Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  Shelby’s knees grew weak as the color drained from her face, “I’m sorry, it is just . . .”

  “That everyone in this town comes on to beautiful girls,” he said with a smile.

  “That’s still no excuse for my being rude,” she announced. “My mama raised me better than that.”

  “I like fire and spunk, kid,” Yates replied, “and I admire someone with some backbone and obvious morals. It’s kind of rare and refreshing.”

  “Thank you. But I really need to get those costumes to the director. I believe you’re about to shoot the scenes where they will be used.”

  “You do your job, kid,” the mogul agreed. “We’ll talk another time.”

  Shelby nodded before finishing her trek across the stage to where Mace stood.

  “Betsy wants you back at work,” the young woman hissed. “She’s hot enough to cook a steak.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Mace laughed. “I want to watch them film the next scene.”

  Shelby couldn’t believe the man’s attitude. What was he thinking? And why did Minser put up with this? She was still trying to figure things out when a script girl walked over from the lighted set.

  “Are these the costumes we need for the scene?”

  “Yes,” Shelby replied, handing them to the tall, plain woman.

  As she draped them over her arm, the thirtyish lady added, “He might seem nice at first, but don’t trust him.”

  Shelby glanced back to Yates. She shuddered as she realized his eyes were still locked on her. Suddenly, she felt as though the man owned her body and soul, and for the second time in a few hours, she felt as though she was losing control of her life.

  39

  June 26, 1936

  At about three-thirty, the wardrobe department experi-enced a sudden rush of costumes demanding repair work or alterations, so for the remainder of the afternoon, Shelby barely had time to look up. Afternoon became evening and by seven, she was regretting not eating lunch. By nine, when she finally finished cuffing a pair of pants needed by Hunter Nelson for the next day’s shoot, she was both famished and exhausted. Shelby was also without a ride, as her father had left earlier so that he could take her mother to a movie.

  The young woman noted it was a bit cloudy as she exited the door and stepped out onto the street, but it didn’t appear that there would be any rain. But, with the temperature in the eighties, it was sticky. And as she would be walking the mile home, the heat and humidity were going to take their toll.

  As she hurriedly strolled along streets that were now very familiar to her, she marveled at how different they seemed at night. In the daytime, the lot was almost like a circus filled with people and noise, it seemed there were parades everywhere, but now it was more like a ghost town. Her footsteps echoed off buildings and down alleys, and those unfamiliar sounds drove her to move even faster. At New York Street she took a right, thinking a shortcut to the front gate would be just the ticket she needed to escape a lonely and foreboding world where she suddenly felt very vulnerable. Yet, this outdoor stage with its tall facades and dark alleys opened up a whole new set of fears and insecurities. A sudden and earsplitting noise just to her right caused her to stop in her tracks. Quickly turning her gaze from the street to an alley, she noted a large cat sitting beside a turned-over tin trash can.

  There is no reason to be scared, she told herself. The studio had guards, and no one could just walk in without the proper identification. So this empty lot was far safer than the streets outside those gates. But, if that were the case, why was her heart trying to beat through her chest and why were her knees shaking like two saplings standing up against a gale force wind?

  As she tried to gather her wits, she realized she was near the same place where Flynn Sparks had interrupted her lunch and momentarily forced her to wonder about her own convictions. She studied the bench where she’d sat and felt a chill run down her spine. Rubbing her arms, she then remembered the way Jacob Yates had studied her. That wasn’t a man looking at an employee; it was as if he was an animal sizing up a kill.

  “Lord,” she whispered, “I want to be in Oklahoma.”

  Her prayer wasn’t answered. Her feet were still anchored to a street that seemed real but wasn’t.

  She glanced over to the movie theater. The marquee boldly proclaimed the film now showing as The Black Death. As dark as this night was, the movie could have been shot right on this street.

  Her neck was now on a swivel as Shelby yanked her feet from the imagined glue holding them in place and moved quickly down the vacant street. Why had she taken this shortcut? Why hadn’t she just taken the normal route to the front gate? As she rushed quickly by buildings claiming to be a police station, a dry cleaners, and a drug store, she felt eyes on her. Were they real or were they in her imagination? Was there someone here or was this setting just reminding her of the way Yates had examined her on the set? Rounding the corner onto what the studio called New Orleans Street she found herself in a world void of streetlamps. It was as dark as the inside of a closet. She stopped and stared into the blackness for at least a minute. Should she retrace her steps or move forward?

  “Calm down,” she whispered rather than thought. “Three more blocks and you’ll be outside the gates. You’ve just got to keep moving forward.”

  Back home in Oklahoma she’d relished being alone. She loved the nights when she was the only one on the farm. But at this moment, she longed to be with people, even those she couldn’t trust, rather than be surrounded by dark and menacing shadows seeming void of life but ripe with terror.

  On now unsteady legs, she moved past a Cajun mansion set next to a man-made swamp and by a series of two-story, French-style restaurants. Stepping under the canopy of a dress shop, she stopped to get her bearings. She believed the front gate was a block and a half to her left, but she wasn’t sure. She had to trust her instincts and move forward.

