The Devil's Due

by Monique Martin

  ~~~

  Alan's car was waiting out front and his chauffeur, a large, heavy-set black man, got out from behind the wheel and met them at the curb.

  “Peter,” Alan said, although it came out sounding like “pita”, “I'd like you to meet Simon and Elizabeth Cross. They're going to join us for the evening.”

  Elizabeth reflexively stuck out her hand toward Peter. He looked at it, unsure for a moment. It was only then Elizabeth realized in this era, it was probably odd for a woman to shake hands, and even stranger to offer hers to a black man. Without meaning to, she'd forced Peter into a very uncomfortable position. But she couldn't take it back now and, frankly, didn't want to.

  Peter looked briefly to Alan, who seemed more amused than anything else. Peter took off his cap, tucked it under one arm and shook her hand. “Ma'am.”

  Peter quickly let go of her hand, put his cap back on and opened the back door to Alan's forest green Bentley limousine. Elizabeth went in first and slid across the plush leather seat. Simon sat next to her and then Alan flopped into the seat opposite them. He lifted the top of a domed, silver cigarette holder bolted into the middle of the back seat floor and offered one to Elizabeth and then Simon before lighting one for himself. He rapped on the glass partition behind him. A moment later, Peter slid it open.

  “Egyptian,” Alan said and then checked his watch. “If we hurry, we can make the early show.”

  Peter slid the partition closed and Elizabeth felt the car rumble to a start.

  Alan leaned back into his seat and blew smoke up to the high ceiling of the car.

  “We're going to the movies?” Elizabeth asked.

  Alan grinned. “Something like that.”

  A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. Alan cleared his throat, smoothed down his hair and said, “It'll be more fun if you play along.”

  Just as Elizabeth was about to ask what that meant, Alan popped open the back door and jumped out of the car. He offered Elizabeth his hand in a silent request to join him.

  “Be careful and stay alert,” Simon said.

  She nodded. They still had no idea what threat there was against Alan's life. Elizabeth took Alan's hand. He wrapped her arm in his and strode toward the box office like Caesar with Cleopatra at his side. She had to nearly run to keep up with him as he led her through the long Egyptian forecourt. Large potted palms and brightly painted Egyptian art lined the sandstone-like walls on either side of them as they neared the inset entrance to the theater.

  Elizabeth could hear Simon behind them grumbling something about the hieroglyphics being utter nonsense. A couple lingering by one of the ornate fountains did a double-take as Alan strode past.

  As they approached the front of the theater, a broad colonnade with four enormous columns, Elizabeth noticed a man pacing back and forth across the roof above the marquee. He was dressed as some sort of Egyptian guard. He stopped as he saw them and waved his ceremonial staff in greeting. “Mr. Grant!”

  The young man in the ticket booth gasped as Alan walked past. He strained to see if his eyes were deceiving him and pressed his face up against the glass as Elizabeth and Alan walked under the marquee and toward the large double doors.

  “M-Mr. Grant,” stuttered the red uniformed man at the door.

  “You don't mind if we slip inside, do you?” Alan asked. “Just to say hello.”

  “N-no!” the man said and stood aside.

  “Good lad.” Alan clapped him on the back and gestured for Elizabeth and Simon to go first.

  Elizabeth had only read about theaters like this. The Egyptian theater was the very definition of a movie palace. Everything about it was elegant and opulent. From the plush carpet to the dazzling chandeliers, magnificent grand staircases to smartly-uniformed and attentive staff, every nuance was designed to make every patron feel like they were someone special, as if they were experiencing something magical. Egyptian motifs were everywhere. More hieroglyphics, these outlined in gold, ringed the high ceiling. Elizabeth tried not to giggle when she saw huge statues of the god of the underworld, Osiris, guarding the entrance to the ladies' bathroom.

  Next to her, Simon snorted. “Ridiculous.”

  The three of them had barely taken more than two or three steps inside when a portly man in a broad-shouldered suit hurried over to them. He mopped his brow and stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. He stuck out a meaty paw and Alan politely shook it.

  “Mr. Grant,” he said, almost panting for breath. “It's an honor to have you here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your picture's showin'. Right in there! Right now!”

  Alan's mock surprise was priceless. “Is it really?” he turned and winked at Elizabeth.

  “It is,” the man said, his head bobbing in excitement. He glanced at his watch. “It should be letting out—”

