Angel’s Gate

by p. g. sturges

  I looked at my watch. I would have to find Algren. Let him know what was up. Get his story. But it was late. And soon Devi would want to sit in my lap.

  I’d try to find Algren. Tomorrow.

  FORTY

  Angel’s Gate

  The Hush, My Baby was a forty-foot motor yacht, a Meridian 391. It congenially offered four berths in two cabins, a large saloon, a galley, and a flybridge with a helm advertised as second only to the starship Enterprise.

  Of all the things that Ulbrecht Wolf had owned in his lifetime, his yacht was the dearest to his heart. To see it rocking gently, serenely at Cabrillo, in the afternoon sun, was to experience true and profound joy. It was to know that God had forgiven him his sins, approved of his subsequent life, and had rewarded him accordingly.

  Wags suggested that a boat owner was only happy two days in his life. The day he bought his craft and the day he sold it. Bullshit. He was happy at least two times a month, sometimes for the duration of a weekend, as he lolled about the boat. With Paulita.

  Lovely, enticing Paulita. Had he appeared weak when he had not revenged Melvin’s slamming her head with the door? Perhaps. But the pimp would pay. Eventually. And she would know about it. Wolf did not take insults lying down.

  Another good thing about the Hush, My Baby was Gretchen’s seemingly allergic reaction. She would much rather day-spa with her friends at the Hotel. The pink hotel. She’d been down to the boat twice. And that had, apparently, been enough. The perfect wife!

  And now, that dismal cargo in the salon. In the long canvas sail bag he and Melvin had carried aboard. Stiffened with a piece of plywood, the bag ushered the mortal remains of Rhonda Carling to her first and final voyage on the Hush, My Baby.

  Melvin’s presence on the boat was an abomination and a defilement. The man oozed filth through every pore. His laugh a grating and humorless bray. His choice of anecdote crude, lewd, and ordinary. And yet, the pimp’s presence was required if he were to keep all Wolf had accumulated over a lifetime.

  It was true. Things unthinkable in one’s twenties became casual articles in one’s sixties. When the end was in sight. When nagging pains became conditions. When love had escaped him, when isolation was embraced with cold and reluctant pride.

  And then Paulita.

  • • •

  Betty Ann Fowler, the girl of whom he had hoped to forget everything, was now beside him. Invisible and reproachful. Hadn’t he promised her that she would be the only one? That never again would he put himself in such a position?

  Forgive me, Miss Fowler. But I saved you from a life of ridicule and pain. From a life of recrimination, rage, and regret. You didn’t have to go to that party. With those hungry men. No, you didn’t. You went of your own volition.

  Remember the horror in Florida, said Miss Fowler in return. I gave you the opportunity to reclaim your honor, to reclaim your soul, to choose the path of righteousness. But, no. When did the Hippocratic Oath become the Hippocratic Guideline? When did the Ten Commandments lapse into the Ten Suggestions?

  When? When that dose of morphine sent Miss Fowler unto whatever reward she was entitled to. But nothing could shut her up. What 500,000 battered women had in common.

  When would Miss Carling begin whispering?

  He would have to kill Melvin. That was clear. Because the pimp would never let this go. Would never cease reminding him of their gruesome brotherhood. Their deathless entanglement. Miss Fowler was a tragedy. Rhonda Carling was a necessity. Melvin Shea would be a statistic.

  The Angel’s Gate lighthouse was now passing on his right. Just minutes from open sea. And safety. What crimes had passed silently beneath Angel’s Gate? Its nocturnal stab every fifteen seconds.

  He and the pimp had argued about the coup de grâce. I am providing the means and opportunity. I won’t do everything, he had insisted.

  Fine, said the pimp. Gimme the shit. I’ll do it. Do I need to find a vein?

  It didn’t matter. Not with enough Dilaudid it didn’t.

  Right before their eyes, she had sunk into death. First a small moan, then a general relaxing of the frame and the face. As her cares, his cares, and Melvin’s cares slipped away. Her breath became shallow, shallower. The power of a butterfly’s wing. And then . . . then that infinitely delicate magic switch was thrown, that most subtle gradient passed, and the spirit that was Rhonda Carling passed out of the physical universe.

