While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “Must have been a half-dozen of them, standing around in their undies,” Lombard went on, “and she was the only one I noticed. Couldn’t take my eyes off her. I know I’m no Tyrone Power, all right? Mr. Goldwyn said he doubted she’d be interested in me. I bet him fifty dollars I’d have dinner with her that very evening. He lost.”

  “And just what’s so fascinating about him?” Horn asked her.

  Eden hesitated, thinking, as she extracted a cigarette from a shiny case and Lombard lit it for her. “I’m tired of pretty boys,” she said, exhaling a stream of smoke across the table. “The studio is always trying to fix me up with some contract player with perfect teeth and hair. I like Jay because he’s smart and successful, and because he has more self-confidence than any man I’ve ever met.”

  Lombard seemed quietly satisfied with her answer. The orchestra moved into Embraceable You. The waiter brought a second iced bottle of champagne, and Lombard deposited something in the man’s pocket as he left.

  “So how long were you up there?” he asked Horn. “Cold Creek, wasn’t it?”

  “Two years.”

  “That seems a little stiff for a first offense. I might have been able to cut a deal for you.”

  “Maybe,” Horn said. “But I had a studio chief testifying against me while his son sat there with bandages on his face. Nobody offered me a deal.”

  “Did you make out all right?”

  “I suppose. Every now and then, somebody would get the urge to pick a fight with an ex-movie actor, and I’d have to roll around in the dirt with him.”

  “At least you’ve got a sense of humor about it,” Lombard said. “I’ve known a few men who came out of the pen with serious problems. You might know some of them yourself. Did you ever—”

  “Eden’s probably bored by all this,” Horn cut in.

  “Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Lombard said smoothly. “Let’s change the subject. I believe I know an old friend of yours from the movies. The Indian.”

  “Joseph Mad Crow. We made a lot of them together. I work for him now.”

  “Is that right? Doing what?”

  “Collecting debts.”

  Lombard tilted his head slightly, as if seeing Horn with fresh eyes. “Interesting job. But nothing like what you used to do.”

  Horn shrugged. “Joseph tells me you tried to keep him from getting his hands on money to start his casino.”

  Lombard laughed. “Not really. I simply wouldn’t lend him any myself. If his feelings were hurt, I’m sorry. I hope his operation is doing well.”

  Be careful, Horn told himself. He couldn’t afford to alienate the man before he got around to asking him about Rose.

  “How many movies did you make?” Eden asked him.

  “I lost count,” Horn laughed. “But you could’ve made ten of mine for the cost of one of Mr. Goldwyn’s. You haven’t heard of any of them. They had titles like Bloody Trail and Wyoming Thunder, and each one took about two weeks to shoot.”

  “You must have spent a lot of time on horseback,” she said. “I love horses.”

  “I had a fine horse,” Horn said. “I still miss him.”

  “Eden’s going to be a leading lady some day,” Lombard said. “She already has the name. All she needs now is the right break.”

  “My real name is Peggy Jean Turner,” she said to Horn. “I didn’t think it sounded dramatic enough.”

  He tried to imagine her as Peggy Jean Turner and failed. “I’m sure your new name will look good in lights,” he said.

  “I’m keeping an eye on her career,” Lombard said. “You have any advice for her?”

  “I’ll give you the best advice anybody ever gave me,” Horn said. “Remember your lines, don’t bump into the furniture, and never think you’re better than the people behind the camera.”

  Eden looked at him so searchingly that he was suddenly uneasy, so he tried to make a joke. “Too bad I never took that advice,” he said. “I always thought I was hot stuff.” He suddenly saw an opening. “The person who told me that,” he said, tracing the rim of the champagne glass with his finger, “I think you knew her. A woman named Rose Galen.”

  When Lombard appeared to hesitate, Horn resisted the impulse to raise his eyes and look at the man. He waited.

  “No, never heard of her,” Lombard said.

  “All that riding and fighting,” Eden said to Horn. “I imagine you must be pretty tough to do all that.”

