Three Strange Angels

by Kalpakian, Laura;

  Mrs Lindstrom informed them that Mr Reichart was engaged, and they could have a seat. He would be available shortly.

  ‘But he said ten, and here we are,’ Gigi protested. ‘We are even on time.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you must wait. He won’t be long.’

  They took two chairs across from The Swede, who returned to her typewriter. Quentin, who had been up most of the night before, bristled with nervous energy on an empty stomach. The confusions he had confessed in his letter to Louisa the night before remained unresolved, but Quentin was determined to act on behalf of his client. If Aaron Reichart wanted to know what Play up! Play up the game! meant, he was about to find out. He put his hat on his knee, and looked straight ahead at The Swede.

  Gigi, beside him, fidgeted, crossed and uncrossed her knees as she leafed through Life magazine. She coughed and sighed and cleared her throat. She was wearing smart grey trousers, the material in a subtle pinstripe, and a matching jacket cinched at the waist, but open enough to reveal a blouse of ruby-red silk. She flecked a bit of imaginary dust from her red high heels. She closed the Life with bored finality. Quentin smiled to himself; he knew she was up to something.

  ‘Who’s he with?’ Gigi asked at last.

  ‘I believe he is on the phone with Mr Vernon.’

  ‘Well, then …’ Gigi raced for the door. The Swede was on her feet in an instant, but she could not vault over the desk, and Gigi victoriously led Quentin into Aaron’s office. ‘Hello!’

  ‘Sir!’ cried The Swede, bursting in behind her, but Aaron waved her away.

  Gigi pushed a couple of chairs up to the desk, sat down, Quentin beside her. The office was bright beyond belief, utterly uncluttered, furniture low and sleek. Except for Aaron’s dark suit, a pen set and chocolate box on the desk, all the reflective surfaces were pale: beige walls hung with pale-wood bookshelves, a sand-coloured couch and low chairs, the television a squat box in a blonde wooden cabinet. The sunlight streaming through the windows further bleached the room.

  Aaron hung up the phone, lit up a Chesterfield and glared at Gigi. ‘As I recall, you were asked specifically not to take Quentin to the set of Some of These Days.’

  ‘Wait! Was I? Oh well, I just never was very good with rules, baby.’ Gigi gave a coy smile. ‘By the way, Quentin was appalled – that was your word, wasn’t it, Quentin, appalling? – to see the changes you made to Some of These Days. I told him, don’t be silly. Frank was fine with it, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was,’ said Aaron, his broad forehead furrowing.

  ‘It was to be a short, lucrative stay,’ declared Quentin, ‘but for the last few weeks Mrs Carson has had no money at all. So I’m wondering what became of Frank’s accounts.’

  ‘We paid him,’ said Aaron. ‘What he did with it is his business.’

  ‘What is the name of his bank? Where is his cheque-book? Where are his papers?’

  ‘I have no idea about his banking habits or anything else. Regent Films paid him by cheque. Look, Quentin, I’m sorry all this has happened, but there’s no need to get pushy. It’s simple, sad but simple. Last year Roy read Some of These Days, and he was intrigued with it. He talked to Frank Carson last spring when he was in London, and they got along fine. Frank agreed to sell dramatic rights. Your firm got their commission from that. Roy thought it would be prestigious to have the big literary author’s name on the screen, you know, like they got Faulkner to write on To Have and Have Not. He invited Frank to come out here and write the screenplay. That fee was separate. That’s not your business.’

  ‘This is not about our fee. It is about Mrs Carson’s money.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Aaron shrugged. ‘Take it up with her.’

  ‘Who drove him back to the Garden of Allah the night he drowned?’ Quentin demanded.

  ‘The chauffeur.’

  ‘And he just left him there?’

  ‘He’s a chauffeur, not a nursemaid. He dropped him off at the Garden of Allah and drove away. What else should he have done?’

  ‘Why has no one asked why he went in the pool?’

  ‘There’s no one to ask. He was alone.’

  ‘That place never sleeps. Someone must surely have seen him.’

  ‘Read the papers if you want to know the tawdry details,’ Aaron snapped. ‘I thought we were here to deal with—’

  ‘He was a strong swimmer,’ Quentin said stubbornly. ‘Are you telling me a man who swam in the English Channel couldn’t get to the shallow end of the pool?’

