Mr La—? Then he remembered. And with memory came a sourness in the back of his throat at the huge rush of near-impossible events. He groaned and eased himself from the cluttered desk across which he’d been lying. Pens and papers fell. His bruised elbow gave a sharp spasm. He’d called out “Yeah?” before he thought about keeping quiet.
“Sorry to bother you…”
He looked at the Longines watch on his wrist. It was already half past eight. He was in this guy’s room and he must have dozed off—no, slept. He stumbled up from the chair and across the littered room, hesitated, stumbled back to fumble in his suit jacket for the glasses and hook them around his ears, then stumbled back to the door and worked it open a crack. The female he saw in the gap was young, and fairly attractive.
“I heard you come in last night,” the young and fairly attractive female said. She sounded friendly enough, although she was staring at him in an odd way. ”I knew that you’d be working this morning like you do. So I decided that I might as well interrupt your muse now rather than make a bigger intrusion later. Like that visitor from Porlock.”
“Porlock?”
“You know. Coleridge. Kubla Khan.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He remembered the poem from a book Jenny had once read to him. He let the door swing open a little more.
The woman—girl almost to his eyes, although he guessed she was past twenty—was of mid-height. She was dressed in the sort of mannish clothes, and had the kind of mannish haircut, which he would have associated with a certain kind of lesbian back in his theatrical days. Brown slacks, low-heeled loafers without socks, a striped blue shirt with the front and tails hanging. She didn’t seem to be wearing any make-up.
“You know who I am?”
“D Lamotte. Flat 4A. The D is for Daniel. You used to have a beard—that whole Walt Whitman look. I think I prefer you without.” She held out a small bundle of post. “So I guess this must be yours.”
He took the bundle from her and tucked it under his arm. “Thanks, ah…”
“You don’t remember my name?” “Sorry.”
“It’s hardly like we’ve seen much of each other. I’m Barbara Eshel from
3A next door.” She held out her hand through the gap. Unlike most of the women in this city, she didn’t paint her nails.
He was conscious of her eyes still busily taking him in. The stained and ruined clothes. The black rings he must have under his eyes. He probably also still stank of puke and gasoline fumes.
“I’ve, ah, been away.”
“Which explains why it’s been so quiet in here these last few days…” He saw her wrinkle her nose as she glanced inside at the room.
“That’s pretty much the whole story.” “But it’s not, though, is it?“
“You got me there,” he muttered.
“I mean,” the girl continued, “you’re a famous screenwriter. This Point Backwards was one of my favorite feelies when I was a kid. You should be a whole lot more famous than you are.”
“Oh? Right. Thanks.”
“And The Magic of the Past. Didn’t you write that as well?”
He had no idea. He gave a vague grunt and pressed lightly back against the door.
“And The Virgin Queen.”
“Yeah. Everyone seems to remember that one.”
“But, I’ll bet ten gets fifty, not who the writer was?” “It can be tough.”
“I know. I mean, being a writer myself. Or at least, someone who produces words… I’ve listened to you type all these last months. It’s been a sort of companionship, having you nearby—like a friendly ghost. Then last week you just stopped.” She smiled and shrugged. “And now you have your mail.”
“Thanks again.” He smiled back at her as he closed the door, then listened for a moment to the creak of her footfalls, wondering as he did so about all the other things he could have asked her. But maybe not. He wasn’t so much in uncharted territory here as right off the edge of the whole map.
There were just two letters and not much else. A One Of Our Operatives Called When You Were Out card from the water company, although he imagined that kind of stuff was paid for out of the communal rent. A few flyers for weird churches and get-rich-quick schemes and talent scouts. All the usual detritus you found on a typical LA doormat. He used a chewed pencil to slit open the first letter.
METROPOLITAN STATE HOSPITAL
June 21 1940
Dear Mr. Lamot
I am instructed by the Directors and trustees to thank you for your fuurther enquiry regarding an appointment to interview one of our residents.
