by Maia Chance
He lightly seized my wrist. “Work.”
“Anything about me in there?”
He grabbed the notebook with his other hand and shoved it back inside his jacket. “Sure.”
“What sort of things? You’d better tell me, or I’ll make you talk.”
“Yeah?” His voice was husky, and his eyes were inches from mine. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Wouldya keep it down?” someone said behind us.
I slid my hand around the back of Ralph’s neck. “All right, then. I’ll make you talk.”
“Hey,” Ralph mumbled, “I thought you said you weren’t that kind of girl.”
“Oh, would you stop yammering?”
The kiss would’ve knocked my socks off, had I been wearing any. I hadn’t canoodled with a fellow in several years. I was a little rusty. But Ralph hadn’t been fibbing when he’d said he was a good teacher, and he was doing an impressive job of helping me pick up where I’d left off.
Until I felt my rubber girdle give way.
I tried to ignore the tugging and rolling sensations under my dress; Ralph’s mouth was far more interesting. But then he slid a hand down the bumps and dips of my figure, and I guess he felt one bump too many.
He patted around my hips, where the girdle had rolled onto itself like a window shade. “What’s this?” He pinched at it, pulled, made it stretch through the fabric of my dress.
“Stop it!” I slapped his hand away.
“We’re trying to watch the show!” someone said.
“No, really, what’ve you got under there, Mrs. Woodby? A life preserver?”
“It’s not funny,” I said stiffly. “And don’t call me Mrs. Woodby.”
“Yeah. Guess it would be a little too formal at this point. Lola.”
I suffered through the rest of Thor the Thunder God in humbled silence, and then went to the ladies’ room to unroll my girdle. Ralph insisted on escorting me home, but needless to say, conversation was stilted.
In a way, the girdle malfunction had saved me. I really oughtn’t be smooching fellows at picture shows. Especially not fellows who were investigating me. How come I kept forgetting that germane point about Ralph Oliver?
“Well, thanks for the picture show,” I said, standing on the steps of 9 Longfellow Street. I turned to go inside.
“There you are!” Berta yelled out the second-floor window. “For goodness’ sake, was it a double feature? You have been absent for an eternity. I have stumbled upon a most exciting development.” She slammed the window shut.
I looked down at Ralph. He grinned. “Fine,” I said. “Come on up.”
* * *
Berta was in her boots, hat, and raincoat in the foyer when we opened the front door. She waved a copy of Movie Love at us. “We have just enough time to get there.”
“Get where?” I asked.
“To the Pantheon Pictures studio in Queens. They are holding an open casting call for character types and extras today, but they shall close the doors at five o’clock—and Movie Love indicates that they are most strict about the doors closing.”
“I don’t quite catch your meaning,” I said.
“Sadie, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said. “Sadie. If we are able to get inside the studio, we might find her.”
“But surely she won’t have the film reel with her there at the studio. Wouldn’t she be more likely to hide it at home?”
Ralph said, “I think what Mrs. Lundgren is getting at is that once we lay eyes on Sadie, we can follow her home.”
We?
“Precisely,” Berta said.
The three of us—plus Cedric, too—clattered down into the street and piled into the Duesy.
* * *
Pantheon’s address was listed in Berta’s copy of Movie Love. I drove while Ralph, in the backseat with Cedric, tussled with the New York City street map I always kept in my glove box. Berta’s contribution was to fingernail the dashboard for dear life every time we turned a corner.
After forty minutes, two wrong turns, and a dash of burning rubber, we stopped in front of a huge concrete building in an industrial section of Flushing, Queens.
I’d read that film companies were starting to decamp to Southern California, where the sunlight made filming outdoors easier and the tax laws were softer. But a lot of companies were still here in the great sprawl of New York. After all, much of their talent still worked on Broadway and needed to shuttle back and forth between gigs.
I switched off the Duesy’s engine. A man with a big head and vivid features walked by.
“He looks like a character type,” Berta whispered.
“And he looks like he knows where he’s going,” Ralph said.
