The Ticket Out

by Helen Knode

  I whacked the dashboard.

  I was lying to myself and I knew it. Political lesson, my ass. The honest fact was: Lockwood hit Dale Denney for me.

  I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. We’d gotten beyond political differences, the detective and I.

  I started to blush. I wanted to laugh it off—and realized I couldn’t. I didn’t know what I felt.

  ***

  THE DASHBOARD clock said past midnight, but I had no desire to sleep.

  I got my notebook and the car phone, and dialed Steve Lampley's number. He was awake and sounding upset. I asked him one question. Did Greta have proof that Jules Silverman killed Georgette Bauerdorf? Not old rumors or hearsay testimony from abandoned book projects—proof.

  I didn’t get an answer, I got a half-sobbed monologue. The controlled guy I’d seen that morning let it all hang out.

  I had no compassion, he said. I didn’t respect his suffering and pain. He’d taught Greta at Kansas, he was her oldest friend in L.A, he hadn’t slept or eaten since he heard she was murdered. He’d worried and debated and finally called the cops, he felt so guilty, so guilty—what if the transcripts had killed her? I didn’t care about Greta, I just wanted fuel for my career. He’d tried to organize a memorial service for her, but only Catherine Kerr would come, everyone else was covering their butt, no one wanted to associate with failure. Two people in all of L.A. cared that Greta was dead, then I call in the middle of the night with intrusive questions. He bet I wouldn’t attend a service for her, nobody’d loved her like he did, I was a lousy friend, insensitive, shallow, opportunistic...

  He finally ran out of steam. I asked my intrusive question again. Did Greta have proof that Jules Silverman killed Georgette Bauerdorf? Lampley said he didn’t know and to leave him alone—and hung up.

  I started the car and headed for Mount Washington. Catherine Kerr was expert at not answering questions, too. I hoped that a guilty conscience had kept her awake late.

  The neighborhood was dark, but Kerr’s front windows were lit up. A black BMW coupe was parked in her driveway: Neil John Phillips drove a black three-series BMW. I pulled in behind it and parked. I climbed Kerr’s steps as quietly as I could, careful not to touch the railing that creaked. I heard a voice from inside:

  “You’re crazy, babycakes—it ain’t worth it.”

  Penny Proft.

  I peeked through the screen door. Catherine Kerr and Penny Proft were sitting at one end of the computer table. Their end was a postmeal mess: coffee cups, cake plates, and, for Kerr, overflowing ashtrays. Proft had changed her baggy warm-ups for baggy overalls. The air was thick with tobacco smoke.

  Proft smacked her forehead. “Dumb-kopf—you have tenure! Why give that up on a crapshoot?”

  I opened the screen and walked in. Proft looked up. She said, “Uh-oh, Jill Webb! Hide the murder weapon!”

  I pointed at Kerr. “‘A real tombstone in Culture Studies’—who you’ve talked to ‘maybe twice’ in your life?”

  Proft smiled and shrugged. Kerr puffed on a cigarillo. She said, “Get out of my house.”

  Proft said, “Now C. Margaret, don’t sulk. What gives with the hand, Annsky?”

  I flexed my fingers. The ice had kept the swelling down, but the blues and greens were starting to show. I might have broken a bone this time.

  Kerr said, “She hurt herself thinking.”

  Proft’s eyes widened. “Did you just make a joke, C. Marg?”

  Kerr wasn’t her usual self; she didn’t look like she wanted to beat the world in an argument. She puffed on her cigarillo and fiddled with a coffee cup.

  Proft said, “She’s the Hailey’s Comet of comedians. Every eight decades she makes a joke.”

  Kerr didn’t react. Proft said, “C. Margaret is sulking at you, C. Ann, because—”

  Kerr said, “Don’t.”

  “—because C. Greta chose you—”

  “Don’t!”

  “—for her Hollywood running mate, and C. Margaret wanted the nomination.” Proft framed a movie screen with her hands. “It’s an epic saga of two women against an unjust system! Never in motion picture history has the tragic plight of—”

  Kerr cut in. “You little cow.”

  Proft grinned: she seriously disliked Kerr. I said, “Does that have anything to do with the fight at Farmer’s Market?”