  ‘I am not telling you anything at all. I can’t answer for what passes for hopeless drunk in England, but your friend was never sober.’

  ‘After what you did to his story! Who can blame him? The earthquake scene?’ inquired Quentin, not bothering to conceal his contempt. ‘The earthquake scene was the best part of the novel. I’m so looking forward to seeing it.’

  ‘We never intended to let him write more than one draft. When he read the script we revised, he acted like he was Shakespeare, and we had Romeo and Juliet get married and move to the San Fernando Valley. He swore and blustered, and yes, threatened. He threatened Gil, and he threatened Roy.’

  ‘Can you blame him!’ Quentin repeated, trying to conceal the fact that he was trembling. ‘You’ve made Elsie Rose thirty years younger than she is in the book. You’ve made her glamorous. You’ve completely upended, destroyed the novel! Your picture is a travesty!’

  ‘Frank was deluded.’ Aaron stubbed out his cigarette. ‘He was deluded and naive and an egocentric blowhard who thought the artist, the writer, was somehow sacred. Writers here are spawned like litters of kittens. They’re everywhere. Just ask Gigi’s friend, Don.’

  Gigi made a face.

  ‘Everyone will be happy when we’ve finished with this goddamned picture. Especially Roy.’ Aaron laid his hand on a large manila envelope. ‘I have everything for you right here. The death certificate is here, and the coroner’s report, all the other paperwork.’

  ‘I have questions.’

  ‘It’s all in order here.’

  ‘Why did you wait so long to call my father? It was the middle of the night, almost four in the morning for us. Frank was found in the pool that morning, your morning. You waited almost a whole day, endless hours before you rang us.’

  ‘We were looking for the wife’s number. We couldn’t find it. We remembered the agency, but that’s not a number that a man like Roy Rosenbaum will keep at hand. If you know what I mean. And it was a Sunday,’ said Aaron calmly. ‘Your offices were closed. We had to find your father’s home number. We could have waited till Monday morning, but we didn’t. We telephoned as a courtesy. We behaved admirably.’

  ‘What else was happening in those hours?’

  ‘What do you think was happening! All hell was breaking loose! Any whiff of scandal brings the press out like cockroaches, especially to a place like the Garden of Allah. We had to deal with those maggots. And the police. Frank had to be hauled out of the water, taken to the coroner’s office. It was a regrettable accident. We did our best, Mr Castle.’ Aaron brought his hand down on the envelope. ‘You can read the report. He was drunk. He fell in the pool. You’ve seen him when he’s drunk.’ Aaron paused. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘My relationship with Francis Carson is not under discussion.’

  ‘You’re creating scenarios that don’t exist. I thought we business types—’ He gave a small insincere laugh ‘—left that to the writers.’

  ‘Sod off, you supercilious Yank.’

  Gigi suppressed a giggle.

  Aaron’s lips curled. He thrust the manila envelope at Quentin. ‘There’s one more thing in this envelope. The life insurance policy for ten thousand dollars. Regent Films takes out a policy on all the important people connected with any film. When the film is finished, the policy lapses. Roy took one out on Frank. Why do you look so strange?’

  ‘Life insurance?’

  ‘To protect our investment; if the worst should happen and we have to start all o
ver again, we are indemnified. Regent is always the beneficiary of these policies, naturally. Roy has very generously assigned this policy over to Mrs Carson. His lawyer has made certain everything’s in order. Twenty thousand is a lot.’

  ‘Twenty? Thousand?’ said Quentin, still stunned. ‘American dollars?’

  ‘It doubles if the death is due to an accident. Which Frank’s was. See –’ Aaron lit up again ‘– we’re decent men here. Twenty thousand is a goddamned fortune.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Quentin, hating his own stupidity.

  ‘Now, please, take Frank and leave.’

  ‘Take him? Where shall I collect the body? Where—’

  ‘Take him.’ Aaron pointed to the black velvet chocolate box.

  ‘Where? What are you talking about?’

  ‘His ashes. Frank Carson was cremated.’

  ‘Ashes! Ashes?’

