Getting Garbo (26 page)

I go beyond the entrance. Make a U-turn and glide slowly past the opening to my place. Podolsky is still in the car, reading the
Hollywood Reporter.
Reva is at my front door. Knocking. Knocking again.

Too bad there's nobody home,
Jack Havoc says.

“But why's she even here? With that schmuck.”

Someone's honking behind me so I have to continue on. Make another U-turn and come back. By this time I see Reva getting into the Hillman and Podolsky is starting to emerge from the driveway. I follow him back down to Sunset. He leads the way into Santa Monica.

Polite gent,
Jack Havoc says,
driving his little girlfriend right to her doorstep.

Wrong again. The Hillman doesn't turn on Bundy. Instead continues on along Montana Avenue. Mostly residential, but up ahead there's a run of stores and restaurants for about a dozen blocks. In the center of this activity, the Hillman pulls over into the red zone near a corner. Reva gets out. I hang back. She says a quick goodbye and Podolsky drives off. Reva is alone at the corner waiting for the red light. I swing into the center lane on Montana, signaling a left. She'll be playing into my hands when the light changes
.

Look, if she walks down that side street, nobody's there, it's all shady-dark from the big trees—

Telling me what I know. Green light. Reva crosses. I make my turn. But she doesn't proceed down the side street. When she reaches the curb, she turns toward a neighborhood movie theater near the corner. The Aero. Playing Hitchcock's
The Man Who Knew Too Much
and Frank Sinatra as
Johnny Concho.
Reva waves familiarly at the woman in the ticket booth and walks inside. Without buying a ticket.

Double feature. She'll be in there for hours,
Jack says.
Hey, perfect opportunity. You go inside, too. All that darkness. Probably hardly anyone in there this time of day. Murder in the Movie House. Try to kill her during the Hitchcock picture, cover up Reva's screams with Doris Day's.

I'm staring at him. “Are you for real?”

Of course not. Just want to keep you on your toes. Make sure you're considering all the possibilities.

I'm about to tell him what he can do with his possibilities.

But here's Reva again.

Coming out of the Aero.

Standing at the door to the ticket booth.

The woman inside opens the door and they switch places. The woman taking her purse with her, walking off. Door's closed again. Changing of the guard complete. Reva is now in charge of selling tickets. To a little old couple lined up at the booth window.

Okay. She works here. Going on duty. Be here for hours. What are you gonna do?

“I don't know about you, but I'm hungry.”

• • •

Jack Havoc is singing. He sounds a bit tipsy.

Oh, she's only a bird in a gilded caaaaage…

We grabbed a quick bite at Zucky's deli nearby on Fifth and Wilshire. Corned beef on rye. Two beers. That became three beers. First food I had today. The beer hit him hard. I'm not feeling much pain, either. At least I don't think I am. It's dark now. We're parked comfortably with a view of the marquee of the theater and Reva in the illuminated ticket booth. Occasionally when she moves or a car passes, the light bounces off the locket. That damn locket. Like Pandora's box. If the world gets one peek, I'll never be able to clamp the lid back on again.

I can just imagine the scene. “Where did you get this locket, Miss Hess?” Found it on the floor in the back seat of Roy Darnell's car. “Do you recognize the faces pictured inside the locket?” Sure, Roy and Addie Darnell. “Was the night you found the locket the same night his wife was killed?” Uh-huh. “See anything else there?” Oh, just a bunch of other jewelry stuff. “Would you look at this insurance company photo of a pair of diamond earrings.” Yeah, I saw them there, too. “Your Honor, the Prosecution rests its case.”

If you had a high-powered rifle, you could pick her off from right here. Baaaaang!

“I'd still need the locket. And anything else incriminating that she swiped.”

Incriminating.
He savors the word.
Sound like a goddamn lawyer. Incrimmmmminating evidence.

“I'm just saying that what we're looking for is the proper time and place. And this isn't it. A brightly lit booth on a busy street.”

Never here, always somewhere else. Not now. Definitely not in the movies. How 'bout in the ladies' room? What the fuck happened to improvisation?

“Hey, Jack, something scorching your ass today? I woke up happy and you've been ragging on me ever since. What's worrying you? Spit it out.”

You, babe. You're worrying me.

“Why? You were after me to get us close to Reva. So now we're close. There she is.”

Yeah, but when push comes to shove—is there really any shove in you? This isn't gonna be like tossing creampuff punches at flabby photographers.

“I'll handle it.”

Just keep in mind. If you screw up, you won't be peddling Fords in Culver City—you'll be sniffing cyanide fumes in San Quentin.
He leans back against the head rest.
How's that scene grab you, big fella?

