Karissa and Blair simultaneously reacted. “What?”
“They’ve registered a treatment with the Writers Guild. I have a copy of the registration here.” He handed them each a sheet of paper from his briefcase.
The producers scanned the one-page document. “Oh, for crying out loud,” Marcello said. “This is practically a recap of a Wikipedia article. It’s just a synopsis of what we all already know about the murders.”
“Exactly. They may not even be making a movie about it at all. It’s possible they’re just trying to prevent you from ‘copying’ their so-called treatment.”
“This is bullshit,” Karissa said.
They heard the jingling bell of the front door opening. Marcello stuck his head out of the conference room door. “Oh, hey, Butch. Come on in.”
The leader of the Butch Johnson Hive entered the room with a cardboard box in his hands. “Hey, man. Hey, Karissa.”
Karissa introduced him to Davenport, and the men shook hands. “You brought Ray’s stuff?” she asked Butch as he set the box on the table.
“Yeah, this is what I told you Ray asked me to hold on to for him,” Butch said. “I don’t think there’s much here of interest. Some old photos and some sheet music.”
“Let me see!” Karissa pulled the box to her.
Davenport stood and started packing up his notepad and pen. “I think I better get back to my office. I’ll draft a letter to Ultimate Pictures and let you see it. I wouldn’t worry too much about the Writers Guild thing. We can get around that.”
“There is one thing we could do, you know,” Marcello said.
“What’s that?”
“Go public. Put it on our Facebook page. Tweet it. Tell the world we’re being harassed. Get this Barry Doon character on video the next time we see him.”
Karissa looked up. “Really?”
“That could backfire,” Davenport warned. “The Hollywood community could very well ostracize you for attacking a studio. We can’t prove the attacks on you are from them since it’s just speculation; whereas if you do it to Justin Hirsch in public then there’s no question that you’re attacking him.”
Marcello frowned. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Davenport smiled and shook everyone’s hands. “Try not to stress. We’ll get through this. Let me know if anything else happens. In the meantime, I’ll get to work and try to find out if there really is a ‘contract’ out on you. Nice to meet you, Butch.”
When Davenport was gone, Karissa started going through the box. As Butch had said, there were newspaper clippings, old photographs, and some sheets of staff paper on which music notes were written. Some of the photos were duplicates of ones she had seen in Blair’s collection.
The most recent clipping was dated February 1949. It was an ad for the Downbeat Club from the California Eagle. Appearing on a Friday night—Hank Marley and His Band.
“This must have been right before he disappeared,” Karissa said, showing the others. She looked at Butch. “I understand you know Ray’s son, Gregory?”
“Only by sight. He was at the funeral, you know.”
“Right, and we tried to talk to him. He acted very strange.”
“He’s a strange dude,” Butch said. “As long as I knew Ray, Gregory never lived in LA.”
“Where does he live?” Marcello asked.
“I don’t know. Somewhere north of LA, I think. I told Marcello I used to have a phone number for him, but it’s out of service.”
“Does he have anything to do with nuts? Farming nuts, that is,” Karissa prodded.
Butch frowned. “Something like that. He owns an orchard or farm or something.” He held out his hands. “Sorry, I don’t know much. Ray and I were friends, but he never talked much about his family. I don’t think I ever had a conversation with Gregory. I shook his hand and gave him my condolences at the funeral. I’m not sure he knew who I was.”
“Very strange,” Karissa muttered. She continued to look through the photos in the box. “Seen that one. Got that one. Oh, that’s a nice one. Seen that one.” She stopped and stared at one picture in her hand. “Hey. Marcello, look at this.”
It was a worn, black-and-white snapshot of a young black woman in front of a small ranch house. She wore a simple dress and her textured hair was straightened, as was the style for African Americans in the thirties and forties.
He studied the picture. “Yeah? Who is she?”
“Doesn’t she look familiar?”
His eyes widened. “The pianist at the funeral! With the white hair! Only young!”
“That’s her. I’m sure of it. She spoke to his son and daughter-in-law at the funeral. Ray Webster certainly knew her when he was alive. And you know something else?”
“What?”
“I swear I’ve seen that house before. It’s in my neighborhood, Marcello.”
“Your neighborhood has big houses. This isn’t a big house.”
“No, there are small houses, too.” She slapped her hand on the table. “Damn, I know I’ve seen it before.” She pointed to the visible edge of the structure next to it in the photo. “This here is a big mansion next door to it. On the other side is another big place. But this one, it’s a teeny little old house stuck in-between the two big ones. It’s cute, but it looks like it’s out of place when you see it. I remember driving by and noticing it. I thought to myself, Who lives in there? A hobbit? It stood out because it’s so small. Damn, where did I see it?”
Marcello said, “Knowing you, Karissa, you’ll think of it in the middle of doing something else. But you can’t believe that woman still lives in that same house now?”
“Why not? You saw her at the funeral. She has to live somewhere. It’s possible.”
Marcello handed the photo back to her. “I guess we better find it, then.”