We got out and hurried after the man. Cedric was clasped in my arms; I wouldn’t dream of leaving him in the motorcar in this sort of neighborhood.
A line of about two dozen people trickled out the studio doors. They were all distinctive looking: very tall or short, exceedingly corpulent or muscular, or, in the case of the young girls, unusually pretty.
We queued up. The line inched along. Soon, we were inside the studio, in a long hallway. The line ended at a doorway, in front of which a lady took down names and telephone numbers.
“Should we make a break for it?” I whispered to Berta and Ralph. “We can’t stand in this line till the cows come home.”
“That secretary up there will be sure to put the kibosh on an escape,” Ralph said. “Let’s see if there’s a way we can slip away once we’re inside the screen test room.”
“Fine,” I said. I whispered to Berta, “Exactly who put Mr. Oliver in charge of our sleuthing?”
But Berta was gone. I saw her at a table along the wall, partaking of the gratis lemonade.
Really, why was Ralph here at all? He’d convinced me that he wasn’t the devil’s minion, but he had yet to give me a straight answer about anything.
After ten more minutes—and after Berta had downed three glasses of lemonade—we made it to the secretary. We all gave fake names and telephone numbers. Then we were sent through into a big, bright room marked STUDIO ONE, with concrete floors, brick walls, and light streaming through skylights and burning from floor lamps. A white screen hung on a rack in the middle of the room. Near the screen, three men stood around a movie camera on a tripod.
“Next!” one of the men yelled.
“Oh, how very exciting!” Berta said. Her eyes danced, and her cheeks were flushed. She went over to the screen, holding her handbag tight.
“Hey,” Ralph said in my ear, “I didn’t think we’d actually, ah, get ourselves filmed.”
“Why, Mr. Oliver—do you have stage fright?”
“No. An aversion to being caught on camera. Doesn’t really go with my line of work.” He craned his neck. Looking, I guessed, for a way to lam out.
For all I knew, he was a fugitive from Sing Sing.
Berta told her fake name to a man with a handlebar mustache. He scrawled Letty Lindstrom on a slate with a piece of chalk. Then he corralled her in a spot before the screen.
“Just try and act natural,” he said.
Berta’s entire body had gone rigid.
Handlebar held the slate in front of Berta. One of the other men started cranking the camera. “Three, two, one, action,” Handlebar said. He whisked the slate away.
Berta stared at the camera like a savannah creature apprehending an oncoming safari wagon.
“Pretend to say something!” Handlebar shouted. “Move around a little! Blink, for crying out loud!”
Berta didn’t move.
“Cut!” Handlebar pointed to a door marked EXIT.
Berta crept away.
I was next.
Handlebar glanced at me as I walked toward him, Cedric snug in my arms. Handlebar looked away, but then his eyes snapped back. “Hold it!” he yelled.
I froze.
He stared at me with a look of awe. “Those eyes. That hair. Wowie. Just what we’re looking for.”
“Naw. The pooch.”
“Oh. You mean Cedric?”
“Whatever his name is. Get him over here.”
They filmed Cedric. Cedric tipped his head and showed his tiny round tongue and looked altogether adorable. But, since Cedric was so short, they needed to adjust the camera tripod to get a better shot. Then the tripod got jammed, and all three men were bent over it, trying to make it come unstuck.
“Psst!” It was Ralph. He and Berta were over by a door on the far side of the room. He beckoned with a finger.
I looked at the film men. They were absorbed in fiddling with the tripod. I glanced out the door we’d come through. The secretary was busy speaking with a dwarf.
I hugged Cedric close and hurried after Ralph and Berta.
* * *
We found ourselves in another empty concrete hallway with cracked plaster walls.
“Hey!” I heard Handlebar yell behind us. “Where’s the pooch?”
A couple doors led off the hallway, but when we tried them, they were all locked. We went around a corner and found ourselves in an open area, with windows that overlooked some shrubs.
I guessed this was the front of the studio complex.