  Kerr mashed out her cigarillo and lit another one. Proft said, “It has everything to do with it. Grets had signed a deal to direct her own script. C. Marg wanted Grets to take her along, Grets wanted you. They saw me eating, I swear, a strict low-calorie breakfast, and called me over to referee the bout. I hadn’t said word one to either of them since SC.”

  I sat down across from Proft. I said, “Go on.”

  Proft shrugged. “I didn’t pick sides—I thought they were both mental. Greta had this idea that the moviegoing public was ready for ... How did she put it?”

  I said, “The truth about the condition of women?”

  Proft cupped one hand Italian-style. “Ecco—la condizione delle donne. And C. Marg wants on the Hollywood hayride. Gretissima was her ticket in.”

  I looked at Kerr. “What happened to Michael Powell and the twilight of cinema? I thought the tide was going out.”

  Kerr wouldn’t look at me; she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Proft flapped it away with her napkin and pretended to cough.

  She said, “I told the girls that if I had to do it over, I’d pick another line of work. I wish they’d warned us at film school. It takes a certain kind of woman to suck poison dick every hour of every day and still want to succeed in the business that makes her swallow.”

  She caught the self-pity in the last sentence, and laughed. “Boohoohoo, poor Penny. Overpaid and underlaid.”

  I said, “Did Greta mention Jules Silverman that morning?”

  Kerr sat forward. “Greta knew Jules Silverman?”

  Proft mimicked, “‘Greta knew Jules Silverman?”’

  Kerr frowned. Proft pointed a fork at her. “She wants to ditch academics for the movie biz, so she calls me over for an intimate din-din, then snores through my poils of wisdom until she hears the magic name of Silverman.”

  I said, “Did his name come up or not?”

  Proft went to a stage whisper. “Greta mentioned Big Jules while C. Margaret was powdering her nose. Greta knew C. Marg would do a somersault up Julie’s derriere if she had half a chance. Talk about a ticket in—”

  Kerr said, “Get out, both of you!”

  She grabbed two ashtrays and shoved them at us. They tipped off the table into our laps. I jumped up to brush the butts away; Proft just sat there laughing. Kerr stumped down the hall and we heard a door slam.

  Proft reached for one of Kerr’s computer keyboards. Standing up, she dumped cigarillo butts all over it. She shook the keyboard so that the tobacco flakes settled between the keys.

  I said, “What did Greta say about Jules Silverman?”

  Proft put the keyboard back and dusted herself off. “A lot of wacky shit, man, no kidding—that sister was fugued. Scott ‘The Puke’ Dolgin, In-Casa Productions, the Casa de Amor, some mishigas about the Casa de A and making Silverman pay. World War Two was in the ratatouille, but then World War Two is everywhere since Sir Steven reshot D-Day to rave reviews. Rat-tat-tat, ‘Argh, ya got me, ya stinkin’ Kraut bastids!”’

  Proft clutched her stomach, faking a beachhead death. “Grets wasn’t talking jobs, though, or Oscar-winning movies. I don’t think she’d ever met Jules the Large.”

  Kerr yelled, “Get out of my housel” It was muffled by a door.

  I said, “Is there a romantic angle I should know about? Did Kerr have a thing for Greta?”

  Proft hooted. She grabbed a pen and paper from Kerr’s workstation. I said, “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a note to C. Margaret. I’m suggesting lesbianism as a career move—Industry dykes are powerful like you would not believe.”

  Proft laughed to herself as she
wrote. “I heard Hannah Silverman goes for girrrlz. C. Marg could deploy some strategic poontang and meet C. Jules that way.”

  I said, “Greta slept with everyone and no one, Hannah Silverman is straight and gay. You think your rumors are reliable?”

  Proft shrugged and kept writing. A door opened down the hall. I didn’t wait around; I ran.

  EVERYBODY WAS in bed at the Casa de Amor. The pink outside lights were on, Mrs. May’s TV set was still on, but the rest of the bungalows were dark and quiet.

  It was 2:20 A.M.

  I’d talked to the surveillance guys across Washington. They were more conspicuous without traffic going by. They’d said there’d been no sight of Scott Dolgin, Neil Phillips, or Mrs. May. They’d said Mrs. May’s bungalow hadn’t been searched. And they were sick of the smell of roses.