  Of course, Melvin would have by now turned his thoughts to his host’s demise. Murder all over his ugly face. Filling with a smirking glee.

  Melvin stood at the prow, smoking his cigarette into the wind. He had grasped the power of life and death. And nothing would ever come close. The god that was Melvin Shea.

  • • •

  It was a clear and gorgeous night under a canopy of diamonds. Again, like that night so many years ago, the body was wrapped in anchor chain. Secured, in these modern times, with plastic tie wraps. They had removed her clothes. Less to identify.

  “She had a nice rack, you have to give her that.”

  What could you expect of him? A last, pimpish benediction. But those breasts. Plainly artificial. Meaning someday, someday far below, they would be released, their serial numbers stamped in eternity. Was silicone lighter than water?

  Some craft in the harbor. Whale watching or harbor tour. Hey! Look at that! A pair of tits!

  The eyes and other soft tissue would last four hours. Then, for a while, she’d be her own little reef.

  He got her shoulders, Melvin got the feet. Heavy. One. Two. Three, and . . . that soft splash. The slight, diminishing musical clinking of the chain. Then the slap of waves on the hull.

  FORTY-ONE

  Sullivan’s Troubles

  The next day I had shortcut work, small stuff, and accomplished it. That night, about eleven, I got down to Dunkin’ Donuts, started showing a still I’d culled from the DVD.

  There were three types of responses. The first, a casual glance and dismissal. Nah. Never seen him. Then there were those who didn’t even look. Nah. All involvement with the man lead to trouble. Been there done that.

  The third type was the most interesting. Body language suggested Algren was recognized, the viewer was startled, the viewer looked at me with a combination of fear and anger, then turned away from me.

  After a while, a group of third types, both men and women, had gathered in the parking lot, looking in at me, gesturing.

  I went outside, walked toward them. The knot dissolved, reassembled in a ragged half-circle.

  “What do you want with Dave, man?” The speaker was a younger man, thirties, bearded. And angry.

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Yeah?”

  Never answer rhetorical questions. “I need to talk to Mr. Algren. It’s urgent. Anybody know where he is?”

  They looked at one another. Almost like a comedy routine. Except nothing was funny.

  “Why do you need to talk to him, man?” The bearded man stared at me.

  I felt that tingle in my fist. “If this was your business, friend, I’d’ve sent you a letter. But it isn’t.” I tamped the tingle.

  I addressed the group. “But I’ll tell you all anyway. I ran into Dave three nights ago. Right here. I didn’t know his name. But someone saw me talking to him and that person thought Mr. Algren told me something I shouldn’t be knowing. I think Mr. Algren might be in danger.”

  Again, the group members looked at each other. A woman stepped forward. I put her in her mid-forties. She’d been pretty once. Had the bone structure.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You’re a little late.”

  “I’m a little late?”

  Nods around the quorum.

  “Dave is dead,” said the woman.

  • • •

  The woman’s name was Hannah. Algren had been found on Cosmo Street with his throat cut.

  When did this happen?

  Last night. Around two in the morning.

  G
ood sweet Christ. While I was in Devi’s arms. I felt sick. Sick and guilty.

  Hannah and I found Jack in the Box, across from Amoeba Music. I bought her a cup of coffee. She had green eyes.

  “What was your relationship to Mr. Algren?”

  “I was his wife.”

  “His wife?” I don’t know why I was surprised. I hadn’t meant to be rude.

  “Well, not legally, of course.” She extended her hand. There was a slim, plain, silver band on her finger.

  “He must have loved you, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “Oh, he did. We were together ten years.” Her eyes were full. “We were married on Vine Street. Under a full moon.”

  “Where on Vine?”

  “Over the star of his favorite director.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Preston Sturges.”

  “Over near where Molly’s Burgers used to be. Near Selma.”

  “Right there.”

  “Mr. Algren had good taste.”

  “And he liked the hot dogs, too.”

