The Devil's Due (5 page)

After a few minutes, she heard Simon come upstairs and felt him standing behind her. She turned and leaned back against the railing with both elbows. “This is amazing.”

Simon hmm'd in agreement, but from the look in his eye he wasn't thinking about the bungalow. Slowly, he walked over to her, stopping just inches away from her. He put a hand on either side of her on the railing, trapping her between his arms.

“We have a few hours before dinner,” Simon whispered in her ear. “I have ideas for one of them. Perhaps you can think of something for the others, Mrs. Cross?”

Oh, she had ideas. Plenty of ideas.

Elizabeth stared up at the ceiling of the Cocoanut Grove in wonder. A detailed firmament of stars sparkled against the midnight blue paint. Small spotlights were mixed amongst the stars and lit the enormous floor of the supper club. She and Simon stood near one of the many life-sized palm trees that ringed the perimeter of the main floor. Nestled at the base of the large fronds a small stuffed monkey dangled down next to a bunch of fake cocoanuts. Why weren't there places like this anymore?

Simon caught the attention of one of the maître 'ds and asked for a table on the upper level that ringed the main floor. The man bowed and led them through the club. It was bright and bilious — Hollywood's version of Morocco. Everything was deep, rich reds and golds. The walls were accented with sharp Moorish arches with detailed geometric designs and floral arabesques.

The man stopped at a small table near the steps down to the dance floor. He held out Elizabeth's chair and she took her seat.

“Who's here tonight?” Simon said casually, as though he asked the question regularly and expected a response.

The man hemmed a little until Simon pulled out his billfold. “Oh, yeah, there's uhm, Carole Lombard over there,” he said nodding his head toward each star as he ticked off the night's visitors. Elizabeth strained to see them in the distance. It was clear the man was used to the question and used to getting a nice bit of change for the answer. “And, Gable and Shearer and Thalberg.”

Simon handed him several bills. “And Grant? Alan Grant?”

The man shook his head. “Not yet. But it's kind of early for him.”

“Thank you,” Simon said, and held out one more bill. “You'll be sure to let us know if he should arrive.”

“Very good, sir,” he said as he took the last bit of compensation.

Simon took his seat just as the orchestra started to play and Bing Crosby took the stage. He opened with “Waltzing in a Dream.” It was appropriate. The entire day had felt like a dream. She and Simon and Jack had arrived safely and without incident, which was a first for them. The hotel was beautiful and now she was sitting there listening to young Bing Crosby serenade her, live. The only thing missing was the only the reason they were there. Alan Grant.

They had dinner and waited. They had drinks and waited. They danced and waited. The evening came and went, but Grant did not. Eventually, they decided to give it up for the night and start fresh in the morning, hoping Jack might have had better luck.

As it turned out, he didn't. As promised, Jack called them in the morning, but he didn't have much to report. From what he'd learned from poking around, Grant spent his days at the studio or his home, neither of which they could get near, and his nights at any one of a few dozen nightclubs. That left Musso & Frank. At least they knew he'd be there and when. All they could hope for now was that whatever was threatening Grant, they'd be ready for it.

Musso & Frank was exactly as Elizabeth had imagined it. It was a dark, wood-paneled room with red leather booths and wall sconces that gave off a warm, reddish-orange glow. A long mahogany bar ran the length of one side of the deep and narrow restaurant. Jack sat on the last barstool, near the kitchen door, just as they'd planned. Jack had pointed out that it was better strategically if they weren't sitting together and didn't acknowledge each other. If trouble broke out, it would be better to have two angles on it.

Elizabeth saw Jack notice them at the front of the restaurant and nodded his head toward the back corner booth. That must be where Alan Grant was sitting. She nodded once, feeling like she was in
The Sting
and turned her attention away from Jack.

The restaurant was fairly large. In addition to the bar, various booths and tables filled the rest of the floor. It was steeped in movie history. Musso & Frank was a haven for Hollywood's elite and not just the stars, but writers, directors, producers and artists of all kinds. She could practically feel the buzz of deals being brokered and the electricity of ideas being born.

