grinned, “Thanks for the heads up. Anything else I need to know?”
“Yeah,” he announced as he sat down behind a new Singer sewing machine. “Don’t act starstuck. Betsy doesn’t like girls who bow down to the actors and actresses. She’ll want you to show some moxie. She wants you to see yourself as being just as good as they are.”
“That’s pretty much the way I am anyway.”
“Then you’ll be fine.” Mace checked his watch, stood, strolled over, and grabbed Sparks’s jacket. “OK, Shelby, I’ve got to deliver that rack of stuff, and I’ll see that the spoiled jerk gets this coat too. While you wait for Betsy to get back, you should look around this room and get a handle on where things are and how we organize them. Start by looking on the racks, each will have the name of the film and the stage where it is being shot. For the stars’ costumes, if you open them up and look inside you will find their name and the name of the picture pinned inside. In the files over there are patterns and notes with all the actors’ measurements.”
“Thanks again,” Shelby said with a smile. “You better get moving and I’ll do my homework until our boss returns.”
“Nice meeting you,” Mace said as he pushed the rack toward the door. “And Sparks was right about one thing. You are beautiful.”
As the man went out one door, Minser marched in the other, her arms loaded with patterns. After setting them on a table, she looked toward her newest employee. “Where’s the jacket?”
“Willard took it,” she answered. “I hope that is all right.”
“Perfect,” came the quick reply. “Willie is a strange egg, a thirty-year-old mama’s boy who’s likely never had a date and seems to lose his train of thought, but even though he messes up and goofs off more than I like, I’d rather be around him than guys like Sparks.” Minser looked down at the table, sorted through several envelopes before picking up the one she wanted. “Betty Foster will be wearing this suit in a film that starts shooting next week. This pattern was custom-made for her. You grab this and head over to that machine on the far wall. As you familiarize yourself with it, I’ll get the material you need to make Miss Foster’s costume.”
“Yes, Miss Minser,” Shelby answered as she took the pattern.
“Call me Betsy or go home,” she snapped. “Now, let’s see how good you are! You might just advance from the sewing factory room to the finishing room faster than anyone in history.”
14
June 15, 1936
Bill Barrister stood on the vacant lot less than a block from Galaxy Studios and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inside coat pocket. He tapped one out into his left hand, watched it fall into his right, then slipped it between his fingers, put it to his lips, replaced the pack, and retrieved a lighter. Popping the top on the Zippo brought the flame and a second later, the cop inhaled. Looking toward his partner, he pushed the smoke from his lungs and said, “Do you suppose these things are good for you?”
“You mean the smokes?” Jenkins asked.
“Yeah, the radio ad says they calm your nerves and clear your mind. The print ads have doctors endorsing them. They make them sound like vitamins. There are times when I wonder if they’re selling us a bill of goods. After all, they are now costing almost fifteen cents a pack or two for twenty-five. I could have five bottles of pop for that.”
“Who knows what’s good or not?” the plainclothes cop answered. “I mean, the smokes aren’t making you any fatter, and five Cokes would likely add some weight.”
“So you think I’m fat?” Barrister asked.
“I was speaking in general terms, Cap. I can say this for sure, what I’m looking at now is anything but good for someone’s health.”
“Yeah,” Barrister agreed as he studied a woman’s body lying in the weeds. “Who found her?”
“Mr. Nick Powell was sitting on his fourth floor balcony,” Jenkins explained, “took a break to read his paper. Looked down and saw the body. He has problems walking—hurt his leg in the Great War—so rather than come down and check it out in person he gave us a call. Jim Wright got here first, and he kept everyone away until we arrived. So far there’s not any members of the press who have picked up on it.”
“Jim’s a good cop,” Barrister noted. “And let’s hope none of the scribes hear about this until we have processed the scene. Do we have an ID?”
“Cap, there’s nothing here that gives us a clue as to who she is.”
The homicide chief took another deep draw from his cigarette before tossing it on the ground and snuffing it out with the toe of his heavily scuffed right shoe. He then stepped forward and crouched beside the body. The young woman had apparently been strangled. He studied the bruising on her neck before turning his attention to her clothing. She was dressed as if for a date, wearing a high-dollar gown and pumps. At first glance, it seemed to be just like the other four cases he’d tied together. But on this one something didn’t ring true.
“Barry, take a look at her and tell me what doesn’t add up?”
Jenkins leaned over and studied the woman, “Other than the fact she’s dead, what are you driving at?”
“Look at her makeup,” Barrister suggested. “What does it tell you?”