  I laughed and she laughed. “Dave loved Sullivan’s Troubles. It was his favorite movie by Mr. Sturges.”

  “Sullivan’s Travels,” I corrected, gently.

  “That must be the sequel.”

  I stepped off the path for a second. “Who was the younger guy, the guy with the beard, the guy who wanted to kick my ass?”

  Hannah waved her hand in a flutter. “Someone who never will. He’s all talk. His name is Danny. He’s a writer, too. Friend of Dave’s. They fought all the time. About Bukowski.”

  Bukowski, the patron saint of the down and out in L.A. If he could make it, from where he came from, from where he placed himself, anyone could. I wasn’t much on his poetry, or anybody’s poetry, but Bukowski’s books were simple and clear, joyful and refreshing. Cold, clear water on a hot day.

  He didn’t fuck around with big words. As a result there was room for content between the lines. Hilarious content.

  His literary opposite, Malcolm Lowry, knew every word in the English language, used each one with painstaking exactitude. His work was dense and heavy—nothing between the lines because everything was in the lines. Much as I admired Lowry and his erudition, I preferred Bukowski.

  “Tell me about Mr. Algren’s writing.”

  “I never saw him write a word. He wrote in his head. I mean, he said he did. People made fun of him; how can you be a writer if you don’t write? But he said he’d put it on paper when the time was right. He said he was writing all the time.”

  She continued, quietly. “He loved me, Mr. Henry. He really loved me. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he did.”

  Which was the only answer to why we might love someone. Because we do. Period. Nothing more, nothing less.

  “Didn’t Mr. Algren write some screenplays?”

  “Just one.”

  “You read it?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “I see.” I did see. Hollywood acquaintances had told me of being urged to read friends’ work. Finally they gave in. If the work was good, everything was fine. But if it wasn’t, the relationship would suffer. The odor of failure and ineptitude would seep in. Like sewer gas.

  “Would you like to read his screenplay, Mr. Henry?”

  “It exists?”

  “I have the only copy. Would you like to read it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  From her Ralphs cart, in a thirty-gallon plastic bag, at the bottom, Hannah retrieved Davis Algren’s screenplay. “Maybe, if it’s good, you can do something for Dave.”

  Me? I couldn’t do anything for anybody. In that world. “If I can I will, Hannah.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Henry.”

  “Thank you, Hannah.”

  She placed the battered screenplay in my hands. “Take care of this.”

  “I will.”

  Her chin began to quiver.

  FORTY-TWO

  Plop Factor

  I rolled the Caddy over to Denny’s on Sunset near the 101. I got a booth looking over at Meineke Car Care Center. I recalled the prime directive of the unscrupulous mechanic: Immobilize the customer. Hence, the dead-blow hammer.

  My waitress brought me coffee and I ordered an Early Bird. I mean Super Bird.

  I felt horrible. If only I’d tried to find Algren last night. But I hadn’t.

  I carefully laid out Algren’s manuscript.

  I didn’t know much about movies. Just little things I’d heard here and there. The screenplay told you the story. The music told you how to feel about the part of the story you were watching.

  And I remembered plop factor. Plop factor was related to the weight of the screenplay; the sound it made when dropped flat on to an executive’s desk from a height of eighteen inches. One page of a screenplay equaled one minute of screen time. Any screenplay over a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty pages meant the writer didn’t know what he was doing. Write a fat masterpiece and no executive would ever open it. Much less read it.

  I raised Algren’s work and let it fall. It fell like an anvil. Amateur’s work.

  Could there be a great 250-page screenplay? Yes. But already, your thinking was skewed. Already, you were thinking like an artist.

  Movies had been created in the vacuum of dying vaudeville. The sole purpose of movies was to continue the enticement of customers to purchase expensive food and drink in cheap, poorly furnished, dark rooms. What was cheaper than popcorn? All you needed was a hot plate and you served your hostages in a cardboard box. Accompanied by a starving pianist. Then, a forgotten Einstein salted and buttered his popcorn to enhance thirst. Which required more drinks. Which lead to more popcorn. The circularity of it all was a revolution and a bonanza.

