‘You mean the guys from Lasky’s got here before the cops?’ Tom said, not a little impressed. ‘They must’ve moved pretty damn fast.’
‘All I know is your old boss, Charles Eyton, was standing in the doorway like he owned the place when I arrived.’
‘I read something about Charlie putting in an appearance, but not like that.’
‘Damn right. Directing operations like it was one of his bloody productions. You’d think he was the Chief of Police himself. There were more of his fellas here than ours. Swarming all over the place, they were.’
For the first time in months, Tom was relieved he no longer worked for Lasky. He could only imagine how many cops’ toes Eyton had stepped on, and just the thought of it made him uncomfortable.
‘They were probably looking for love letters or something compromising like that, Thad. Stuff that could embarrass the studio.’
‘Or the evidence, as some of us still call it,’ Sullivan said. ‘We found almost no personal correspondence belonging to Taylor, and that sure as hell can’t be right. For one thing, Miss Normand told Ziegler and Wallace last night that Taylor had a whole stack of letters from her wrapped in ribbon. There was nothing burned. I just checked the stove and it’s clean. But some smart boy was spotted running off with Taylor’s stash of liquor, so Christ knows what else was in the crate. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
The hair prickled on the back of Tom’s neck. ‘Me? Why would I know anything about it?’
‘I’m just surprised. You tell me you don’t know any of this already, and then you come up with that stuff about the letters.’
‘It was an educated guess, Thad. I know how these people think, remember? They would remove his booze and anything else that could reflect badly on him or the studio. You said yourself, even the cops on call didn’t know Taylor was shot until the coroner arrived. How would the studio benefit from trying to cover up a murder?’
‘I have no idea,’ Sullivan admitted. But it wasn’t enough for him. ‘Sure as hell, something’s not right here. I asked you earlier if you were working for Lasky’s and you sidestepped it, so I took that to be a yes. Because we’re old pals, Tom, I thought I wouldn’t push it. But I didn’t think I’d have to stand here and listen to you talk bull to me into the bargain. That’s not on. We go too far back for that.’
Tom felt the color rising in his cheeks, and tried to keep his voice level. ‘Hey, old pal, I told you on the phone, I’m just making a few inquiries on behalf of a client.’
‘Yeah? Well, maybe you’d better go back to this client of yours and tell him your cop friend doesn’t appreciate being treated like an eejit. Do you hear me?’
How could he not? The man was bellowing like an ox. But Tom didn’t get a chance to argue it. Sullivan put a hand on his shoulder, turned him like a top and pushed him towards the door. He was outside in the sunlight again before he knew it, Sullivan on his heels, pulling the door shut behind him with a thud.
‘I’m sorry you think that’s as far as you and me go, Tom. I really am.’
He turned to see Sullivan ham-fistedly struggling to turn the key in the lock, and couldn’t help but laugh – as much from shock as anything else. ‘You gotta be kidding me, Thad. Come on, seriously? This is me you’re talking to.’
‘I’m glad you find it funny,’ Sullivan growled, turning the key at last. ‘Because I sure as hell don’t. Look, I know you’re hard up, and I don’t blame you for wanting to make a quick buck while you can. But I can’t help being sore at you using me to help out those rotten pups at Lasky. They’ve done so much damage already, interfering with the proper course of this investigation. It’s not right.’
‘You think I’d try and dupe you for a few lousy dollars? How can you even think that?’ Tom glanced away a moment, as much to keep his anger in check as to decide how much more he could afford to reveal. ‘Look, Thad, you know damn well I would never stiff a pal. Not you, and not the guy who’s asked me to look into this for him, either. But especially not you, for Chrissakes. How far back do we go? If you must know, the reason I never said I was working for Lasky’s is because I’m damn well not. And if I was, I would’ve been straight with you and told you so.’
Sullivan flushed to the edge of his hairline and put his huge hands up. ‘Quit your hollering, will you? You’re not supposed to be here, so calm yourself down.’ He ran a quick eye around the courtyard to check for twitching curtains and saw none. ‘Look, maybe I shouldn’t have gone jumping to conclusions like that. But what can I say? You’re not confiding in me, are you?’
‘I can’t yet,’ Tom said, as they began walking back towards the street. ‘But it won’t affect your case, I promise you. OK?
