by Graham Rawle
He remembered how Major Lund had criticized his plans to build a Dutch windmill in Overland, saying it would “stick out like a turd on a wedding cake.” Now he thought about it, he recalled seeing just such a windmill on San Fernando Road not a mile from the Lockheed factory. In fact, there was a chain of Van de Kamp bakeries dotted across the city, each one styled as a sixteenth-century Dutch windmill. There were probably more windmills in Los Angeles than there were in Holland. He wished he’d used this as a comeback to Lund’s argument at the time. LA was full of whimsical, out-of-place architecture of all kinds, far odder than anything he had designed for Overland. Surely he had seen the famous hat-shaped Brown Derby, the Wilshire Coffee Pot with a giant coffee pot on top of the building, or the Pup hamburger joint whose edifice was a giant concrete bulldog smoking a pipe. There were buildings shaped like pianos, ice-cream cones, zeppelins, cameras and boots. Down there, a tepee, an igloo and a sixty-feet donut might sit comfortably together on the same block. Nothing stuck out as unusual. A turd on a wedding cake would fit right in amongst them.
He’d get round to the windmill in good time. The Residents would help. They took great pride in their town and were only too glad to pick up a paintbrush, a hammer or a shovel to help improve the look of the place.
Besides, Seattle was out of the question because he needed to find the girl from the lake. The only way he could do that was to wait in Overland until she appeared again. He had no idea when that might be, but he simply had to be there. He knew it was foolish, they had never even spoken, but he’d never been so sure of anyone in his life.
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Up on North Ridge, George found his Negro friend Tommy relaxing on a bench overlooking a sloping pasture known locally as Lost Hammer Hill.
“Hey, Tommy. You seen an oriental-looking girl hanging around?”
“Around Overland?” Tommy shook his head. “Uh-uh. Why?”
“She just appeared, er, out of the blue earlier and I haven’t seen her since.”
“You think maybe she’s a Japanese spy?” said Tommy.
“Spy? No, I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Can’t be a Resident. She wouldn’t pass the security checks. Where d’you see her? Maybe she came up the ramp.”
“No, she came up out of the lake.”
“Out of the lake? You mean through a hole in the tarp? How’d she do that?”
“Don’t know. I was fishing and, well … Suddenly she was there, looking at me.”
Tommy laughed. “Man, you really did catch something!”
“She was beautiful, Tommy. She looked like Botticelli’s Venus, or one of those other ones—Aphrodite or someone like that.”
“Didn’t you ask her who she was?”
“No, I didn’t speak to her.”
“But you assumed she must be a Resident?”
“I didn’t assume anything.”
“I’ll check the roster for Japanese names … see if she’s from the factory. It could be a big security risk. In the meantime we should plug that hole.”
“No! The lake may be her only way to get up here.”
“Ah. You want to catch her so you can interrogate her?”
“No. I don’t want to interrogate her; I want to meet her.”
Tommy looked puzzled. “… A Jap?”
“She may not be Japanese. She could be Chinese or Korean or something. She could be from Bali.”
“Where’s Bali?” said Tommy.
“I don’t know. Someplace in the Far East, I think. She could be an exotic Malaysian princess or something.”
“An exotic princess with her head poking through a dirty old tarp?”
George balked at the description. Tommy noted his reaction.
“Oh I get it. You got the hots for her. Cute figure?”
George was embarrassed. “I’ve only seen her from the waist up. The rest of her was hidden below the water.”
“That sounds a little fishy. There could be anything going on down there. Hey. Maybe she’s a mermaid.”
Tommy was making fun of him, but he played along. He didn’t want to appear too desperate. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’ll bet that’s it. Was she trying to lure you to your death?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. She didn’t say anything.”
“They don’t say nothing, mermaids.”
“They don’t, huh?”
“Uh-uh. Mermaids can’t speak.”
“Well that would explain the silent treatment.”
“At least I don’t think they can. If she does say something and she mentions anything about a watery grave, tell her you’re not interested.”
George pretended to make a mental note. “Watery grave. Not interested. Check.”
FIFTEEN
THERE WERE A couple of payphones mounted on the wall outside the factory offices. Queenie was at one of them, speaking secretively into the mouthpiece.
“Is that Dr Young?”
“Who’s this?”
“I was told you might be able to help me. A friend, Connie, gave me your number.”
There was a moment’s pause. “How long since your last period?”
“Ten weeks. Nearly eleven.”
“It’ll be fifty dollars.”
“Fifty? I was told forty.”
“You’re over ten weeks. Makes it more risky. I have to charge more.”
“Fifty dollars?”
“That’s the price. Call again when you have the money.”
Queenie slowly hung up, despondent. She didn’t even have the forty and had no way to get it. She’d made the call in the hope of some kind of IOU arrangement. She stood there, weighing up her remaining options. Find a guy and get hitched? Who would marry a girl having another man’s baby? Go back home to the parents—if they’d have her? The shame would probably kill her mother. Why bust her crockery? Besides, that would be the end of Queenie Meyer, movie star; she’d never get out of that town again.