  The fact that movie stars emerged from this simple, silent formula astounded and delighted its creators. In the great American spirit of hucksterism, academies with wonderful names were created to burnish and glorify the beautiful puppets. And, in a stroke of further genius, once a year, every year, the hucksters gathered to award gold-plated statuettes to the employees who moved the most popcorn. Pretty soon, and on purpose, the lowly origins of the business were hidden and forgotten. The Golden Age of Hollywood had arrived.

  Why the nix on the 250-page masterpiece? Popcorn. You sold your popcorn and drinks before the curtain. Not during the movie. A six-hour film sold popcorn every six hours. A ninety-minute film sold popcorn every ninety minutes. Hence, your ninety-minute shitbird sold four times the popcorn of your six-hour masterpiece.

  My waitress swept in, delivered my shitbird. I sipped my coffee and opened the screenplay. I mean, my waitress delivered my Super Bird.

  • • •

  The screenplay was called The Farmer in the Dell. I kid you not. I’d read a few screenplays people said were great, like Chinatown, for one. Robert Towne, I think. Chinatown did what people said great screenplays did. Whetted your immediate interest and continued to induce your hunger. Because the audience only wanted to know one thing. What happened next.

  He’s your father and your uncle. Wait. That wasn’t it. That was me addressing my cross-eyed cat.

  I’m her mother and her sister. That was it.

  I detected no such cleverness in Dell. It went on and on, from platitude to coincidence. With a few songs sprinkled in for leavening. Then someone robbed a bank. I quit.

  I shut it, turned it over, ate my sandwich. A real disappointment. Someone was upset over this? No way. I’d learned nothing. Forty-three pages were all I could take.

  SAM

  (urgently)

  Stick ’em up.

  After the Super Bird was done for, I flipped through the pages. Then something caught my attention. The font at the end of the script was different from that at the beginning.

  • • •

  The second screenplay was called San Pedro. It opened at a mansion in Hancock Park. Home of a famou
s producer. Hubert Hull. Hollywood stars, important people, servers and servants, whores. Powders, liquids, and compounds.

  Then things went dark. A movie star, Hale St. Everly, high on acid, injured one of the pay-to-play girls. She had been disfigured. Disfigured to prove that the movie star possessed the power of healing. Like the biblical hero he had just played. To statuette reviews. St. Everly walked around, bloody hands in the air, rejoicing. The party was ended abruptly, guests sent home ignorant and incurious.

  God said to Abraham, kill me a son.

  But the movie star’s healing power fell short. A doctor was summoned. An Austrian. Ulmer Winz. A meeting was held. The host, the doctor. The star had been put to sleep with an injection. The host explained the logistics of the situation to the doctor. A lot of money rode on the star’s continued stardom. Professions, crafts, jobs, table scraps. It trickled down like a fountain. The whore, on the other hand, was unconnected anywhere. No family, no agent, no friends. No nothing.

  And her face. It had been cut to pieces. The nose severed. An ear severed. A lip bitten off. Deep cuts in a radial pattern around the mouth. Keeping her alive would be cruelty. Her dusky beauty gone forever.

  The doctor, left alone with his patient, made a decision. He prepared another injection.

  The young woman died easily, vagus, the tenth cranial nerve, slowly losing its power to signal inspiratory neurons in the medulla oblongata. Finally her breathing ceased altogether.

  The producer was effusive in his thanks to the physician. But now there was a disposal problem.

  Into the guest bedroom walked David Balgren. Balgren’s sudden appearance frightened the producer and the doctor as they stood over the corpse. Balgren, a journeyman actor, allayed their fears. He had access to a small craft. Moored in San Pedro. Maybe he could be of assistance.

  His offer was taken up. The craft passed the Angel’s Gate lighthouse and made its way into open sea. Balgren and Dr. Winz consigned Betty Ann Fowler to the timeless deep.

  The movie star awoke the next day in the home of the producer, Hull. St. Everly was naked. He had several cuts on his hands and fingers. He reported a terrible dream. Deep was his relief when he was assured of his innocence. It had been a dream.