  “Well, some of the boys I knew were the real thing,” Horn said. “Ken Maynard was a champion rodeo rider before he became a movie cowboy. And Johnny Mack Brown was an All-American at Alabama before he came out here. But most of us were just people doing a job. When it got really hard, they called in the stunt men. In the fight scenes, we mostly faked it—you know, pretending to throw a punch. If the camera angle is right, you can miss the other guy’s chin by six inches and it’ll still look realistic.”

  “So you’re not a tough guy,” Lombard said with an exaggerated smile, and Horn couldn’t tell if there was anything behind the remark.

  “Not me.”

  * * *

  The Duesenberg headed east back toward downtown, drawing occasional stares from other drivers. Horn sat in front next to Willie Apples, talking over his shoulder with the two in the back seat. He paid little attention to the conversation. All he could think about was that he was running out of time to get anything useful out of Jay Lombard. He would have preferred a private talk with the man, but he didn’t know if he would ever get a better chance—or, in fact, if he would ever see him again.

  “Willie, would you swing up by Chavez Ravine?” Lombard said to his driver. “Eden likes to see the lights from up there.”

  Willie Apples guided the big car carefully up a barely paved road that led past old houses that seemed to sag in the moonlight. There were no streetlights up here. The night air was clear, and the lights of downtown glowed like costume jewelry strewn in a shallow bowl. Horn wondered if Rose had ever come up here and seen the same lights, and what they might have said to her.

  Then they descended, finally reaching a bleak stretch of rail yards, where their driver turned south. Horn decided it was time to try again.

  “We started to talk about people we both know,” he said to Lombard. “You sure you’ve never heard of Rose Galen?”

  “I’m sure.” Horn heard an edge of impatience in the voice.

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten her, or maybe you knew her by another name,” Horn said. “But a friend of mine said she saw the two of you in the lounge at the Biltmore not too long ago, sitting and talking. It occurred to me that she might have needed a good lawyer, one who knew the angles.”

  He glanced sideways at Willie Apples, but the other man appeared to be interested only in his driving. Horn felt as if he had opened a door and stepped into a dark room. His words could be taking him into a dangerous place, but he was no longer trying to be smart, calculating the odds. He was running out of time, and this time he had to push as far as he could.

  “I’m afraid your friend’s wrong,” Lombard said.

  “Maybe I can help you remember,” Horn said. “She had a career in the movies for a while, but she wasn’t very successful. Last few years, she lived in one of the rooming houses up on Bunker Hill. She kept a newspaper clipping about you in her room. And—” He turned around to face the man in the back seat. “And a few days ago somebody killed her.”

  In the shifting lights from passing cars, it was impossible to read Lombard’s expression. He said nothing.

  “I’ve seen a few people die,” Horn said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. “Maybe you have too. I’ve noticed that when someone dies violently, it’s almost always without dignity. For some reason, that bothers me. Whoever killed Rose didn’t leave her any dignity.”

  Lombard leaned forward deliberately, tapped Willie Apples on the shoulder, and spoke quickly into his ear. Then he sat back.

  “Mr. Horn, I don’t think this
was a coincidence, our meeting tonight,” he said quietly.

  Their driver slowed the car and turned left out of the traffic and onto a darker and narrower street.

  “No coincidence,” Horn admitted. “Not to say I haven’t enjoyed the champagne and the conversation, along with the chance to meet Eden. But I need to find out—”

  “I’m forced to be rude to you,” Lombard cut in. “I have to say I’m not interested in your story about some woman. Quite simply, you’ve made a mistake, and I’m afraid your ride is over. Please get out.”

  Willie Apples stopped the car, and Horn looked around. They were on a street of warehouses and loading docks, dark except for a few streetlights.

  “This is not very hospitable,” Horn said. He opened the door and got out. It would be a long walk to his car.

  Just then, Willie Apples cut the engine, got out from behind the wheel, stripped off his suit jacket, and laid it carefully on the seat, then stood looking at Horn over the roof of the Duesenberg, his brow furrowed as usual. Horn knew something was wrong. “What’s going on?” he asked Lombard through the window.