“Well, Cap, I don’t know much about the war paint women use, but this looks a bit subdued for a gal who’d spent a night out on the town. And that dress was not made for church or grocery shopping. So she had to be going to a social event or a club.”
“That’s it,” Barrister replied, “on the other strangulation victims their makeup looked fresh, but on this girl it appears as it was applied well before she died. In several places, it’s smeared and the lipstick is almost all gone.”
A crew of four men drove up in a Ford sedan that the crime scene boys called the wagon, parked the vehicle at the curb, and hopped out. As the doors banged shut, Barrister briefly glanced that way before once more turning his attention to the woman. Just like the others she wore no jewelry, not even earrings. That confused him. Robbers might kill their victims but not like this. They’d use something clean and quick, like a knife. So was the guy behind these murders mixing passion with work, or did he take their valuables and identification as some kind of grisly souvenirs? Was his motive robbery or just the thrill of the kill? They needed a big break to find out.
“You ready for us, Captain?”
With some effo
rt, Barrister pushed himself upright and looked toward the quartet of suited men. “I want lots of pictures from every angle. And Johnson, as soon as you can, get me a time of death.”
“You going back to the office?” Collins asked.
The captain looked at the sixty-year-old crime photographer, “Not yet, I want the photos shot and that body moved before I take off.”
“You looking for something?” Collins asked.
“A kitchen match,” came the quick reply.
The now confused photographer raised the camera and focused, but rather than begin shooting, he stopped and leaned closer to the body.
“Something wrong?” Jenkins asked.
“I know this woman.” Collins declared. “Or at least I’ve seen her photograph.”
“Who is she?” Barrister demanded.
“I don’t remember the name,” came the explanation, “but I’m sure I saw her picture in yesterday’s Times. She was out on a date with some actor Saturday night.”
“Jenkins,” Barrister barked, “isn’t there a newsstand a block down the street?”
“Yeah, I remember us passing it.”
“Run down there and get me a copy of yesterday’s paper. They’re bound to have one left. If they don’t, find one somewhere! I don’t care if you have to knock on doors or go through trash.”
“Got it,” the man replied as he turned and jogged off.
“Now,” the captain ordered, “You guys get to work and don’t miss anything!”
As Barrister watched, the crime scene crew meticulously went about their varied duties. As they worked, their impatient boss smoked three cigarettes. Finally, with his anxious eyes following their every move, the quartet lifted the woman’s body. Under her right shoulder was a broken, unused kitchen match.
“This what you wanted?” Collins asked.
“Bag it as evidence,” came the solemn reply.
“Cap,” Jenkins called out as he ran up. “Got the papers. The photo is in the third section, first page.”
Barrister seized the newspaper, quickly discarding everything but the needed section. His eyes went from the image to the body now resting on a stretcher and then back.
“Was I right?” Collins asked.
The captain nodded, “The girl’s name is Leslie Bryant. She is . . . or should I say . . . was an actress at Galaxy Studios.” After folding the newspaper and slipping it into the side pocket of his suit jacket, he turned and began to resolutely stroll back to his car. His partner didn’t catch up until Barrister was opening the 1935 Ford’s passenger door.
“Are we going to the studio?” Jenkins asked.
“Not yet,” the captain shot back, “I want to have copies of the crime scene photos to show Flynn Sparks first. Then we’ll see how the actor does without a script. Also, I want you to go to the Times and see if there are any old stories connecting the actor to our other victims.”
15
June 15, 1936
It was just past five when Barrister and Jenkins walked into the ornate offices of Jacob Yates. Yates, dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue double-breasted blazer with brass buttons, was on the phone. Waving toward two empty chairs in front of his desk, he finished his conversation and put the receiver of one of his three desk phones back into the empty cradle.
As Barrister sized up his host, Jenkins, his eyes all but popping from his head, made an observation, “This is some kind of office!”
Yates pointed toward the walls with seemingly condescending pride. “The wood paneling comes from an English castle, the light fixtures from Paris, all the furniture including my desk was made in Austria more than a century ago. The oil paintings are originals, the one on the far right is a Monet, the other two, hanging on each side of the bookshelf, are originals from Velázquez and De Goya. The carpet is obviously Persian, but I’m sure you knew that.”
