The Ticket Out

by Helen Knode

  Lockwood and I jaywalked across Washington and followed the Sony wall around the corner. He loosened his necktie while I ran down what I knew about Neil John Phillips and Jack Nevenson. Lockwood had heard it before—I was just hoping to find out what he knew. But he didn’t comment, he listened.

  It was late and there was nobody around. We walked up to the kiosk at the entrance to the lot. Lockwood badged the security guard there. The guy yawned, put down his sports section, and came out to talk to us.

  Lockwood had some photographs with him. They were enlarged DMV shots of Greta Stenholm, Scott Dolgin, Neil John Phillips, Isabelle Pavich, and Mrs. May.

  Lockwood said, “Do you recognize any of these people?”

  The guard went through the pictures and pointed to Phillips. “That’s Ben.”

  Lockwood said, “Ben who?”

  The guard yawned and leaned against the kiosk. “Don’t know his last name—used to work in the Columbia mail room back six, eight years ago. Quit that job to write movies I heard, but still hangs around the lot. Eats in the cafeteria quite a bit—I see him when I’m on days. Kind of a mascot, a fixture, you might say.”

  Lockwood took back his photos. “Is Ben friends with anyone in particular, do you know?”

  “Weeell, I’d say Dick, one of the projectionists. Old guy, older than me, union man, been around donkey’s years. Told me Ben’s always wanting to talk about old movies.”

  It was 11:25 by my watch. I said, “Were there any screenings tonight?”

  The guard nodded, then shook his head. “Locked up the theaters half an hour ago.”

  Lockwood said, “Can you tell me how to reach the projectionist?”

  The guard leaned into his kiosk and checked a clipboard. Lockwood whispered in my ear, “Don’t talk unless I say so.”

  “Sorry.”

  The guard read off the projectionist’s name and home phone number. Lockwood wrote it down. Another security guard rolled up in a golf cart, a young guy. Lockwood identified himself. The guy snapped to, leaping out of his cart and standing at attention. He looked like an ex-soldier or ex-cop. Lockwood showed him the photographs. He picked “Ben” out of the pack right off.

  Lockwood said, “What can you tell me about Ben?”

  The guard pointed to Scott Dolgin’s picture. “He’s buddies with this guy, sir. I see them together.”

  Lockwood said, “Doing what?”

  The guard shook his head. “I don’t know, sir—walking, talking.”

  “In any particular location?”

  “No sir, not in particular. I’ve seen them all over the lot.”

  Lockwood said, “Can you recall anything else?”

  The guard screwed up his forehead; he really wanted to help. Lockwood said, “At some point, Ben removed a large number of boxes from the property. Do you know anything about that?”

  The guard said, “I recall the boxes, sir. That was years ago, after the Sony outfit bought the lot.”

  Lockwood said, “And?”

  “And they were throwing out old papers that Ben wanted. I thought he was nuts—it was just paper—but I helped him haul the boxes away and stash them. Then he brought his car and took the boxes home in dribs and drabs. It took weeks—I really thought he was nuts, sir.”

  Lockwood stuck the DMV photos in his pocket. “Would you show me where Ben hid the boxes?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The guard jumped into the golf cart. Lockwood took the passenger seat and motioned me in behind him.

  We rolled across the parking lot. Lockwood looked around and I thought about Phillips. A true MGM fan would be nuts with COLUMBIA PICTURES on the Thalberg Building, and a bronze basrelief of Harry Cohn on the building next door. Cohn’s small, cheesy Columbia would’ve been beneath the great MGM’s contempt.

  The guard rolled onto the sidewalk and turned right, down the first road parallel to the old studio wall. Sony had kept the MGM building names; we passed the Kelly and the Poitier; but particleboard fronts transformed them into police precincts and clothing stores. The guard kept going until we hit the famous colonnade gate that faced Washington—the original studio gate from the ’20s. This part of the lot hadn’t been renovated. The original guard kiosk was used for bicycle storage, and the two-story buildings were cramped and decayed.

