Balgren met with the producer the next week. Great gratitude existed, reward was promised. Wait.
When Balgren called the next month, the producer was cordial. But things were still in a holding pattern. Another month passed. He was invited to dinner in Hancock Park. Dr. Winz was also in attendance. At dinner the actor felt drowsy.
He awoke in an unknown hospital. Where he was an involuntary guest. He had threatened important people with violence. A judge had written a commitment letter.
Luckily, electro-convulsive therapy restored his mental equilibrium. After seven years, he had been released from the California State Mental Hospital at Camarillo. With a new suit and two hundred dollars. Cash.
His name escaped him but he thought it might be Dave.
• • •
I got home to a quiet house. Devi was asleep on the couch.
I let her be. My mind was wrapped up in the Algren script. There were no good guys in San Pedro. If I saw what was meant to be seen. Hubert Hull was Howard Hogue. Dr. Winz was Dr. Wolf. Hale St. Everly was Hale Montgomery. Balgren was Algren.
And if true, it meant America’s favorite granddad, Hale Montgomery, was a murderer.
And Algren himself. A tragedy. In the Greek sense of the word. A man brought low through his own weakness. A downward spiral since the night he had offered aid to evil men.
What was I to do with all this knowledge? I didn’t know. I had three bottles of single-malt whiskey on my desk. Laphroaig was the only one whose taste I could honestly identify. I sat down, poured myself a shot. Sipped and burned.
I didn’t even know that Devi had gotten up.
“You alright, Dick?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Good as ever.”
“I’ve really messed your life up, haven’t I?”
Yes. You have. But life brings what it brings. “Well, at least you did it fast.”
She snorted. “You were supposed to say no, Dick. That I’d made your life better. Maybe paradise on earth.”
I looked at her. Into her eyes and down her one, ornate, Chinese arm. The burn had warmed up my gut.
“I know what you want,” said Devi.
“You do?”
“Yes. Puss told me.”
“Puss? Again? Why don’t you keep her out of it?”
“She called me, Dick.”
Devi didn’t move and I looked back up into her dark eyes. For a second I thought I was falling right in.
Then she walked around my desk, put her hand on my knee. “Why don’t you come to bed, Dick?”
So I did.
FORTY-THREE
Rhonda, Sylvette
Melvin awoke, slammed a few Tylenol with codeine, looked into the mirror. A man’s character was measured by the obstacles he faced. Melvin Shea was a giant.
Qualms, second thoughts, regrets, recriminations. They were for losers. The strong went directly into history, revered, or feared, but remembered. Killing a single man was murder, killing millions was the generation of statistics. Ask Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot. Were none of these men afraid of hell? No? Well, neither was he. You did what was necessary.
His immediate problem, still, was Rhonda. Hogue was still planning the funky dunky.
Obviously, Melvin would have to augment his North Hollywood theater-thug confection. That part worked. That got her to Fairfax Convalescent. Now she had to disappear. Thinking, he realized he didn’t have to explain much. Because he, too, was mystified. After the assault, Rhonda had been admitted to Fairfax Convalescent. But then, a few days later, she’d checked out for parts unknown. She wasn’t at home. And nobody, Mr. Hogue, nobody seemed to know where she went.
Back in the real world. Would someone miss her? Badly enough to call the police? Badly enough to insist on action, demanding authorities go up to the El Royale and look around? Blood and shit all over the place. And where was the gun? The golden gun would give him the leverage to straighten out Nazarian. Fucking Devi. He was going to peel her skin. Evidence of her guilt was the nonreturn of his calls.
Devi, later. Hogue, now.
Helena answered. “Mr. Hogue’s office.”
“Helena, Melvin here. For the boss.”
“One second.”
Music came up to ease the wait. The Eagles. He loved the Eagles. And hated them, too. They were too perfect. Kurt Cobain. The man who’d singlehandedly ended the reign of the hair bands. Cobain had blown his head off with a shotgun. Heard the Eagles were getting back together.
