by George Baxt
“Slipped something like a Mickey Finn? Something to knock him out?”
“Slipped something like maybe poison. And then the killer, afraid of the possibility of an autopsy, crushed his skull to get us off the scent. There are detectives like Felix Dvorack who’ll take a crushed skull at face value and not hunt around for anything else suspicious.”
“That poor kid. His life was one pain after another, and now you don’t even let him rest in peace. Well, if he was perzoned, why do I get the hunch it might have been with some kind of witches’ brew?”
“Anything’s possible in an investigation. That’s the fun side of detective work.”
“I ain’t been doin’ so bad, have I, Herb?”
“You’ve been doing great. Head of the class.”
“That sounds good and makes me feel good. You hear that, Jim? I’m makin’ good again.” She said to Villon, “You know what they used to say about me back in New York? ‘Local girl makes bad.” Seymour Steel Cheeks returned from the bodyguards’ apartment. “So, Seymour, how’re the boys doin’?”
“They’re asleep.”
“Already?” She looked at her wristwatch. “My my my, how time flies. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and I’ve got an early call at the studio.” To the detectives she suggested, “If you’re in the vicinity of Paramount Pitchers tomorrow, boys, why don’t you drop in and catch some of the shootin’. Film shootin’, that is, of course. You know, Paramount’s right next door to RKO Pitchers and right behind us is Hollywood Cemetery. They got Rudolph Valentino there and that dumb kid Virginia Rappe, the one that got killed in the Fatty Arbuckle scandal. He got a real bum Rappe.”
“Oh, Mae,” admonished Villon.
“I know, I know. It’s late and I’m tired.” She walked the detectives to the door. “I want to know the result of Neon’s autopsy. If I have to change some thinkin’ about some people. I got a real heavy day ahead of me tomorrow.” She clucked her tongue. “Hallowe’en party. Here’s hopin’ there ain’t too many tricks behind the treats.”
ELEVEN
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING, Mae sat in her exquisite white caravan on the Paramount lot, being fussed over by a hairdresser, a makeup girl, a manicurist, and costume designer Travis Banton while Desdemona and Goneril marveled at how much younger she looked because of these ministrations.
“You’re as young as you feel,” advised Mae, “and I like to feel young. And I’m gonna start playin’ younger parts. Enough of these women of the world. You see this here book I been readin’?” She slapped a palm on the book that rested on her dressing table. “It’s all about the Civil War and this here girl Scarlett O’Hara. The book’s new. My agent sent it to me to see if I’d be interested in the part of this here whore Belle Watlin’. Well, I ain’t interested in playin’ no more whores, even if that’s what my vast public wants to see me playin’. Now take this here Scarlett O’Hara. She’s a real bitch, out to steal some other gal’s boyfriend. Anyway, Timony’s been readin’ the book too and he’s been tellin’ me most of it as I ain’t got much patience with readin’ books. Well, if they ever get around to filmin’ it, I intend to play Scarlett O’Hara.”
Travis Banton blanched. “Mae, with all due respect …”
“Which I richly deserve.”
“I’ve read the book. Just about everyone in Hollywood has either read it or is reading it. Scarlett O’Hara is sixteen years old with a seventeen-inch waist.”
“You been around Hollywood a long time, Travis. Shame on you. Ain’t you heard of trick photography?”
“I’ve also heard of miracles.”
Mae smiled at his reflection in the dressing table mirror. “Whaddya think of my bodyguards?”
“You get them from Central Casting?” He was fussing with a sleeve that wasn’t draping correctly.
“No, honey. Mr. Timony scouted them at Hasseltine’s Gym. Ain’t they somethin’? Of course I had final approval. Maybe I can work them into the pitcher.”
“As what? Most of it takes place on a farm.”
“Well, farm’s got barns, right? And barns got haylofts, right? They could be pitchin’ hay in the hayloft till I come in and put a stop to such nonsense and put the three of them to a better use. I might even do a song number with them backin’ me up. You gotta admit it’s not a bad idea.”
“Mae, it isn’t your ideas that are bad, it’s your notions.” An assistant director stuck his head in the door. “We’re ready for you on the set, Miss West.”
