by R. G. Belsky
“So what happened to you?” I asked.
“As soon as Laura hit it big and got the offer, Beverly decided she wanted a big-name agent. Now you have to understand, I never had anything in writing with them. It was always a handshake deal, right from the very start. I never thought I needed anything else. I thought I was their friend as well as their agent. Like I said, I really cared about Laura as a person. I tried to tell Beverly that. But she didn’t care, she just told me that my services were no longer needed. She fired me.”
“Did you fight it?”
“I did for a while. I consulted a lawyer. He said I had a pretty good case if I got in front of a jury. At the very least, I could walk away with a big cash settlement for the Lucky Lady deal, since I was still her agent when she got the offer to star in the film. But, in the end, I just thought it would be too painful to go through all that.”
“So you simply walked away from probably millions of dollars in agent’s fees?”
“Easy come, easy go,” she smiled.
“Does it bother you a lot?”
“What do you think? Laura was the star client of a lifetime. America’s sweetheart. And, just when she hit it big after all the early struggles, I lost out on all that fame and money.”
“Which raises the question, Ms. DeConde . . .”
“Did I kill Laura Marlowe out of rage and for revenge after being fired? It’s a viable scenario, I must admit. I mean I’ve got a good little thing going here with my agency business, but my life is nothing like it would have been if I had hit it big with Laura when she became a superstar. So maybe I arranged a meeting with her that night at the hotel, brought along a gun, and shot her to death as payback. Was that going to be your question, Mr. Malloy?”
“Well,” I smiled, “I wasn’t going to put it quite that bluntly.”
“I was mad about losing Laura. But I wasn’t mad at her. What made me feel really bad was that I’d let Laura down. Maybe I could have helped her if I’d stayed around and fought her mother. Maybe I could have protected her somehow. Now we’ll never know.”
DeConde said she tried to maintain a relationship with Laura, although she was no longer her agent. But even though she agreed to drop the legal action, she received a lawyer’s letter from Laura’s mother ordering her to stay away from Laura.
“I was too heartsick over everything that had happened to fight anymore. I just gave up.”
“Did you ever see Laura again?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“Not long before she died.”
“What happened?”
“She came to see me in my office. She said she wanted to talk. She said she missed the talks we used to have. And so we sat and talked. She was a mess. She’d been crying, she had no makeup on, and her hair was all over the place. She said everything was going wrong in her life. She talked about taking drugs, drinking, and being unhappy all the time. I think she just wanted to get away from it for a short time. This was the only place she thought she could do that. Before she left, she hugged me and told me how much she missed me. I thought I would see her again. I wanted to help her. But then she was dead.”
“You were at the hotel that night, right? You saw her before the ambulance took her to the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you there?”
“To try to talk to her again.”
“Did you?”
“No,” she said sadly. “I was too late.”
* * *
The big-time agent Laura’s mother had hired after Sherry DeConde was named Glenn Charlton. Charlton had died a few years earlier. But I was able to track down his wife, who still lived in Beverly Hills. I called her up, told her about the Laura Marlowe piece I was working on, and asked her to share any recollections.
Her account of Laura’s troubled life was similar to what Sherry DeConde had said.
So was her description of Laura’s mother.
“Glenn, my husband, told me the mother was impossible to work for. She constantly wanted to micromanage everything. He actually didn’t stay on as Laura’s agent very long. He was very successful in Hollywood, you know, and he didn’t want to be told how to do his job by some frustrated, failed actress. That’s how he used to describe Laura’s mother. After Glenn severed ties with Laura, the mother and her husband pretty much managed her career on their own. Glenn hated that woman. Called her ‘the stage mother from hell.’ But he always said he felt sorry Laura had to grow up with a parent like that.”
“I understand the father was a real bad guy too.”
“That’s what we heard.”
“But you never met him, huh?”
“No. He wasn’t around.”
There was something missing from the story. Something that had been bothering me right from the start.
“How did Laura get the part?” I asked. “The big break in Lucky Lady that made her an overnight star?”
“Glenn and I wondered about that too,” Mrs. Charlton said. “It seemed like dumb luck. But Glenn told me once maybe she got some help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Laura was a very beautiful girl. But she was also very naive and trusting and innocent of the effect she had on a man. Glenn thought maybe she finally realized that and used it to her advantage. He told me she became close to someone who was extremely powerful in Hollywood circles.”
“She slept her way to the top?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Did your husband tell you who this Hollywood big shot was? Was he a producer or director or what?”
“He was more in the business end of things.”
“A financier.”
“In a manner of speaking, you might say.”
“I don’t understand . . .”
“He was involved in lots of things.”
“Such as . . .”
“He was a mob guy. A very famous one. He was a lot younger then, of course. He was just starting to build his crime empire. He spent a lot of time in Hollywood, and had really begun to wield some influence behind the scenes in the movie business. And, they say, he was totally enamored of Laura. She had that effect on men. This guy would have done anything for her. Glenn suspected he used his influence to get Laura the part in Lucky Lady.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“Thomas Rizzo.”