“Melvin?”
“Good morning, Mr. Hogue. It’s Melvin.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Got a little news for you, sir.”
“Yes?”
“One of the Special Talent girls was injured.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Who?”
“Rhonda Carling.”
“Rhonda. I recall the name.”
“You were going to visit her this week.”
“Rhonda. I remember.”
Of course, you remember, you prick. She was blond, eight feet tall, and had humongous tits. Like the other twenty-seven.
“You say she was injured?”
“That’s right, sir, and she—”
“I’m guessing she’s on the disabled list.”
That would be one way to put it. “Yes, sir, but—”
“Tell you what, Melvin. Did you see The Schwarzschild Radius?”
“Uh . . .”
“Five years ago. The sci-fi epic.”
That. One of the worst pieces of shit ever made. Of course he hadn’t seen it. “I’m told it was very underrated.”
“Did you see it?”
“I think so. About black holes.”
“One of the worst pieces of shit ever made,” said Hogue. “With a gigantic Jewish name in the title.”
“Yes, sir. So you didn’t like the movie.”
“Or the title. Especially the title. The Schwarzschild Radius. Sounds too educated. Like a movie about chess.”
Jews and chess. A box office juggernaut. Where was the master canner going with all this?
“Now, don’t we have a girl from that movie in our program? She was one of the ambassador’s assistants. Ambassador to Kroglians, or something ridiculous.”
Suddenly Melvin remembered. The Kroglians had four arms, two livers, and bad table manners. “I remember the girl. Sylvette Walker.”
“That’s her. Set up Sylvette for tonight. I feel like changing my luck.”
“Sylvette Walker. I’ll set that up, sir.”
“Fine.”
“Wait. Make it tomorrow night, Melvin. Sylvette for tomorrow night.”
“Sylvette, tomorrow night.”
“Bingo.” Hogue hung up.
Sylvette Walker was unique among Hogue’s girls. She was black. Well, café au lait. Nine feet tall, gorgeous, built like a ’58 Caddy, and wore a blond wig. And she had back. Way back.
So much for Rhonda Carling.
FORTY-FOUR
Hearsay
I’d called Lew that night, told him about Hogue, my mystery call, Algren’s death, and the gist of the screenplay. The next day, Lew had asked Captain Dempsey at Hollywood Precinct if he might take a look at the crime scene on Cosmo Street. Fine with Dempsey. The murder of a homeless man in busy Hollywood was a zero priority matter. Those few who cared were leery of the law. Everyone was created equal, true, but some, as always, were more equal than others. In death, Algren had achieved full equality with all those who’d ever lived, great or small.
His body had been stuffed between two Dumpsters. Someone had stolen his shoes. The coroner had concluded that Algren had died of a single, vicious thrust of a sharp object from the side that severed his left carotid artery on the way in and ripped out his trachea on the way out. Algren had lost consciousness in five seconds, had been dead in less than sixty. Just a single moment of pain. In the coroner’s opinion, the killing was professional, reminiscent of military methodology. The object was Algren’s death, not his suffering
.
The coroner had also shown Lew the small bag with Algren’s effects. Four dollars and thirteen cents, a pocketknife, an empty wallet with his ID and a library card, and from around his neck, on a faded red ribbon, a strange-looking brass key. If it even was a key.
• • •
I awoke the next morning with a headache, pushed through it. I was meeting Lew at the Farmers Market, in the east courtyard. There he was with coffee and a doughnut. A movie director was holding court a few tables off. Maybe it was Mazursky.
“Hey, Lew.”
“Hey.”
I got the giant glaze and a cup of coffee from Bob’s. The doughnut was as big as a personal pizza.
I didn’t go for personal pizza. Pizza, to me, was in essence celebratory, meant to be enjoyed with friends. Not furtively, alone, warding off calories, sucking baby aspirins.
I told Lew about my meeting with Hogue and my mystery phone call. How I might have prevented Algren’s death.