“Well, they’ll have to wait until I fall into place.” The sleeve finally satisfied Banton, and Mae examined herself carefully in the mirror. Desdemona and Goneril stood with their arms folded, and Mae asked them, “Do I meet with your approval?” Desdemona said, “I always think you look just fine, Miss West.”
Goneril added, “But you know what they say, the camera never lies.”
Said Mae as she got to her feet, “I’ve known a few cameras I’ve thought of suin’ for perjury. Come on. Let’s get the show on the road.” She led the entourage from the custom-built caravan. Outside, she smiled at her three bodyguards who were on cloud nine, ogling the beautiful extras and starless. “Boys, your eyes are bigger than your stomachs. I hope them’s your pistols in your pockets.”
A wardrobe mistress was hurrying to Travis Banton. “Mr. Banton! Mr. Banton! They need you in wardrobe right away! It’s a madhouse! Half the lot’s there taking costumes and gowns to wear to Hallowe’en parties tonight!”
Banton followed the wardrobe mistress while Desdemona and Goneril, eyes ablaze at the prospect of joining the looting, went hurrying after them.
Mae said to her bodyguards as they walked the short distance to the sound stage where her movie was shooting, “You’re gonna have your work cut out for you tonight, boys. I think there’s gonna be an awful lot of Mae Wests out there. I’m beginnin’ to worry about that party at the Tailspin.” Selma Jefferson Burr held open the heavy iron door, and Mae rewarded him with a warm smile as she led her retinue inside.
Once on the sound stage, Mae was in her element. This was home, this was sanctuary, this was the palace where she was the absolute monarch. She waved at the host of grips, electricians, sound engineers, and other assorted factotums. “Hello, gentlemen,” she shouted. “You get much last night? I hope you did. The way contented cows give great milk, contented men do better jobs.” She said to the head electrician, “Lots of baby pinks, remember.” He indicated the rack of baby pink spotlights overhead, and Mae’s thumb and index finger married to signal her approval. Baby pink spotlights were a godsend to middle-aged actresses. She greeted Henry Hathaway, the director, who was better known for his action and adventure films. “Say, Henry, you figure a way to get me on a horse? It might make you feel more at home.”
Hathaway responded with a brusque “Good morning.” Mae tolerated him. She hadn’t wanted him on the film, but Emmanuel Cohen had pleaded with her to accept him as he’d been without an assignment for over a month, and movie studios wanted their contract personnel to work continuously. Even their most important actors made as many as four or five features a year; directors were known to accomplish five or six. Mae greeted Randolph Scott, one of her leading men, and as she looked at his handsome face, which was occupied with a buttered roll, she wondered if the gossip about him and his housemate, Cary Grant, was true. She’d given Grant his first big break as her leading man in She Done Him Wrong and then used him again in her third film, I’m No Angel. Well, she decided, if they’re a hot and heavy, who could blame them, they’re both so gorgeous.
Elizabeth Patterson, the character actress playing Randolph Scott’s mother, apprehended Mae, showing her the morning’s Los Angeles Times. “Have you seen this, Mae?” It was a story of Neon Light’s exhumation and the possibility his murder was connected to the vampire killings. “Doesn’t all this notoriety frighten you?” The bodyguards recognized her and surrounded her, beaming like klieg lights at a grand opening at Grauman’s Chinese Theater.
“No, Elizabeth. It don’t frighten me one bit. And this here vampire killer don’t frighten me either. Meet my three gorgeous bodyguards.” She introduced them. “Well, Elizabeth, don’t you wish you were thirty years younger?”
The older actress laughed. “Mae, I wouldn’t know what to do with them if I was.”
“You’d know, all right, honey, you’d know. You’d do what all of us do, you just let nature take its course. Anything in the paper about the suicide of a detective named Felix Dvorack?”
“It’s in the article about the exhumation. He was this Neon Light’s investigator, you know, investigating his murder.” Mae borrowed the newspaper and skimmed the article. “Why, the dirty so-and-sos. Nothin’ about me bein’ the reason they’re givin’ Neon a comeback. Y’know, I knew the poor kid. It was me what suspected there was a connection between Neon and the three vampire killin’s.”
Miss Patterson clasped her hands and said sincerely, “This killer’s a maniac. Nothing must happen to you, Mae.”
