by Helen Knode
A CALL WAS waiting for me at the switchboard downstairs. A police detective, the receptionist said; she’d paged me five times. I asked her to transfer the call to Vivian’s extension and ran and took it in her office. I snatched up the receiver:
“Where were you? I had Neil Phillips trapped in Georgette Bauerdorf’s vestibule!”
Doug said, “Tell me what happened.”
I replayed the conversation as close to verbatim as I could. I told him I’d revised my impression of Phillips, then revised it again. Phillips was a tough-guy wiener type: all threats and profanity. I knew Doug would get the important points. I only highlighted two items. Phillips had explained the fight we’d heard about from Mrs. May and Isabelle Pavich. And Phillips had accounted for his suspicious behavior—
Doug got buzzed on another line. He put me on hold and came back in a few seconds. The Casa surveillance team needed him. They said that a black Porsche just squealed off and a commotion had broken out in the courtyard. Doug told the surveillance guys to catch the Porsche. He told me to meet him in Culver City chop-chop.
I took surface streets and beat him down to the Casa de Amor. The surveillance guys were holding Arnold Tolback in the backseat of their car. Tolback saw me and waved. I parked out front and ran into the courtyard.
Up the walkway: pandemonium. It centered around the third bungalow on the right. The entire harem was outside in robes and hair curlers. They cried; they screeched; they wailed for Mrs. May to come help. The noise was ghastly. I pushed through them and vaulted up the steps. An old woman had passed out stiff on her porch. She lay half in and half out of the front door.
I squatted down to take a look. It was some kind of seizure. Her mouth dropped open. She drooled and moaned, “He ... He ... He ... He...”
I got a big blast of alcohol fumes.
A fat foot in a turquoise slipper bumped me. I looked up. The muumuu neighbor said, “Our Dorene’s a binger, honey. She goes on a toot and forgets to eat.”
I put one arm under Dorene, braced myself, and pulled her upright. The neighbors crowded in close. The muumuu neighbor shoved them back and told them to button it. The wailing faded to whimpers. Dorene looked ninety years old and weighed almost nothing; she was a husk. I walked-carried her into the living room and laid her down on the couch.
The living room smelled awful. It was littered with Frito bags and empty bourbon bottles. Judging by the pattern of garbage, Dorene ate, drank, and slept on her couch. Judging by stains, she didn’t always make it to the toilet. So much for Mrs. May’s mint condition Temple of Love. I covered Dorene with a ragged blanket. I was remembering why I hated drunks.
The muumuu neighbor had followed us inside. She locked the screen door and walked over. She said, “I’m Erma, honey.”
I decided that Erma only boozed at night. She didn’t realize she’d seen me twice before.
Dorene threw out her arms and moaned, “Nooooooo!” The old girls on the porch heard her. They wailed, “Noooooooooooo!” and pressed their faces to the screen.
Erma took Dorene’s arms and pushed them down. She’d had practice at this. She found a bottle of bourbon and fed Dorene a pick-me-up. It was the same expensive small-batch stuff as Erma’s. Dorene slurped the bourbon into her system. I kneeled beside the couch.
I said, “Dorene, who is ‘He? Is it Arnold Tolback? Why ‘No’? What did he say to you?”
Her eyelids flickered. She was barely conscious, but her throat muscles worked. She sucked in bourbon, dribbling out of the corners of her mouth. Erma held the bottle steady.
I bent closer. “Who is ‘He,’ Dorene?”
Erma shook her head. “Dories out for the count, honey.”
I said, “Does anyone have keys to the bungalows? Did Mrs. May leave a duplicate set for emergencies?”
Erma dug into the pocket of her muumuu. It bulged with candy bars. She dug around and handed me a ring of door keys.
I stood up and headed for the kitchen. Dorene was a junk saver. She didn’t use her kitchen for cooking or eating: she used it to store junk. She used the oven to store junk, and the floor and counters to store more junk. I kicked a passage through overflowing sacks; I saw logos for Westside stores that dated back decades. Junk blocked the kitchen door. I moved bags and boxes to clear it and still couldn’t get out; the hinges were rusty. I forced the door wide enough to squeeze through and ran up the path, around to Mrs. May’s.
