Lone star efm-1

by Ed Ifkovic

  “You’re convinced Jimmy is the killer, a bias you’ve allowed to set in concrete.”

  “You misread me, Miss Ferber.”

  “I don’t think I do, sir.”

  “I gather evidence, but I do start with a premise. And my premise, given the scant evidence to date, is that your darling boy is the culprit.” He kept going, even though he noticed I was ready to speak. “And the fact that he didn’t mention this threatening letter to Carisa is one more piece of bad news for him.”

  “Bad character, perhaps; faulty judgment, definitely. But not necessarily an indictment of murder.”

  “I’ve found that behind most murderers is, oddly, bad character.”

  “But not all bad or questionable character leads to murder.”

  “Granted.”

  “Tell me, Detective Cotton, what was all this foolishness about fingerprints? You’ve sent everyone into a tizzy.”

  “We really didn’t think there would be any surprises. The apartment is filled with undocumented prints, but I was curious to see who of the Warner’s crowd went there-more in terms of print frequency than anything else.”

  “And you learned?”

  “Not much. The usual suspects. What I expected.” Again, the sardonic grin. “Lydia Plummer, ex-friend. And I might add, fellow drug abuser big time. There’s a secret for you, which everyone freely tells me. And Josh. Even Sal Mineo. James Dean, of course. Indeed, the most telling: there was a thumbprint on the Aztec statue, but it was a gift from him to her. And its base has a bunch of smudges, unreadable, blurry prints. Maybe the killer rubbed the statue quickly with a handkerchief.”

  “Other prints?”

  “Nothing of your Miss McCambridge, even though she said she was in the apartment. She claims she visited once, sat on the sofa and then left, taking Carisa off somewhere. Tansi Rowland, nothing. Oddly, Jake Geyser, all over, excessive, though he claims he dropped off papers one time. And another surprise. Tommy Dwyer was there though he says he stopped in with Dean. His prints were on an unwashed glass. Dean says no, that Tommy did not go with him. His girlfriend Polly: no prints. What also surprises me is that Lydia’s roommate, the script girl…ah…Nell Meyers, who’s actually accused Lydia, was there.”

  “But only Jimmy admits to being there that night.”

  “And he claims she was alive when he left.” A pause. “Couldn’t you have gotten there earlier, Miss Ferber?”

  “Then you’d have had to solve more than one murder.”

  “Who left the cocktail party early?”

  I hesitated. “Well, Jimmy, as you know. Mercy and I. Lydia slipped out early. Jake left. Not everyone was there.” Tommy and Polly, I thought. Josh. Nell.

  “So we’ve learned. You know, so many people floated in and out of the apartment of a young girl everyone says was a crazy, a drug user. Lydia hated her, they fought, yet she visits, one time with Josh MacDowell. Josh first denied knowing Lydia, then said it was because Lydia did heroin and he didn’t want to be tainted. Nell says that Lydia and Josh talked on the phone a lot. Seemed to be plotting revenge against Jimmy because he dumped them both. Somehow, she thinks, they would use Carisa to exact revenge against Jimmy.”

  “But killing Carisa to implicate Jimmy is rather extreme.”

  He held up his hand, palms forward, then interlaced his fingers. “Welcome to Hollywood.”

  “You’re being very candid with me, Detective Cotton.”

  “At this point, I have nothing to lose.”

  Surprisingly, I noted, he’d seemed to change during our talk, as he abandoned his crusty shell, his testy manner. Sitting with him over coffee, I thought him a curious anachronism, some fugitive from a Charles Laughton movie, cool and aloof. Once he knew his cast of characters, he could soften the edges a little, like a dramatist who, having hammered out her characters, then relaxes, comfortable in the knowledge that her creations will behave as expected.

  Detective Cotton was readying to leave, standing up and stretching.

  “Detective Cotton.” I looked up at him. “There’s a danger here that I might start to like you.”

  “Don’t count on it,” he said, buttoning his sports jacket. “You’d be one more woman I’ve failed in my life.”

  “You’re talking like a character in a Dashiell Hammett novel.”

  “I’ve got to get my lines from somewhere.”