She’d heard about girls attempting to terminate their own pregnancies—knitting needles, coat hangers and suchlike—but she was too squeamish to consider that sort of thing as anything but a last resort.
What if she were to keep the baby and make up some story about being a war widow? She knew at least one girl who had done that. She had told everyone that her husband was an army officer who had been heroically killed in action. In truth she had never been married. The child had been the outcome of a brief union with a schools inspector who had claimed to be a freelance talent scout. On hearing the “joyous news” he had threatened to pull her tongue out if she ever named him as the father.
Queenie’s own experience had been little better. After a brief show of loyalty—Stick with me, baby, you’ll come in on the tide—the father-to-be was off like a prom dress. Arrivederci, sweetheart. Don’t call me; I’ll call you.
The offices were made up from a row of windowed cubicles that overlooked the factory from a fifty-feet-high gantry running along one end of the hangar wall. As Queenie headed for the staircase leading back down to the factory floor, she caught sight of a woman in bib overalls carrying a lunch pail who was climbing another staircase, one that Queenie had never noticed before. It extended from one end of the office gantry all the way up into the gloomy darkness beyond the factory lights towards the roof. She watched the woman’s ascent with growing curiosity.
At the top of this second staircase was a small platform and
immediately above it a trapdoor accessed via a short vertical ladder. The woman climbed up rung by rung, flipped open the hatch and, after first setting her lunch pail outside, nimbly hoisted herself up through the opening. Swinging her legs out of sight, she closed the trapdoor behind her. Queenie continued to stare, but the trapdoor remained closed. She glanced round; none of the other workers appeared to have seen any of this.
Queenie approached one of the office secretaries, a woman in her thirties. As someone working high above the factory floor, she was in the privileged position of wearing her hair down. She leaned over the rail, smoking a cigarette while idly taking in the industrious activity on the factory floor below.
“Where does that staircase go to?” Queenie pointed with her thumb to indicate the one she had been watching.
The secretary glanced over her shoulder. “Up to the roof. There’s a skylight thing you can get through.”
“Where was that woman going?”
The secretary shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve seen a few of them going up there. Some of them come and go several times a day. Not just on their lunch break either.”
“Playing hooky, you think? How come the boss lets them go? He must know what they’re up to.”
“Oh, he knows all right. He’s the one who’s sending them.”
“What are they doing up there?”
“Beats me. Maybe they’re making camouflage netting or something—like that stuff they got hanging over the parking lots. Camouflage is considered classified military information—national security. Threading bits of green wool through chicken wire. Big deal. Whatever they’re up to, I think the girls only do it because it gets them out of the factory. Probably working on their suntans.”
Queenie nodded. She was pretty sure there was more than camouflage and suntans on offer—someone was secretly making a movie up there. From what Kay had told her, there could be no other explanation. If she could get up there, she felt sure that with her looks she might be able to get herself cast. If she landed a small speaking part, in a day or two she might earn the fifty dollars she so desperately needed. Kay could cover for her at the factory and nobody would be any the wiser. Problem solved. Queenie had it all figured, but kept her cards close to her chest. No point in letting everyone in on it.
“Sounds like a cushy number,” said Queenie. “Have you ever tried to get up there?”
“Not permitted. Unless you have special security clearance. The girls who go up there are sworn to secrecy; they’re not allowed to tell.”
“Tell what?”
“I don’t know. They’re not allowed to tell.”
The secretary looked at her watch, dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her shoe before heading back to her office.
Queenie ventured to the far end of the gantry. Sitting alone at a table perpendicular to the foot of the mystery staircase was an old boy in a sports coat smoking a pipe. He had only one arm; the empty sleeve of his jacket had been squarely folded at the elbow and the cuff attached to his shoulder with a safety pin. Strung across the stair handrails was a chain from which hung a small sign prohibiting unauthorized personnel. On the table in front of him lay a clipboard bearing a list of names and signatures. Queenie hung back, watching surreptitiously.
MEANWHILE A couple strolled arm in arm along Baker Street. The street sign mounted to one of the telegraph poles had originally featured in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and had been “rescued” by a 20th Century Fox employee who had kept it as a souvenir and had subsequently donated it to the head of Overland town planning: George Godfrey.
After a few moments, a woman in overalls approached the table, showing the man her identity card along with something small that she took from her bib pocket. Satisfied, he spun the clipboard round to face her and she signed her name in the appropriate column. The man rose, clamping his pipe between his teeth, and unhooked one end of the chain to let the woman through. She then climbed the stairs, her booted footsteps clanging on the iron treads.