• • •

When we were at the deli, I made a couple phone calls. To the transit authority. And to the Aero Theater. So I know a few things now. The way I figure it is that when she gets off work she'll go home. There's no bus along Montana that'll get her there. But if she walks up to Wilshire, she can take the bus to Bundy, then transfer and get off at Santa Monica Boulevard. Back where she started this morning, just around the corner from her apartment. That's what she'll probably do. Because it's a little too far to walk all the way home. And it'll be late. Because the last showing of
Johnny Concho
goes on at ten.

I'll be able to pick my spot. Lot of dark secluded streets along that route.

Jack Havoc is dozing in the seat beside me. Or maybe he's pretending. You never can tell with him. I'm studying Reva. In her glass booth. Can't take my eyes off her. Like watching a goldfish in a bowl. Funny. She's been on the periphery of my vision for years now. But tonight is the first time I've ever really looked at her. Seen her. Not so pretty. But sort of attractive in a tomboy way. Small but pleasant. Smiles at every customer who steps up to her window. Sasses the ticket-taker who brings her out a Coke. Nice girl.

Hard to imagine she'll be dead so very soon.

Okay. Time to give that one a little attention. Killing someone. Committing murder. I've done it on stage. On screen. But this will be a premiere. No camera, hopefully no audience. But I'm hoping I can use the same muscles. It's just a scene. An acting moment. I'm trained in bringing up sense memories and adrenaline. Block out everything else. I've played Othello strangling Desdemona. Six nights a week and two matinees. But then you wash off the greasepaint and go home. Leaving any guilt behind.

It's the same!

Just do what you have to do. And go home.

That's the ticket.

I look at the dashboard clock. Almost ten o'clock.

She'll be off soon.

A Chevy parks across the street in front of the closed and darkened beauty salon. A man gets out and heads for the box office. Must be a die-hard Sinatra fan, catching only the last half of the double. But now the man walks out of the dark into the bright lights under the marquee. And I recognize him in an instant.

I jab Jack Havoc in the ribs. He's awake and alarmed.

We're both staring at Reva in her booth.

Talking through the glass. To Detective Sergeant Arzy Marshak.

“He mustn't see me. Not here,” I say.

Go, GO!
Jack Havoc says.

I turn on the motor and we gun away.

“So did you happen to see Roy Darnell arrive at the theater last Sunday night? Before the screening began?”

It's the first question of the day Arzy Marshak asks. It won't be the last.

The morning sun beams idyllically down on the Brentwood estate where a Hollywood legend lives. It's the start of what will turn out to be a very long day. Arzy sips orange juice hand-squeezed from the trees in the spacious yard. He sits beneath a sun umbrella, beside a turquoise pool large enough to stage an Esther Williams water ballet. Opposite him, in the navy blue swim trunks with the U.S. Marine Corps logo, featuring no paunch, good muscle tone, also drinking orange juice, although his is laced with vodka, is Arzy's host—“Wild Bill” Wellman. White hair, trim white mustache, skin tanned brown. Steel blue inquiring eyes.

“First I noticed him was inside the Academy,” Wellman says.

“Was he alone?”

“I'm not sure. I was on the other side of the theater. Heard a commotion in the far aisle. Looked over and saw Roy with a bunch of people swarming around him. It's like that when someone who's hot shows up at one of these screenings. Everybody likes to get near 'em, maybe some of the prosperity will rub off.”

“So he might have been with someone—”

“Or he might've been alone. Wasn't anyone with him when he congratulated me in the lobby after the show. I mean, we went off together and got pie-eyed. Just the two of us.” The blue eyes probe. “I told you all this on the phone the other day.”

“Just trying to fill in a few details. How did Mr. Darnell seem to you—after the show?”

“Elated. Like he'd seen a good movie.”

“A real goodie.”

“Before your time, wasn't it?”

“I'm a fan. Seen most everything you've directed. From
Wings
to
The High and Mighty.
”

“Sounds like you're a flyer.”

“Close.
Semper fi.
Airborne.”

“Korea?”

“Yeah.”

“How was it?”

“Just like
Battleground.
”

“Except for the happy ending,” Wellman says. “We had one. You didn't.”

“Hey—I'm here.”

“Still do any jumping?”

“On the weekends sometimes. When I don't have anything else to do.”

Wellman pours more juice in Arzy's glass. “Bet you could tell some stories.”

“Matter of fact, that's what I want to do. Write stories for movies.”

“War stories? Cop stories?”

“Got a bunch of both.”

“How's the story you're working on now?”

The old bastard's fast. “Haven't got the ending worked out yet.”

“Bet it's the one about the Hollywood star who gets his dick caught in the wringer and can't get it out.”

“That's one way to go.” Then, “So basically you saw Mr. Darnell at the start of the movie and after it ended.”

“Yep. See, in between all the lights were out. You really think he did it?”

Arzy shrugs. “I'm just a bird dog. Keep my eyes open and go where it takes me. But you don't buy it?”