A secretary sat at a desk equipped with three telephones. She had wire glasses, a frazzled gray bun, and a brown cardigan. She held a receiver to her ear, and she nodded silently as she flipped through stacks of papers on her desk. When she caught sight of us, her eyes narrowed. “Call you back,” she said into the mouthpiece. She hooked the receiver on its cradle. “Here for the screen tests?”
“We wish to speak with … um…” I squinted at the closed doors behind her desk. One brass nameplate said MR. KLINGER. The other said MR. ZUCKER.
He’d know where to find Sadie Street.
“We’re here to see Mr. Zucker,” I said.
“Mr. Zucker? You? It’s Mr. Klinger who handles the bit-part and comic actor screen tests. They’re holding them right now in Studio One. Mr. Zucker only handles the stars.”
“We have an appointment,” Ralph said. He stalked to the edge of her desk.
The secretary gaped up at him. “Well, now, you—I can see you having an appointment with Zucker.” She straightened her glasses. “Now that I see you up close, you have that rugged sort of look. A manly man, kinda.”
“We have an appointment,” Ralph said. “At four thirty. Which is—” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “—in approximately two minutes, Mrs.—?”
“Miss Dudley.”
19
George Zucker was reading a sheaf of papers. A script, probably. His desk was piled high with them. His office was large, cool, and bare. Tall windows overlooked a courtyard populated by scrawny plants. He glanced up. “Miss Dudley, I told you, no—”
“Mr. Zucker,” I said, stepping forward. “Lola Woodby. We met at the Arbuckles’.”
The secretary left.
George blanched. “Oh. That business. Yeah. Sorry, Mrs. Woodby. I’m up to my elbows in—”
“Quite all right,” I said. “We only wanted to stop in and say hello—my friend here, um, Letty Lindstrom, was in for a screen test.”
George looked at Berta. He didn’t seem impressed. Then he studied Cedric. “What about the dog? Looks like he’d show up real nice on film. And—” Now George was staring hard at Ralph. “—where have I seen you before?”
“I’ve got one of those faces, I guess,” Ralph said.
“I hate to say it,” George said, “but I’m swamped right now. Was there something I could help you with?”
It was now or never. “We’re looking for a missing film reel,” I blurted. “One that was stolen from Horace Arbuckle the night he was killed.”
“Honey, dozens of film reels pass through my hands on a daily basis. Can’t help you.” George glanced at his gold wristwatch.
Berta said, “We know that Miss Street used to be called Miss Minsky, and that she sang at the speakeasy belonging to Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
George slumped back in his chair. “How’d you find out about that?”
“Is it something we should inform the police of?” Berta’s look was steely.
“No!” George said. “They don’t need to … Listen, I’m gonna let you in on a secret. But first, I don’t know a thing about Arbuckle’s murder, and that’s a fact.”
Berta, Ralph, and I waited in silence.
“Pantheon bought up Fitzpatrick’s theaters, back in December,” George said. “There was nothing fishy about it. Except for one thing.” He hunched forward.
Berta, Ralph, Cedric, and I leaned in like a barbershop quartet.
George lowered his voice. “I made a deal with Fitzpatrick, all right? I wish I hadn’t, looking back. I mean, what kind of schlemiel goes into business with a gangster?”
“What sort of deal?” I asked.
“I’m not so sure I oughta tell you.”
“Do not force us to twist your arm,” Berta said.
“All right, all right.” George Zucker sighed. “Motion pictures are cutthroat, I tell you. Absolutely vicious. It’s sink or swim eight days a week. Right now, Pantheon’s main competitor is Altus Productions, though that could change any second, what with all that’s happening in Hollywood. Now, Altus has gotten a real good leg up on the competition by buying out theaters. It’s not only about productions, see. Distribution is key, too. Gotta control the market.”
“You bought Lem Fitzpatrick’s chain of theaters,” Ralph said.
“That’s right. At a real high price, it turns out.”
“Something to do with Sadie?” I asked.