While she and Simon stood at the entrance, waiting for the maître d’ to seat them, two men slid out of a nearby booth. The short one had stacks of papers clutched under his arms. His tweed jacket was rumpled and the rest of his clothes weren't in much better shape. He looked familiar. It was his short grey hair and near black mustache.

“Don't worry, Bill, it'll be all right,” the other man assured him as they walked toward a back room.

Bill nodded, but he didn't seem convinced. “I hope so, Leland,” he said with a deep, slow Southern drawl. “I surely hope so.”

The two men disappeared up the back stairs and Elizabeth grabbed Simon's arm. “Holy crap. That was William Faulkner.”

She'd read that he and F. Scott Fitzgerald and others sometimes wrote at Musso & Frank, but to actually see him! She barely managed to refrain from shouting after him, “
As I Lay Dying
was completely awesome!”

She turned around eagerly looking for the next literary icon.

“Hmm?” Simon said, staying on point and craning his neck to try to spot Alan Grant.

Elizabeth pulled her attention back to the task at hand. She wasn't here to sightsee or star gaze, she reminded herself. She was here for Alan Grant, and if their theories were right, he was about to be in big trouble. “Back corner booth. Down there,” she whispered to Simon.

The maître d' approached and led them to a table, but it was too far away. Elizabeth touched Simon's arm and nodded toward a group of empty tables closer to the back corner.

“I'd prefer somewhere with a bit more privacy,” Simon said. “Perhaps, that one?”

The maître 'd shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir, those tables are reserved.”

“It's our honeymoon,” Simon said as he deftly palmed a five-dollar bribe and discreetly flashed it for the man to see.

“Congratulations,” he said, shaking Simon's hand and taking the money in one fluid motion. “In that case, we would be happy to make an exception.”

He led them to the back part of the restaurant.

“That's him,” Elizabeth said under her breath as they neared a large booth with four men and a woman.

“This one will do nicely,” Simon said choosing a table close to Grant's.

Elizabeth slid into the booth, making sure she had a good view of Grant's table. The large partition at the back of her booth blocked any chance of seeing Jack again. She just had to hope he could see Grant well enough to intervene if it came to that.

Alan Grant looked exactly like he did in the movies, except now; in place of his roguish smile there was a serious, even worried expression. And he wasn't alone.

In addition to Grant, there were four others in the large crescent-shaped booth, three men and a young woman. Grant sat next to a lanky, but attractive man in his mid-fifties. His brown hair was smoothed back accentuating his already sharp features. He sat back casually in his seat, but Elizabeth could see the intensity in his eyes as he watched the others. It made him seem vaguely hawk-like and predatory.

On Grant's other side sat a young woman. She couldn't have been much older than Elizabeth, mid-twenties at most. She was the epitome of the young, platinum blonde starlet who should have had the world at her feet. And maybe she did, but not today. Her mascara ran down her cheeks and her eyes darted anxiously between the men in the booth. She looked pleadingly at the man to her right.

“Benny,” she said to him, “what about me?”

Elizabeth could hear the desperation in her voice and cast a nervous glance at Simon. They'd obviously arrived in the middle of a tense discussion. So tense that the woman seemed to be near panic.

Benny frowned down at her with impatience and a little disgust before ignoring her completely. He needlessly ran a few fingers through the side of his perfectly arranged, slicked-back hair. From the slight, but permanent smirk on his lips to the broad pinstripes of his suit, it was clear Benny thought an awful lot of himself. He wasn't bad looking, if a little bit on the Cro-Magnon side of things. His brow was heavy set, almost thuggish and there was an air to his mannerism that Elizabeth recognized as coming from a man who usually got his way. Elizabeth knew she shouldn't make snap judgments and there were oodles of things she didn't know about these people, but she knew one thing: Benny was an ass.

The last man in the booth was an older one and pudgier than Benny, but the family resemblance was uncanny. Where Benny was probably in his mid-thirties, the man to his right had to be closer to sixty. Maybe he was his older brother or even his father? The older man worried the end of an unlit cigar as he glared through his round wire-rimmed glasses at the hawkish man next to Grant.

“You're sure these contracts are iron-clad?” he asked.