Lew shrugged off my guilt, moved forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you recognized him on the DVD?”
“I hadn’t put it all together yet.” Of course I was not directly responsible for Algren’s death. I was a cog in the machinations of fate. But still. Absolution, eventually, would rise from within, as the emotional color of the incident faded to black-and-white. The fade of emotional color was what made us human. It allowed us to file away and forget, it allowed us to pick up the pieces, allowed us to love again. The direct grant of absolution was one of the few wisdoms of the Roman Catholic Church.
“Tell me about Howard Hogue.”
“You mean America’s premier can-banger.” I couldn’t help adding that fact.
“Can-banger?”
I explained Hogue’s proclivities. And the extraordinary lengths he went to achieve them.
“Twenty-eight?”
“Could be more now. Could be twenty-nine.”
A very tall, buxom blonde in black tights sauntered across the courtyard, disappeared in the direction of the souvenirs and candy.
“That was a Hogue girl.”
“You know her?”
“No. That’s his type. And those were size fives, Lew.”
Lew stared after her. Stilettos. “How do you know they were size fives?”
“Because you never numerically mention a woman’s shoe size if it’s higher than five.”
“But how do you know those were fives?”
“Because I actually mentioned an integer.”
Lew just looked at me. “Fuck you.” He shook his head. “Let’s start over at the beginning. Hogue called you in to see if you knew Algren.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew him but you didn’t know you knew him.”
“So I was dismissed. Then I went to see Myron. He found me a picture of Algren from thirty years ago.”
“You didn’t recognize him.”
“No. Then, after you came to visit, and I realized who Algren was, I got the mystery call.”
“And yesterday you found Mrs. Algren.”
“Yup.”
“Tell me about the screenplay.”
“Hogue threw a party. Thirty years ago. Hale Montgomery took too much acid and fucked up a whore with a knife. Really fucked her up. Hogue’s Dr. Feelgood was called. They all decided she was ruined.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know her real name. A black girl. Pretty new in town.”
“Then?”
“Then they put her out of her misery. I mean, she was pretty far gone. Her nose was cut off, an ear, I guess. Cut all over her face.”
“Hale Montgomery?”
“High on acid. Woke up the next morning with cuts on his fingers. They sedated him that night. He woke up the next day, didn’t know what he had done.”
“Does he know now?”
“I don’t know what he knows. He may not know.”
“Son-of-a-bitch. What did Algren have to do with all this?”
“He was at the party. Saw the girl’s body. Told ’em he had a boat down San Pedro.”
“She slept with the fishes.”
“She sleeps with the fishes.”
“Why didn’t Algren go to the police?”
“Because this is Tinseltown. The girl was dead. He didn’t do it, there was no going back. He saw a ride up the mountain.”
“Hogue.”
“I guess Hogue agreed to help him.”
“What happened?”
“Algren was put off for a while. Then he was invited to Hogue’s place for dinner. At the dinner he started feeling bad. Woke up in Camarillo. Didn’t get out for seven years.”
“After he got out he wrote the screenplay.”
“Called San Pedro.”
“So the screenplay itself was blackmail.”
“But the blackmail thing didn’t work out.”
“Obviously. If he ended up on the streets.”
“He never worked again.” Not on Myron’s radar, anyway.
“They threatened him with something.”
“Something worse than another seven years in the bing.”
Lew nodded, thought. “So you didn’t know the danger Algren was really in until you read the screenplay after he was dead.”
“I guess so.”
“Then you’re hardly responsible for his death.”
But still.
“I want to read it, Dick.”
“Sure. Come by the house.”
We sat there for a while. In the warm sun. A gaggle of pale tourists walked in looking for movie stars. They didn’t recognize directors. Or real cops.
“Tell me about his wife.”
“Common-law. There were married on Vine Street.”
“You don’t mean a church on Vine Street, you mean on Vine Street.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“That’s romantic.”
“That’s romantic comedy.”