27
THE MOVIE
The film rolls on. We see a nighttime exterior shot of the Downbeat Club on Central Avenue, the sidewalk busy with pedestrians dressed in their best going-out clothes. The photography accentuates the contrast between the bright spots of light of the street and the cars moving up and down the congested road that is the center of black nightlife in Los Angeles 1949, and the dark of nearly everyone’s skin.
The camera zooms in slowly on a placard that reads: TONIGHT! HANK MARLEY AND HIS BAND!
Lively bebop jazz music ramps up on the soundtrack and we move inside …
The club was packed. A blanket of cigarette smoke hovered over the tables as the patrons danced in their seats. Cocktail waitresses moved in between arms and legs, doing their best to keep up with the demands for drinks. Most of the clientele had saved their meager dollars earned during the week for the obligatory weekend night out at one of the swinging clubs that catered to them. While occasional white jazz enthusiasts supported these clubs, they were, for once, the minority here. Central Avenue was known as Little Harlem, only on the West Coast, where one was proud to be referred to as a “Negro,” and the less savory epithet derived from that word was rarely heard.
The Downbeat Club was one of the hot spots of the scene, and to be able to perform there was a privilege. Hank Marley took the responsibility seriously, but he also knew that the audience was there for a good time. He led his band through many popular numbers made famous by Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Cab Calloway, Earl Hines, and Lester Young, and he made sure he added a joyful spin to the arrangements.
Hank’s fingers danced on the piano keyboard while Ray Webster plucked the strings of the upright bass, deftly keeping time with Jim, the drummer. The brass and woodwind section—Bobop on trombone, Billy on trumpet, Charlie on clarinet, and Francis on tenor saxophone—filled out the sound as if they were a hundred-piece orchestra.
The set had started at ten o’clock, and now it was nearing midnight, about time to wind down. As was his custom, Hank launched into the opening chords for one of the band’s signature pieces.
“Folks, we no
w come to the end of this glorious evening,” he said into the microphone—to which the audience shouted protests—“aw, thank you kindly, ladies and gents, you know if we could stay here all night playing for you, we would. Anyway, as we always do at the end of our shows, we like to bring things down to a nice little piece of dreamland. Each of us in the band would like to dedicate this number to our respective ladies, those bewitching creatures who we love and who love us.”
The band broke into “Blues in the Dark” as the audience applauded. After a moment, they quieted down and listened to the melancholic, soulful lyrics.
As he sang, Hank heard someone in the back of the room say, a little too loudly, “Aw, he’s singing about that white woman …”
This was followed by several “shh’s” and “hush nows,” but Hank ignored it all. He didn’t care what they thought. The emotion he put into the performance was effortless, as his heart was heavy.
For he had no idea what had happened to Blair. She was missing, and he knew that the excuse from her studio—that she was “convalescing” at a secret resort—was bullshit.
Hank walked to the bus stop after saying good night to the rest of the band members. They had gone across the street to the Dunbar, where there were women to meet and drinks to consume. They wanted to spend a few more hours enjoying the night that, by their design, belonged to them. The pay for the gig often didn’t go far, but these simple pleasures had a priority over the daylight realities of living in what was predominantly a white world.
Hank hadn’t felt like partying. Blair’s absence deeply concerned him, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. As he didn’t own a car—he depended on buses and taxis to get around—it was difficult for him to do any investigating into her disappearance. She’d been missing for a week. He knew Blair would have said something to him if she’d really gone to a health clinic. That story was nonsense.
Something bad had happened to her.
He had mentioned it to a patrolman he was friendly with—the Los Angeles Police Department had a history of employing Negroes on the force since the 1880s—but the lawman was unable to find out anything except the studio’s standard line. In Hollywood, that was the final word unless there was real evidence of foul play.
Hank had been to Blair’s house and spoken to Sheridan and Georgeann. The housekeepers were just as mystified and frightened as he. The fact was that one morning Blair had gone to the studio for work, and she hadn’t come home since. Her car was unaccounted for, too.
Could the disappearance have something to do with her plans to leave show business? Had she spoken to Hirsch, that awful studio head, and told him what she planned to do? Blair hadn’t said she was going to do so; she had simply informed Hank that she wanted to wait until her latest picture finished shooting.
Hank also feared for the life inside Blair’s womb. His baby was in trouble. Mother and child—vanished. His overactive imagination created all sorts of horrendous scenarios that replayed in his mind. Had she been harmed? Had she been killed? After what Buddy Franco and his henchmen had done to him last year, Hank believed anything was possible.
The bus was late. Hank looked at his watch and thought about trying to flag down a taxi. He’d been paid for the gig, but after splitting the money seven ways, what he had in his pocket would last only a few days.
This music business is a racket, he thought. But it was all he knew. He had loved the piano ever since his grandfather taught him how to play “Chopsticks” on an old honkytonk when Hank was six years old. Then, a white woman in St. Louis had given a couple years’ worth of lessons to him and his sister, Regina, as payment for their mother cleaning the teacher’s house. Hank was forever grateful to his mother for doing that extra work just so her children could learn to play the piano.
