While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “Well…he’ll be a little tired. But of course you can. Why don’t you come by around nine? You know, John Ray, it occurs to me you’ve never turned down a dinner before. You must not be well.” Underneath the light tone he thought he could discern a note of concern, and he wondered how much she knew.

  “Maybe that’s it. Anyway…thanks, Evelyn.”

  It was past three when he got dressed and drove into town, headed for Iris’ place. He wanted to time his arrival just right, and he was pleased to see a nondescript Chevy sedan parked in the driveway. And Emory Quinn emerging from the garage with an armload of clothes.

  Spotting Horn as he got out of his car, Quinn regarded him with undisguised hostility.

  “Funny thing, us running into each other here,” Horn said. “Since this is not the kind of address where you’d normally find either one of us.”

  Leaning into the car, Quinn deposited his load on the back seat, which was already overflowing with suits, shirts, shoes, and other items.

  “Nice clothes,” Horn said, peering in. “Guess the owner won’t be needing them anymore. And the people at the mission sure will appreciate them, won’t they?”

  Quinn, still hostile, was clearly puzzled. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Me and the lady who’s being so generous to you, we’re old friends,” Horn said. He spotted Iris inside the garage, carrying a cardboard box from inside the house and depositing it on the hood of the Packard. He waved, and she waved back.

  “Matter of fact, it was me suggested she donate some of her late husband’s things to your mission. She’s a nice lady, and she agreed.” Horn took a step toward Quinn, who stood with arms folded, bouncing nervously up and down on the balls of his feet. “My feelings were hurt yesterday when you said I couldn’t visit you anymore. I thought I’d catch you someplace off your home ground, see if you felt more friendly.”

  “There’s nothing you can do about Rose,” Quinn said sullenly. “And I’m tired of talking about it.” He started for the garage. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Talk to me, Quinn,” Horn said. “Or I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Fairbrass, and you can forget about all these nice clothes and how many people they’ll keep warm.”

  Quinn stopped, and Horn pressed on. “You’re a hypocrite preacher who drinks too much, and you probably weren’t much of a fighter, truth be told. But I think you do some good at that place where you work, and I respect that.

  “I also think you haven’t told me everything you know. So talk to me, and then I’ll help you finish loading your car, and you can go back to the people you’re trying to help.”

  Quinn blinked and wiped his nose with a reddened knuckle, an old fighter’s gesture. His face lost some of its tightness.

  “You need to understand,” he said. “Not talking to you wasn’t my idea.”

  “Whose, then?”

  Quinn leaned back against the fender of his car, head down, as if winded. “The other day Willie Apples came around. You know, he’s not very smart, but he was just delivering a message. Told me Lombard had decided that you were asking too many questions about Rose. He said Lombard didn’t have anything to do with her murder, but you were making things awkward for him. Said he was mad at me for bringing you around to the fights, helping you out. That’s going to stop, he said. I don’t spend any more time with you, or else.”

  “You afraid of him? Willie, I mean?”

  “I’m not afraid of any man,” Quinn said with so much conviction that Horn believed him. “But Willie talked about the Anchor and all the people who depend on it. There could be a fire, he said. You never know. Things just happen.” He shrugged. “I got the message.”

  “I think I understand,” Horn said.

  “I’m sure I’ll have to deal with Lombard at some point,” Quinn said. “But I’m not ready yet. For now, I just want to protect the mission.”

  “You did right,” Horn said. “And if it turns out he sent Willie after Rose, people will be standing in line to deal with both of them. Come on, let’s finish loading up. You’ve got a delivery to make.”

  After Quinn had driven away, Iris invited him in for a cup of coffee. Clea was on her way home from school, she said. Part of him hoped she’d invite him to stay for dinner, but she did not, so he left.

