by George Baxt
“Do you know what caused the fire?”
“It was an explosion of some kind. I live across the street in the blue bungalow. The explosion awakened me. It was around three in the morning. The flames engulfed the house in what seemed like just a matter of a few minutes. It was horrible. I phoned for help. By the time the fire engines got here, it was too late.”
“The Williamsons were trapped?”
“It was horrible. They must have died instantly, or at least for their sake I hope so.” She paused and then continued with difficulty. “There wasn’t a sound from them.”
“Were you told what caused the explosion?”
“They had some propane stored in the basement. It was supposed that it was spontaneous combustion.” She looked Villon straight in the eye. “I have a propensity toward melodramatics. My suspicion is that it was arson. That the Williamsons were murdered. They had their suspicions as to who murdered Neon, and they made loud protests about the bungling police investigation. The man in charge was named Dvorack. You know, the one written up in the papers. The suicide. You probably knew him.”
“We knew him.”
“Nicholas and Maria loathed him. He told them to quit pestering him at the station house. They were considering hiring a private eye of their own, and told him so.”
“That was a tragic mistake,” said Villon.
“So I’m right. They were murdered. I think they were dead before the fire was set.”
“Lady, you’ve got a detective’s mind.” He added quickly, “An honest detective’s mind.”
“We’ll never know how they were killed. Maria’s sister had the remains cremated. At least, she hoped it was their remains. The fire did quite a nasty number on them. I’m looking for someplace else to live. Seeing this devastation every day is nerve-wracking.”
“Did you know Neon’s brother?”
“I knew he had one but I never set eyes on him. I don’t think he ever came to the house to see Neon. I think Maria told me they met in coffeeshops or the brother took him for a drive. He disapproved of Neon’s drag act and disapproved of the Williamsons for permitting it. But Neon somehow became friendly with Mae West, he was so crazy about her, and she convinced Neon to pursue his career. Did you ever see him?” Neither of them had. “He was a natural. An uncanny performer. He gave me goose pimples, his impersonations were that accurate. Too bad they were never filmed.”
“The Williamsons ever tell you who they suspected murdered Neon? His brother perhaps?”
“Never his brother. He was devoted to Neon. Nicholas and Maria think Neon was murdered because he knew too much about a shady operation backstage at the Tailspin.” She favored them with a cynical smile. “From the looks on your faces, I’ve struck oil.”
“Did they know he was incurably ill?”
She was genuinely shocked. “Oh, no! How awful. I’m sure they didn’t know. They would have told me. Poor guy.” She shrugged. “I guess somebody up there wasn’t crazy about him.” Her face hardened. “I hope you find the bastard soon. I’d like to pay him a visit when he’s behind bars and spit in his face.”
A child’s voice interrupted them. “Why, hello there folks.” In a dreadful imitation of Mae West. “How’d ya like t’ come up’n see me sometime?” Then with hands on hips, a string purse dangling from her left wrist, she whined, “Trick or treat?”
Villon stared at her with revulsion. Mallory and Helen Maynard were obviously equally repulsed. The child was about eight or nine years old. Her lips and cheeks were heavily rouged. Her eyelids were a sickening shade of blue. Her eyelashes were heavy with mascara. Her eyebrows had been tweezed into thin lines. She wore a filthy old blond wig. Her dress was a makeshift imitation of a gown of the turn of the century and her high-heeled shoes, probably her mother’s, looked as though they could accommodate another pair of feet. The child looked like a perverted midget.
“Well,” she insisted obnoxiously, “trick or treat?”
Mallory fished in his pocket and found a coin, which he gave her. It was a five-cent piece. “Thanks, mister,” she said as she tucked it into her string purse. “I hope it doesn’t break you,” she added nastily.
As they watched her clip-clop away, swinging her hips exaggeratedly from side to side, Mallory said loud enough for Villon and Helen Maynard to hear him, “Oh, Mr. Vampire Killer, come quick, come quick to Cynthia Street.” The three shared a much-needed laugh.
“Morris! You’re leaving me home alone again?” Goldie Rothfeld was in the kitchen kneading dough for a coffee cake.
The rabbi stood in front of a mirror that hung from a hook in the wall fixing his tie. “Condolence calls, Goldie, condolence calls, you forgot?”