  I could hardly keep my wits about me during a noontime lunch with George Stevens, anxious to get my opinion on some script changes for the penultimate banquet scene with Jett Rink. My mind kept drifting to James Dean and Xavier Cotton and Carisa Krausse. Leaving the meeting, I met Jake and Tansi, sent by Jack Warner himself, the two tugging at my sleeves like I was a coveted chicken wishbone. I dismissed both but, on the spur of the moment, asked Tansi to meet me at the Smoke House at four. I was having coffee with Mercy. Tansi seemed grateful, Jake miffed. But walked to the Blue Room by a chatty Tansi, I immediately regretted my kindness. Full of news, a Homeric Hedda Hopper, Tansi kept up a breezy but tiresome flow of conversation. I did learn that Nell had moved out of the Studio Club, much to Lydia’s consternation.

  “Nell told me Lydia started screaming at her,” Tansi said. “They were having lunch, and Nell waited to the end to tell her. Lydia lost it. She’d just told Nell that she’d had another row with Jimmy, who told her to keep away from him. According to Nell, Jimmy kept saying to her, Lydia, you know I left you weeks ago. Like it was old news.”

  “Where did Nell go?” I asked.

  “I thought I told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “She has nowhere to go, really. She makes almost no money at Warner’s. So I told her she could stay with me until she gets on her feet. I have that spare room.”

  “Tansi, is that a good idea?”

  “She’s a friend, Edna. I had no choice. I’m the one who persuaded her to get away from Lydia.”

  “But, Tansi…”

  “I don’t want her to face Lydia’s temper. I’ve seen it. In Marfa one night, she and Jimmy got into it, and I was down the hall. It was ugly the things she said to him. Well, him to her, too.”

  I started to warn Tansi to stay out of peoples’ lives, but stopped. I said nothing.

  Later, at the Smoke House, sitting with Mercy and Tansi, I was startled to see Sal Mineo and Josh MacDowell walk in, both nodding at us but striding past, taking seats far away. Moments later, to my horror, Max Kohl stormed in, looking beefy and furious in a worn leather motorcycle jacket, with boots and sunglasses, barreling in, scanning the room, then approaching Josh and Sal. We fell silent. Then Tansi, too loudly, said what I was thinking. “Why is Max here?”

  “What’s going on?” Mercy whispered.

  I shrugged it off. “Why is everyone surprised? We all know Max was a friend of Carisa’s, dated her-and knew the others. Josh was her old friend and Jimmy’s drinking buddy. Maybe Josh rode bikes with Jimmy.”

  Tansi shook her head. “Max is in a different world from Josh and Sal.”

  “They all have Jimmy in common.”

  Mercy laughed. “We all have Jimmy in common.”

  Tansi leaned in. “Such a good-looking man, Max is, but too mean.”

  “And now Max is seeing Lydia?” I asked.

  Tansi nodded. “Supposedly. After Jimmy dumped her. After he dumped Carisa. But Lydia still calls Jimmy. Come back, please.”

  “It’s incestuous,” Mercy said, “A small-knit group of young folks-bit players-who go from one to another, looking for love.”

  “They experiment.”

  I looked at Tansi. “That’s curious. Both Tommy and Josh said that about Jimmy-that he experiments with people. He uses them up.”

  Mercy added, “Well, in Hollywood people move into your life and then disappear, especially the penny-ante contract players.”

  I stared at the three men. Sal Mineo, boyish, dark, pretty, always nervous, and a little weary; looking as though he were biding his time, waiting for direction; h
anging with friends he’d gladly dismiss when others-livelier, more thrilling-came his way. Josh, effete and pale, as long as a string bean and as supple, eyes darting around the room, searching, resting back possessively on Sal and then, unhappily, on Max. Josh, now smiling through brilliant teeth, then biting a ridge of nail, anxious. And Max Kohl, hairy, bulky, a blunt crew cut; sweaty, undeniably good looking; sensual, fleshy nighttime biker, in love with speed and darkness. Carisa’s ex-boyfriend. Lydia’s current flame, maybe. A man who, straddling a chair, seemed to be telling Josh and Sal a mesmerizing story, one they weren’t happy to hear, because they were rigid, attentive. Then, as abruptly as he entered, Max left, but not before rapping on the table with his knuckles, emphasizing a point. Heads turned to watch the swagger and thrust of his body as it moved out the door.

  “Well,” I said, finally. “Not happy, that one.”

  Tansi looked puzzled. “I wonder what…”

  Suddenly Josh and Sal were leaving. Mercy spoke up. “Max looked like he was threatening you two.”

  Sal’s voice was breathy. “Scary man. I don’t know him.”

  Josh cleared his throat. “I do, through Carisa. I warned her about him. But she liked him. Jimmy liked him. Jimmy didn’t know him. He just likes anybody who rides a bike.”

  “What was that all about?” Tansi asked Josh.