Chapter 16
BACK in the newsroom, I sat at my desk trying to figure out what I had here.
I knew now that Thomas Rizzo had been romantically involved with Laura Marlowe at some point before she died. I also knew that Rizzo’s son was romantically involved with Abbie Kincaid before she died. I knew that Abbie had been investigating Laura Marlowe’s murder, and I knew that Laura’s police file had an entire section that was blacked out by the agency that dealt with mob-related activities. Thomas Rizzo was one of the most prominent members of the mob. There was a thread running through all this that even I could follow.
So what did it all mean?
I had a theory. What if Thomas Rizzo either knew something or had something to do with Laura’s long-ago murder? What if he told this information to his son Tommy? What if Tommy had passed it on to Abbie? What if that was why she started looking into the Laura Marlowe murder? What if the Rizzo family then had to kill her—to prevent her from revealing what she found out?
It was a pretty good theory, and I sat there for a long time congratulating myself on my brilliance. I decided I deserved some kind of reward. So I went downstairs to a deli and bought myself a cup of coffee and a sugar-glazed donut. I came back to my desk, ate the donut, drank the coffee, and continued to marvel at how smart I was.
There were a couple of things still bothering me though.
Beverly Richmond told me she’d never seen Laura’s f
ather, David Valentine, again after he ran off and left them when Laura was a little girl. Except he did come back. I’d seen his picture with them at the Oscars ceremonies a few months before Laura died. And Edward Holloway had talked about the father showing up to try to get his hands on some of Laura’s money after she hit it big.
Plus, Valentine was at the scene the night Laura was shot. So Valentine seemed to be much more of a part of Laura’s life at the end than Beverly Richmond wanted to admit.
That brought up a possible alternative scenario for the murder. The father she hates suddenly turns up, tries to get back into her life and climb aboard the Laura Marlowe gravy train once she becomes a Hollywood superstar. She rejects him; he gets angry and he kills her. Except that still doesn’t explain why the mother would lie about seeing him again. Was she trying to protect him? Of course not—she clearly detested him. So why not point out that he could be a potential suspect in her death?
Which led to another problem. Beverly Richmond never asked me anything about who really killed her daughter. I had to bring it up to her. With Ray Janson now out of the picture, it was the obvious question. Who did it? Maybe she didn’t ask because she already knew who did it. Maybe she was hiding the truth. On the other hand, maybe she just forgot to bring it up.
There was one other thing too. The story of how Laura Marlowe and Edward Holloway met. I’d actually read that account in one of the articles I’d read while I was researching her. It told the story the same way that Holloway did, right down to the tiniest details of what her first words were. His memory of the incident was perfect. Too perfect. Almost like something that was rehearsed or could be recited from memory after so much time. What did that have to do with anything? I didn’t have the slightest idea, but it bothered me.
* * *
Mostly though, I was intrigued by the Rizzo connection to both Laura Marlowe and Abbie Kincaid.
If I just pulled on that string some more, maybe I’d find some answers.
I saw Jeff Aronson—the reporter I’d been hanging out with at Headliners—in the office. His beat was the federal courts, which included the U.S. Attorney’s office. The U.S. Attorney, like the police, had a special strike force that investigated organized crime. I walked over to his desk.
“What do you know about Thomas Rizzo?” I asked.
“Too much. Why?”
“I’m thinking of joining up. I figure ‘made man’ would look good on my resume.”
“Very funny. Rizzo’s a bad guy. He’s into racketeering, loansharking, extortion, prostitution, drugs, and murder. Lots of murders. He’s killed at least fifty or sixty people over the years that we know about—probably a lot more that we don’t.”
“Haven’t the cops ever convicted him for any of this?”
“Not yet. No case the cops or feds bring against him ever sticks. Witnesses change their stories, evidence disappears—he’s got a lot of clout. But, sooner or later, someone will probably get him. He’s getting pretty old now anyway. I hear he’s almost retired.”
“What about the son, Tommy?”
“I don’t know much about him. He went away to college a few years ago, then set himself up in some sort of real estate business. I’m not sure if it’s a front for the mob or what. The word is he and his father don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on everything, but I guess he’ll inherit the whole rotten empire one day. There are no other kids around, and Rizzo’s wife died a few years ago.”
“So how do I find Thomas Rizzo?” I asked.
“Have you heard anything I’ve been saying here? This guy is really bad news.”
“I need to talk to him.”
Aronson sighed. “The last I heard Rizzo and his cronies hang out at a place called Florentine’s in Little Italy. Whenever he shows up, there’s maybe ten to fifteen people with him, most of them bodyguards, and they take a banquet room in the back. Rizzo sits in the same seat every time—head of the table, back to the wall and facing the door. Anybody walks into that room unannounced, there’s gonna be fireworks.”