  The guard rolled to a stop beside the old kiosk. He said, “This is called Cutter’s Row, sir. Ben told me it’s the most historic part of the lot.”

  Lockwood nodded and climbed out of the cart. The guard jumped out; I followed him. He started down a narrow alley between the buildings. It was a dump back there; junk sat everywhere. The guard pointed behind a wall that concealed large gas mains. He said, “Ben put boxes here, sir, until it rained.”

  Lockwood and I looked behind the wall. The guard kept walking to a utility shed in an alley beside the Hepburn Building. The guard got out his keys and unlocked the shed. Lockwood stuck his head inside.

  He said, “Did Ben have the key to this?”

  The guard nodded.

  “How did he get it?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “Does he still have it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I believe he has a number of keys, but we don’t mind. He treats the old studio like a church.”

  Lockwood nodded and walked back to the golf cart. The guard hurried to lead the way. We climbed into the cart and the guard hung a U-turn, stepped on the gas, and drove us back to the parking lot.

  Lockwood said, “Where are the theaters?”

  The guard jogged right and stopped. He pointed to the ramp at the near end of the Thalberg Building. Lockwood got out of the cart. The guard fumbled at his belt and handed a key ring to Lockwood.

  “The keys are marked, sir. There’s four you want—one for the theaters, one for the projection booths, one for the washrooms, and one for the emergency exits. Keep them as long as you need to, please. It’s ... it’s...”

  He said in a rush, “It’sanhonortomeetyousir.” He whipped another U-turn and took off before Lockwood could react.

  I pulled Lockwood’s sleeve. “Walk this way.”

  I led him down the curving ramp into the Thalberg basement. I knew all the screening rooms on all the studio lots: this was home to me.

  A very long hallway led to the screening rooms. The office doors were closed and the lights were low for the night.

  I turned down a short hall into the upper lobby of the theaters. The decor was a contemporary version of the Casa de Amor’s Moderne: muted colors and stylized simple furniture. Posters from forgotten Columbia movies lined the walls. The lights in the lobby were on half power, too.

  I pointed out the washrooms to the left, the coatroom to the right, and, down some stairs, the screening rooms off the lower lobby. Lockwood went to check the washrooms. I headed for the theaters. The doors were locked, like the guard said, and I waited for Lockwood to come with the keys. He unlocked and searched the rooms in sequence. There were six theaters, A through F, and six projection booths. The theaters were identical except for decor: deep, cozy, high-ceilinged rooms, with rows of comfortable chairs.

  I followed Lockwood into each theater, around, and out. I turned lights on and off when he asked. He never talked otherwise; I’d noticed that he liked his searches quiet. We didn’t find anything of interest except the personal quirks of the projectionists. One was a neatnik. Another was a Myrna Loy fan: the corkboard walls of one booth were covered with her picture. She was an arcane taste and I wondered if that was Neil Phillips’s projectionist friend.

  We circled back to theater D. Lockwood unlocked the door again and walked down the aisle to the curtained area below the screen. Looping back the curtain, he unlocked the emergency door and stepped into the passage behind. He signaled me to follow him.

  The passage was low and lit by red bulbs in scallop-shell sconces. Half the bulbs were burned out, and Lockwood had to turn on his flashlight. He shined it around the walls and across the ceiling
and floor. The passage wasn’t just bare cement. The floors were bare, but the walls had been finished, and the old paint and plaster were in good shape. Nothing had cracked or leaked, so the passage didn’t have the damp dirt smell of underground places. There were also exhaust vents; Lockwood reached up to inspect a grate. That's why the air wasn’t stale.

  Lockwood stopped and listened. I held still and listened with him. The passage was silent. I couldn’t hear any building noises, no furnaces or water in pipes. Lockwood stepped on a chunk of loose cement. The sound didn’t echo. I imagined a million tons of earth and stone all around us; I imagined the old-fashioned workmanship that went into the Thalberg. Maybe the emergency exits were soundproofed like the theaters. We weren’t that far underground, but the silence was absolute.