  Josh was antsy now. “Somehow he heard that I, he says it was me, told the cops he supplied Carisa and Lydia with heroin. Everyone knows about the drugs. I wasn’t the only one who knew that. But he thinks Cotton will pin Carisa’s murder on him.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  Josh blanched. “He told me to keep my mouth shut. About the drugs. Cotton’s looking to connect Jimmy to the murder, but I guess he’ll settle for Max. Max, well…Max never liked me.”

  “Why?” From Tansi.

  Josh arched his eyebrows, shook his head, snickered. He threw back his shoulders, asserting himself, but purposely creating a classic Hollywood gesture of the dandified character. Or an exaggerated Joan Crawford dismissal. “You figure it out, my dear,” he said, and walked away. Sal, smiling sheepishly, followed him.

  Liz Taylor sent me roses, out of the blue, with a note that simply said thank you for everything. The everything was underlined. I wasn’t certain what I was being thanked for, though I suspect people generally and routinely thank rich and famous people. Out of habit. People think it’s one of the rules. But Liz was rich and famous, so I sought her out to thank her. Frankly, I had the feeling somehow her odd note-I did appreciate the crisp thick cream paper, with the monogram ET embossed in silver-related to Jimmy’s dilemma. But Tansi had told me that Liz avoided the topic, uncomfortable. I caught up with her in makeup. A quick touch up, she mumbled, nodding toward the young man working on her eyes. He hovered and bent and squinted and sighed, Leonardo dabbing a miniscule speck of burnt umber on the Mona Lisa. Next to her, reviewing a spiral notebook filled with notes, a young woman was mechanically listing obligations and meetings, photo shoots. Liz seemed to be paying her no mind, smiling at me. I walked near. I thanked her for the flowers.

  “Thank you,” she said, grinning. “You flew all that way to be with us.”

  I realized I rarely saw her alone-never, really. There was always someone pulling at her sleeve, whispering in her ear, or, in this case, making those violet eyes even more luminous. She turned to the young woman, who was prattling in a singsong tone. “Laura, enough. Later.” But Laura, momentarily intoxicated with her recital, kept talking. Liz lost the smile. “Enough, I said. Later.” Loud, sharp. Laura faltered, and stood back. Liz looked back at me, the face again wreathed in smiles. “I do hate yelling at people.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Oddly, it’s what I like doing best.”

  But I could see her glance at Laura, who stood there, eyes unblinking, waiting to resume her catalogue of activity.

  “You’re always surrounded by people,” I observed.

  She shook her head. “I started in this business when I was a child. A danger, really. I learned that pouting got me attention.” She grinned. “The truth is that now I’m grown up, and I find it still works. It’s hard to let go of something that works.” She glanced at Laura. “I can say anything and people accept it. You know how pretty little schoolgirls are.” For a second she seemed unhappy with her own words, as if someone suddenly shoved her in front of a mirror and she didn’t like what she saw. She shut her eyes. When she opened them, the confusion was gone. “I’m being foolish.”

  I was impatient. “Have you talked to Jimmy?”

  She seemed surprised. “Why?”

  I glanced at Laura and the makeup artist, and Liz followed my glance. Worry settled over her features. “Laura, Charles, darlings, a minute alone with Miss Ferber.” The two disappeared.

  “Miss Ferber, I heard you’re working behind the scenes on that unfortunate business.”

  “The murder?”

  Liz squinted and checked her eyes in the mirror. “Of course, Jimmy had nothing to do with that. You really needn’t bother yourself.”

  “How do you know?”

  Her face became a canvas of little-girl smugness. “Really, now. Jimmy Dean? He’s so…sweet. A little madcap, insane, a little boy jumping up and down and saying look-at-me; but really, it’s all foolishness.”

  “The police might think otherwise.”

  “Of course, they won’t.”

  “Miss Taylor…”

  “Liz…”

  “Miss Taylor, you seem sure of this.”

  “Jack Warner assured me it’ll all be okay.”

  “He did?”

  “He takes care of everything. He called and told me not to speak of it with reporters. Well, I’ve been in this business forever. I wouldn’t dare. He talks to me like I’m a scattered child.” She dabbed at a hint of powder under her left eye. “Jack is sort of infatuated with me, I’m afraid. And men who are infatuated with me make the mistake of thinking I’m not very bright.”

  “But you might be a little naive when it comes to Jimmy.”

  She held up her hand. “Really, no. Jimmy will be just fine.” She stood up. “I have to run.” She touched me on the wrist. “Again, thank you.”