“Oh, something’s got to happen to me, Elizabeth, I’m the restless type. I can’t sit still for too long. And I don’t take nothin’ lyin’ down unless he’s attractive, y’know what I mean?”
“Oh, Mae, don’t you ever take anything seriously?”
“Sure. My weekly paycheck.” She chucked the older actress under the chin. “You’re a great gal, Elizabeth. And I appreciate your worryin’ about me.” She took the actress by the arm and led her to the dressing room provided for her on the set, outside of which was a table and chairs, the table set with fine china and silverware and groaning with coffee, tea, cocoa, assorted pastries, rolls, jams, jellies, cheeses, butter, and a deck of cards. “But, y’know, there’s a special God what watches over me. At least I think there is. This here vampire ain’t gonna sink his fangs into my neck unless I invite him to, and that’s not very likely.” She guided the actress to a chair and sat next to her. “Besides, I got two smart detectives on this nut’s tail. They might show up on the set today. I’ll introduce you. You’ll like them, I think. They’re Herb Villon and Jim Mallory. Terrific go-getters. My money’s on them. What are you havin’, Elizabeth?”
“Nothing special. I’ll just pick.”
Mae looked around annoyed. She motioned to a buxom blonde young woman, Billie Doux, the production secretary. “Say, Billie. You seen Desdemona and Goneril? They’re never around when I need them.”
“I just left them in wardrobe.” She was chewing gum while studying the tray of pastries hungrily. “They’re looking for something to wear tonight, just like everybody else. They said they were going to the party at the Tailspin.”
“Oh, brother, that’s all I need. Well, they’ve got the night off, they can do as they please. For cryin’ out loud, Billie, pick one already if you don’t give a damn about your figure.”
“To hell with my figure,” said Billie as she chose a cheese danish, “when I’m hungry I eat. Otherwise I get very cranky.” She bit into the pastry with a ferocity that made Mae cringe. As she chewed she said, “I’ll be at the Tailspin myself. You’ll die when I tell you who I’ll be dressed up as.”
“Then don’t tell me. I like to think I’ve got a lot of good years ahead of me.”
“Amen to that,” said Miss Patterson as she wished the director would get a move on and shoot a scene.
Billie Doux giggled and said, “I’m going as Mae West in She Done Him Wrong!”
Mae groaned. “Can’t you think of something original? I’m gonna be up to my hips in Mae West impersonators tonight. I’m takin’ a party to the Tailspin tonight and probably nobody’ll recognize me because I ain’t wearin’ no costume.” Elizabeth Patterson was genuinely concerned. “Now, you listen to me, Billie Doux. There’s a murderer out there killing Mae West impersonators. You’re putting yourself in danger!”
“Aw, booshwah! He’s been killing professionals. I’m just a nice chubby civilian. I do a great impersonation of you, Miss West.”
Mae said wearily, “It seems so does everybody except Queen Marie of Romania and I ain’t really too sure about her.” Her mouth froze. “Goneril! Just who the hell are you suppose to be!”
Honk!
Goneril wore an orange, curly wig. She had on a frayed checked jacket and baggy trousers. She carried a prop car horn, which she honked with maniacal frenzy. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m Harpo Marx!”
“Unbelievable,” Mae whispered to herself, “unbelievable.”
“Falling in love againnnnnn …
Desdemona had come in behind Mae and Elizabeth Patterson. She carried a chair, placed it in front of Mae, put one not too shapely leg on it, and baritoned Marlene Dietrich’s signature song. Her stockings were rolled into a knot just below her knees. The theatrical skirt she wore exposed more thigh then anyone could stomach. On one thigh she sported a bright red garter. Her blouse revealed an amount of cleavage that would have driven a drunk to signing the pledge. All activity on the set had stopped dead.
Mae asked Billie Doux, “Honey, you got any smellin’ salts?”
Milton Connery had read the item about Neon’s exhumation and the news of Felix Dvorack’s suicide. He phoned Agnes Darwin, who had not yet read the newspaper. When she heard what the article contained, she said with her customary good sense, “They’ve got nothing on us.”
“I wish I could be as sure as you are.”
“If they did, we’d both be downtown in the precinct by now screaming for lawyers.”
“They could be playing games with us. Villon’s the type, I can tell he is.”