“Me? What do I know? You're the pro. Far as I'm concerned, Roy's a nice guy with a strong tennis backhand, who can hold his liquor. But if you think he killed his wife and went boozing with me afterwards like nothing happened, then—”

Wellman pauses. Arzy takes the bait. “Then what?”

“Then he's even a better actor than I thought he was.”

Arzy nods and closes his notebook. He likes what he hears: in between, when the lights went out, Roy was on his own.

• • •

Harry Tigner is at the Crossroads of the World. It's an inconspicuous courtyard on Sunset near Highland. A dozen small offices surrounding a European-style kiosk. The tenants include an accountant, a barber, a dentist, an insurance broker, an escrow firm, and the office of Aaron Fisher, Private Investigations, which turns out to be an office slightly bigger than a phone booth, with autographed glossies on the wall of several contented clients. Harry doesn't recognize any of their faces. Maybe Arzy would.

Fisher himself is a chesty kid with big shoulders, wearing a blue V-neck sweater over a white button-down shirt. Dirty white sneakers. Looks scarcely old enough to buy beer legally. Slouched behind a desk small enough to have been swiped from his junior high school homeroom. He seems unperturbed that Harry has come knocking on his door this morning. Almost flattered.

“Figured someone'd be along after a while,” he says. “But just for the record, how'd you find me?”

“Adrienne Ballard Darnell's checkbook,” Harry says. “She wrote two checks payable to your office. For services rendered.”

“Uh-huh.”

That's all he says. The punk is going to make me fish for the details, Harry thinks. Here we go.

“Care to tell me what those services were?”

“Well, I don't know, there are fiduciary responsibilities in my business. Clients count on my discretion, you know, confidentiality.”

“Your client's dead. You don't want to obstruct an ongoing police investigation.”

Fisher grins. Makes him look like a Norman Rockwell character. Fuckin' red hair and freckles and all. Enjoying himself. “Of course not. Just want it made clear for the record that I'm behaving in an ethical—”

“Don't annoy me, transom-peeper. Or I'll step on you.”

Fisher's smile fades. Color goes out of his face. Leaving the freckles in bold relief. Like an instant case of chicken pox.

“Just for the record, how'd you get to be a P.I.?”

Fisher shrugs. “Took some criminology courses at Santa Monica J.C. Got all As. Worked as a traffic cop in Pacoima for six months. Passed the civil exam for P.I. with flying colors. Hung out my shingle—and here I am.”

“How'd you happen to connect with Mrs. Darnell?”

“She was looking for someone. Found me in the Yellow Pages. I got myself listed by my first name, double ‘A' so I'm at the top of the page.”

“Terrific. Tell me what you did to earn your fees.”

“I did two jobs for the lady. Second one was to serve the divorce papers and a domestic court subpoena to Darnell. Got him outside Romanoff's when he was signing autographs. He took a swing at me. Missed, of course, sozzled sonuvabitch. Fell in the gutter.” He snickers. Seems disappointed Harry doesn't join in.

“Tell me about time number one.”

“That was the fun time. Miz Ballard, I mean Mrs. Darnell, wanted to test Mr. Darnell's fidelity.”

“You set him up.”

“Well, let's just say I put temptation in his path—and he ran after it like a horny little bunny.”

“Who was the bait?”

“Just some girl. I hired her. Mrs. Darnell coached her. I told her what to do. Darnell did the rest.”

“Where'd you find her?”

“In Scandia. She was at the bar. I bought her a drink, we chatted a little. She's studying acting, aren't they all? Okay, I said, y'busy tomorrow night, I got a part for you to play. One performance. Two hundred bucks. She said she'd want it in cash. I said it was a deal.”

“Name.”

“Chris Patterson. She said.”

“She said.”

“Yeah, I think it was a phony moniker.”

Monniker. This sleazy pseudo–Sam Spade Jr. Providing dead-end leads.

“I need to know what she looked like.”

“About five-four, long dark red hair and—”

“Don't tell me. Show me. Show me the pictures.”

He hesitates. But only for a second. Then goes to the file cabinet, unlocks it, finds an envelope. Tosses it across the desk to Harry, who looks at the photos. Roy Darnell caught flagrantly in the act. Getting it on with a drop dead gorgeous gal. Some guys have it all and it's still not enough. A couple of the pictures show her face clearly.

“I'm gonna hold on to these,” Harry says, rising.

“Be my guest.” That shit-eating Norman Rockwell smile again. “I've got the negatives.”

“Yeah. I bet you do. Don't do anything with them unless you check with me first.”

• • •

Arzy Marshak is being given a lesson in how to properly cool a thousand bodies.

“I lower the thermostat to sixty-seven degrees,” explains Reese Shelton, the manager of the Academy Theater. He lets Arzy see as he adjusts the dial on the wall near the front of the theater. “Normally, you'd think that's too cold for comfort. But you have to allow for the combined body temperatures of nearly a thousand people—that's how many seats we have. Add in all those 98.6s and it's perfect by the end of the first reel.”