  Lockwood whispered, “Stay close.”

  I stuck behind him as he followed the passage behind theaters E and F, to a dead end. The passage there branched off right and left. I pointed to the right and whispered, “That’s the way out. We had a fire alarm once—it comes out at the back of the building.”

  Lockwood nodded and made the left. His flashlight caught a painted arrow on the wall. The arrow said EMERGENCY ACCESS—THEATERS A, B, C.

  We kept going along the passage, and hit another dead end. The only choice was left. We made the left and found ourselves behind theater C. The passage continued straight and dead-ended behind theater A. There was nowhere to go from there. We turned around. Lockwood swung his flashlight side to side as we walked back.

  He stopped and pointed. There was an old maroon door across the passage from theater C. The paint had faded, and peeled in parts, but we could still read the PRIVATE, in Deco lettering. The knob had a brass plate and an old-style keyhole lock. Lockwood checked the key ring. He saw that none of the keys would fit and kneeled down to examine the keyhole. He put his eye right against it, then pulled back and twisted the knob. The door didn’t budge. He pulled harder and couldn’t move it. He ran his light around the frame, looking for obstacles. The door was sealed tight.

  I bent down to look at the floor. Lockwood saw what I was doing and aimed the flashlight for me. I found patches of green fuzz. It was heavy and stiff like carpet fiber, except none of the theater carpets were green. Cigarette butts and cigar stubs were scattered everywhere; they were flattened by age and the shoes that had crushed them. I picked up one of the butts. It was nonfilter and had faint lipstick stains around the tip. The old paper crumbled and spilled dry tobacco.

  Lockwood picked up some green fuzz. I leaned closer to him. “How much do you know about MGM?”

  Lockwood shook his head.

  “In its heyday it was run like a fascist state. It had its own police force and internal spies. They bugged employee offices and monitored left-wing political activity—they even kept track of the actresses’ periods. Louis Mayer had a private elevator that he used to keep his meetings and movements secret. The elevator ran from his office on the top floor to these screening rooms. This was probably an entrance.”

  I tapped the maroon door. Lockwood sat back on his heels and studied it. He ran the flashlight beam back and forth over the whole surface. I watched him get to the bottom sill, stop, and frown at the door.

  A voice reached us, muffled by walls. “Detective! Detective, sir!”

  Lockwood stood up, and we took a shortcut through theater C to the lower lobby. The security guard from before was looking for us. He seemed flustered. He was with an old guy wearing a tool belt.

  The guard explained that he’d gone to disarm the emergency system so that Lockwood and I could move freely. He discovered that someone had tampered with the alarm fuses. Someone had also tampered with the emergency door leading outside from the passages. Lockwood asked the guard to show us. He and the maintenance guy led us back through theater C and along the passage to the outside exit. There was a steel door at the bottom of a long flight of cement stairs. The catch on the door had been jammed so the door could be opened from the exterior.

  The four of us walked up the staircase into the night air. It was more parking lot back there, a high wall and Culver Boulevard. Lockwood asked the two men about Louis Mayer’s private elevator. The maintenance guy, a veteran, said that they’d discovered the elevator shaft in the late ’60s when a wall in theater C started to leak. The elevator had been taken out and the shaft sealed. Its approximate location was the ladies’ restroom next to theater C.

  Lockwood thanked the men and asked how soon the alarm system would be fixed. They said a couple of hours, and took off.

  Lockwood backed up to survey the rear of the building, then sat down on the top step of the emergency stairs. I sat down beside him. He shined his flashlight down the staircase.

  I said, “Someone is using the basement to hide.”

  Lockwood put his finger to his lips. I lowered my voice. “Should I not talk?”

  “Please, talk—but try a different subject. I need to think about this.”

  It was a perfect opening. I gathered my nerve and said, “I wish you’d let me write your story. You really should defend yourself. From what I’ve heard, you did the right thing at the siege.”

  Lockwood was silent. I said, “If it’s because you don’t trust me—I’ll have the rest of the blackmail money in two months maximum.”