  Not ready to go home, he drove down to Wilshire for a steak and a baked potato, then headed over to the theater on Fairfax that showed silent movies. The newspaper had told him there was a western double feature, one starring William S. Hart, and the other Tom Mix. He got to the theater just as the first show, the Hart film, was starting. It was Hell’s Hinges, which Horn had seen for the first time as a small boy. Its good-versus-evil story had impressed him strongly, and he was curious now to see how it looked decades later. The Hart character is a bad man, a gunfighter, who nevertheless has a spark of decency that responds to the love of a preacher’s daughter. At the end he becomes a kind of avenging angel, wiping out the evil in the town.

  As he sat watching the movie unfold, Horn was struck by its sense of certainty. Since the war, something unsettling had crept into certain American films—a darkness, a moral ambiguity, a sense that the average man had little chance against the world. He loved the movies, and this change troubled him. Watching the exaggerated acting of the characters in this old silent western, he knew he was revisiting, if only for a short time, something he had gotten from the movies since childhood—the notion that good will prevail. He felt the power of the Hart character, its almost biblical dimensions, and once again he recalled seeing something of his father there, both the good and the evil. The thought did not bring him comfort, and he considered how long it had been since he had tried to call or write home.

  After Hell’s Hinges, Tom Mix’s athletic derring-do seemed trivial by comparison, and Horn left before the second movie was over.

  It was not yet ten o’clock. Still restless, he drove over the hill and into the Valley, making his way eventually to the Dust Bowl, its neon-lit exterior glowing like a beacon surrounded by the darkness of open fields. Inside, he went to the bar and had just gotten a Blue Ribbon when someone called to him. It was Mad Crow, who was at a table with Cassie and Rusty Baird. Horn carried his beer over to them.

  “Take a seat,” Mad Crow said. “We’re involved in something deep and significant, and we need a fresh opinion.” He belched behind a big fist. “Also some refills.” He waved to the bartender. “More tea,” he called out. “And don’t forget the crumpets this time.” A minute later, he and Cassie had fresh beers in front of them, along with a bowl of peanuts salted in the shell.

  “What’s so deep and significant?” Horn asked.

  “Joseph got to talking about how no Indians ever get to play the leads,” Baird said, taking a sip from his cup of black coffee. “Then he said, hell, sometimes they don’t even get to play Indians. I said what about Anthony Quinn? Wasn’t he Crazy Horse once?”

  “And I pointed out that he’s Irish and Mexican,” Mad Crow said with a grin. “Okay, he looks the part, but it’s not the same thing. And Red said what about Iron Eyes Cody? He’s been in a lot of movies, right? And I had to give him the bad news—”

  “Iron Eyes Cody isn’t an Indian?” Horn asked.

  Mad Crow shook his head. “Italian, basically. Name used to be DeCorti, and he’s from Louisiana. But don’t spread it around. He’s a nice guy, and I don’t want to see him lose any work.”

  “We could make a list of the ones who did the worst job of playing an Indian,” Cassie said. She was wearing her cabby’s outfit and appeared relaxed, her sense of humor once again in place after her bad experience with the police the day before.

  “How about Boris Karloff?” Horn suggested. “In that Gary Cooper movie, the one with Paulette Goddard.”

  “I thought Boris wasn’t too bad, really,” Mad Crow said. “The old chief was supposed to be scary, and so they just went out and hired Frankenstein.”

  “Jennifer Jones,”
Cassie said. “Duel in the Sun. She might have fooled Gregory Peck, but she didn’t fool me.”

  “I’m going to exempt her,” Mad Crow said expansively.

  “Why?” Baird asked.

  “Because she was only supposed to be half Indian,” Mad Crow said, glancing quickly at Cassie. “And, uh….”

  “You had a crush on her, that’s why,” Horn suggested.

  “You can’t change the rules,” Cassie said.

  “Wait a minute.” Mad Crow took a swig of his beer and thought hard for a moment. “Don Ameche,” he said finally. “In Ramona. They re-released it about a year ago, and Nee Nee made me take her. All through that idiotic movie I kept seeing him in a suit and tie, inventing the telephone.”

  “I think you just won,” Horn said. The others nodded in agreement.