  I walked up the central path and sat down on the edge of the fountain. I looked around the courtyard. The harem of the living dead. But I’d only seen two of the female tenants up close: Mrs. May, and Mrs. May’s muumuu neighbor who loved candy bars and small-batch bourbon. Either of them could be old enough for my purposes. The woman, or women, I needed would have been at least eighteen years old in 1944. Eighteen, I hoped. They’d be seventy-six, minimum, today.

  I got up and walked to the nearest bungalow. I rang the doorbell; I leaned on it hard and long. I went around the courtyard, ringing bells where I knew someone was home. I leaned on the bells hard and long. I wanted the harem wide awake and glued to their front windows.

  Nothing moved, so I did a second circuit of the courtyard. I gave every doorbell ten seconds. I walked up and down until there were signs of stirring. I didn’t expect them to open their doors for me. But lights went on, and Venetian blinds spread apart. I saw the pale blob of unrouged faces and the glow of cigarettes.

  I climbed up on the fountain and raised my voice:

  “There was a wild sex party at the Casa de Amor on October 11, 1944. I know that’s almost sixty years ago, but I also know one or more of you were there. I want the details. I want to know which of you was there, who the guests were, and what happened at the party.”

  The door to my right opened. The muumuu neighbor screeched, “Leave us alone!” and slammed the door with force. There was a feeble “Go away, go away” and knuckles rapped on glass.

  I made a megaphone with my hands. “I am not going away! Someone here was at that party! Someone here told Greta Stenholm about it! Someone here knows why the party’s important!”

  The muumuu neighbor banged her front window. “Go awayl”

  “I’m not leaving until—!”

  I stopped because I heard footsteps on the path. A uniformed cop appeared in the archway; he was Culver City PD.

  He crooked his finger at me. I jumped down off the fountain. He took my arm and escorted me out to a patrol car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT WAS TURNING into the longest day of my life.

  I lay in the holding cell and counted how many consecutive hours I’d been awake. From 7:30 A.M. Monday to 3:15 A.M. Wednesday: almost forty-four hours in a row, minus the nap Tuesday morning after I swam. The nap probably broke the streak. But it was still a lot of hours with nothing like real rest.

  I’d had drug-assisted marathons before. I remembered plenty of times when I’d staggered around Paris, fried from having sex all night instead of sleeping. But I’d never stayed up this long with no help from chemicals or men. I’d never stayed up this long doing things. I’d been running flat out since Monday.

  I sat up, took off my jacket, folded it for a pillow, and lay back down. I was alone on the women’s side of the jail. The place was ugly and overlit. My bunk was a steel slab bolted to a wall; the walls and bars were glazed an institutional green; the cell stunk of old vomit. I could hear snoring sounds from the men’s side. Two different guys were snoring.

  I’d asked the Culver City cop who squealed on me. He said it wasn’t the old women, it was the surveillance guys. I’d started to complain at him. He told me to relax, no one was pressing charges. They’d notified Lockwood where I was. He was coming to spring me—but it might be awhile before he could get there.

  My eyes wanted to close. I knew if I let them, I’d sleep for a week. I rolled off the bunk and started to pace the cell. I was pacing when Lockwood arrived. The booking officer unlocked the cell door and Lockwood walked in.

  He put out his hand and said, “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

  “I THINK GRETA found independent corroboration of Silverman’s guilt. Before that, she was going on the MGM-blacklist transcripts and the partial Sheriff’s file. The transcripts are just hearsay, and she didn’t know about the orgy alibi, or Silverman’s thumbprint on the lightbulb. I think she stumbled into something at the Casa de Amor. I think one of the tenants gave her something that implicated Silverman unequivocally—i.e., that he definitely did not attend the orgy that night. I think she went to Silverman with the evidence, after she’d sent the spanking picture. I think she tried to use it to pry something big out of him—like the Abadi killer or a confession on Georgette Bauerdorf. That was the second part that wasn’t doable, and that’s what got her killed.”

  I waited for Lockwood’s reaction. He was in the bathroom. I was on the couch, looking at the view; I had a bowl of ice cubes for my hand.

  When he’d said he was taking me home, he hadn’t meant my place, he’d meant his. He lived in an old clapboard cottage on a cul-de-sac near the Hollywood Bowl. The cottage had been updated. It was two good-sized rooms and a wall of windows facing west. He’d hung a collection of crime photographs—gangsters dead and alive. But the furniture looked like leftovers from a lady DA with taste: cushy chair, antique end table, and the leather couch I was sitting on. It was sparse but comfortable.