“I’m just as sure he didn’t know that,” the older cop cut in. He pushed his hat back on his head and explained, “You see we don’t spend much time around folks who have any type of culture in their lives. I’m Bill Barrister, the head of the homicide division of the Los Angeles Police Department”—he paused and glanced toward his immediate left before picking up his explanation—“and the young man who is so impressed with your office is my partner, Barry Jenkins. We are sorry to take some of your time, we know you must be busy, but this is a rather sensitive and urgent matter. Therefore, we need to speak with you privately and we didn’t figure you’d want the press to see you coming to our modest offices.”
“No problem,” Yates assured them. “I want you to know that I always give a large gift to the police widows and orphans fund. I say this and I say it honestly: I admire your work so much that I make sure it is the focal point of many of our films.”
“I’ve seen a few of those,” the captain observed with a wry grin, “and it seems the head of homicide is never portrayed as being as smart as the newspaper reporters or the private investigators.”
“I see,” the studio head said, “I’ll make a note to talk to our writers about that. Now, what can I do for you?”
Barrister wasted no time charging forward. “We need to visit with Flynn Sparks about a rather sensitive matter, and I’d would rather do that here in your office than on the set with a lot of curious eyes and sharp ears watching and hearing what we say.”
“Let me say this up front,” the studio boss cut in, “I know that Flynn can be a problem for you all. I mean, he’s been in his share of fights, and there have been those times when he was driving drunk, but all things considered, he’s pretty harmless; just a man who never grew up. And that report about his having fathered that child that ran in this morning’s paper, I can prove there is nothing to that. The woman is a wacko trying to squeeze some money out of the studio and grab a bit of unearned fame for herself. So, I can pretty much guarantee the man has not done anything horrible. I just wish he’d grow up.”
The captain smiled, “For a man who is so positive Mr. Flynn is not someone that we should be interested in, you sure began your defense with a long list of things he’s done and,” Barrister paused before adding, “that you feel don’t amount to a hill of beans. Just based on your words he sounds pretty out of control to me.”
“Not,” Yates cut in, “in a way that would seriously harm anyone. Contrary to his screen image, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”
“We hope you’re right,” the captain calmly replied, “but could you get him up here so that we could actually get his thoughts on a case we’re working. This might sound strange, but I’ve found it never hurts to actually talk to a person who has some connection to a crime or a victim. It seems your script writers use that ploy all the time in movies. And, in your films, it seems that this . . . what can I call him? Let’s go with . . . person of interest. I like that, I might use it again in the future. Anyway, this person of interest is never really very interesting in your films.”
Yates nodded, pushed down the button on his intercom and said, “Eve.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get Flynn up here as soon as possible.” He let the button go. “You know, you’ve said a lot of words since you got in here that don’t add up to much. Now it might be time to open up a bit. Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
“Obviously murder,” Barrister solemnly explained. “For some reason the department doesn’t get us involved in stuff like traffic tickets or robberies.”
“You don’t think . . .” Yates asked.
Barrister waved his hand, “Are we here to accuse or arrest your actor? No. But as he might have been one of the last people to see the victim alive, we do need to find out where and when that meeting happened and what she was doing when they parted.”
The studio boss leaned over his desk and lowered his voice, “Listen, we have had a long-standing arrangement with the police in this area. They understand we take care of our own. Remember that Fatty Arbuckle thing? The court let him go, but
he never worked again.”
The captain nodded in agreement, “There is an unwritten agreement in place, but I don’t think it covers murder.”
Yates pointed his finger at Barrister, “Listen, Pop, my studio employs more people than any business in town. In case you haven’t looked, there’s a depression going on. If anything happens to hurt our business then a lot of people—you know, just common workers, those with families and mortgages—they lose their jobs. So unless the person murdered was the president of the United States, then you’re treading on ground that could be quicksand for you. If you play this the wrong way I can make one call and have both of you pounding a beat in some town that’s not even on the map in Mississippi.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Barrister noted.
“It was one,” Yates hissed. “And if you don’t think I have the power to pull it off, you’re crazy.”
A knock caused all three men to redirect their attention to the door. A second later, Sparks, wearing a dark suit and white turtleneck sweater, casually walked in.
“I understand someone wanted to see me,” he announced as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Yates, his face stern, nodded, “These men are from homicide. They need to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Sparks assured his boss as he made his way across the room and placed his rump on the corner of the man’s desk. “Fire away, gentlemen.”
Barrister looked to Jenkins and nodded. The younger man opened a folder sitting on his lap and pulled out a newspaper. With no explanation, he handed it to the actor. As Sparks looked at the picture on page 1C, the lead officer posed a question.
“I believe that is a photograph taken of you at a nightclub on Saturday evening.”
Hollywood Lost Page 6