The fifth key was the right key. I let myself into her front room and checked around. Nothing had changed since Monday night. Her TV was still showing the Garden channel, her sandwich and tea remains were still on the table. I ran back to the bathroom; her purse was still there. I ran to the kitchen. The khaki pants and white sneakers still sat on the counter, still stained with blood and dirt. The kitchen door was the way I’d left it—chained.
I ran to the front door and let myself out. Doug was coming up the walk with Arnold Tolback. He saw me on Mrs. May’s porch and stopped. He pointed at Scott Dolgin’s bungalow.
“Mr. Tolback, would you wait there please?”
Tolback grinned at me. “Hey, loudmouth. You make it to Lynnda’s party last night?”
Doug pointed at Dolgin’s again. Tolback shrugged, went up to Dolgin’s porch, and sat down. He pulled out a cell phone and dialed it. Doug took my arm and walked me under the arch. A screen of roses hid us. We heard Tolback yell at someone.
I jingled the keys. “Authorized entry for a change.”
Doug said, “Where did you get them?”
I explained about Dorene, Erma, and the alcoholic seizure. I said, “The pants and sneakers are still in Mrs. May’s kitchen. They haven’t been touched.”
Doug lowered his voice. “I need you to do something. I need you to look around inside Phillips’s and Dolgin’s place.”
I lowered my voice. “I’m shocked.”
Doug didn’t smile. “It’s desperation, plain and simple. We need some kind of a break—”
“Detective Lockwood!”
Tolback. Doug didn’t turn his head. “Yes?”
“How long you think this is going to take? Ballpark it, I have people waiting.”
“Not more than an hour, Mr. Tolback. Probably less.”
“How much less?”
Doug whispered, “Phillips’s and Dolgin’s. Don’t let anyone see you. Bring the keys back to Mrs. Johnson’s—Dorene. I’ll be there.”
Tolback called, “How much less?”
Doug took off up the walkway. I took off around the bungalows to Scott Dolgin’s kitchen door. I found the key, let myself in, and did a fast tour. The blinds were down but I could hear Tolback on the porch. I checked everywhere. I got fingerprint dust all over my hands. Greta’s suitcases were gone; Isabelle Pavich’s purse was gone. The picture of the Thalberg Building still hung crooked, and the blood hadn’t been cleaned up. Nothing indicated that Dolgin had been there since Monday.
I snuck out, around, and down the back path to Phillips’s bungalow. His kitchen door was chain locked. I ran back around to the front. Tolback was busy with a phone call—he didn’t notice me go by. Up the walkway, the neighbors had disappeared. I ducked past Dorene’s bungalow and saw them in the living room. They sat in a semicircle around Doug.
I tried the key in Phillips’s front door. The door opened two inches: it was chained, too. Phillips had to be home. I jumped off his porch and ran next door. I ran in without knocking, and tossed the keys to Erma. Dorene was conked out on the couch. Erma had poured herself some bourbon and served the neighbors from Dorene’s stash. I signaled Doug to come talk. The minute his back was turned, the women tittered. One old girl yanked the curlers out of her hair. Another one found a lipstick and passed it around.
I pulled Doug outside. I said low, “Phillips is home—both his doors are chained inside. He must have slipped by when the surveillance guys were chasing Tolback. What did Tolback say to Dorene?”
“He didn’t speak to her. None of the tenants would let him
in.”
“She’s Silverman’s alibi for that night, isn’t she? Her name is in the Bauerdorf file.”
Doug nodded. “I’ll take care of Phillips—you talk to Tolback. I told him to tell you everything.”
He walked back into Dorene’s; I heard more girlish titters. I walked down the path to Scott Dolgin’s. Tolback was still on the phone.
“...they go ahead without me. I might make it for coffee.... That cheapskate should pick up the tab.... Yeah, I’ll call you when the cops cut me loose.”
Tolback flipped the phone shut. “This is blowing my schedule. I have business.”
I sat down beside him. I said, “Nice suit.”
Tolback opened his jacket and showed me the label. He said, “Armani, what else?”
I said, “The Silvermans have spread it around that you murdered Greta Stenholm.”
Tolback just laughed. “Jules and Hannah are trying to shaft me. Deals are falling through for no reason, people aren’t taking my calls—I got bad breath all of a sudden.”