“Think you'll fill the place today? A weekday matinee?”

Shelton leans closer to Arzy. Confiding. “There are quite a few of our members who aren't working at any given time. Besides, it's a rare showing. A golden oldie called
Kentucky,
with Loretta Young, she's still very well-liked by our members. Walter Brennan won the Oscar for it.”

“First time they gave an award for Best Supporting Actor.”

“You're absolutely correct.” Shelton looks at Arzy with new respect.

Arzy waits while Shelton locks the protective plastic cover on the thermostat—“So no one else can fool with it.” Arzy idly looks up at the golden ten-foot-statue of Oscar looming over them. It reminds him of the giant robot in
The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Gort was his name. “Klatoo barada nikto.” The instructions that activated the unstoppable robot. Just behind the statue, there's a curtain covering a doorway.

“What's through there?”

“A backstage exit door,” Shelton says.

Shelton is a brisk, precise little man, wearing rimless glasses and a beige lightweight summer suit without a crease on it. He leads the way back up the side aisle. The first patrons are trickling in for the showing. “About where was Mr. Darnell sitting on Sunday night?” Arzy asks.

Shelton points at a row twelve back from the front. “Around there. On the aisle. I noticed him when I came down to adjust the air conditioning.”

“Was he alone?”

“There were other people in the row.
A Star Is Born
is one of our most popular attractions. We had to turn away thirty or forty latecomers.”

“Who was with him?”

“I'm not sure if anyone was. He might have been alone or not. I mean, I wasn't keeping tabs on him. Even if he is a star, as far as we're concerned he's just another Academy member. No special privileges.”

“Like reserved seats.”

“Exactly.” They're moving into the narrow lobby now. There's a mousy attendant at the door. Checking Academy membership cards. Those are shown for admission. The forecourt outside and the sidewalk beyond are filled with socializing moviegoers. Arzy catches a glimpse of Walter Brennan, taller than you think, signing autographs near the curb.

“Wait,” Shelton says. “I think there was a woman with him. Auburn hair, worn in a page boy. She comes here now and then. Or am I thinking about a couple of weeks ago? Mr. Darnell might've been with her at the Hitchcock double feature.”

“Can you be sure?”

Shelton turns on him. In a huff. “Really, Sergeant, I'm not here to call the roll and keep track of who's sitting with whom. I've got a lot more responsibility than that.”

“Maybe if you think about it for a moment—”

“You want to know that sort of gossip, go ask them!” He points out toward the curb. At the autograph hounds surrounding newly arrived Loretta Young.

Arzy goes outside to watch. Waits until the feeding frenzy around Loretta Young abates. Then the half dozen fans retreat from the front of the theater. Arzy moves in on them while they're delightedly gazing at their still-wet signatures.

“Hi, can I talk to you guys?” He shows them his badge.

A teenage boy sporting an Angels ball cap says, “We're not makin' any trouble. The manager says we can be here if we don't block the entrance.”

Arzy explains that he's not here to roust them. Just to glean some info. “Were any of you here on Sunday night when
A Star Is Born
was playing?” They all were. So far, so good. “Did you see Roy Darnell?”

They all nod. Curious now.

“Did he come alone?”

“Nah,” says the Angels fan, “he came with Reva.”

The others laugh.

“Who's Reva?” Arzy says.

An anorexic teenage blonde with bad skin says, “Otis is just teasing you. Reva's one of us. She's a big Darnell fan. They weren't together, they just walked up together.”

“Did Roy Darnell meet anyone here?”

“I think I saw him with that redhead,” says Otis, the Angels fan.

“The one he went to the
Trapeze
preem with?” says another.

“Yeah, her.”

“She wasn't here last Sunday.”

“Sure she was,” the skinny blonde says.

“That was weeks ago, Marcie. On Hitchcock night.”

Arzy interrupts the round robin discussion. “Who we talking about?”

“This new broad Roy is dating,” Otis says.

“What's her name?”

He shrugs. “Ask Reva. She got her.”

“What do you mean, she
got
her?”

“Her autograph. She got her autograph.”

“In her crumb book,” says Marcie, the blonde. “She's nobody.”

“But she wrote her name in Reva's book?”

“I think Reva snapped a picture of her, too, with Roy.”

“Where's Reva? She here?”

“She was. You just missed her,” Otis says. “She took off after she got Walter Brennan.”

“Reva what?” Arzy flips open his notebook. “What's her last name?”

• • •

“Sure, that's the gal he was with. A real looker.”

Harry Tigner is showing one of the photos he got from Sam Spade Jr. to Garry Foley, the KTLA-TV cameraman who covered the
Trapeze
premiere. Harry has folded the photo so that only the face of the woman with Roy Darnell is visible.