Agnes thought for a moment. “If he is, Mae will know. I think I’ll drop in on her at the studio, see if I can find out anything.”
“Don’t be too obvious. Mae has a very suspicious nature.”
“When have I ever been obvious?”
“I’ll let that one pass. I’m going to lay low for a while on the special parties.”
“Special parties” was his coy appellation for orgies.
This annoyed Agnes. “Why? Dvorack knew nothing about them. The only one who was a threat was Neon and he’s dead.”
“No, he’s not. He’s alive again. Read the article for yourself. He’s getting an autopsy. I’m sure that’s Villon’s doing. Villon suspects it wasn’t just the crack on the skull that finished off Neon.”
“Oh, God.”
“Don’t count on God for any help. Use your bean, Agnes. Why do you suppose Dvorack croaked himself? Villon must have accused him of taking money to put the kibosh on the Neon case. Villon must have squeezed the truth out of him.” Agnes ran fingers through her hair. She was getting agitated. “Then he knows it’s you.”
“If he does, he hasn’t been around to see me and it’s a long time after breakfast.”
“Then you agree. They’ve got nothing on us.”
“You think Dvorack was thoughtful enough to croak himself to keep from fingering me?”
“Detectives are rarely thoughtful. Listen, Milton. Even if Dvorack did blow the whistle, he’s dead. It’s your word against a dead man’s. Villon knows that.”
“He might have it in writing.”
“If he did, he’d be standing next to you.”
“You’re right. You’re a damned smart witch, Agnes.”
“So how come I’m still single?”
Simon LeGrand, the club manager, stood on the dance floor in the center of the club surveying his handiwork with self’ satisfaction. Every decoration was artfully in place. The large room was a Grand Guignol of Halloween decor. He clasped his hands together and cried, “I am so damn proud of myself!” He then stretched his arms out to the several people who had helped him decorate the room. “Each and every one of you deserves an Academy Award for your delicious contributions. I could kiss each and every one of you on the lips!” Almost everyone cringed. “This shall go down in my memory book as one of my most memorable accomplishments.”
He heard Milton Connery bellowing “Jesus Christ! The plac
e looks like a fucking kindergarten!”
“I shall spit!”
Jim Timony and Seymour Steel Cheeks stood on the platform watching the Twentieth Century Limited pulling in. As the train slowed down, the engine exhaled a cloud of steam that enveloped the two men. The train ground to a halt with an agonizing screeching of brakes. A porter stepped on to the platform and placed a sturdy box under the steps leading down from the car. He held up his hand and it was firmly grasped by Beverly’s, her rings sparkling in the cruelly bright California sunshine. Timony said to Seymour, “I’ve never seen paste sparkle so beautifully.” Beverly stepped onto the platform and Timony heard Seymour gasp. He had never seen her before. Her resemblance to Mae was uncanny. She was wearing one of Mae’s cast-off Chanels, a cleverly designed affair meant to be worn at a garden party. She wore a large picture hat decorated with cloth peonies and gardenias. She was a perfect carbon copy of her celebrated sister. Timony planted a kiss on her cheek. Beverly was sizing up Seymour Steel Cheeks. Timony could hear her purring with approval.
“And I suppose this is Chief Sittin’ Bull?” She held out a hand to Seymour. “How,” Beverly greeted in a voice dripping with molasses. Seymour was paralyzed. This couldn’t be Mae.
She was at the studio. But the voice. It was Mae’s voice. His skin crawled. Beverly patiently continued to pose with her hand outstretched. She said in an aside to Timony, “Don’t he know he’s supposed to kiss my hand.7 If he don’t, Mae ain’t trained him right.” Awkwardly Seymour took her hand. His lips brushed the hand. The perfume. Mae’s perfume, her favorite, created especially for her in Paris by a Spanish emigre: Noche de Diablo. The Devil’s Night. Now the hands were on her hips. Just like Mae. “A pussy got your tongue.7 What’s your name?”
“Seymour Steel Cheeks.”
“Well, I’m Beverly. I’m sure we’re gonna be real good friends.”
Timony said, “Beverly, that can’t possibly be all your luggage.” There were almost twenty pieces including two wardrobe trunks that Mae used to use when she toured in her plays.