“Is it over?”
“Buddy. I’m about to start shooting an important picture. You said so yourself. Why do you want to come in here and try to scare me? I don’t know what you think you’ve seen or who told you what. Now, get out of here. I need to work on these lines. I don’t want to have to talk to Eldon about this.”
“Eldon’s not going to take your side anymore, honey. He’s the one who told me to come in here and … talk to you.”
Blair swallowed. The only thing she could do was to lie. After all, she was an actress.
“It’s over,” she said. “Now go away.”
He released his hands from the chair and stood straight. “All right then.”
“And if I catch anyone spying on me at my house,” she added, “I’m calling the police.”
He smiled in his oily way. “You do that.” He opened the door and called. “Zelda? She’s all yours.”
When the makeup girl returned, Blair was crying.
“Oh, honey!” Zelda gasped. “What happened?”
“Could you give me a minute or two, please, Zelda?”
“Uh, sure. I’ll be outside if you need me. Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thanks.”
Zelda tentatively moved back to the open door and waited.
“It’s all right,” Blair said. “Just give me a minute.”
“Okay.” The door shut, and then Blair threw the script across the room.
22
KARISSA
The next morning, Karissa took the coins with her on the way to the office. Before leaving home, she had spent some time on the phone with her bank and learned that there had been some progress in restoring both her account and that of Stormglove Productions. Apparently, the correct passwords had been used to empty and close the accounts online, which indicated that the computers she and Marcello used had been hacked. It was extremely disturbing. The recovery of the actual funds was going to take longer and would require the involvement of their attorney, but fortunately Tony Davenport was already on the case. Karissa was lucky that she had reported the crime the same day it had occurred. If more than twenty-four hours had elapsed, it would have been more difficult to prove that she and Marcello had not authorized the closing of the accounts.
In the meantime, she had no funds aside from the cash she carried in her purse.
Earlier, Karissa had Googled “coin collectors” and come up with a gold and rare coin dealer on Wilshire Boulevard and Kingsley Drive, which wasn’t far out of the way from the office. She parked on the street in front and went inside. No one else was in the shop except for the short, bald man behind the counter. He wore thick glasses and was probably in his sixties, though it was difficult to tell for certain. He greeted her with a cheery, almost singsong Eastern European accent, “Good morning, good morning, welcome, welcome. My name is Seymour, and here’s my card. How may I help you, young lady?” He handed her a colorful business card with his name, a cartoon caricature of himself, and the store information on it.
That made her smile. “I have some coins here I’d like to get appraised, if you do that.”
The man shrugged. “I can do a ballpark verbal appraisal for you at no charge. If you want a notarized document for insurance or tax purposes, we charge fifty dollars per piece.”
“Ballpark estimate would be just fine, thank you.”
“Okay, what do you got?”
She dug the jewelry bag out of her purse and poured the three coins into her palm. She then laid them one by one on the black velvet pad on the counter.
The man stared at the coins without moving. Then, after nearly a minute, he picked up the one marked 1817. He eyed it carefully and turned it over. His hands shook a little. After a bit, he placed the coin back on the pad and took the Indian head piece from 1911. Once again, he examined both sides closely. Finally, he picked up the 1901 coin, scrutinized it, and placed it back on the pad.
Seymour cleared his throat. “Where … where did you get these?”
She was prepared for that question. “Oh, they’re part of a family heirloom. My mother left those to me along with some other odds and ends. I thought because of the age that they might be worth something.”
Seymour nodded. “Yes. Yes, they are worth something.” He cleared his throat again and picked up the 1817 coin. “I have never seen one of these. Only pictures. If it’s real.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s real,” Karissa said.
He laughed a little. “There are only a handful of these in existence. Fewer than ten.”
That made Karissa gasp a little. “Really?”
“Really.”
“So … how much is it worth?”
Seymour held up a hand as if to say, hold on. He placed the coin down and picked up the 1901. “This one is a Barber Quarter S. Maybe. There are a lot of fakes out there. I would have to consult my coin guy, but this one—it’s in pretty good shape—this one might be worth as much as thirty thousand dollars.”
Karissa gulped. “Really?”
“If you were to sell it, you wouldn’t get that much. I think the last time it was auctioned, the buyer paid around thirty-six thousand dollars. So that’s what you’d insure it for.”
“And if I were to sell it?”
“You’re free to shop around, but I’d give you twenty thousand for it.”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Holy shit.
“What about the other two?” she asked.
“Well.” He picked up the 1911 coin. “This, I’m pretty certain, is a D Indian Head Gold Eagle. I’ve seen one of these before. The condition a coin is in is everything. This one is in spectacular condition. I know of one in this condition that sold at auction for sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“Sixty-five—!”
He replaced the coin on the pad and picked up the 1817 item. “If I’m correct, this is a very rare coin. Just a handful are known to exist. It’s called a Capped Bust Silver Dollar. I’d go out on a limb and say it’s worth half a million dollars.”
“You’re not serious.”