  I still didn’t know what I was being thanked for.

  I planned on sleeping early that night. Yet I dawdled, sitting by the window in my suite, still dressed in the outfit I’d worn to dinner with a couple of Broadway producers visiting L.A. for a week. They’d insisted on dining with me at La Rue’s, followed by a night of Symphonies under the Stars at the Hollywood Bowl. It hadn’t been unpleasant, but tiring. So now, dark L.A. beneath me, with streams of headlights on the boulevard, a slight night wind rustling the tops of the palms I looked down on, I resisted bed, because I knew I’d not be able to sleep. A glass of chilled wine, barely touched, and a desire for a cigarette. What was with me? Earlier I’d taken one of Tansi’s cigarettes, and then one of Mercy’s. I started feeling guilty about appropriating them, and that did not make me happy. I was used to having one rare cigarette, maybe at the end of a good day of writing. A cocktail and one cigarette. One, just one. Maybe once a week. That’s it. Now I was plundering Tansi’s and Mercy’s packs. How ridiculous!

  The phone rang.

  “It’s Jimmy.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In your lobby.”

  “Why?”

  “Come down. Please.”

  “It’s late.”

  “No, it isn’t.” A pause. “Come down.”

  I protested, but emptily. I wanted to see him. I threw on a jacket over my dress, grabbed my clutch, and met him in the lobby. A cigarette in his mouth, the first thing I spotted. His image, which he’d never relinquish.

  “What is it, Jimmy?”

  Surprisingly, he drew his face close to mine, and I smelled the rich tang of tobacco, the trace of whiskey. Not heavy, but there. And something else: a raw, almost earthy smell; sweat, dirt. A farm boy’s smell. “Come on. Outs
ide.”

  “Jimmy,” I said, hurriedly, afraid he’d slip away. “I have to ask you something.” He looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell Detective Cotton you wrote that nasty letter to Carisa? Why did you hide that fact from him? Do you know how it makes you look?”

  He didn’t answer, just shrugged.

  Frustrated, I wanted to ask him again, more loudly this time, but I sensed he wouldn’t answer.

  Outside he pointed to his fancy sports car. I didn’t know cars. What was it? An MG? A Porsche? Some slick little convertible, glistening under the overhead lights. Sitting there, poised, at the ready, a doorman admiring it. He opened the passenger door, bowed. “Please.” He motioned me into the car. “See how it feels.”

  Reluctantly, I slid into the plush, deep seat, sunk in low, felt immediately foolish, and tremendously old. He jumped in, boyish, turned the key, slipped the sleek, expensive vehicle into gear. I tapped him on the wrist. “Wait, Jimmy. I can’t do this. Where are we going? Stop.” It was night; it was chilly; it was late. I was…well, I was Edna Ferber, septuagenarian, playing sidekick to a hot rodder. Dragster. Rebel. Part of his wolf pack.

  He stopped. Reaching behind, he grabbed a thick wool blanket and quietly wrapped it around my shoulders, my neck. I started to say something, but he whispered, “Ssshhh! You’ll spoil it.” And then he found a scarf, draped it over my hair and around my neck, and tied it snugly under my chin. His deft fingers moved quickly, and I found myself enthralled by his movements, his touch, his gentleness.

  “I’m too old for joyriding.”

  A raspy cigarette voice. “You’re not. You know you’re not.”

  Secured, I sat there, and he sailed off. Down the boulevards, around corners, up the steep roads into the Hollywood Hills, speeding, speeding, the car edging near dark borders of eucalyptus, bowers of bougainvillea, boxed hedges. Speeding, speeding; the car sailing into air that seemed blue and smoky, headlights beaming on distant trees and roads that suddenly were behind me. I closed my eyes, frightened, then relaxed. It was as though his body and his mind were part of the well-oiled smooth machine-a oneness, I told myself. Nothing bad would happen to me, impossible. On and on, up into the shadowy hills, blazing around the hairpin corners, the occasional car ahead soon left behind. Approaching cars were small dots of yellow enlarging into moon-wide bursts of light that suddenly disappeared behind us. And then, seeming not to break speed, he stopped, spun the car downward, and we sat on the edge of a hill, a wooded, thick land, and below me spread nighttime L.A., blocks of light and blackness set against low-hung blotchy clouds in an indigo sky. I heard the hum of an airplane, far above, and saw the flickering of some aerial lights in the distance. Down below, L.A. was a gem to be swallowed, white, delicate, awful, yet magnetic.