  The rest of his sentence wasn't necessary as four sets of double doors to the theater opened at once and a trickle of moviegoers soon became a mass. It only took a few seconds for one of them to recognize Alan Grant.

  Two women called out Alan's name in unison, soon a few more followed and the rush was on.

  “Stay close,” Alan said in a hushed voice. “Sometimes I think they'd love me to death if they could.”

  Simon gripped Elizabeth's arm and leaned toward her. “We should get him out of here.”

  “I don't think we can.”

  In less than a minute, they were surrounded by Alan's adoring fans. He was gracious to each, signing autographs, shaking hands and being utterly surprised and delighted that they enjoyed his pictures.

  Someone tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder and she turned to find a rosy-cheeked teenage girl, autograph book in hand. “Are you somebody?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Somebody?” Alan said with a booming laugh as he edged over to them. “My dear child, this…” he said loudly, sure to get everyone else's attention, and with a dramatic pause for effect, “…is Elizabeth Cross!”

  The crowd ooh'd and aww'd as though they recognized the name. Before she could protest, programs and autograph books were being shoved toward her. She started to glare at Alan, but remembered his advice. It was definitely more fun if she played along. Alan took a moment and gave her a wicked and pleased grin before going back to signing autographs. Elizabeth shook her head. He was going to be trouble.

  A young man asked Simon who he was, and Elizabeth prepared for a storm of poison arrows, but Simon just sighed, crossed his arms and said. “Her husband.”

  “Oh, he's nobody,” the young man announced to the crowd. “Just her husband.”

  Elizabeth laughed at Simon's offended expression. “You're a somebody to me,” she assured him.

  Whatever tart reply he offered was lost as she was pulled around by yet another adoring, and instant fan.

  After a few more whirlwind minutes, Alan made an abrupt, grand exit and they were safely back in the car. Elizabeth tried to catch her breath. The experience had been bizarre and exhilarating. Alan lounged in his seat and reached for an already prepared glass of whisky. Fans followed them out and rapped on the windows. Elizabeth looked over at Simon who plucked a slip of paper from the shoulder strap of her dress and arched an eyebrow. A phone number. When had someone done that? She smiled and shrugged. Simon merely shook his head and sighed.

  Alan rapped on the partition and the car eased away from the crowd. He took a sip of his drink and grinned. “Now, that was fun!”

  Chapter Six

  “Are those oil derricks?” Elizabeth peered out of the limousine window. The silhouettes of palm trees had given way to the unmistakable silhouettes of oil wells. And, not just one or two, but an entire forest of them.

  “The only thing the city has more of than actors,” Alan said, “is oil.”

  A few minutes later they rounded a corner and arrived at their next destination.

  “Just saying hello to a few friends,” Alan said casual
ly as their car pulled up to the Biltmore Hotel.

  As they got out of the car, Elizabeth noticed again how incredibly handsome Simon looked tonight and took hold of his hand. She knew this was hardly a vacation, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy being with her husband. Simon squeezed her hand and then wrapped it through his arm as they walked up the front staircase to the hotel.

  The Biltmore was a perfect example of Los Angeles' delightful madness. It combined Italian, Spanish and, absurdly, French styles into an ornate orgy of frescos, caste bronze staircases, Mediterranean murals, and Romanesque columns. It probably caused epileptic seizures in traditional architects. And Elizabeth loved it.

  An enormous double grand staircase led to a bank of elevators, but instead of going up, Alan led them down a staircase into a cavernous posh nightclub. The Sala D'Oro was filled to capacity. Dozens and dozens of tables, with white linen and silver and candles made a crescent around the dance floor. In front of the stage an entire orchestra sat playing Cole Porter standards.

  They'd barely reached the bottom of the stairs before Alan began shaking hands and gliding from table to table as he made his way across the room. He always introduced them as “my dear friends, Simon and Elizabeth Cross” as though they'd known each other for years and not hours.

  As they approached yet another table, Elizabeth noticed Simon staring at something across the room. She followed his eye line and saw one of the men from Musso & Frank. He sat at a table with several other men she didn't recognize.

  “Elizabeth,” Alan said, touching her arm to get her attention.

  Elizabeth turned around and there was no mistaking the woman at Alan's side. Even without the introduction, Elizabeth knew who she was. Her platinum blonde hair and bombshell figure gave her away. Jean Harlow. She was Marilyn before there was a Marilyn.