“What does that have to do with the Casa de Amor?”
Tolback’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...So screw him and the horse he rode in on.... Yeah, call those guys, then call me back.”
Tolback flipped the phone shut. “More people not taking my calls. How’s this for a lead, loudmouth? ‘Jules Silverman—the Conscience of Hollywood—has a conscience for shit.’ He’s a sex pervert and a killer. Don’t you want to take notes?”
Tolback’s cell phone rang again. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...Yeah ... Yeah, I’ll know by the end of the day.”
He flipped the cell phone shut. I said, “Could you turn that off?”
Tolback shook his head. He flipped the lid open and shut for a joke. I said, “I want to hear about Greta.”
“She came to work for me last November, after I started dating Hannah. I recognized her name because Hannah’s nutso about her and Ted Abadi. I shouldn’t have hired her, yeah—but she looked good answering phones and my partners wanted to bang her.”
“Did you and she have an affair?”
Tolback laughed. “I don’t bang losers. Besides, she didn’t sleep around—she still loved Ted.”
“I heard she did sleep around.”
“You heard wrong, loud. She would’ve had more luck if she put out. I told her so but she didn’t listen.”
I said, “Then you fired her.”
Tolback said, “Yeah, Hannah made me do it in March. But I didn’t know the whole story until two weeks ago—I just thought somebody finked on me. I couldn’t do anything for Greta in the Industry so I—”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”
The cell phone rang. Tolback flipped it open. “Yeah?...You’re bullshitting me? That meeting’s been set up for months!...They said that?...Yeah, call her people and call me back.”
Tolback flipped his phone shut. “Jules, that old cocksucker. I’ll strangle him myself.”
I said, “You couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do anything for Greta?”
Tolback laughed. “Greta had a bad rep and I don’t promote lost causes. Hey, I made Lynnda give her a job—I get points for that. Sure I was messing with Hannah and Jules, but not the way they think. They think I’m in on the blackmail. Why would I bother? Because Jules hates my guts and Hannah turns out to be a lousy connection? Please, the Silvermans aren’t the only game in town. They just think they are.”
I said, “What is ‘the whole story’?”
“The whole story is a riot. Greta tried blackmailing Jules a total of, check this out, three times. You gotta admire her balls. The first was in March, with the communist witch-hunts and the old murder. Communists— peh, who cares? That’s why Hannah made me get rid of her. The second was two weeks ago. Greta caught Jules on film at Lynnda’s and sent him the pictures. Hannah kicked me out of the house for that. I saw Greta the same day and she told me everything. Ask me if I laughed my ass off.”
I said, “Did you lend Greta money that day?”
“Sure, yeah, probably. Since I knew her, she was always broke.” So she spent Tolback’s money on her movie marathon the Friday before she was killed. A minor item for her predeath calendar.
I said, “What about the third blackmail?”
“The third was the day of your man, Barry Melling’s, party. She told Jules she found a lady who’d blow his murder alibi out of the water. She told me the same thing. That’s why I’m in swinging Culver City, and talking to you. If Hannah and Jules want to shaft me, I can dig up the dirt and shaft them back. The dirt on Jules is here.”
Tolback’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...What did the lawyer say?...Call me back, yeah.”
Tolback flipped his cell phone closed.
I said, “Greta asked for two things in her blackmail demand—twenty thousand dollars and something else. What was the ‘something else’? Did she want Ted Abadi’s killer, or Silverman’s confession to the Bauerdorf murder?”
“She wanted a deal.”
“For her screenplay?”
Tolback laughed. “Yeah, that farkakte GB-ya-de-ya-de-ya she never shut up about.”
“But I heard she was taking it to Leonard Ziskind.”
Tolback shrugged. “Len and Jules are tight—Jules has money in PPA. Don’t ask me what Greta was thinking. All I know is, Jules and Hannah are trying to shaft me, and I’m going to shaft them back double.”
We heard a door slam and footsteps come down the walk. Doug appeared; he was wiping lipstick off his chin. He said to Tolback, “Do you think you can locate Miss Silverman?”
Tolback smiled. “With pleasure.”
He flipped open his cell phone and punched a number. I mouthed to Doug, “What about Phillips?”