  A tall, jug-eared young man in a plaid shirt and chinos walked over to the juke box, popped in a dime and made his selections. Seconds later, Woody Guthrie’s version of the haunting Will You Miss Me? began to play. The young man approached the table and asked Cassie to dance. She jumped to her feet.

  As Mad Crow watched them walk over to the small dance floor—really just a space with no tables near the bar—Baird leaned over and said quietly, “He’s all right. I know him and his daddy. They work a few acres of hazelnuts over in Canoga Park.”

  “Sure,” Mad Crow said. “I’m not worried.”

  Baird excused himself and got up to look after customers.

  Mad Crow watched the couple dancing. “I can’t get used to that outfit of hers,” he said, shaking his head. “You squint your eyes, and it could almost be two men dancing over there.”

  “If she looks anything like a man, you’ve had way too much to drink,” Horn said.

  “I know.” Mad Crow grinned broadly. “Just kidding. Actually she’s downright pretty, isn’t she? Takes after her mother.”

  “She is.” Horn didn’t want the conversation to turn to Cassie’s father. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the casino?”

  “I guess. But Cassie’s shift doesn’t start until midnight tonight, and I thought I’d just take a little time off to spend with her.” He looked vaguely embarrassed.

  “You two are getting along a lot better now, aren’t you?”

  “We are. And she’s doing pretty well driving the cab. Never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to be proud of her.” He shot a quick sideways glance at Horn. “When you came over on Saturday…you made a point of bringing her along, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty, I guess.”

  “Well…thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. But if the obligation gets to be too much, buy me a beer.”

  “Garcon! Two more over here.”

  The juke box shifted to an instrumental by Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys, and Cassie and the young man kept dancing. “He’s holding her awful close,” Mad Crow said.

  “Relax.”

  When the bottles arrived, Horn sat without touching his. “Something on your mind,” Mad Crow said.

  Horn told him about the events of the last few days. He approached the subject of Cassie and the police delicately but was relieved to find that she had already told her uncle about being called in for questioning. “If you have a dark skin in this town,” Mad Crow said, “you don’t go looking for fair treatment from them. She knows that. We all know it.”

  “I’m not too worried about her,” Horn said. “She didn’t do anything. Coby’s a typical cop in a lot of ways, but he’s not dumb, and I think he’ll be fair. And even though he seems lazy every now and then, I think he really wants to find out who killed Rose.”

  When Horn spoke of meeting Dolores Winter and her ex-husband, Mad Crow’s expression took on a far-away look.

  “I met her once,” he said. “Did I ever tell you?”

  “Nope.”

  “It was during the war. You were probably off in Italy, and I was taking a break from my arduous duties in Special Services, lining up entertainment for the boys. One night I stopped in at the Hollywood Canteen, and next thing I knew, I was dancing with her.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Huh-uh. As usual, the place was loaded with GIs buzzing around a handful of movie stars. I’d been working my way across the room to get a better look at Lana Turner, but she was surrounded. This great-looking redhead asked me if I wanted to dance, and a second later I recognized her.”

  “Doll Winter.”

  “None other than. She was wearing a tight skirt and white blouse with a ruffle in the front. It was hot in there, and she smelled very warm and talcumy, you know? We danced, we talked a little about her movies, and she admired my sergeant’s stripes. Then she caught me looking at Lana, and she laughed. ‘Lana Turner always reminded me of a vanilla ice cream cone just about to melt,’ she said. I thought that was wonderful.

  “‘How about you?’ I said, feeling downright bold. ‘Takes a lot to make me melt,’ she said, looking me right in the eye. Lord. I forgot all about Lana Turner and was about to say something really witty when this gunner’s mate from the Big Mo cut in. And that was the end of my romance with Doll Winter.”

  The look he gave Horn was both sly and envious. “You had lunch with her. And she’s not married anymore. You got any chance with her? Or does she prefer the Leslie Howard type?”

  “Actually, she told me she likes cowboys.”

  “You son of a bitch. You’re going to get some of that, aren’t you?”