  “I tried to be friendly toward you, but you insisted on crowding me about this Rosemary—” Lombard caught himself. “This Rose person. I told you I didn’t know her, and you implied I was lying. If I felt particularly unkind, I’d point out that you are a washed-up actor and an ex-con, a man not to be taken seriously. Willie here, who has a different attitude about violence than do I, is going to leave you with a souvenir. Nothing permanent, just enough to make you remember that I’m not someone who responds well to disrespect.”

  Horn stripped off his jacket, folded it, and laid it on the pavement, then added his fedora. He caught a glimpse of Eden Lamont’s face in the back seat. Her eyes were wide with fear and something else. He thought fleetingly of the woman with the spot of blood on her glove.

  Willie Apples came around the car, arms wide, flexing his big fingers, moving in an exaggerated crouch like an ape Horn had once seen in a zoo. “Come here,” the man said.

  Horn’s stomach knotted. He could try running, but they had a car, and eventually it would come down to him and Willie Apples out here on the street. He might as well save his wind. His right hand started for the pocket of his sport jacket, but he stopped it. No sense in giving anything away too soon. He backed off some more, looking over his shoulder. He was a few feet from a darkened loading dock. He might be able to use the darkness, but he could also get trapped up there on the platform. Better to stay on street level.

  As Willie approached, Horn angled to the right until he and the other man were in the full glare of the car’s lights, like players onstage in a violent drama. Bile churned up into his throat. It was the familiar taste of fear, the fear that had paralyzed and unmanned him during the war. All he could do was try to forget the source of the fear—the man who wanted to hurt him—and focus on the reason he was here.

  Rose. He allowed her face to drift upward from the secret place where he kept it. In death, it was ugly and terrible. But it might be enough.

  Moving lightly for such a big man, Willie rushed him. Horn threw a solid right at him, but it glanced harmlessly off his shoulder, and in the next instant Horn felt himself enclosed in the other man’s arms. Willie lifted him off his feet and lumbered toward a tin-sided warehouse wall a few yards away. With a bang, he slammed Horn against the wall and pinned him there.

  “Jay said to break something,” he said in a conversational tone. His knuckles ground into Horn’s spine, sending jolts up and down his back. “You get to pick.”

  Horn struggled with all his strength. Sliding slowly down the wall, he felt his feet touch the ground. He raised one foot and brought it down hard on the other man’s instep. Willie groaned and loosened his grip a bit.

  “How about a couple of ribs?” he asked. When Horn didn’t answer, he dropped his arms, stepped back, doubled up a giant fist, and aimed a right hook at Horn’s ribcage. Horn saw it coming and barely had time to twist to the right. Instead of the ribs, the big man’s fist slammed into the muscles to the left of his spine, sending a shock down to his knees. If he lands a solid one, I’m finished, Horn thought desperately.

  Before Horn could recover from the blow, the other man stepped in close to fashion a quick wrestler’s hold, slipping his right arm up under Horn’s left as he grabbed a handful of hair with the other hand. Horn knew what was coming, but he couldn’t stop it. An instant later, he flew through the air, landing heavily and painfully on his right shoulder. As he rolled onto his stomach, his opponent dropped on him from behind, aiming a heavy knee at the base of his spine with all his weight behind it. Horn’s breath was driven out of him.

  Next the weight shifted up to Horn’s shoulders, pinning him to the pavement. He felt Willie grab his hair with both hands and rake his face across the concrete in a quick scrubbing motion. The pain was ferocious.

  Willie lifted him by his collar to his feet and spun him around. His face on fire, Horn fought to give himself a few seconds’ time. He jammed a thumb toward the man’s left eye, but Willie merely squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shook his head. “You fight dirty,” he said. “I don’t mind.”

  I learned in the joint, Horn answered the man silently. Nobody fights clean there.

  Another giant fist, a left this time, and Horn could not avoid it. The blow caught him dead center in the chest, bouncing him loudly off the tin wall and back out onto the pavement.

  Willie stood about six feet away, grinning slightly. Fighting for breath from the blow to his chest and unable to see well out of his right eye, Horn dug into the pocket of his jacket, but he found only a large rip in the pocket seam. The object he sought had dropped down into the lining. Frantically he dug farther until he found it, then tried to drag it out, but the heavy object snagged on the torn pocket.