He replaced the coin. He cleared his throat. “Did your mother have any other coins?”
“Not that I know of.”
Karissa stared at the objects as if they had magical powers. She considered scooping them up and returning them to the bag, but then she remembered she was flat broke. She picked up the Barber Quarter S. “You can give me twenty thousand dollars for this now?”
“I can write you a check.”
She handed it to him. “Okay.” She picked up the remaining coins and put them in the bag. His eyes followed them, as if he was sorry to see them disappear.
“If you decide to sell them,” he said, clearing his throat again, “would you consider coming back and selling them here?”
He wants them. Should I try to bargain with him?
“Maybe. Like you said, I should shop around.” She indicated the Barber Quarter. What the hell. I need funds now. He seems honest. “That’s a cheap one. I’ll let that go now.” She reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Are you giving me a fair price, Seymour?”
“Yes, ma’am. Better than fair.”
“How much will you sell it for?” He hesitated. “Please be straight with me.”
“I will be asking thirty-five thousand for it.”
“That’s a fifteen-thousand-dollar profit!”
“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged. “We’re a business. That’s the way it works.”
She reflected on his words. “Twenty-five.”
Seymour hesitated.
“And I promise to return to you if I decide to sell the others.”
The man pursed his lips. “Twenty-two-five?”
Blair smiled and nodded. “Okay. Twenty-two thousand, five hundred.”
In the parking lot, she called Marcello to tell him about the coins.
“And you didn’t tell me this last night?” he asked.
“I wanted to find out more about them first,” she said. “They might have been fake.”
“You probably shouldn’t have sold that one.”
“I need the money. The other two are worth a lot more. I’ll hold on to those. The big question is—who sent them to me? Do you think they might be coins from Eldon Hirsch’s collection?”
“At this point, I’ll believe anything, but that’s pretty farfetched.”
“Marcello. Think about it for a second. What if the coins are the ones that were stolen from Hirsch? It means the killer and thief knows about us—about me. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to sell them. What if they are …?”
“What?”
“A warning.”
“What are you doing now? Are you coming in to work?”
“I’m going to deposit this check, and then I’m going home to stash the coins.”
“I’m coming over. I want to see them.”
Karissa’s stomach lurched when she saw Willy Puma’s green Jeep Cherokee parked in front of her house. “Oh, no,” she muttered. Still, she pulled in to the drive and left the car outside, in front of the garage. Before she allowed herself to get angry, Karissa thought that perhaps Willy had brought the signed divorce papers.
Fine.
She went around to the front yard. Her ex was sitting on the porch swing.
“This is kind of nice,” he said. “You could sit out here and sip mint juleps like they did in the Old South.”
“Willy. I hope you’re here to deliver the signed papers.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he patted the seat of the swing. “Sit by me for a minute.”
“No. Do you have the papers?”
“Not today.”
Karissa took a deep breath. “I’m going inside. Please leave.”
He held up a hand. “Wait a minute, Karissa. Just listen to me. Okay?”
“What?”
“Are you trying to make a movie that will ruin my boss’s reputation?”
She furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”
“I understand you’re trying to make a movie about that crazy actress back in the forties who killed Justin Hirsch’s father.”
“What do you care?”
He stopped the swing and stood. “Because I’m starring in a new movie that Ultimate Pictures is making.”
“You are?”
“Yes, indeed.” He put his hands on his hips, striking a pose like that of Yul Brynner in The King and I. “I’m going to play the bad guy in Hellhole Six.”
Karissa almost made a face. The Hellhole franchise was, sadly, a cash cow for Ultimate Pictures and the brainchild of Justin Hirsch. Like Meat Grinder, the series that had given Willy his break, they were violent, nasty, and sexist films that appealed to a low common denominator audience.
“Congratulations. You needed the work.”
“I did, and I got it. So, what about this movie you’re making? I can’t have my wife doing anything that’s going to jeopardize my relationship with Justin.”
She felt her face flush, first from his description of her as his wife, and then from the implication of his words. “Did … did he put you up to this? Are you on a mission from Justin Hirsch?”
Willy shook his head. “No, no … he just … you’re just not going to do it, Karissa. Wouldn’t be right.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m making a movie; there’s no right or wrong about it.”
“He just doesn’t want you making the movie. I can’t let you do it.”
She moved away, off the porch and into the yard. “Let me? What kind of sexist shit is this? Sorry, Willy, I’m going to do what I want. I’m not your wife anymore.”
“We’re not divorced yet.”
“Then sign the papers, Willy!”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Damn you!” She whirled around and nearly screamed at him. “Why do you persist on this? Why do you want to torture me?”
“Torture you? How the fuck am I torturing you?”
“By showing your goddamn face! Get out of here!”
“Look, I know you’re still upset about the accident—”
“The accident? Willy, I told you if you cheated on me again—after two other times—then that would be it. I told you if you continued to drink and do cocaine, that would be it. You were fucking high on coke and booze, and you wrecked your car with another woman in the passenger seat. She sued us, and I had to pay your homewrecker with money I made from Stormglove Productions!”
