“It’s Errol, everybody says that. Errol …”
“Flynn?”
“Leon.”
“Oh, Mr. Benson …”
“You know, Margo, you smell wonderful. Don’t ever change that.”
“Why, thank you.”
“But Mr. Benson has got to keep moving.”
“Even your voice.” She put her glasses on. “It’s funny …”
“It’s a small world,” he said, closing the door behind him.
9
CHALLIS WALKED ACROSS SUNSET TO the Hamburger Hamlet next to Schwab’s. It was chilly, and the rain surged in the gutters, coming down out of the hills above Sunset. From the look of things, there would be no joy in Trousdale Estates tonight. It was that odd, depressing hour of the late afternoon, and the constant rain was blowing as the wind picked up, curling around the collar of his spotless raincoat and wetting his neck. He bought the late edition of the Times and sat in the outdoor section facing the street, the heating elements overhead glowing red, and ordered coffee. He kept his raincoat on, watched the traffic, and wondered what Ollie had meant when he said being an invisible man had its own dangers, too, old man. Invisibility struck him as the one crucial advantage in doing what he had to do—a requirement, actually. But some antecedent of Kreisler’s remark echoed in the back of his mind, just out of reach. …
His thoughts were wandering when he noticed Margo, wearing a chic belted trench coat and a matching rain hat, bending into the storm and coming across the street toward him. She swept the sidewalk café with her eyes and passed out of his vision when she entered the restaurant. He hunched over his coffee and studied the front-page stories about the continuing storm damage. Had she seen him? Had she somehow recognized him? The way she had looked at him … What the hell was she doing in a Hamburger Hamlet, anyway? From the corner of his eye he saw her being ushered into the outdoor section. Linda Ronstadt’s home was in danger of being washed into the Pacific, but she said she wasn’t leaving, she was going to fight it out. Game girl. She was a neighbor of his; she had, in fact, provided him with some of his nicest impure reveries. Margo was seated against the wall, where she could watch him; he had to contort himself to keep her at the edge of his vision. Butterflies were turning into killer bees in his stomach, and the fear of recognition made him sweat. Why didn’t she say something? What was the silent surveillance in aid of? His coffee was cold and growing a provocative white scum; he stirred it, turning the scum to chunks. She was still watching him. He wanted to leave but felt paralyzed. A waitress brought her a Bloody Mary. He waited. He was buried deep in the paper, the story simply noting that searchers were still seeking the wreckage of the plane. No picture, and his name mentioned only once. Tomorrow morning it would be different, and he shrank at the thought. She was still watching him.
Fog was blowing down out of the hills. The traffic lights on Sunset were blurring, growing larger, like balloons inflating. A tall man strode briskly up to the railing and waved vigorously. “Margo, it’s me … Margo, over here.” He was laughing. “For God’s sake, honey, put on your glasses.” He shook his head and made for the entrance. Challis sighed, stood up, folded his newspaper, and looked directly at Margo, who was fumbling with her purse, retrieving her glasses. Then he walked past her, made way for her date at the door, and went back to the pay telephone.
“Good afternoon, the Times,” the lady said.
“Editorial, please.”
“Editorial,” another voice said.
“Pete Schaeffer,” he said. The restaurant was dark, purveyed a burnished oxblood look that jarred with its name. The tables were filling, and the business at the bar looked good; he wondered if he’d see anyone he knew. He almost looked forward to the next test, but the tension in his stomach wouldn’t go away.
“Schaeffer here.”
Challis took a deep breath that turned out to be a shallow breath because nerves were constricting his chest, making him feel and sound like a man who pants into the telephone. “Pete, you’re not going to believe this …”
Ten minutes later Pete Schaeffer acknowledged that he was convinced. “Jesus, Toby,” he whispered, “we just sent another guy to Cresta Vista to look for you. The betting down here is that you wandered away in a daze and probably drowned in Little Fawn Lake. The last stiff they found in Little Fawn Lake was Muriel Chess … or was it Derace Kingsley’s wife? I forget. That was back in the forties—anyway, you’re not in the lake. Look, I’m going to go put a couple hundred on your surviving, okay?”