  ‘We thought the box would be easier for you than an urn. Though if you’d prefer the urn—’

  ‘Cremated?’ Quentin’s throat closed, like the hand of Frank Carson throttling him, like the voice of Frank Carson crying out from the black velvet box. See what they’ve done to me! Help me! Help me!

  ‘We took care of everything, just as we promised.’

  With some difficulty Quentin eked out, ‘You had him cremated without talking to his wife?’

  ‘She has no telephone.’

  ‘You should have asked us, asked my father, asked … someone!’

  ‘We knew you were coming, of course, and thought this would be easiest for you.’

  ‘But what if … how could you?’ Quentin blustered, his breathing erratic, his chest tight. He feared he was having a heart attack. ‘By what right, on whose authority did you make that decision?’

  ‘Everything’s in order here.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Regent Films did everything properly.’

  ‘By cremating a man’s body without asking permission? Cremation is … It goes against custom and religion. It’s not what we do!’

  ‘We would have buried him here, and paid for everything, but Albert Castle wired Roy, and specifically said Frank’s wife wanted no services of any kind here. She wanted him returned to England. We honoured that.’

  ‘But to cremate him without permission! It’s unthinkable that you should have done this.’

  ‘But it is done,’ said Aaron. ‘And I am a busy man.’

  ‘When?’ cried Quentin. ‘When did you do this?’

  ‘After he died,’ said Aaron. ‘That’s when cremation usually happens.’

  Quentin turned to Gigi, who, under her bright tan, had blanched. ‘Did you know this?’

  ‘I didn’t, Quentin. I didn’t have any idea.’

  ‘Why should she know anything?’ scoffed Aaron. ‘She’s a girl. She doesn’t make decisions.’

  ‘How could you?’ Quentin spluttered. ‘I mean that literally! Somebody had to sign, to take responsibility. How could you—’

  ‘There are papers in this envelope from the Wilshire Heights Funeral Home which is where we had the body sent after the coroner made his report. Roy signed. I witnessed.’

  ‘You knew this the other night when I came to dinner. You didn’t mention it.’

  Aaron paused momentarily, then went on in a low, menacing voice. ‘What were you thinking? That his body would ride home in state like Abraham Lincoln? He was just another ink-slinger, another dime-a-dozen writer. And, I might add, we have absorbed all the costs.’

  ‘Oh, for Chrissake!’ cried Gigi. ‘Money, money, money!’

  ‘Will you just shut up, Gigi? I’ve heard enough out of you to last my whole goddamned life.’ Aaron turned his attention back to Quentin, articulating carefully, as though Quentin were not a native speaker of English and might need time to process. ‘Frank was an employee of Regent Films, a foreigner, here in this country as our employee, and we made the decision. To be helpful to you. There was nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Really, do you make those choices for all of your dead employees?’

  ‘Check out the paperwork, Quentin. It’s all there. It’s all correctly done, including the twenty thousand dollars in life insurance that will come to the widow in the next few weeks. Now get on the goddamned plane or the ship, or the back of a broom for all I goddamned care, and go back to goddamned England and take goddamned Frank Carson with you.’ He smiled.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Quentin.

  ‘There isn’t. I promise you.’

  ‘There is the matter of Frank’s papers, his correspondence, his notebooks. Your father-in-law ordered you find it for me.’

  ‘No one orders me to do anything.’

  ‘Except the Lotus,’ said Gigi.

  Aaron’s fleshly jowls went red, and the stubble on his cheeks seemed to grow darker by contrast. ‘There was no such box or papers. I called the Garden of Allah and checked. Deal with the maids there if you like, but don’t suggest that we are keeping something that doesn’t belong to us. We treated Frank well. We treated you well. I am sick of your British arrogance. This is Hollywood, not the fucking Empire where you can order around a lot of coolies. You’re finished here. You too.’ He wagged a finger at Gigi.

  Quentin stood. ‘I’m not leaving Los Angeles without the second suitcase.’

  ‘There are no papers, no suitcase, no, nothing like that. Maybe he burned it all. Burned it all and then committed suicide.’