  “How'd ya do?” she said, flashing a grin. “Any friend of Alan's and all that.”

  She was so beautiful and vivacious; it was hard to believe she'd pass away just a few years later. Even better than meeting her was seeing Simon's expression as he turned to shake her hand. Whatever or whoever he'd been expecting it wasn't Jean Harlow. His eyes widened in a wonderfully cartoony way. He licked his lips twice before stammering a smitten hello and casting Elizabeth a nervous glance. Didn't watch old movies, my eye, Elizabeth thought.

  “See you at Eastside?” Jean asked Alan.

  “Wouldn't miss it.”

  Jean blew them all a kiss and disappeared into the crowd. Alan held out a chair for Elizabeth at the vacated table. As Simon sat down next to her she whispered, “Just Monty Python?”

  Simon tugged on his collar as a bright red blush crawled up his neck.

  “Are you blushing?” she asked. It was adorable.

  Try as he might, Simon couldn't conjure a scowl and pretended to busy himself with adjusting the perfectly perfect cuff of his shirt.

  Alan caught a waiter's eye and gestured to the table.

  “That man from Musso & Frank is here, who is he?” Elizabeth asked trying to sound casual.

  “The cigar with a man stuck to it? That, my darling, is Sam Roth — the head of Mammoth Studios and my most gracious employer. Sam!” Alan raised one of the abandoned glasses on the table in mock salute. “You colossal pain in my ass,” Alan added under his breath.

  Sam Roth grunted, not that he could hear what Alan said, and turned back to his friends.

  Alan put the glass down and sighed. “Where is that waiter?”

  For the next half hour, Simon and Elizabeth nursed their drinks and tried to get a little more information out of Alan, but an endless stream of people coming to the table constantly interrupted them. Elizabeth was trying again when a busty redhead appeared behind Alan and tapped him on the shoulder.

  No sooner had he turned around in his chair than she threw a drink in his face.

  Alan wiped the water away calmly and stood. “Viv—”

  “Don’t you Viv me, I've been waitin' six weeks for you to call,” she said in a brassy voice with an intermittent east coast accent.

  “Viv.” Alan tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. “I'm sorry.”

  “Sorry?” she said loudly. “What does that mean?”

  “I never meant to hurt you, my dear. You must believe—”

  The ringing sound of the slap caused the tables nearby to fall into stunned and eager silence. Elizabeth and Simon, both on high alert now, started to rise out of their seats, but without even looking their way, Alan lifted a hand to stop them.

  Alan stood his ground calmly and accepted her anger.

  Vivian's pique had burned itself out and now she looked around at the staring faces. She threw back her head with as much triumph as she could muster and marched off. Alan kept his place until she was several tables away. Moments later the conversation around them hummed back to life.

  Alan sat back down at the table. His joie de vivre tinged with a sad sort of thoughtfulness. He noticed the unasked question in Elizabeth's eyes. Why had he just stood there and taken that?

  “She deserved her moment.” He smiled ruefully and took a deep swig from his teacup. “Everyone should have at least one.”

  Elizabeth wanted to hug him, but settled for something else. “Mr. Grant? Would you dance with me?”

  Alan smiled, buoyed back to life, and was about to accept when he remembered his manners. “Do you mind?” he asked Simon.

  “No, of course not.”

  Alan stood and held out his hand for Elizabeth.

  “Just don’t let her lead,” Simon said as they started toward the crowded dance floor.

  Elizabeth just had time to turn back and stick out her tongue at Simon before Alan spun her around and took her into his arms.

  The dance floor was so crowded all anyone could really do was sway. Alan Grant did even that with style. Despite it being packed with people, he managed to move them around the floor gracefully. Most of the couples around them were in formal dress - tuxedos and long gowns. There didn't seem to be any special event. Just going out on the town was the event in itself. Modern life seemed a bit flat by comparison.

  “So,” Alan said as he spun them out of the way of a man who'd had far too much tea and whose dancing was more like stumbling. “Who are you really?”

  Elizabeth tensed and nearly stepped on his toes. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you work for him?” Alan asked as lightly and casually as if he were asking if she'd read any good books lately.

  “Work for who?”

  Alan looked down at her, into her eyes, and gone was the drunken playboy. His blue eyes bore into her, sharp and keen, just for a moment before they softened again. “No. Not you,” he said, maneuvering them deftly across the floor. “Perhaps you're an angel sent to help me. Yes, I think that is who you are.”

  “Do you need an angel?”

  Alan pulled her closer. “Doesn't everyone?”