“Make it four hundred,” Challis said. “I deserve a piece of the action.”
“Shit yes—hey, when are you going to give yourself up?”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. Anybody but the mountain lady know you’re alive?”
“Kreisler.”
“Don’t tell me—he said he’d get you top dollar at Universal for your story and National Inquirer serialization rights?”
“He was very nice about everything, nothing like that.”
“Then call Lazar … call Scott Meredith. This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.”
“Pete, this situation has its serious side …”
“I know, I know, but you mustn’t be such a sobersides. What do you want from me, anyway?” Schaeffer’s high voice almost got lost somewhere behind his forehead when he whispered.
“I’ve got some questions. I need some advice. Meet me somewhere …”
“Listen, I told you when you married Goldie, what did I say? I’ll tell you, I said don’t come crying to me if it doesn’t work out, and it didn’t work out, and here you are, crying to me. Meet me at Pink’s, we’ll have a chili dog, and I promise not to bring the cops. I can’t get away for a while—say, eight o’clock. What do you look like?”
“Clean raincoat and a half-assed tan. No beard.”
“Ugh.”
He walked back to the parking garage. The fog was thicker, and traffic was crawling, blocking the intersection each time the light changed. He nearly ran over a man who loomed unexpectedly out of the fog, stepped obliviously into the path of the Mustang. Until the final, almost fatal moment, the man in the fog had been invisible.
And it occurred to him what Ollie Kreisler had meant. It was something from Harry Dyer’s old movie about the man in the fog. Somebody, Zachary Scott maybe, had said that a man in the fog was invisible, and somebody else, probably Geraldine Fitzgerald, had said that an invisible man, a man who was believed dead, was the easiest man in the world to murder. No one can die twice. Challis was surprised that it had taken him so long to remember it. “Sweet Lorraine” had been the song from that picture: Lorraine had been the killer and also Harry Dyer’s wife. A tidy little in joke for the family and friends. And now Morgan Dyer played the theme song on tape, at home, in the Mercedes. Challis smiled to himself. Life was a movie. Out here, anyway, he thought, if no place else.
He worked the Mustang onto Sunset and headed east along the rain-blunted, sadly gaudy Strip. Pat Collins the Hip Hypnotist still turning people into chickens in front of their families, still at it after all these years, babbling along underneath the blond beehive … Filthy McNasty’s … the Dirty Grunts live at the Roxy, one week only … Dino’s, the restaurant that grew famous on the old television show 77 Sunset Strip … used cars, a thousand restaurants … Cyrano’s, where Goldie had thought the waiter faking French was so cute … Roy’s for six-hundred-year-old chicken, and Butterfield’s, where you ate quiche and fruit salad in the sunshine. Up in the hills, all the houses clung to the rain-soaked mud, trying not to begin the long sorry slide into their neighbors’ backyards, the houses on stilts with rain running anxiously across the patios and making tiny, destructive little rivers weakening the underpinning of the Hollywood Hills … in the houses you could hear the occasional creak as the timbers pulled and the rain beat incessantly on the rooftops. Somewhere up there, Morgan Dyer was listening to Sidney Bechet’s “Sw
eet Lorraine.”
Eddie’s ragtop had a small tear that let the rain draw a bead on the back of the seat just behind Challis’ head. The rain bounced in a steady drumbeat off the hood, and the wipers made it almost impossible to see. He drove slowly: an accident on Sunset Boulevard was not on the agenda. Finally he pulled off and drove a couple of blocks to Santa Monica, drove back west, and parked in the Tropicana Motel parking lot. Inevitably he saw Tom Waits standing in the doorway of the office, watching the rain slam angrily into the lot. He was wearing a cap, a plaid shirt, and a black suit from the Salvation Army. Challis could almost smell the booze on the suit.
He turned the radio on. The Lakers were playing in New York at the Garden, and Chick Hearn sounded pissed off. Chick Hearn always sounded pissed off, though, and the Lakers were winning. At the half there was a news broadcast that brought it all up-to-date.