‘All right, whatever,’ Sullivan muttered, embarrassed now. They reached the sidewalk and he put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. Easy this time, a confidential look in his eye. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I was out of line. But there’s a load of shite going on with this investigation that I don’t understand. All sorts of muck coming down from the top, and I don’t like the smell of it. It makes me jumpy.’
‘Coming down? From where? From the Chief?’
Sullivan shook his head non-committally.
‘From the DA?’
Again, Sullivan said nothing, a confirmation in itself. District Attorney Thomas Woolwine’s links to the movie industry were, some said, entirely responsible for his rapid climb to the top branches of Los Angeles’ law enforcement tree.
‘Well, Taylor was a big cheese, wasn’t he?’ Tom offered. ‘Those guys are sure to feel the heat with so many headlines in it. It’ll settle down in a day or two.’
‘Maybe. But if you ask me, the whole affair stinks. Whoever your pal is, take my advice, Tom, get shot of this right now. Don’t get dragged in.’
‘Ah now, Thad.’ He tapped Sullivan’s shoulder and smiled broadly. ‘You know if you say that to me, I won’t be able to keep my nose out.’
‘I’m serious, Tom. It isn’t worth it.’ Sullivan nodded towards his machine. ‘I got to get going. Look, we should organize that evening out. Maybe do the fights one Friday. I’ve haven’t been out in Venice since that last time with you. Stonefist Miller, d’you remember? What a smacker!’
A smacker it certainly was. The knockout punch set Tom’s ears ringing ten rows back. He laughed and watched as Sullivan bent and cranked the ancient Ford. Engine spluttering to life, he removed his hat and clambered in, accompanied by a squeal of protesting springs.
‘Let me know if you hear anything,’ Sullivan shouted over the clatter, then eased away from the curb, turning in a wide arc and chugging down the hill.
Tom watched him go, and breathed free for the first time in an hour.
SEVEN
Down the hill at the intersection with Sixth, across from West Lake Park, people thronged between the stores, going about their business and daily chores. He pushed through the door of the Lago cafeteria and tapped a nickel on the gleaming zinc countertop. A small dark man, thin and bald, with ears hairy as cactus stalks, appeared from nowhere. He rubbed his hands on a crisp white apron and beamed at Tom.
‘Ciao, Tomas, come stai?’
‘Hey, Luca. Do me a coffee and a glass of water, would you? And while you’re at it, can I use your telephone?’
‘Sure, Tom, in back, same as always.’ The Italian jutted his chin towards the swing door behind the counter and stepped aside.
Tom spun the coin, listened to its whirr and the slap of Luca’s hand as he walked through. Beyond the door was a small storeroom packed with coffee drums and dry goods, and a narrow unlit passageway that doubled as a basic kitchen. On the dividing wall was the telephone.
‘Wilshire one-zero-eight-nine,’ he asked, and had to repeat it. The exchange must have been trying out the deaf that morning. He wrapped a finger idly round the brown cloth cord as he waited for the connection to click through, winding and unwinding it twice before someone picked up. Sounded like a big negro woman.
/> ‘Miss Normand ain’t receiving calls today,’ she said sternly. ‘Not on the telephone and not in person.’
She didn’t offer to take a message and broke the connection before Tom had time to ask any more. He cursed at the earpiece, clicked the cradle and repeated the process again. This time he didn’t give the woman a chance to get in first. ‘Look, I’m calling on behalf of Mr Sennett. Is Mr Waldron there?’
A pause at the other end of the line. Then: ‘No, he ain’t. Not since last night.’
Again he cursed, but knew he had to be quick. ‘Thank you, ma’am. But look here, Mr Sennett wants me to meet with Miss Normand. Can you tell her that, for me? My name is—’
‘I don’t care what you name is, or for who you calling. Like I say, Miss Normand ain’t seeing nobody today. Not you, not Mr Sennett, not nobody.’ And that was her last word, followed by the clunk of disconnection.
‘Here you go.’ Luca slid the coffee across the counter and a tall glass of water. ‘You wan’ anything to give it kick?’ He waved a hand vaguely under the counter.
Tom looked at his wristwatch. ‘Plenty of kick in it for me already, this time of day. But I’ll buy you one.’