Chapter 17
FLORENTINE’S was only moderately busy when I got there. I walked over to the bar and sat down where I could get a good view of the whole room. I was wearing a pair of charcoal gray jeans, a black turtleneck, and a dark jacket. My basic James Bond spying attire. I hoped it helped me blend in and go unnoticed.
Maybe a dozen tables in the place were filled. I checked them all closely. The only thing I deduced was that nobody in the place was dressed as cool as I was. I’d brought along a photo of Thomas Rizzo; I checked it now and then looked around the room again. No one looked like him. No Tommy Jr. either.
The bartender came over.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.
Behind me, I heard a wine steward explaining some of the choices to a table of eight.
“I’ll take a beer,” I said. “Amstel.”
He left to get my order. While he was gone, I looked around the restaurant some more. The banquet room was in the back. If you twisted your neck back to one side, you could see inside it. I twisted my neck and looked. There was no one inside.
The bartender brought my beer. He poured some into a tall glass, waited for the foam to go down a bit, and then filled it to the top. Very professional. It was certainly a pleasure to watch a true craftsman at his job.
“I’m looking for Thomas Rizzo,” I told him.
“Who’s that?” he smiled.
“How about Tommy Jr., his son?”
“Never heard of either of them.”
Behind me, the people at the table were still trying to figure out which wine to order. Indecisive. Not like me. I sipped on my beer and waited for something to happen. It didn’t take long.
A few minutes later, a guy quietly slipped onto the stool next to me. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was big, maybe six-foot-five, and muscular. There was also a bulge under his jacket that was probably a gun. He was watching me carefully. The bartender had disappeared down to the other end of the bar and was trying hard to ignore us.
“Hi,” the guy said.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing?”
“Drinking a beer.”
“By yourself?”
“I didn’t know I needed help to drink it.”
I looked at the bulge under his coat.
“Say, is that a gun under there?” I said. “I should point out to you that New York City gun laws are quite stringent and anyone found with an unauthorized firearm in their possession—”
“Who the hell are you?” he asked with an exasperated tone.
I showed him my card. The one that says: Gil Malloy, New York Daily News reporter, and has a drawing of the Daily News building in the corner.
“A newspaper reporter,” he muttered.
“What gave me away? Was it the picture of the Daily News building or the word ‘reporter’?”
“What do you want?”
I took a deep breath and plunged ahead with the reason I was there. “Look, let’s save a lot of time here,” I said. “I know Thomas Rizzo eats in this restaurant. I know you know him—and I suspect you are in his employment. I want to talk to him. Tell him it’s about Laura Marlowe. Tell him I want to know more about their relationship and how he helped her get her start in Hollywood.”
The guy looked at my card for a second, then slipped it into his pocket. He got up from the stool.
“Have a nice night,” he said, “and stay out of trouble.”
I made an imaginary gun with my forefinger and thumb, pointed it at him, and pretended to pull the trigger.
“You too,” I said.
He shook his head and walked away, leaving me alone again. I nursed the beer for another ten minutes or so. No one else came over to talk to me. No one pulled a gun on me. No one went into the banquet room. No one broke
out in any Mafia fight songs. Even the bartender seemed to have lost interest in me.
I left the restaurant and walked down the street to a newsstand. I bought the early editions of the other papers. I read through them. There were lots of stories about Abbie’s murder, but none of them told me anything I didn’t know. On the way back, I took one more look into Florentine’s.
Thomas Rizzo wasn’t there.
Tommy Jr. either.
The banquet room was still empty.
And there was no sign of my friend at the bar.
Probably so excited about meeting a real-life newspaper reporter that he ran right off to tell someone.
They came for me the next day. A Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the curb next to me as I approached the Daily News building. The driver got out. He didn’t look like a mob guy, more like a TV game show host. He was young, good looking, dressed in a leisure suit with an open-collared shirt. He flashed me a big smile.
“We’d like to have a word with you,” he said, gesturing to a man sitting in the back seat of the car.
“What about?”
“Thomas Rizzo. You’ve been asking some questions about him.”
“Do you have some answers?”
“Maybe we can help you.”
He opened the back door of the car and gestured for me to get in. He smiled again. I smiled back. I didn’t figure they were going to kidnap me in broad daylight right off the street, and I was interested to find out what they had to say. I got in the car.
There was a guy in the back seat smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t Thomas Rizzo. The inside of the Lincoln was filled with smoke. I sat down in the back next to him. The first guy got in too, sitting in the front seat and turning around to face us. I started to cough from the smoke.
“Have you ever read the surgeon general’s report?” I asked.
He looked down at the cigarette in his hand.
“Yeah, I know. These things are going to kill me one day.”
“To say nothing of the dangers of second-hand smoke to your family and loved ones.”