“I try to forget because there are so many people dying these days. Is it so necessary? You keep telling me it’s because God is lonely and wants company. Why does he choose so much company from Hollywood?”
“Because He’s a name dropper probably. How should I know!”
“Be careful out there, Morris. There’s a murderer on the loose.”
“I’m not a Mae West impersonator. I’m safe.”
“But you sing with a high falsetto.”
He was losing patience. “I’m not going to sing on the street. And besides, I’m a big boy with muscles and a solid punch. I’m not afraid of anything and don’t you be. Look at Miss West. She’s really got something to be frightened about, but is she frightened? Not her. The rock of Gibralter with curves. And, oi, what curves. Don’t be jealous, Goldie. I only look. I never touch.”
She put the batter aside and wiped her hands with a dish towel. “Morris.” It was her I-mean-business tone of voice.
He moved away from the mirror. “I’m looking at you. What?”
“What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
“The way you said that I’m more positive something’s bothering you.”
“Stop nagging.”
“I’m not nagging, I’m worried.”
“Stop worrying.”
“I’ll stop worrying when you tell me what’s bothering you.” He knew when he was beaten. “I’m worried about Miss West.”
“Why? Because if she dies you’ll lose a generous patron?”
“Goldie,” he said sharply, “that’s a terrible thing to say!”
“Why is the truth always so terrible?” Her shoulders were raised and her hands were outstretched. “When I took my marriage vows did I suspect I was also taking an oath of poverty?”
“We’re not so bad off.”
“We’re not so good off either.”
He raised his voice. “When you married me you knew rabbis never become wealthy!”
“I didn’t know we’d leave Richmond Hill in New York to come to this godforsaken hole.”
“Don’t say that in a synagogue! It’s a sin against God!”
“He takes good care of Himself! He’s doing just fine! We aren’t! Let’s go back to New York where you have a chance with your gorgeous voice. You were doing all right playing the Catskills when I met you. Here you don’t play nothing.”
“My responsibility is to my congregation right here. Now that’s enough, Goldie.”
“There’s never enough, Morris!”
“Goldie, when you start getting me upset I feel like going outside and murdering somebody!”
She stared at him. “How come not me?”
“Because, God forgive me, I love you too much. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be late.”
“Why?”
The Tailspin Club sounded like a dozen chicken coops invaded by a dozen foxes. Here cacophony attained a pantheon as a fine art. While the noise was eardrum-shattering, even with the counterpoint of a six-piece orchestra dressed in skeleton suits and playing “The Darktown Strutter’s Ball,” the assemblage in variegated plumage were a feast for the eyes. It was almost impossible to tell the men from the women. Freelance photographers pushed their way through the dance floor whenever they
spotted a celebrity either at a table or making an entrance. Money would later exchange hands in return for the negatives. Little Bo-Peep danced with Little Miss Muffct, both baritones. They bumped into two people who announced they were Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde said to them, “You’ll have to excuse Doctor Jekyll. He’s not himself.” An Arabian sheik eating a pastrami sandwich told them, “I’m the Deli Lama.” Frankenstein’s monster and his bride were at the bar and, at this early hour, already three sheets to the wind. The bartender explained to Alice in Wonderland, who had hairy legs, hairy arms, and held on for dear life to the Mad Hatter who was hitting people with his purse, “They were married yesterday. They’re both lushes. It was a shotglass wedding.”
Agnes Darwin was a striking and exotic Morgan LeFay, straight out of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. There were so many witch costumes in the room, she was glad she had decided to forgo hers. Milton Connery, wearing a tuxedo, was talking to Simon LeGrand, who had wriggling toy snakes in his wig, a rather interesting looking Medusa. Agnes wished she could read lips. Milton was still agitated and Simon was his usual unruffled self.
The three bartenders were skillfully filling demanding orders while bantering with the patrons and fielding sexual innuendos and sexual propositions.
The Mae West impersonators were beginning to arrive. It was almost nine o’clock and the room was atip awaiting the entrance of the real thing. Mussolini and Haile Selassie arrived arm in arm wearing ballet slippers and tutus and proceeded to do an adagio that probably had the great Russian choreographer Petipas spinning in his grave. Romeo and Juliet were doing lewd things in the entrance to the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Simon LeGrand hurried to them and cautioned them to behave themselves.