“Yeah. The only way Fitzpatrick would agree to the sale of his theaters was if we took his little squeeze Sadie and made her into a star. I said, sure. The bird’s just beautiful, and she can act okay, I guess. She’s got that husky voice, and what with the talkies coming along, I thought maybe that could come in handy. All my other leading ladies have voices like mice, except for one, and she talks like an Italian truck driver.”
“What about the feud between Sadie and Bruno?” Ralph asked.
“Don’t remind me. Those two have got me between a rock and a hard place, and they know it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, I can’t very well fire Bruno. He’s Pantheon’s top-banking star. And that little princess Sadie? I’d be head over heels with glee if we let her go. There are a million girls in America who could fill her shoes. Give me some nice, fresh-faced little miss from Ohio who’ll take goddam direction!” He slammed his fist on the desk.
George suddenly seemed … violent. My spine prickled.
“But no,” he said. “I can’t fire her, because if I do, her goddam boyfriend will have me whacked. It’s a farce, is what it is.”
“Fitzpatrick threatened to whack you?” Ralph asked.
“Don’t know if he means it or not, but with that kind of fella, I sure as hell don’t wanna find out. Did you hear what happened to that forger who double-crossed Fitzpatrick? Nothing left but a pair of shoes.”
Ralph and I exchanged a glance. Berta’s hand had made its way to her locket.
“But you’ve been pretending to be Sadie’s beau,” I said.
“All for publicity, honey. Gotta play the rags-to-riches game. The public loves it. Look at me: I was just a runty kid from Jersey who everyone picked on, but I made something of myself. People eat my story up. Anyway, Sadie was sneaking off to Fitzpatrick’s bedroom every night at the Arbuckles’ place. Taking the opportunity for a little zig-zig, if you know what I mean. They aren’t able to see each other much, what with her public image to worry about and the reporters hounding her day and night.”
“That’s why it’s so difficult to locate Sadie,” I said.
“Sure. Even she needs a little privacy. She’s here now, though. Studio Five.”
Berta emitted a chirrup.
George glanced again a
t his wristwatch. “Anything else?”
Just then, I heard the door behind us click open. We turned.
Bruno Luciano posed in the doorway, liquid eyed and suntanned. He gave Cedric a blinding-white grin. “Hi there, little fella.”
Cedric growled.
“Bruno,” George said. He sounded choked.
“I needed to speak to you, George,” Bruno said. “About that … thing.” He elevated a dramatic eyebrow.
“Okay,” George said meekly.
What was going on between these two?
“Say, Zucker,” Ralph said, “could we go and say hello to Sadie Street?”
“Suit yourself,” George said, not taking his eyes off Bruno. “As long as you don’t mention our little conversation here. Miss Dudley will take you.”
* * *
Miss Dudley guided us through a labyrinth of corridors, and along a wider hallway teeming with actors in costume and makeup. The walls were decorated with framed photographs.
“That was easy,” I whispered to Ralph and Berta. We slipped around two cigarette-smoking Revolutionary War Redcoats.
“Indeed,” Berta said. “Mr. Zucker sang like a canary.”
I poked Ralph in the arm. “Maybe you ought to take lessons from us on how to extract efficient confessions.”
“That’s kinda the problem,” Ralph said. “It was a little too easy.”
“Hmph,” Berta said.
I said, “You’re jealous.”
“In my experience,” Ralph said, “when someone’s that forthcoming, they’re hiding something.”
“Hiding what?” I asked. “He came clean about a shady deal with a gangster, for Pete’s sake!”
“Shush,” Berta whispered.
A gaunt fellow in face paint, top hat, and tails stared as we passed.
“I’m just saying,” Ralph said, “don’t believe everything you hear.”
Miss Dudley left us in Studio Five. It was even bigger than Studio One, and lit up by skylights, tall windows, and electric lamps. Sets and props cluttered the perimeter.
In the middle of the studio, a motion picture camera sat on a low tripod. A man in baggy trousers, suspenders, and rolled-up shirtsleeves crouched behind it, cranking. A couple other fellows stood nearby.