  ‘Bloody unlikely the man who was having an affair with Linda St John would want to kill himself.’ Quentin spat each word like a pellet. ‘She is Regent Films’ biggest star. You would do anything to protect her, to protect your investment. Your reputation. Roy doesn’t like scandal, doesn’t like bad behaviour, and what was this but the worst possible behaviour? Adultery and murder. I think Gilbert Vernon found Frank in bed with his wife, and killed him!’

  Aaron laughed. ‘Go sleep it off, you arrogant Brit. Who do you think you’re talking to? We are Regent Films!’

  ‘Today is Friday. I leave on Tuesday. I’m coming back here on Monday morning to collect that second suitcase with Frank’s manuscripts. I want that, and everything else you cleaned out of his flat. All of it. The letters, the bank statements, the—’

  ‘We’re finished here! Get out! Mrs Lindstrom!’ he cried, and then turned to Gigi. ‘If you try to bring this gawky, underfed bastard back on the lot, I’ll see to it Roy takes the car away. I will. I swear. He already knows you went to the set yesterday when he ordered you not to, and he’s goddamned mad about that. Now get out of here, both of you, and take these stinking ashes with you.’

  ‘I’m not leaving Los Angeles without the second suitcase. This is not over,’ said Quentin, trembling as he rose and left the room.

  Gigi reached across the desk and took the black velvet box and the large manila envelope. She suggested certain unnatural acts to Aaron, and followed Quentin out of the office, past the formidable Swede, and into the winter sunshine.

  ‘Quentin!’ she called after his back, but he was far ahead of her. ‘Quentin, wait!’ She ran and caught up with him in the small parking lot before the executive offices. He stood beside the MG, his back to her. ‘I had no idea, Quentin. It’s so terrible! All I knew is I was supposed to drive you around.’

  He turned to face her, his hazel eyes bleak. ‘And sleep with me?’

  ‘I haven’t slept with you.’

  ‘But that was the plan. Fob me off on the pretty girl and maybe I won’t notice how we’re all being screwed by Regent Films?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Quentin! They didn’t tell me anything, I swear!’

  ‘Of course they didn’t, Gigi. Look at yourself. You’re young, and beautiful and vibrant and shallow, and completely content to be Roy Rosenbaum’s stepdaughter and nothing more.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘You won’t always be young and vibrant and beautiful.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ll always be shallow? Hey
, baby, you’re the Brit with fishy breath! I’m the Girl of the Golden West, and don’t you forget it!’

  Quentin opened the door and sat in the car, held his peace, and looked straight ahead.

  Gigi stalked to the driver’s side, pulled the seat forward and placed the black velvet box and the manila envelope on the floor, but she did not get in. She paced back and forth in front of the MG. She reminded him, oddly, of his father lighting his pipe, how he would bring the match to the bowl, and rest it there, never quite lighting the tobacco, letting the match burn down.

  At last she got in the car. ‘What’ll you do if they don’t have the suitcase?’

  ‘They have it.’

  ‘If they don’t give it to you.’

  Quentin took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t have any damned idea. I don’t even know why I said that. It’s probably been destroyed. Probably his wife’s letters have been destroyed. Everything. They probably went into Frank’s place and swept him up and out of there, and destroyed everything.’

  ‘What was in the suitcase that was so important?’

  ‘The future. Work that could be published post-

  humously.’

  ‘You mean the novel Frank was writing about us, I mean, everyone here? I remember him at the Christmas party, standing by the mantel, writing, whisky in one hand, pen in another, having a gay old time making everyone uncomfortable.’

  ‘Yes. Well, Roy wouldn’t like that, would he? A novel about what Frank actually thought of all of you?’ Quentin’s tone was more acid than he’d intended.

  ‘No. Roy wouldn’t like that at all, but he wouldn’t do anything dishonest. Not Roy.’

  ‘Aaron?’

  Gigi seemed to deflate, to sag against the leather seat. ‘Honestly, I don’t know.’

  ‘Does Roy have that kind of power, to get things settled, life and death, so it suits him? Don’t look at me like that. It happens all the time. Lord thus-and-so wants this or that hushed up and it gets hushed up. I’m not impugning your great American values.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, at least. I’m so happy to hear it.’ She crossed her arms, and sulked. ‘Shall I take you back to the Garden?’