Your request has been fully reconsidered, but infortunately must still be declined. Whilst Mr H oward Hughes continues to be the subjec of much public speculation, it remains against both his and the Metropolitan State Hospital’s interests for him to have external contacts, both on clinical and humanitarian grounds.
I trust this fully answers your enquiry.
I remain, etc
J. Kilbracken
J. Kilbracken.
Clinical Dirctor
Clark tapped the pencil against his teeth as he read the letter again. The Met had had some well-known residents in its time, but Hughes was probably their most famous current guest. It made sense for Daniel Lamotte to try to speak to the guy now, even if he was insane, to tie up any loose knots in Wake Up and Dream. He thought for a moment longer, then folded the letter back into its envelope and laid it aside.
The other was in a heavier, creamier envelope. The sort of stationery which he associated with upscale lawyers. He almost broke the pencil ripping it open. It was beautifully typed and the letter heading, with BECHMEIR TRUST heavily embossed, was a classy dark red, with the Willowbrook ex-schoolhouse which was now also a museum as the address.
Bechmeir Museum
Willowbrook
20 June 1940
Dear Mr Lamotte
WITHOUT PREJUDICE
Thank you for your further query of the 16th inst, which has been passed to me as Charitable Director.
As you know, our Founder has not engaged in public works for several years. However, we note once again your interest in a project involving his life, and at this time wish to express no fundamental objection to it.
We are copying this letter to our Attorney at the address below, whom we suggest you or your Production Company contact at your earliest convenience with regard to arranging an appointment. In any event, an appropriate donation toward the Trust’s many good works from any profits arising would be appreciated.
Yours truly,
P. Losovic
p.p.
P Losovic MD (Miss)
Hardly a ringing endorsement, p.p. as well, but at least they were only fishing for money, and they weren’t threatening to sue. He knew enough civil law to understand that there was nothing that Bechmeir or his trust could do directly to stop a biopic as long as it wasn’t defamatory, which nothing in the script he’d read suggested it was. Still, the Trust’s support, whether bought or not, would be incredibly useful. He imagined Lars Bechmeir resurrected back there in spotlight with his avuncular smile and trademark pipe and cane, walking up the red carpet on the night of Wake Up and Dream’s premiere. What a publicity coup that would be.
Trying the desk drawers, he found a dented pack of Lucky Strikes in the top right, and a book of matches with Edna’s Eats printed on the front, which rang an odd sort of bell. He noticed that his hand was shaking as he lit one up. He found a wad of other papers in the second drawer down on the right and flicked through them as he smoked. There was a receipt from a firm called RTS Taxis for twelve dollars sixty—a huge amount for any taxi journey—from last Thursday, June 20th. Not the sort of thing anyone would normally keep, or even ask for, although it didn’t seem so odd to Clark. After all, he was self-employed, and he knew what the IRS were like. Another receipt, this one from some production facility off Pacific Boulevard called Feel-o-Reel for eighty dollars, dated back on March 27th. Big bucks. He remem
bered that wraith back at Erewhon. Clark had to admire the guy if he was planning on claiming that so-called Muse against tax. There was also a dog-eared green admission card to the reading rooms at the Los Angeles Central Public Library, which was nothing more than what you’d expect any self-respecting freelance writer to possess.
The rest was letters. Mainly, they went back through May into early June, and were answers to other requests for interviews or information. Most were about as helpful as the two he’d just opened. Regret this and sadly that. He supposed it wasn’t just actors who had to put up with rejection.
He placed the new correspondence on top of the old, then checked the other drawers. Nothing but all the usual desk detritus—rubber bands, paper clips, pencil sharpeners, bits of string, dried-up bottles of ink. The final, bottom left hand drawer seemed to be either locked or jammed. Then it gave and something hard and heavy inside clunked. It was a .38 snubnose Colt.