Honk!
Simon LeGrand crossed himself as Goneril came tearing into the club as Harpo Marx trailed by Desdemona as Marlene Dietrich. They headed straight for the bar and ordered brandy Alexanders. “Two alcoholic malted milks coming right up,” shouted Jason, the bartender who had startled Simon LeGrand earlier that day when he was pasting tinsel to the bar mirror. Through the reflections in the mirror Desdemona and Goneril saw a Mae West duplicate approaching them with arms outstretched. She was much too bulky to be the real thing. Goneril said to Desdemona, “God in heaven, it’s Billie Doux!” The three squealed and hugged each other, the production secretary on Mae’s film commandeering a bottle of beer from Jason.
“Say, listen,” she said to the black ladies, “how can you tell which of these guys are the real thing?”
Goneril advised her, “Honey, on Hallowe’en you don’t even try. Not in this town.”
“I’m awful tired of being all alone when I lower my lamp,” said Billie Doux and then took a healthy swig of her beer.
Said Goneril, “There are an awful lot of Miss West imitators here tonight. Somehow I’m feeling a little uneasy.”
“Honeybunch, don’t give it a second thought,” pooh-pooh’d Billie Doux. “Take a look at this room. It’s mob rule. If any vampire tried to put the bite on anyone tonight he’d be stampeded and strung up, so relax. This is vampire’s night off.”
Milton Connery said to Agnes Darwin, “You’re not working the room.”
“I can’t budge. I’ve been trying to get to the bar for the past fifteen minutes, but a surge of unnatural humanity keeps driving me back.”
“Come on,” he said as he grabbed her hand and pushed their way to the bar.
Agnes managed a glance at her wristwatch. Almost nine o’clock. Time for Mae to arrive with her party. Then the probability of matching wits with Herb Villon. They passed a table populated with several Hollywood players who were brave enough not to camouflage their homosexuality and as a result cornered the market in films as butlers, salesmen, perpetually flustered hotel clerks, and maître d’s and, in the case of comedian Edward Everett Horton, just about every leading man’s best friend and advisor. He was discussing an ingenue rapidly gaining a reputation for easy virtue, with his lover, actor Gavin Gordon, who in 1930 had been Greta Garbo’s leading man in Romance and then rapidly descended to bit parts. Horton told him, “She claims she didn’t lose her virginity, she just misplaced it.”
“Now really, Eddie,” said Franklin Pangborn, another table companion familiar to moviegoers for his snappy way with a line of dialogue. “I know her extremely well. She’s good to the navy but rotten to the corps. God, will you look at all the Mae Wests!”
“What?” exclaimed Horton. “No vampires?”
“I stood next to one in the men’s room,” simpered Pangborn. “But I couldn’t interest him in a fang bang.”
“Frankie and Johnnie were lovers …”
The orchestra managed to be heard above the din. Simon LeGrand signaled an electrician who lowered the overhead lights and switched on a huge spotlight, centering it on Mae West. Mae stood at the top of the stairs dressed in a beaded black gown, black feathers in her hair, a wealth of diamonds on her fingers and wrists, a diamond choker around her neck, and a black feathered stole draped around her neck. She held Jim Timony’s arm and rewarded the room with a lavish smile when it erupted with deafening applause, shrieks, whistles, and foot stomping. Their goddess had arrived and the acolytes wanted her to know how sincerely they loved her. Then the clamor heightened as Beverly West stepped into the spotlight with Mae and Timony. She was in a sequined white dress, her fingers and wrists festooned with fake diamonds. In her hair she wore an arrangement of multicolored ribbons. Most of the merry makers were hard put to tell which Mae West was the real Mae West. Mae and Timony ascended slowly, Beverly behind them with her arm through Jim Mallory’s. Herb Villon followed with Hazel Dickson dressed in a green velvet evening gown with brown accessories, which made her look like the prima donna of a third-rate traveling opera company. Behind them were the three bodyguards who soon were the cynosures of a very specialized group of admirers. Simon LeGrand crossed the dance floor to greet Mae and led her and her party to the table reserved for them near the orchestra. Simon then signaled the electrician and once again the overhead lights glistened. Simon wasn’t taking any chances with dimmed lighting, not in this room and not with this crowd, whom he referred to as exponents of grope therapy.