  Shelby took a deep breath and continued along the dark street until she came to another corner. She turned, stood on the corner, and surveyed her surroundings. She had arrived at the Western town set. She’d been told this street had stood in for everything from Dodge City to Deadwood. To her right, barely visible in the shadows, was Boot Hill.

  She hurried by the cemetery before stepping up on the wooden sidewalk that took her past a newspaper office, a saloon and a jail. A sudden wind blew a large hunk of sagebrush along the street just before she stepped off the sidewalk and onto an alley paved with bricks. At the end of this outdoor set was a church. She’d seen it from a different angle as she’d entered the studio, so she was confident she was now almost to the lot’s front gate. Taking a deep breath, she rushed past a hotel and general store then crossed another alley and moved quickly in front of a livery stable. A sudden noise, like the slamming of a door, caused her to stop and look cautiously over her shoulder. Though her mind was screaming someone was there, her eyes seemed to prove she was still completely alone.

  “Got to move forward,” she told herself. “You’re only a block from the gate now. You can use some of the money you have to get a cab. No use walking home.”

  Just as she was about to step beyond the empty stable, she sensed a presence. Too afraid to turn around, she dug her foot into the dirt street and was about to push off into a sprint when she felt hands around her neck. Instinctively, she launched an elbow into her attacker’s gut and then flung her arms up. The move gave her the room she needed to break away from his grip and race across the street toward the church. Climbing the eight steps two at a time, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t move. Why in heaven’s name would they lock it? Before she could turn and race for the gate, the panic-stricken woman felt a hand on her shoulder. There was no time to think, only react. Whirling, she brought her left hand across her attacker’s face.

  “What are you doing?” the man demanded as she flattened against the door and readied for a second strike.

  “Flynn?”

  He was rubbi
ng his cheek as he assured her, “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Where’d you come from?” she angrily asked.

  “I was at the front gate,” he explained. “I heard some noise coming from this way, looked up, saw something, and decided to check it out.”

  Shelby flew into a rage. “So pretending to choke me in front of the livery stable was your idea of fun? How long have you been following me? Did you watch me coming out of wardrobe or did you pick me up on New York Street? Maybe you were the person who scared the cat. This is not funny.”

  Even in the low light, Sparks appeared confused. “What are you yapping about?” he asked. “And for Pete’s sake calm down, Shelby. You are trembling like a leaf. I saw someone from the front gate, just like I told you, and then I came down here to investigate.”

  “And,” she demanded, “why were you at the gate at this time of night?”

  “We just finished shooting,” he explained. “I was going home when my car stalled out. I got out and Calvin, the night guard, and I were looking at it trying to figure out what was wrong. That’s when he spotted you.”

  “I thought you said you spotted me.”

  “He saw you first,” Sparks groaned. “Why is this suddenly a federal case? He was about to call an all-night garage to come look at my car, so I told him I’d find out who was trespassing. We figured it was some kind of weird fan. And what were you doing there?”

  “I worked late too,” she answered, “figured I’d cut across the outdoor sets and save a few blocks.” She rubbed her neck with her right hand before asking, “But if you didn’t put your fingers around my throat, then who did?”

  “Maybe,” he suggested, “your being alone on the lot has led to your imagination running away from you. After all, you are still shaking.” He glanced up and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” she bellowed.

  “It seems the only time I get to actually be with you is at churches. Come on, I’m not going to bite. Let’s walk back to the gate, so you can catch your ride home.”

  “I don’t have a ride home, I was going to walk.”

  “OK,” Sparks replied, “but, as you have been scared a bit, why don’t you take a cab? I’ll pay.”

  After the episode at lunch, she didn’t want to have anything to do with the actor, but tonight was different. If his car had been working, she’d have even let him drive her home.

  As he took her hand and led her toward the front gate, she glanced back over her shoulder. Was there someone there in the shadows waiting for her? Did she miss becoming the victim of the same person who killed Leslie Bryant? Or was it nothing more than her imagination?

  40

  June 27, 1936

  Ellen Rains waved at the guard as she passed through the Galaxy Studio gates; he obviously knew better than to stop this woman and ask for credentials. Her chauffeur-driven Lincoln took her to the main office building where she got out of the car, walked up the steps and got into an elevator. A black man, dressed in a red uniform, sitting on a stool smiled and closed the mesh door.

  “Are you on your way to see Mr. Yates?” he asked, “And that sure is a pretty blue dress. My wife would love it.”

  “I am going to see the big man, Oscar,” she assured the elevator operator. “And, as I remember her, your wife is about my size. Next time I come to this studio, I’ll bring this number and hat over in a bag and she can have it.”

  “Wow, that’d sure be nice. She’d be stepping high going to church in that getup.”

  “I might have a few others she’d like too,” Rains added with a grin.

  “Then this will be a nonstop ride to the third floor,” he assured her. As the lift slowly climbed upward, Oscar then politely said, “Could I ask you a question, Miss Rains?”

  “You may,” she answered.

  “I’ve been working on this lot since it opened. I was here long before pictures talked, and I’ve watched a lot of folks go in and out the gates.”