Doug shook his head. He mouthed, “Not answering the door.” Tolback said, “Yeah, hang on.” He handed the cell phone to Doug. Doug walked away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
Tolback passed me his business card. He said, “Let’s do a meal. I give you the lowdown on Jules and you write a big expose for your newspaper. ‘Holocaust Revenge—Jew Kills German!”’
Tolback laughed at his own humor. Doug walked back and handed Tolback his cell phone. Doug said, “Miss Silverman is meeting me in Beverly Hills. You’re welcome to join us.”
Tolback checked the time. “I have people waiting at Joss.” He pointed at me. “Big exposé.”
He walked out of the courtyard, dialing his phone.
I said, “I don’t believe it—Hannah would never agree to meet you.”
Doug nodded. “I told her we tailed Tolback to the Casa de Amor. She’ll show up here if she thinks I’m miles from Culver City—”
He was interrupted by familiar voices.
Doug and I both turned around. Sergeant McManus and Deputy Gadtke walked under the archway and crossed the path toward us. McManus was looking solemn. Gadtke had picked a rose and stuck it in his buttonhole.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DOUG HAD called the Sheriff’s guys on his way down to the Casa.
We stood on Dolgin’s porch while he updated McManus and Gadtke. Everybody kept their voices quiet and I was allowed to listen in. I learned that they’d found Dolgin’s truck a block south of the Sony lot. I also learned that if Phillips didn’t want to answer his door, the cops didn’t have a lever to force him. Doug checked the time as he talked. He expected Hannah Silverman inside half an hour. Nobody doubted she would come.
I asked for the background on Mrs. Dorene Johnson and McManus gave it to me.
She’d moved into the Casa de Amor in 1943. She was nineteen at the time—which made her seventy-seven now, not the ninety she looked. She was a dancer extra at MGM; her boyfriend was an MGM executive. She was among the people who placed Jules Silverman at the Casa on October 11, 1944. Everyone had been liquored up, but Dorene had special status: the Sheriff’s singled her out as a “problem drinker” in their original report. She’d also claimed she spent the crucial hours
after midnight alone with Silverman. She was considered the weakest witness because of her alcoholism. She was also the only witness still living.
Dorene’s “Mrs.” was for show—like Mrs. May’s was. There’d never been a Mr. Johnson, or any jobs after she got too old for the chorus. But she did have a sugar daddy. The Casa tenants all knew it. Someone had paid Dorene’s bills and supplied her bourbon for decades. No one had ever seen him; no one knew his name. The cops figured it was Jules Silverman. They figured that a blotto Dorene was Silverman’s insurance against arrest. Silverman probably hoped the bourbon would kill her.
McManus didn’t know why it hadn’t killed her. Dorene’s capacity for booze was incredible—even Gadtke was impressed.
He and Gadtke had seen her every day since Arnold Tolback revealed the Greta-Georgette-Dorene link. They’d tried smooth talk, and they’d tried intimidation; they had never engaged Dorene in a coherent conversation. She’d been drinking hard for two weeks and her toot coincided with a man’s visit. Various neighbors described the guy: he sounded like Jules Silverman in a dark wig and sunglasses. The cops guessed he received Greta’s third blackmail threat and ran straight to the Casa. What happened then, the cops didn’t know. But it had a drastic effect on Dorene.
Doug checked his watch again. He said we should set up for Hannah Silverman.
Gadtke was sent to hide on Mrs. May’s porch. He would beep Doug when Hannah showed—and stop her if she tried to run. They wanted me to stay outside with Gadtke. I balked and there was no time to argue; I would hide inside Dorene’s place with Doug and McManus. As Mrs. May’s proxy, Erma had given the cops free access.
We walked into Dorene’s front room. Dorene was alone. She’d come to and was sitting up rigid on the couch. Someone had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot but she looked semirational.
Doug bent down to talk to her. McManus said they’d seen Dorene in that condition before. She could hear and understand, but she couldn’t respond. Doug might get a facial twitch if he was lucky.
Doug took Dorene’s hand and explained very slowly what he wanted. Dorene batted what was left of her eyelashes. She loved the male attention; it was sort of pitiful. Doug told her they were there to protect her from Jules Silverman. Silverman’s daughter was due any minute. All Dorene had to do was let Hannah talk. That was all: let Hannah talk. Did Dorene understand?