The hawkish man nodded his head and an odd smile quirked the corners of his mouth. While the others seemed to be in various states of panic, anger or despair, he was icily calm and even almost pleased.

As if he'd heard Elizabeth's thoughts, the hawkish man looked toward her and she dipped her head and pretended to be fascinated by her water glass. She could feel him looking at her and even felt the moment he looked away. Elizabeth shook off the spider-crawls inching up her spine and forced herself to look back to the table.

The young woman who had clearly been crying sniffled into her handkerchief loudly. “Ain't there nothin' we can do?” she pleaded to each of the men at the table, finally turning to the man with the thick brow, “Benny?”

She nuzzled closer to him, but he shrugged her off. Alan Grant laid a comforting hand over hers and smiled kindly. But Elizabeth could see that he was worried too. Were all of the people at the table in the same danger he was?

A black waistcoat and the waiter inside it suddenly obscured Elizabeth's view of the table. “Would you like to order something to drink?” he asked as he handed them their menus.

“Tea,” Simon said reflexively.

“Hot tea,” Elizabeth clarified. Prohibition meant restaurants had to disguise their drinks in teacups in case the police decided to snoop around. Musso & Frank's clientele was hardly the sort to go dry. After working at Charlie Blue's nightclub, she knew that ordering tea could get you a variety of bathtub liquors strong enough to strip paint off a wall. “I'll just have a water,” she added.

The waiter didn't hide his disappointment and started to leave, but Alan Grant held up his empty teacup and the waiter nodded in understanding.

Simon dipped his head close to Elizabeth's. “Do you recognize any of the others?”

The older man with the glasses did look vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him. “No, not really.”

Simon nodded and sat up straight again. He kept a sharp watch around the rest of the restaurant. There was no telling what sort of danger Grant was in. It was best to stay alert and ready.

“Look,” Benny said. “I got places to be.” He looked at the older man to his right and then at the hawkish one. “This ain't over.”

The hawkish man inclined his head and smiled with mild amusement.

Benny jerked his thumb toward the door. “Let's get outta here.”

The older man shook his head and sighed, but slid out of the booth. The young woman watched them with fresh tears in her eyes. Benny gestured irritably for her to follow. “Come on.”

She started to protest, but any backbone she might have had wilted under his impatient glare.

“It will be all right, Ruby,” Alan said to her as she joined the others.

Ruby gave Alan a grateful, weepy smile and then hurried to keep up with the others as they left.

The hawkish man put his hands on the edge of the table and leaned back. He seemed very pleased with himself. “If there's nothing else?”

Grant laughed, but there was no joy in it. He shook his head. “No, I think…there is nothing else.”

The other man nodded, slid out of the booth and tossed some bills on the table. Grant raised his cup in mock thanks as the man walked away leaving him alone.

As planned, Jack appeared near their booth then and dropped something on the floor. “Well?” he said under his breath as he knelt down to retrieve it.

“We'll stay,” Elizabeth whispered. “See what you can learn about the others.”

Jack nodded, picked up his keys and followed the hawkish man out of the restaurant.

The waiter came back and placed a fresh teacup and saucer in front of Grant.

“Bless you,” Grant said as he took a deep drink from it.

His hand trembled as he put the teacup back onto the saucer. His soulful blue eyes squeezed shut and opened again after he let out a deep, shaky breath. He looked so tired and beaten. It was a look she never expected to see on him. It was silly. Of course, she knew he was flesh and blood, and not the larger than life hero she'd seen in so many movies. But seeing him up close like this, so wounded, was unnerving.

Grant looked up just in time to catch Elizabeth staring at him. She smiled back shyly, suddenly feeling like an awful intruder. A small smile curved Grant's mouth. He looked down into his cup and then back up again. The man was gone and the movie star was back in a flash of his broad smile. “Girl!”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks go hot and was sure they were as deep a red as the leather in the restaurant's booths.
Me?
she pantomimed, feeling every inch the fangirl she was.

“Yes, you!” Grant said loudly, his subtle, upper-class Transatlantic accent slightly dulled by drink. “Come here!” He waved her over to his booth.