  She grinned, “I bet you have.”

  “I was just wondering if you thought there would ever be a time when colored folks actually had a chance to star in a picture?”

  “The studio,” she quickly replied, “makes a few films every year for Negro theaters.”

  “I know that,” he softly answered, “but I was just wondering if my people would ever get to be in a big-time film playing something other than a porter or maid. Do you think there’s a chance?”

  Rains shook her head, “I don’t know, but I do sometimes wonder about things too.”

  “Like what?” Oscar answered.

  “If a woman will ever run a studio.”

  He smiled, “My folks will likely be playing cowboy heroes and society dames before that happens. This is your floor,” he announced as he pulled the door open.

  “Thanks. Just keep on hoping, Oscar, just keep on hoping.”

  Without knocking, she walked into the studio mogul’s outer office and waved toward Eve Walen. “Is he in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold his calls and see that we are not disturbed,” Rains ordered as she marched over to Yates’s large, imposing door and opened it. He was sitting behind his pool table-sized desk, rubbing his head and frowning. She stopped, tilted her head to one side, and asked, “Do you have a headache, Jacob?”

  “It just got worse,” he noted as she closed the door. After moving to a chair, she dropped her robin’s egg blue hat on his desk. Only after she appeared comfortable did Yates complain. “We have to meet in an out-of-the-way café one night so no one sees us together, and now, you’re just letting everyone on the lot watch you waltz into my office. You are either crazy or the most forgetful person on this planet.”

  “I’m neither,” she assured him while removing her blue gloves and looking at her freshly manicured nails. She held her hand up and asked, “What do you think of the color?”

  “It’s red,” he grumbled.

  “I mean,” she quizzed, “is it a good red?”

  His stare all but cut the woman in half, “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “Fine,” Rains chirped. “You don’t know anything about style anyway.”

  “Why are you here?” he demanded.

  “I guess,” she joked, “into everyone’s life a little Rains must fall.”

  “You’re anything but little,” he pointed out. “Those days are way behind you.”

  “Ouch,” she hissed. She then brushed off some lint from the bodice of her dress before saying, “I visit every studio head a couple of times a month. Check your schedule; this is my normal time to visit with you. And, Jacob, it is when I quit meeting with you, folks will start to talk.”

  “And last night?” he asked.

  Her expression deadly, she spat, “There are things that can’t be talked about on the phone, and after hours we don’t need to be seen together. Not only would people wonder what we were doing, but Constance wouldn’t like it at all.”

  “Leave my wife out of this. Now, what do you need?”

  “How is our movie going?”

  He shook his head, “Why do you think I have such a headache? I found out this morning that the girl who got strangled yesterday actually was in this film. She played the first victim of the Hollywood Madman.”

  “I will hand it to your director,” Rains quipped, “that is typecasting at its best.”

  “I’ve seen footage,” he replied. “You can’t tell it’s her. She doesn’t say any lines and we never see her face.”

  “That’s good,” the woman said showing so little concern that Yates’s jaw dropped.

  “A woman’s dead,” he said. “In fact, several are.”

  “And,” she added, “the body count mounting will be good for the box office.”

  “Ellen, I’m so happy you seem to find sunshine in everything. But let me assure you, there are a lot of clouds you are missing.”

  As she turned her attention once more to her nails, she muttered, “Give me the weather for
ecast, Jacob.”

  Leaning back in his chair, the mogul sadly reported, “Every scrap of evidence that is smuggled in from the police, in addition to all the stuff you and I know that Barrister doesn’t, points the finger to my biggest star as being the real Hollywood Madman.”

  “Which,” she jabbed snidely as she once more looked toward the man, “brings up the question of the day. Do you think he did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Yates admitted. “I mean, the Flynn Sparks I know is a rounder, completely self-centered, and a professional jerk. I don’t think he cares much about anything other than himself and his own desires. But I can’t see him having what it takes to murder someone with his bare hands.”

  “Oh,” she argued, “let me disagree. I think he’s strong enough.”

  “I’m not arguing that,” he agreed, “but he doesn’t have what it takes in the gut. In other words, I don’t see him having the stomach for it.”

  “But he treats women like dirt,” she chimed in. “He uses them and throws them away. To him they are conquests, not real people. If women have no real value in his world, maybe he doesn’t see anything wrong with killing them.”

  “So, Ellen, you believe he is the man the cops are looking for?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she assured him. “But if I were a cop, I’d believe it. Our main job is to find out who did it before the cops do. Then we have to film that ending and get it out on the streets so that Barrister has to buy a ticket to make an arrest.”

  “Let me assure you of this,” the mogul explained, “I’ve got my writers and researchers as well as three detectives working on it. And as they have a lot more to work with than Barrister, they should have the tactical advantage. Right now they’re looking into everyone’s background here at the studio . . .”

  Rains raised her eyebrows, “Everyone?”

  “Except me,” he backtracked.

  “That’s a relief, because I know you have more skeletons in your closet than anyone, and a few of them lead back to me.”

  “Don’t worry Ellen, we are safe. Right now two of my best men are trying to figure out who might have hated the girl that was murdered yesterday.”