  He said, “It’s not that.”

  No, I actually knew it wasn’t that. The signs that he trusted me, at least some, had been there since morning.

  I said, “All right, I’m the enemy and you hate me. But I can still write a great piece.”

  Lockwood squeezed my wrist and didn’t answer. The light was too dark to see his face clearly, but he looked like he was smiling.

  I said, “I can be objective—”

  Lockwood moved the flashlight; he was smiling. I said, “Is something funny?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t about trust or liking. Other journalists have offered to write my side of events.”

  “Really?”

  “I have a few supporters in the media, believe it or not.”

  “So why didn’t they?”

  “Because I wouldn’t let them.”

  “Why not?”

  Lockwood’s smile went away, and he paused. He said, “People who commit crimes lie. I’m used to lying—I’m not only used to it, I expect it.”

  I said, “Unlike gullible me.”

  Lockwood squeezed my wrist again. “You’re a bad liar, baby, that’s why good liars fool you.”

  I flashed back to the scene with Barry tonight. I could do a certain kind of lying when I had to. I’d left Barry with several wrong impressions.

  Lockwood was talking. “In my experience, it’s a rare criminal who isn’t aware of his own lies. You see the pathological cases, sure, the guys who’ve lost touch with reality. But people usually know they’re lying when they lie to me. They know what the truth is, they’re just choosing to hide it. But they can be trapped with evidence. That’s why we have courts and trials—to present evidence to neutral arbitration and prosecute the guilty.”

  I said, “That's the theory.”

  “I agree—that’s the theory.” Lockwood played with the flashlight beam.

  “But the media is a different breed of liar. Criminals have fallen from truth, whereas the media doesn’t seem to give a damn about it. The truth has no power with them unless other considerations make the truth convenient to tell. They run with the herd and call it ‘reporting the facts’—even when the herd changes its mind the next day.

  “I'm accused of many things by the people I arrest, but I don’t dignify them with an answer. If I did, it would give them credibility they don’t have. The media would love for me to defend myself because it would give them credibility. It would mean I acknowledged their charges as something that should be dealt with. But I don’t acknowledge it. People who know the facts know I did what was possible in the circumstances.”

  I said, “Some say you did better than that.”<
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  Lockwood shook his head. “If nobody had died, that would have been better.”

  He realized he was just playing with the flashlight, and switched it off. He didn’t talk for a minute; but he wasn’t done.

  “The media hates me now, and I couldn’t change their minds if I wanted to. I think they hate me in part because they’ve painted me as evil and they know I’m not. It also goes beyond me—this is also about LAPD in general, and Rampart. I’ve been advised to ask forgiveness publicly, even if I’m not sincere. But then the dishonesty would come full circle. I’m not looking for forgiveness or vindication—I didn’t do anything wrong. I want no part of notoriety I didn’t ask for, or an image that the media fabricated in bad faith.”

  I said, “But if you don’t defend yourself, they win.”

  “They win either way, is what I’m saying. If I play, I lose. My words on a page have the same weight as their words on a page. The game is rigged and can’t be redeemed. I won’t waste my time with it.”

  I sat looking at him. There was no self-pity in his face. He wasn’t angry or bitter: he’d said all that in his normal way. And I understood exactly what he was talking about.

  I grabbed the railing and pulled myself up. Lockwood said, “Where are you going?”

  “Home to bed—I’m overstrained.”

  He stood up and stopped me. “What’s the matter?”

  I blurted, “Did the siege scandal change you?”

  I felt the abruptness of the question, but Lockwood didn’t hesitate. He said, “Yes, it changed me.”

  “How has it changed you? What were you before? Did it wreck your career and ruin your life?”

  Lockwood glanced down the emergency staircase. “Let’s solve these murders first.”

  “If I help, will you talk to me?”

  He said, “You’ve already helped.”

  “So will you talk to me?”

  Lockwood nodded.

  I started to clap my hands. Lockwood reached out and held them closed. He said, “I’ll talk to you. Not to your newspaper—