From that point on, Hank had taught himself the rest. He listened to all the greats as he grew up—Scott Joplin, Fats Waller, Jelly Roll Morton—and slowly developed his own style of playing. By the time he had left home and settled in Southern California, he could hold his own against the powerhouses who were staples of the black jazz scene.
That didn’t mean it was easy to make a living.
He thought about Regina and her current gig at the First A.M.E. Church, playing piano for the choir. Perhaps he should have grabbed that steady engagement when it had been offered to him. Turning it down had been a mistake. He’d wanted to concentrate on jazz and blues, not church music. Regina, meanwhile, was doing fine. He resolved to make attempts to see her more often. It was a shame that she had met Blair only once.
A pair of headlights heading his way along Central interrupted his thoughts. They weren’t the only ones on the road at that time of night by any means, but the car was moving slowly, as if it were about to pull over to the curb and stop. Ever since the incident outside the Dunbar a half-year earlier, Hank found that such sights made him nervous. He dug into his pocket and grabbed his pack of Chesterfields, tapped out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. Before he could light it, the car that was approaching did stop.
It was a black Cadillac, just like the one he had encountered before.
Hank dropped the pack on the pavement when he saw Buddy Franco emerge from the back seat, followed by the same two white thugs who had beaten him up before.
He considered running, but it was too late.
The first henchman pointed a handgun at him.
“Get in the car,” Franco said.
The cigarette fell out of his mouth. Hank raised his hands halfway. “What is this?” he asked.
“We’re going for a ride.” The other man moved behind Hank and prodded him in the lower back with another pistol.
“What if I don’t?” Hank asked.
Franco gritted his teeth. “Then we’ll shoot you, right here in the street. No one will care.”
Hank Marley took a deep breath and then nodded. He got in the back seat of the Cadillac.
28
KARISSA
Karissa arrived at the house on Harvard Boulevard at dusk and pulled into the garage. It had been a productive day, but still a frustrating one. She and Marcello still didn’t seem any closer to resolving what direction they should take. Part of her wanted to drop the idea of doing a film about Blair Kendrick because it seemed so fraught with problems, not to mention the threats to her career and personal life. On the other hand, she was determined to forge ahead and stand up to the bullies who thought they could dictate what her company could make or not. Some intangible force was pushing her toward uncovering Blair’s story and the truth about what had happened to her and Hank Marley.
She entered her home, put her purse on the kitchen counter, and walked through to the foyer. The mail had already been dropped on the floor through the slot. Still, she had gotten into the habit of peering out the door to check the front of the house. Opening the front door, she stepped onto the porch, and her eyes caught a splash of color over by the swing.
A vase containing a bouquet of flowers sat on the seat.
“What in the world?” she said aloud.
She walked to the swing and saw a little white envelope addressed to “Karissa” attached to the vase with tape. The flowers were peonies, carnations, and roses. Very pretty.
If this is from Willy, trying to get in good graces with me again …
Karissa took the envelope in hand and opened it. She removed the card and discovered that nothing was written on it. The front and inside were blank.
“What the—?”
The bullet struck the front of the house before she heard the retort of the gunshot in the street. It took a full second or two to realize what had just occurred. By then, another round thudded into the front door as she instinctively jumped backward and leaped to the floor of the stucco porch. The scream came next as she rolled.
Panicking, Karissa started to crawl to the door, but stopped when she saw that would break what cover she had. Instead, she slithered closer to the protection of the short wall that ran
along the edge of the porch. Could a bullet go through the stucco? It wasn’t very thick.
She reached for her phone—but gasped when she remembered that she’d left her purse in the house. She was helpless.
The sound of a car revving its engine broke through her thoughts. Wheels screeched on the road and the automobile took off. Karissa raised her head above the wall and saw a black sedan speeding away. It had happened too quickly for her to get a good look at it.
Breathing heavily, she got back on her feet, gazed into the yard and street, and figured she was safe. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a drum. Her legs shook as she struggled to keep from collapsing.
Was it Barry Doon’s car? The BMW?
She couldn’t swear to it.
Karissa bolted for the front door and went inside, leaving the flowers on the porch. She ran back to the kitchen, found the phone in her purse, and dialed 911.
The police had come and taken her statement. A forensics team arrived a little later and pulled the two rounds out of the front of the house, bagging them as evidence. Now there were two ugly holes, one in the exterior wall and another in the door. The cops had also taken the vase of flowers and the card. Karissa assumed they’d check for fingerprints.
Curious neighbors had come out of their houses to investigate why police cars were congregated in front of the mansion. Nothing to see here, folks, move along …! She was embarrassed and mortified that she would be the subject of gossip and mistrust in the neighborhood. Whatever goodwill she had hoped to establish with her neighbors after moving in was now dashed.
A plainclothes officer who introduced himself as Detective Madison interviewed her after he arrived on the scene a couple of hours after the incident. He seemed weary and disinterested, as if a drive-by shooting was nothing new. Karissa told him her suspicions.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You think this was done by an executive at Ultimate Pictures in an attempt at stopping you from making a movie?”
Blues in the Dark Page 18