By the end of the day, Queenie had gathered enough information from various people in the factory to figure out how it worked. According to what they knew, access to the roof was restricted to people who had undergone special security vetting. To bypass that, she would need to show her ID card and some kind of official badge or pin (that she didn’t have and couldn’t get) to the one-armed man—who, as keeper of the pearly gates, had apparently been dubbed St Peter. He would then check her name against the list on the day’s roster. If her name wasn’t on it, she wouldn’t be allowed up.
Queenie mulled this over. “And who makes out the roster?”
The woman Queenie had been quizzing was a gossipy busybody who worked in the drafting department. The woman pointed to a spotty kid in one of the offices typing away on his typewriter. “He does.”
Queenie studied the kid; he looked about sixteen—barely in long pants. “Think I could get him to add my name to the list? I wouldn’t mind working outdoors.”
The woman was dismissive. “Uh-huh. Strictly forbidden.”
“Surely he could be persuaded to bend the rules a little?”
“Not that one. He’s incorruptible. Like a little Honest Abe Lincoln.”
Perhaps sensing that he was being talked about, the young Abe looked up and saw Queenie eyeing him flirtatiously. She touched her throat and looked away coyly. The young man stared back at his typewriter, his face sizzling. She could practically see the steam coming off of him.
Queenie smiled smugly. “No one’s incorruptible,” she said.
The next day Queenie stood at the pearly gates like the start of some old gag. St Peter ran his finger down the list, finding her name, which had been added at the bottom. He checked his watch and, in the column headed Time in, wrote the relevant numbers, his one arm working overtime juggling pen, wristwatch, clipboard, ID card and pipe.
“Where’s your pin?” he said.
She was expecting this—the one part she had been unable to resolve. She began to squirm. “My pin? Oh, do you know what? I think I must have left it behind.”
“You’ll have to go and get it,” he said.
“I can’t. It’s … at home.”
“Sorry. But I can’t let you through without the pin.”
“I know. I feel so stupid. You must think me an awful idiot. And now I’m going to be in such trouble—and on my first day too.” She pouted a little.
St Peter stared at her for a minute before yielding to her wheedling charm. He stood to unhook the little chain for her.
“Go on. Make sure you bring it next time.”
Queenie touched his empty sleeve. “Thanks. You’re a dear.”
Queenie emerged through the hatch. Climbing to her feet, she lowered the trapdoor behind her. She found herself, not on an open flat roof as she had envisioned, but inside a large barn-like structure. Having crossed the threshold, Queenie was having a hard time getting the picture squared; this was not what she had expected at all.
She seemed to be in some kind of storage facility like a lost property office. There was a row of gray metal lockers and roughly made shelving units containing rows of suitcases, wicker picnic baskets and carefully folded fabric. An umbrella stand with various umbrellas, parasols and tennis rackets stood between a lawnmower and a couple of old wrought-iron park benches, stacked one atop the other. On the opposite wall was a bicycle stand with a few bicycles in it, and an evenly spaced row of assorted baby carriages, parked like automobiles in a used-car lot. Edging closer, she saw that the first three buggies each contained baby dolls of differing types and makes, all swaddled in white blankets. The fourth, she noted uneasily, contained a battered old ventriloquist’s dummy. The little man stared back at her, his grotesque features frozen in apparent surprise: eyebrows raised and mechanical jaw dropped open in a stupefied grin. The “baby” in buggy five was even less lifelike: a yellow casaba melon with the cartoon face of Emperor Hirohito crudely painted on it, characterized by thick black e
yebrows over thin slits for eyes, round spectacles, a tight chevron moustache and a choking mouthful of ludicrously large teeth.
A woman in a nurse’s uniform swished back a curtain and stepped out from a changing cubicle at the far end of the room. It startled Queenie; she had assumed she was alone there. The nurse straightened her belt and checked her cap in the mirror on the wall. It was then she saw Queenie watching her.
“Oh, sorry, hon. Have you been waiting for me?”
“No, I …”
“It’s all yours. Here. Let me get this out of your way.”
The woman stepped back inside the cubicle and removed a pair of greasy blue coveralls from the rail. She took something small and shiny from a pocket before hanging them up in one of the lockers.
“You’re new, aren’t you?”
Queenie nodded hesitantly.
The shiny object turned out to be a black enamel pin with the word Resident in white letters. Queenie watched the woman pin it above the left breast pocket of her uniform.
“Are you on your way in … or on your way out?”
Queenie was unsure how to answer. “Um. Out, I guess.”
The woman looked at herself wistfully in a full-length mirror.
“I always wanted to be a nurse. When I was a little girl I used to bandage my teddy bear, give him medicine. When my dad got sick and took to his bed I was quite pleased because I thought I could make him better, but of course it was no use.”
Queenie nodded sympathetically, but the woman had already shifted gear.
“I had a go at playing tennis yesterday, but I was tuckered out after five minutes. And I’ve done something to my shoulder. So it’s back to being nursemaid today.”