He lifted the gun out, checked the safety, and swung open the cylinder, which was fully loaded with five rounds. He sniffed the barrel; it smelled of freshly lathed metal. There was also a box of slugs, which looked to be unused as well. The snubnose Colt was a common enough piece—it fitted easily into a shoulder holster or even a coat pocket—but what possible use could it be to a writer like Daniel Lamotte?
He laid the Colt back down on the desk with a small shudder; he had a near-phobic dislike of guns. Why had a guy like Daniel Lamotte gone out and got himself one—and recently by the look of it? Was this research, as well? More likely, he’d done so because he feared for his life. Yesterday Clark had dismissed the idea that April Lamotte was capable of killing her husband, but that was before he’d discovered what else she was capable of.
This whole weird business reminded him of trying to put together a jigsaw he’d had as a kid. It was something Jenny had brought home from a bring-and-buy, not that they had much spare to do either, but he’d cherished that old jigsaw of the States of America in its even older biscuit box. Of course, there was no New Mexico then, or Arizona, and Colorado and Arkansas were missing, and Alabama, Mississippi and Texas had lost their printed paper fronts.
Getting the whole thing to fit together had been so frustrating that little Billy Gable had been tempted to get one of his dad’s saws from the workshop and hack a few of the most obdurate states up. He and Jenny had eventually worked out that a couple pieces of a different States of America jigsaw had somehow gotten jumbled in with the rest. Sitting at Daniel Lamotte’s desk, he felt the same overpowering need to fit the spilled mess of recent events into some recognizable whole.
April Lamotte. The way she’d dressed him up, primed him—bribed, and fed, and then near seduced him, all in the coldest possible blood. And those little touches. Things which were still going off like cold bombs in his head. The way she’d mentioned, oh so casually, that he’d been having a difficult time in the office of that lawyer. And those tears at Chateau Bansar—they fitted in as well. That was, if you wanted to create the impression of a troubled man in a troubled marriage, the kind of character for whom even signing a big new contract might just be the tripwire to gassing himself up on some Mulholland overlook in his fancy French car.
Confront the bitch. That was the only way out. He didn’t just owe it to himself. He owed it to Daniel Lamotte.
SEVENTEEN
THESE CLOTHES REALLY DID STINK. He checked again in the wardrobe. Both the pale linen suits hanging there were almost equally crumpled. So were the shirts. But at least they were fresh. He stripped down to his undershorts, pulled off the socks. Then, seeing as there were also some fresh undershorts inside the wardrobe, he pulled those off as well.
He took off the glasses and washed in the rickety sink, and risked checking his face again in the mirror, which was now nothing more than a grubby sheet of silvered glass held to the wall by rusty screws in three of its four corners showing a face something like his own. He searched briefly for a razor, then remembered Daniel Lamotte’s straggly beard.
He shifted the keys, billfold and identity papers from the old suit coat to the new, hooked the Ray-Bans into the top breast pocket, and pocketed the remaining Lucky Strikes, and matches as well. He stared at the Colt for a long moment. Then he checked the safety, and slid it into his outside suit coat pocket.
He could hear the click of a typewriter coming from one of the other rooms as he headed out through the old house. He thought of that girl Barbara Eshel in room 3A and her talk of friendly ghosts. On the front stoop he checked the Longines watch. Just past ten o-clock. Then he felt in his top pocket for the tortoiseshell glasses, only to discover he’d already put them on.
It wouldn’t be true to say that Blixden Avenue had exactly come to life this morning, but it wasn’t entirely dead. An ice-vendor’s old carthorse nosed its feedbag. A guy had his head buried under the hood of a rusty old car up on bricks. And some kids were around kicking a can. They looked about as feral as the cats he’d seen earlier.
There was a phone booth beneath the shade of some overgrown willows about halfway along the street. He walked down to it, worked the door open. The way the air smelled inside, he left it open. Miracle of miracles, this year’s city telephone directory still hung from its chain. He hefted it up, flicked through to the Gs. It was no great surprise to find that there was no listing for a company called Gladmont Securities.