“The wreckage of a State of California light plane carrying convicted murderer Toby Challis to prison, lost in the mountain storms of four days ago, has been found in an uninhabited area about fifteen miles from Little Fawn Lake and the village of Cresta Vista. The crew of two, a guard, and another prisoner on board have all been found dead in the wreckage, and names are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. However, the search party, headed by Sheriff Jeff Billings, reports that the body of Challis has not—repeat, has not—been found. Sheriff Billings had this to say …” There was a slight wait, followed by a transmission full of static: “Challis’ body is not in the plane or in the immediate area. It’s snowing up here now, but we’ve got twenty-five men and we’re going to be searching all night. He’s probably injured and somewhere in the vicinity. No, there are no weapons missing from the plane, but we have to consider the man dangerous. We figure to have him in custody by tomorrow morning sometime. Or at least we hope to have found his body … it would be mighty tough trying to survive up here in the cold, without food, for this long a time.” The static ended and the announcer said: “Stay tuned for fast-breaking news on this, your Los Angeles Laker radio station.” They went to a commercial, and Challis switched to another frequency.
“ … and Sheriff Billings has warned all the residents of Puma Point and Cresta Vista and the Little Fawn Lake area to lock up for the night, not let anyone in, and notify the Cresta Vista sheriff’s office if they spot anyone who might be Toby Challis. He is tall, bearded, with dark hair, and may be injured and disoriented. Stay at this spot on the dial for any further developments.” Challis tuned in another station, heard a much clearer broadcast of Sheriff Billings’ voice as he was interviewed.
“Well, Bob, one thing we can be thankful for is that we found those kids who were lost up here. Who knows what might have happened if Challis and the children had run into one another?” He turned back to the second half of the Lakers game and dozed off and on until it was over, his brain partially conscious and worrying about what was going to happen. The rain seemed to calm him.
At ten minutes before eight he drove to Pink’s hot-dog stand near the corner of Melrose and LaBrea. He parked behind the shoe store next door. There were six people waiting in line, half-unconscious from the smell of the chili and onions. The rain dripped over them, and behind the open counter the regulars were dishing up the victuals, pouring the frozen blocks of chili into the stainless-steel vats, tweezing the paper-wrapped tamales from the steamer, inserting the thick red weiners into the buns and ladling the dense chili over them.
Pete Schaeffer had just arrived, stood towering over the end of the line like an exclamation point. He was six and a half feet tall with huge feet like the pieces of flat, flapping cardboard that kept balloon men from tipping over. He’d once been a collegiate basketball player, and he had the typical round shoulders; beneath his crumpled, stained rain hat was a high dome of freckled forehead, thinning red wisps of hair that filled out beneath the tops of his ears and shambled off disconsolately over his shirt collar. He wore a terrible cheap plaid shirt, crummy old corduroy pants, and muddy sneakers as he stood in the rain. His small blue eyes had the faded, worried tint of a middle-aged man who wore his years uncomfortably, like a cheap suit that was too small. The sleeves of his shirts, in fact, were always too short, giving him the look of a man who had just been tacked up on a wall by the label in the collar. Like every writer in Greater Los Angeles, he was working on a TV pilot; what made him different was that he’d sold two, one of which had run four years and made him quite a lot of money. On Pete Schaeffer, however, the money didn’t show. “Hey, man,” he said in his high nasal tone, “I’d have known you anywhere.”
“Don’t say that,” Challis said. “How’s Joyce?” In the line waiting, small talk gurgled like the rain in the gutters.
“Well, she’s into M and G now,” Schaeffer said. His ears stood out like jug handles beneath the brim of the spotted rain hat. “Still living in, if that’s what you mean.”
“What’s M and G?”
“Moans and groans, asshole. She does voice-overs for porn movies … you know, ooh, aah, ugh, grunt, squeal, all that stuff. Take that away from those pieces of crap, and what have you got?”
“Movies of people fucking and sucking.”
“Well, sure, but the voice-over is important. This morning she had a real crisis, the guy she was working with had an accident on the Harbor Freeway and didn’t show … so Joyce had to do both the man and the woman. I mean, that’s a strain, baby cakes.” He had reached the long counter. “Two chili dogs and an orange drink for me, a chili dog and a chili tamale with orange for my procurer here.” He paid, and they carried the food indoors and found a corner table. Incredibly, Challis was hungry again.