“It was an accident!”
“Your goddamned lying lawyer turned it into an accident when the city tried to press criminal charges. The jury believed you because you’re a fucking movie star. We both know damned well it was no accident. But her civil suit was a different story, wasn’t it?” Karissa felt as if she might explode. “Why you persisted on chasing other women when you had me …!”
“Karissa, you refused to have my babies!”
“What’s that got to do with it? I’m not going to argue about this again! You know the doctors said it would be dangerous if I tried to have children after that ectopic pregnancy. I wanted to adopt. I was adopted. But you didn’t want that. Your macho pride wouldn’t let you.”
“Oh, that’s right, let’s pull the I-can’t-have-children card. You just didn’t want to have children! Your career was more important!”
“You bastard! Get out of here!”
“Karissa?” It was Marcello. She swerved around to see her partner on the lawn. He had pulled up in his own car during the argument. “What’s going on? You okay?”
“Well, well, if it isn’t the slick snake who fucks my wife,” Willy said.
Marcello’s eyes narrowed. “What? I … do not!”
“Willy!” Karissa snapped.
“You don’t?” Willy laughed. “Oh, then I must be mistaken.”
“Get out of here, Willy.” She held up her phone. “Do I have to call the police?”
“Come down off that porch, Puma,” Marcello said. “We can settle this right here.”
Both men were built like gladiators. Karissa didn’t want to witness a bloodbath. “Shut up, both of you.” She punched 911. “It’s ringing, Willy.”
Willy held up his hands. “Oh, great, you know what happens when you call the cops on black folk. Fine. I’m going. You just listen to what I said, though. Don’t screw up my movie!”
He stormed off the porch, strode across the grass, and got in his Cherokee. Karissa ended the call before the dispatcher answered. Willy screeched his tires as loudly as possible as he drove away.
“Are you all right?” Marcello asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“He’s such an asshole. He never did like me.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry he brought up that … you know.”
She shrugged. “We don’t need to talk about something that happened one time in a moment of weakness and alcohol and stupidity after Willy and I separated.”
He nodded. “You and I go back a long way. It’s part of who we are.”
“You’re my best friend, Marcello. It’s behind us. End of story. And who is he to bring up infidelity, right?” She sighed. “Come on inside. I’ll show you the coins.”
“That’s fine, but I also came to tell you something else.”
“What?”
“I know where Buddy Franco’s daughter is. She’s alive and living in LA.”
23
THE MOVIE
The screening of Femme Fatale—the Blair Kendrick Story continues as the scene shifts to shots of Blair on various sets on soundstages as her character a) robs a bank, b) drives an automobile with rear-screen projection of a cityscape in the back window, and c) is slapped by a man whose back is to us, falls to the floor, and shoots him with a gun that was hidden in a holster on her thigh under her dress. The voice-over narrates.
“Production was delayed a couple of weeks due to unforeseen circumstances in Jimmy
Cagney’s schedule, so we didn’t start until the end of January in 1949. By the time February rolled around, we had less than a half hour of footage in the can. I was a little worried about my health—and of course the baby’s, too. The movie was very physical, and I had to do some stunts without a double. Meanwhile, Hank and I were counting the days when I could walk away and we could start a new life together.”
Zelda powdered Blair’s face, the final step in the morning’s makeup session. The actress was due on the set in a half hour.
“There you go, honey,” the woman said. “You need help with your costume?”
“No, thank you, Zelda.”
“All right, you call me if you need me.” Zelda packed up her makeup kit and left the room. Blair got out of the high chair and closed the door. She didn’t want anyone to see the coming struggle.
She had noticed a week earlier that the costumes were becoming snug. Today’s was a high-waisted pair of wide-leg pants and a simple blouse, buttoned at the collar—something that might have been worn by Katharine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich. When Blair put on the pants, she had to suck in and strain to fasten the snap. The belt helped, but she was terribly uncomfortable. Getting through the day’s shoot was going to be an ordeal.
When she was dressed, she took one more look in the mirror at her face and makeup, took a deep breath, and left the dressing room, ready to report to the set.
“That’s a wrap!”
The assistant director called it, indicating they were done for the day. Blair was exhausted, hungry, and depressed. She wasn’t happy with her performance so far. She hadn’t bothered to watch the dailies, and she had overheard the cameraman telling the grip, “She’s not at a hundred percent.” Her costar, too, seemed not to have his heart in the picture. Blair had heard that although Cagney had agreed to do the movie, he had never really wanted to return to the tough-guy gangster roles that had made him famous in the early thirties.
The mood on the set was dark.
Blair headed for the dressing room, eager to get out of the tight clothes and off the lot. She and Hank had planned a quiet dinner together at his house, and she couldn’t wait to relax in front of his fireplace. It was an unusually cold February in Southern California, and the blaze in the hearth was going to feel cozy.
Blues in the Dark Page 15