I gave a piece of my giant doughnut to a sparrow. Pretty soon I had a cheerful brown brigade bouncing at my feet. I always threw for the ones on the perimeter. The underdogs.
Lew took a little plastic bag out of his pocket, handed it to me. Visible was a brass object.
“What’s this?”
“The key from around Algren’s neck. Seen one like it?”
I examined it, shook my head. It was heavy in my hand. I slid it back across the table.
“How’s the Nazarian girl?” asked Lew.
“I was going to tell you about that. She checked herself out of Fairfax Convalescent.”
“What?”
“Devi talked to her sister. Her sister called over there. They told her she’d checked in for exhaustion and had checked out under her own power.”
“Is that possible?”
“No.”
“So nobody knows where she is.”
“No.” I drained my coffee, saw that cold anger in Lew’s eyes. The cold anger of a real cop. “I think she’s down in San Pedro, Lew. With the fishes.”
FORTY-FIVE
The Pappam and the Cluddum
Heather Hill rechecked her messages. This was the place. Patys on Riverside, Toluca Lake. And this was the time. She’d been waiting seventeen long minutes. The waitress, Belle, was already looking at her funny. Like no one was coming. Pretty soon she have to fake a messaged cancellation.
Animated conversations surrounded her on the patio. People with connections, using those connections. Networking, hooking up, making deals. And there she was, silent in the field of opportunity.
If this were a movie—make it a musical—she would overcome the odds and her fears and stand up and sing! Patrons would be horrified, laugh behind their hands, but then the orchestra would come in and by the end of the first chorus, busboys would have tossed their trays aside, ripped off their aprons, and danced! The handsome young man under the corner umbrella would have abandoned his fat lawyer, come across the patio, taken her hands, sunk to his knees and sung about lo
ve at first sight. By the end of the song all the patrons would be singing, the lawyer would be nodding, this girl is a star, traffic on Riverside Drive would have stopped, transfixed passengers exiting their shiny sedans in happy wonder.
Then a heavy shower of grateful applause and quick cut to the lawyer’s office, where he offered his heavy gold pen for her to sign her Hollywood contract. The studio heads argued amongst themselves, she’s mine, she’s mine, and the lawyer waved his arms to restore order and then—
“Miss Hill? Miss Hill?”
The real world resumed and there he was. That nice man. Melvin Shea. “Mr. Shea?” The nice man grinned. He had a lot of teeth. Maybe one of them hurt.
“Call me Melvin, Miss Hill.”
Belle came by with that smile and topped off her coffee. “Will you be needing a menu, sir?” Mr. Shea nodded and Belle disappeared. Maybe Belle wasn’t so bad.
“How nice you’re looking today, Miss Hill.”
“Call me Heather.”
“Thank you, Heather. I love that name, by the way.” Heather was such a common name in Hollywood, it could almost substitute for darling. And darling it would be when she was down on her knees. As he guided her by the ears. “So have you decided, Miss Hill? Will you join the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program?”
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. This was Opportunity Knocking. She looked Mr. Shea right in the eye. It seemed he was holding his breath. “Yes, Mr. Shea, I want to be part of the Ivanhoe Special Talent Program.”
Melvin stretched a smile broadly across his face. The Tylenol with codeine wasn’t doing what it had done just yesterday. He’d get the Nazi to write another scrip. Some of those 800mg bombers. “Congratulations, Miss Hill.” He extended his hand across the table. “On behalf of Howard Hogue, who will forthwith have his cock up your ass, and the Ivanhoe team, welcome.” Except he didn’t say exactly that. They shook hands.
The girl began to cry, looking down into her lap, her shoulders heaving. Jesus Christ. Every once in a while there was a complete naïf. Came to melodiate, stayed to gargle. Christ. At least Mary Poppins knew how to fuck. And how to deal with children. Stop crying and sing!
“Thank you so much, Mr. Shea. You don’t know what it feels like to meet someone like you.” She smiled through moist eyes. “I just have one question, Mr. Shea.”
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