While several waiters took their orders and set about filling them, Timony asked Mae why she was frowning. “It’s all these here imitators of me. Look at them. All shapes and sizes. And I seen a couple of vampires. I’m gettin’ uneasy.” She snapped her fingers at a waiter. “Say, listen, tall, dark, and handsome.” He was short, pale, and homely but preferred Mae’s description. “I’d like to talk to the manager of this jernt.”
“You mean Simon LeGrand or Mr. Connery, who’s over at the bar with Miss Darwin?”
“Oh, yeah. I see them.” Her eyes returned to the waiter. “Whichever is most available. I’ll leave the cherce up to you, cutie.”
Simon LeGrand chose the moment to come to the table followed by two waiters bearing several bottles of champagne. He said to Mae, “Compliments of the management.”
She smiled and said, “I’m sure there’s more than champagne that needs coolin’ tonight.” The waiters were slowly twirling the bottles in their coolers. She said to Simon, “Now which management are you?”
He introduced himself. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“As a matter of fact there is.” She explained what she wanted and he offered her his arm. She took it and he guided her up the three steps that led to the bandstand. The orchestra leader, a natural toady, rewarded her with his best sycophantic smile, grabbed her hand, and kissed it while Mae murmured, “Stop slobberin’.” Simon heard her and guffawed. “Now, Mr. Orchestra Leader,” said Mae, wishing she had something with which to dry her hand, “I want to say a few words to the crowd. So if you’ll give me a fanfare and a couple of drum rolls, you’ll be wallowin’ in my gratitude.”
“Your wish is my command,” the orchestra leader said in a voice that made her skin crawl. In a few seconds, the
re was a fanfare and a drum roll and Simon signaled for a spotlight on Mae. Hazel Dickson, never without a small pad of paper, was scribbling away, having spotted Edward Everett Horton and his party. Louella Parson would certainly go for this item.
The room erupted as they saw Mae take her position at the microphone in the baby pink spotlight. She stood with hands on hips, sparkling in the spotlight, an insinuating smile on her face, the one that promised everything but delivered nothing, and waited for the commotion to die down.
“In case you’re wonderin’, I’m the real thing.” Big laugh. She smiled. “I’m up here now because I think it’s important I get a little serious for a couple of minutes, then you can go back to misbehavin’.” Good laugh. “I was young myself once, but I didn’t realize it at the time.” Applause and big laugh. “I hate to remind you but I think it’s necessary because I see so many of my imitators are here tonight. You all look great and I’m very flattered, because as any broad who wears fake jewelry can tell you, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Beverly West managed to keep her composure with a sweet smile on her face. Mae continued in a serious vein. “But I don’t have to tell you, there’s a dangerous killer on the loose. He’s killed four of my imitators to date, and he’s out to kill more. He’s supposed to be a vampire, but my friend Herb Villon, who’s here with me tonight, tells me he’s just plain old flesh and blood, and a certifiable maniac. If he’s here tonight”—the guests began soberly sizing other guests up as she continued with a sly smile— “if I’ve hurt his feelings, forgive me, I’ve got no regrets. I’d rather be hurtin’ his feelin’s than have him hurtin’ mine. So, listen all of you other Mae Wests out there, be careful, remember there’s safety in numbers, and I don’t mean telephone numbers.” Nice laugh. “Travel around the place in twos and threes. Don’t even go to the terlet alone. And if for some reason you need some fresh air, don’t go outside alone. Now, I’d like you to meet my sister Beverly who’s openin’ her Mae West act here tomorrow night. It’s her first engagement on the West Coast, so I want you to give her a real big Hollywood welcome.” Mae signaled for the spotlight to move to Beverly and, while it did, she thanked the boys in the orchestra, dodged the leader who was out to commandeer her hand again, and gave her hand to Simon, who led her back to the table. Beverly glowed as the crowd gave her an ovation and finally sat. Mallory smiled and then grunted as Beverly squeezed his thigh under the table.