Schaeffer took an anxious, enormous bite, and chili began the long, slow descent down the bulge of his small, round chin. “Now, what’s the scoop?” he mumbled with his mouth full. “I know about the plane crash, the kids, the broad on the mountain, all that shit, but what now? You’re not gonna make some goddamn grandstand fuckin’ play—don’t tell me that, Tobe, we’re too old for that crap.”
“I’m too old to go to prison is what I’m too old for,” Challis said. “I’ve gotta find out who killed Goldie …”
Schaeffer groaned. “Man, you’re one slow study. No, I mean it, Tobe, one helluva slow study … you just don’t get it, do you? Whoever snuffed Goldie is a back issue, forgotten.” He stared at Challis like a scientist with a cellular slide that just wasn’t matching up, took another huge bite. “Remember the case of Public Enemy Number One, the Big D, John the Dillinger? The lady in red got him out front of the Biograph in Chi town and the G-men put it to him … they buried old John under about a million tons of scrap iron, said they didn’t want his grave to become a shrine of some kind. Well, bullshit, Tobe, that was all crapperino, because the guy under the scrap iron could be your uncle Mike for all I know, but it sure ain’t John Dillinger, just like it wasn’t Dillinger in front of the Biograph. The thing was, the G-men had to get Dillinger or the Senate was gonna cut off the dough, kill Hoover’s Bureau. So they got a guy, called him Dillinger, and made a deal with the real Dillinger to be a good boy, keep quiet, and disappear—keep the dough, we’ll never prosecute you, just don’t spill the beans. So Dillinger lived the rest of his life in sunny Cal and the FBI is still with us—you get the picture? Okay, now, there’s a lesson there, like if the juice is big enough, there’s nobody who can stand up to it, which is where you come in. Whoever put paid to Goldie is in deep out here, and I can figure, conservatively, a thousand scenarios … say, the mob, or somebody somewhere holding some paper on the Roths, or on anybody big at Maximus, wants to pull off a bit of an object lesson, just to show what they can get away with. So they kill Goldie in a particularly gaudy way and frame the husband, somebody the Roths know to be innocent—well, the point is made, and you are the man in the middle … you take the fall, and everybody learns a lesson.” He sighed, still whispering, and swiping at his mouth with a fragile, soaked paper napkin. He had chili all over his fingers. “
What was that last thing Goldie said to you? When she asked you to come out for dinner?”
“She said she had something on Aaron, she was going to fix that bastard once and for all.”
“Aha, see, that’s wrong!” He was waving his second chili dog at Challis. Outside, the rain drove straight downward, hammering at the parking lot. “She didn’t say anything to you about Aaron … she just said she was going to fix that bastard. In court nobody believed she said it at all—it was the desperate attempt of a murderer to throw up a mystery suspect, a straw man. Well, I figure you’re telling the truth, okay, but that still doesn’t mean it’s Aaron Roth. Jeez, look at the meatballs she runs around with. Half the coke sniffers and bondage freaks in Los Angeles … she hangs out at the Whisky and the Roxy and works out a week at a time down at La Costa, I’m telling you this lady is up to her ass in guys who qualify for the role of bastard … and murderer. And there’s Donovan, too, for God’s sake … a surfeit of bastards, and she could have been talking about any one of them. Come eat, eat.”
The chili tamale went away and he ate half the chili dog, drank half the orange. Nobody was paying any attention to them. He felt almost normal, but for the constant doubt making a home in his belly. Finally he said, “Don’t you know anything about anything that you should tell me? Any specifics? You and Ollie are full of all this other stuff, but how about a quick look at the real story? I know I’m in a mess.”
“Okay, all I hear is that there’s something going on between Donovan and Aaron Roth—don’t ask me what, because I don’t know. Except it’s got to do with money, probably dirty money of some kind. Vegas? Blackmail? I’ve got no names … just the connection. The thing is, what would bring them together? Jack was in Goldie’s camp, and that meant he wasn’t going to see much of Aaron—so Goldie’s dead, and suddenly Donovan and Aaron are an item.”
Hollywood Gothic Page 10