  ~~~

  Simon watched Elizabeth and Grant drift in and out of the crowd on the dance floor. Hopefully, she was learning something. It was damned maddening not to have any idea what they were up against. Was there some sort of supernatural creature after him? Was it a woman scorned? Judging from earlier, that was a definite possibility. How could they possibly protect Grant from something they couldn't see coming?

  Simon studied the people around him. None of them seemed particularly out of the ordinary, except for Sam Roth. Sitting just a table away, Simon could hear most of the conversation. So far, it amounted to nothing more than talk of the studio's business affairs, which were surprisingly good. Considering the Great Depression was already four years old, most businesses were struggling, and many were already dead. From the exchanges Simon overheard, Mammoth Studios was doing much better than most.

  Simon turned his attention back to the dance floor. He was uncomfortable with having either of them out of his sight for too long. Unknown danger and Elizabeth attracted each other and were a rather potent mixture. The o
rchestra bridged from the slow standards to a fast-paced jitterbug and the dance floor changed from swaying wheat to pennies on a drum.

  “You gotta help me.”

  The woman's voice came from Sam Roth's table and it was so close Simon thought she was talking to him. He turned around, but quickly realized she was talking to Roth. It was the girl from Musso & Frank and she'd been crying a great deal, from the state of her make-up.

  “Calm down, Ruby.” Roth was not happy to see her, but it was clear he couldn't get rid of her without a scene. She was in a state of near panic. Her fingers worked the edges of the tablecloth and her breath came in short, quick gasps punctuated with tearful sniffles.

  “Give us the table?” Roth asked the three men sitting with him. Not one of the three hesitated to leave as quickly as possible.

  Simon pretended to be watching the dancers and listening to the music. He tapped his fork gently against the tablecloth in time to the rhythm and searched again for Elizabeth on the dance floor.

  Once the other men were gone, Ruby moved her chair closer to Roth's.

  “Benny here too?” Sam Roth asked looking over her shoulder.

  Ruby shook her head. “He's at the Star,” she said breathlessly between sniffles. “He said you wouldn't help, but I said he was wrong.”

  Roth took off his glasses and polished the thin round lenses with a napkin. “I've already told you,” he said in a hushed voice. “There's nothing I can do.”

  “There's gotta be something. I'll work for free, for the rest of my life.” Ruby clutched at his jacket sleeve. “I'll do anything.”

  “That's what got you in this mess,” Roth bit out angrily. “This isn't my doing.”

  “You introduced us,” she said a bit too loudly and then looked around to see if anyone had heard.

  Simon shifted in his seat, turning his back slightly to their table and checked his watch.