  “Leave me alone, Indian.”

  “If you get a chance at that and you pass it up, don’t ever talk to me again.”

  Seeking to change the subject, Horn began describing Rose’s letters to Willis Shockley. “I’m starting to get an idea about what happened that night twenty years ago,” he said.

  “And I’m beginning to have doubts about some people. Emory Quinn is one of them. He had a thing for Rose, and he’s kept quiet about it.

  “But what bothers me most is…I’m afraid Dex was somehow involved. It looks like he may have lied to me. About more than one thing.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Talk to him. Maybe he can explain. Hell, men lie about women all the time, and it doesn’t make ’em murderers.”

  Cassie returned from dancing, her face flushed and happy. The Indian looked at his watch and got up. “Think I’ll stop by the shop on my way home,” he said. “I’ll get there just in time to clean out the cash register, kick out the riffraff, and lock the doors.”

  “Guess I should leave too,” Cassie said.

  Outside, Horn started for his car, but a wordless look from Cassie stopped him. Mad Crow, a little drunk, patted the gleaming white finish of his boat-like convertible. “Have you heard the Lakota warrior’s song to his horse?”

  “Many times,” Horn said, winking at Cassie.

  “My horse be swift in flight,” Mad Crow intoned, his hand still on the car. “Bear me now in safety far from the enemy’s arrows. And you shall be rewarded with streamers and ribbons red.”

  He got in and cranked the engine, then waved as the car roared out of the lot, throwing gravel behind it.

  “Where’s your cab?” Horn asked.

  “Behind the building. Wouldn’t want Yellow Cab to know one of their drivers is in here drinking, even if she is off duty.”

  “Especially when she’s not quite twenty-one. Was I imagining it, or did you not want me to leave just yet?”

  She nodded. “I met someone who knew Rose years ago,” she said. “I think he knows some things. I’m going to see him now. You interested?”

  It took him only a second to get over his surprise. “Very.”

  “Then follow me.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cassie led him over the Cahuenga Pass and down into Hollywood. On the broad parkway that cut through the hill, she drove the big cab with her usual urgency, as if she were on a life-and-death mission. Even with the advantage of the Ford’s overs
ized engine, he had to fight to keep up with her. When she abruptly changed lanes, cutting off a Hudson full of people and drawing an outraged blast of the horn, he heard himself mutter at her.

  At Highland she turned south, and they headed that way for several miles. At Wilshire, she turned left. The regular stop signals on the big street slowed her pace somewhat, and Horn began to enjoy the drive. It was almost midnight, and much of the city was asleep. Most of Wilshire’s businesses were dark, but here and there a corner bar or drugstore glowed with light. As they drove east, traffic picked up. A few miles ahead, he knew, were the Brown Derby restaurant and the Ambassador Hotel, where the Cocoanut Grove nightclub attracted the late-night crowd.

  A light rain, little more than a mist, began falling, and he switched on his wipers. He almost missed the sight of the cab pulling over to the curb, but he recovered and found a spot behind her. Cassie got out, waved ambiguously, and went inside a brightly lit liquor store. In a minute she emerged carrying a small paper bag. They drove on.

  As he began to wonder how far she was going, Cassie took a quick left, and soon he found himself in a quiet, darkened neighborhood of big yards and sprawling homes. A block and a half north of Wilshire, she cut left again, darting into a driveway. He followed and saw the cab quickly enveloped in heavy, overhanging shrubbery and tree branches as it negotiated a narrow loop of a circular driveway. Peering through the rain-slick windshield, he made out the ornate entryway of what looked like a large house. But Cassie kept going until she reached a side door, where her brake lights stopped him.

  He got out and found her huddling in the doorway to keep dry, her cabby’s hat still on and her jacket collar turned up. “He doesn’t use the front door much anymore,” she said as she pressed her thumb against the bell. He heard a faint ringing inside.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded. “It’s the middle of the night. Whose place is this?”

  “He stays up late,” she said. “Madge told me you’ve been looking for him. She calls him the gray man.”