He fumbled in his pockets for change, lifted the receiver, fed the slot, asked to be put through to the Venice exchange, then gave the number for the communal phone at the Doge’s Apartments. He waited several rings. Then several more. He pictured Glory scowling in her cubbyhole. Finally, on about the twentieth ring, there was a breathy clatter as the receiver was lifted.
“’Lo?”
“It’s Clark here.”
“What you want?”
“Just to let you know I’m okay.”
“’S’if I care.”
“Anyone been around? Any visitors? Messages?”
The pause seemed to last almost as long as the ringing tone. “Come on, Glory.”
“That woman. She call again. Say she don’t trust her husband.”
“Any number?”
“I think maybe.”
“Have you got it?”
“I’m no answering service.”
“Glory…”
He waited as she tromped off, and had to feed the phone some more nickels before she came back again. He ripped a page out of the directory, scrawled down the number she gave him, balled it into his pocket and promised that, sure, yes, absolutely, he’d call.
“And nothing else? No callers, no one asking questions?”
“Only question I ask is why you think I do this for you.”
He thanked Glory and hung up. A can thwanged off the Delahaye’s front wing as he headed back up the street.
“Hey, hey!” He shouted. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?”
The kids just eyed him. Then one of them—not the largest, but obviously the leader—swaggered over with the manner of someone who wouldn’t normally cross a street for anyone or anything, but was prepared to make a rare exception this morning. Squinting through crusted eyes, the kid gave Clark the up and down. He was in short pants and a holed gray jumper which showed even grayer bits of bare rib beneath. He wore pumps with flapping soles, without socks. He was roughly five feet tall. Clark guessed him to be about twelve years old.
“That’s an expensive car, you know.”
The kid, making the same kind of effort he had to cross the road, just about managed a shrug. “Pity about that broken window. All it takes is one person to take a piss inside it and all them fancy carpets are ruined.”
“You got any idea,” Clark asked, “who I am?”
“If you don’t know that yourself, pal, you got problems.” The kid had a quick, crackly voice. “Alls I know is you’re just come out of that termite hotel.” The kid gestured. “My da says there’s nothing in there but fags and queens.”
Clark hesitated only fractionally. “I’m Daniel Lamotte. Used to have a beard before I shaved it off. Maybe you’ve seen me around… ?”
“You mean the guy who goes out late evenings in a grubby ice cream suit, then comes back with a whole load of bottles? Ain’t been around for a few days… Although you don’t look much the same.”
Clark fingered his jaw. “Like I say, it’s the beard. Say, shouldn’t you be at school?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
He had to smile. “You know my name, kid, but I still don’t know yours.”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why not?”
The kid considered. His mates were still watching. “Name’s Roger Preston,” he eventually drawled. “Next time you have ze questions, you vill know vhere to go.” He was putting on one of those crappy German accents Clark had heard in radio trailers for the latest feelies.
“Sounds like a deal. Here, Roger…” Reaching into his jacket, he produced a dime. “Maybe this’ll help, now we both know who we are?”
“Won’t do any harm.” All in one swift motion, the kid had pocketed the coin.
“Oh. One last question.”
“Fire away.”
“You say I haven’t been around for a few days. D’you know exactly what day it was that I left?”
“Like I say, if you can’t—”
“Okay, okay. But did you happen to see anything unusual around that time?”
Roger scratched at his belly through a hole in his jumper. “What kind of unusual?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Cars. People. Maybe an ambulance. Perhaps the police. Any kind of thing.”
“Oh, I get it! You were so soused you can’t remember—like my da?”
“Well, maybe.”
“Can’t say as I did. Like I say, you’re around getting boozed in that faggot hole, and then you’re not.”
“Well thanks, Roger. See you around.”
“Not if I see you first.”
Working open the Delahaye’s door, Clark started up the engine. The kids stood and stared. Even the old carthorse seemed to be watching as he reversed out of the dead end and drove off down the street.
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