  I said, “Did you hear me? What do you think?”

  The bathroom door cracked. Lockwood said, “Help yourself to coffee.”

  I got up and walked into the kitchen. The kitchen had a view, too. I poured coffee and stood at the sink sipping it. I wondered if I’d get to bed before dawn. Lockwood joined me after a few minutes. He’d showered, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes. Since I’d known him he’d worn nothing but starched white shirts, and dark jackets and slacks.

  He dropped his jacket on a chair and poured himself coffee. He said, “I’d like you to call in for your messages.”

  He brought the telephone over and set it on the table. I sat down with my coffee, he sat down with his. But I didn’t reach for the phone.

  Lockwood looked at me. “Why did you run out on us? You’re not upset about Denney.”

  I shook my head. Lockwood said, “My partner thinks you turned squeamish, being a liberal journalist and all. He’s expecting a lynch mob from the ACLU.”

  I felt myself start to blush. To hide it, I grabbed the telephone and punched in my number. The machine picked up; I hit my remote-access code.

  Lockwood said, “Put it on the speaker, if you would.”

  I pushed the speaker button. The computer voice said, “You have six new messages.” I punched in the play code. Lockwood stirred his coffee.

  “Monday, 6:30 P.M. ‘He’s out of control because of you, Annie, because of the lawyer-trust fund thing. Today was your fault. He never drinks like that before dinner.’”

  I said, “My sister.” Lockwood nodded.

  “Monday, 6:33 P.M. ‘You have to come with us on Wednesday. He’s here for ten days, and you can’t just see him once.’”

  Sis again. I made a face: my warnings had done exactly no good.

  “Monday, 6:35 P.M. ‘I forgot—you still haven’t answered my question. Why did Douglas Lockwood interview Dad and me? How are you involved in a murder? You can’t be—you’d tell us. Call.’”

  “Tuesday, 4:01 P.M. ‘Where are you? Dad and I are making plans for the San Andreas trip. Call me.’”

  “Tuesday, 7:49 P.M. ‘Annie ... Annie ... he’s... You have to come tomorrow. We’re meeting early....
He’s been ... He’s...’ ”

  The machine cut her off; it only allowed so much silence. I checked my watch to see when I could call her. She sounded badly upset. I had to try and talk her out of that trip.

  “Tuesday, 10:18 P.M. ‘Ann, Barry. I need those reporters’ names you were supposed to leave with me. I want to cover every angle on that pigfuck Lockwood—’”

  Before he could finish, I hit the disconnect button and cradled the receiver. Lockwood’s face had gone chill; the official mask was back on. I leaned toward him to explain. “I’m not—”

  Lockwood held up his hand.

  I said, “But I—”

  Lockwood shook his head. “We have business to discuss.”

  I gave up and sat back. “Business with my answering machine?”

  “I wanted to see who was keeping tabs on you, or if you had any odd hang-ups. I also wanted to see, frankly, if you were running any schemes without my knowledge.”

  “Barry doesn’t know—”

  Lockwood stopped me again. “Did you learn anything useful at Lynnda’s tonight?”

  I sighed. “Nothing you didn’t hear from Arnold Tolback except that Lynnda fired the actress in the spanking picture. Which proves she knows about the blackmail—if Hannah Silverman crashing around giving orders didn’t prove it already.”

  Lockwood sipped his coffee, thinking. I said, “I’m right.”

  “About what?”

  I sat forward. “Look, every time you try to link the murder to the blackmail, your reasoning gets absurd. I heard you with Lynnda-Ellen. Do you really think she hired a second guy to scare Greta? Do you really think Denney murdered her by accident, then pretended with me the night after? I know you’re just rehearsing possibilities, but they’re all convoluted and preposterous when you start with blackmail as the motive.”

  Lockwood sipped his coffee.

  “But if you start with Georgette Bauerdorf as the motive, everything gets simple. Bathtubs, murder disguised as suicide, Jules Silverman, Edward Abadi, Greta, Mrs. May, the Casa de Amor, all the people who’ve disappeared—everything ties together. Have you identified the blood in Scott Dolgin’s dining room?”