  “What you got there?” Willie asked without much concern. “Can’t be a piece. An ex-con’d be crazy to—”

  Horn jerked his hand free, wrapped his fingers around the grip of the brass knuckles and, in a single motion, stepped forward and drove his fist into Willie’s stomach, just grazing the lowest rib. The other man grunted loudly, bent over, and clutched his midsection. Without pausing, Horn brought the knuckles around in a right hook that exploded on the man’s left temple. Willie went down on one knee. Another blow, this one cracking on the crown of the head, and the big man went down all the way, curled up, one cheek resting on the asphalt. The trickle of blood from his temple looked black in the light from the faraway street lamp.

  But Willie wasn’t finished. Slowly, noises coming from his throat, he pushed up from the pavement, then rose to his knees. There he stayed, swaying slightly, as if wondering what he should do next.

  Horn had forgotten everything except his rage. It was like the moment after the needless death of his horse when he went after Bernie Rome Junior. He stepped forward, ready to follow up, to use the brass knuckles decisively, to break a bone in the man who had threatened to break one of his. But a wave of pain and dizziness swept over him. He reached out for support, found none. The next thing he knew, he was sitting down about ten feet from Willie, watching the car’s headlights rotate crazily in giant circles.

  “I think I’d call that a draw.” It was Lombard’s voice. The lawyer walked over and stood over him. “Even better than Raul’s bout. And this time I had a ringside seat.”

  He turned to his employee, who was rising painfully to his feet. “Not bad, Willie, although I was a little disappointed in the outcome. Let’s go.” They walked toward the car.

  Horn got up too, slowly retrieved his hat and jacket, and followed them. As he walked, everything hurt. Expressionlessly, Lombard sat in the back seat and watched him approach. “You want another round?” he asked.

  Horn leaned in the window closest to Eden and spoke past her. “No,” he said, his voice a shaky whisper. “I just wanted to say this isn’t over. Whoever killed Rose Galen probably thought everyone had forgotten he
r. But she had friends. We’re going to get her dignity back for her.”

  His own language sounded alien to him, like a speech from the hero of a bad movie, but he couldn’t stop. “You still have something to tell me. If she was a friend—or a client—of yours, you should want to help. But if you’re the one who killed her, I’m going to find out.”

  He turned to Eden, who was staring at the fresh wound on his cheek, her eyes still wide and face pale except for the dark slash of lipstick. “Before it’s too late, you may want to ask yourself if you belong with him,” he said.

  “And by the way, I like your real name better.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “He called her Rosemary.”

  Horn and Mad Crow sat at the weathered bar of the Dust Bowl amid the comforting fragrance of spilled beer and cigarette smoke and the familiar talk of the regular patrons. Sometimes it seemed that everyone in L.A. came from somewhere else, and many of those in the Dust Bowl spoke in the distinctive twang of Oklahoma, Arkansas, and East Texas.

  It was early afternoon, and the customers were low-key and few in number. The place was one-story and ramshackle and finished in whitewashed clapboard. Neon glowed seductively from the lettering over the entrance and from various beer signs hung in the windows.

  “He called her Rosemary,” Mad Crow responded, not comprehending. “That’s not her name.”

  “It used to be. Dex told me that. Back when she was in the silents, that’s the name she used. But only then. When Lombard called her that, he stumbled and then caught himself and called her Rose. But I heard him.”

  “So….”

  “So he didn’t just know her. He knew her a good twenty years ago. Back around the time when she left the business without telling anybody why. Something happened to her back then, and I’ll bet you Lombard knows what it was.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t something that happened to her,” Mad Crow suggested. “Maybe she really did—”

  “Kill somebody.” Horn scraped at the label of his Blue Ribbon absent-mindedly with his thumbnail. A large, rectangular bandage was taped to the right side of his face, covering it from temple to jaw. “Maybe.” He drained the bottle and waggled it in the air. “Hey, Rusty. A couple more?”