‘No, grazie, I got work to do,’ Luca said, and disappeared through the swing door without another word.
‘Like I don’t,’ Tom muttered, and caught a broad smile from Luca’s wife who was wiping down the far end of the empty counter.
He gave her back his best, knocked back the brew and walked out the door with a wave of his hat. Ambling down into the shallow bowl of Westlake Park, he appreciated the soft touch of dirt beneath his shoe leather as he made his way through the gardens towards the Wilshire Boulevard exit on the far side. Young mothers and nursemaids thronged the walkways, airing infants in perambulators, pulling knock-kneed tots by the hand. The fountain hissed a tall feather of mist across the boat lake, its plume brushed out by the morning breeze. On he walked, out again into the brisk city streets until, rounding the corner of Vermont, he stopped, balking at a huddle of men up ahead outside the canopied entrance to Miss Normand’s apartment building. He had expected a couple of newsmen to be hanging around, but nothing like this. At least thirty reporters were standing on the sidewalk, laughing and smoking, chattering among themselves.
It was all they could do. At the top of the steps, two burly patrolmen stood, arms folded in silent defiance, blocking access to the building. Tom approached to see who he knew among the hacks and find out what was going on. But when he reached them, he didn’t recognize a face. All out-of-towners to judge by the accents, shipped in to grandstand on the fall of another star. He walked on, following the building round the next intersection until he came to a gap in the street front shielded by a high wooden gate. He crossed, selected a lamppost to lean against, unfolded his newspaper and settled down to wait.
It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before his luck came in. The gate swung open, pushed out by an elegant chauffeur in smart blue livery and cap who straightaway disappeared again. Seconds later came the subdued roar of a motor and a long, silver-gray limousine with an open cab and closed tonneau behind rolled out on to the street. It wasn’t Mabel Normand’s; he knew that for sure. The machine stopped, reversed a few feet and, instead of jumping down, the driver reached out, gave the gate a heave and drove off before it was fully home. Tom ran over, inserted a brown brogue just in time and squeezed inside.
A glint of chromium beyond assured him he was on the right track. The passage opened out into a wide enclosed courtyard where a row of snazzy automobiles were parked – a Bugatti, a Mercer, an enormous Pierce Arrow. Beside a gleaming lavender sedan, a man in knee-boots and britches, stripped to the waist, was bent over a bucket of foaming water, wringing out a cloth. Garish even by movie colony standards, the sedan was one of the best known in town: the Rolls Royce that studio boss Sam Goldwyn had gifted Mabel Normand when, a couple of years before, she signed up with him following a row with Sennett. The deal with Goldwyn didn’t last but, as everybody knew, she sure as hell kept the automobile.
‘Hey, you, driver? What’s your name?’
The startled chauffeur jumped up, holding the wet cloth to his belly. ‘How’d you get in here?’
‘How do you think?’ Tom cocked his head towards the gate. It didn’t take much figuring. ‘Now answer the question, and be quick about it.’
‘You a cop?’
‘What does it look like?’
That was usually enough for most folk, and so it proved for this one.
‘Davis,’ the driver said grudgingly. Mid-height, early thirties, he was wiry rather than skinny, a thin face and an upturned nose giving him an odd boyish look. Stripped of his shirt, the most noticeable thing about him was a livid purple scar snaking all across his stomach, like he’d had his gut ripped or been bitten by a shark.
‘What’ve you got for me, Davis?’
‘’Bout what?’
Tom moved closer, chest out, stared him down. ‘What do you think? Two nights ago. The dead guy. Miss Normand?’
‘Hey, lay off,’ Davis protested, but half-heartedly. He took a step back and found he had nowhere to move, glanced behind, saw nothing but gleaming lavender and glass. ‘I already told your bull pals everything. Why would I have anything more to say?’
‘Maybe I got a better price for you.’ Tom pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off a couple and dangled them under Davis’s nose.
‘You ain’t no cop.’
‘Does it matter?’
Not if the look in Davis’s eyes was anything to judge by. The driver glanced over his shoulder again, this time towards the windows overlooking the yard. ‘Look, pal, it’s not like I don’t want the dough, but you ain’t gonna get value for money. You could just as easy read the morning papers.’
‘I already read them. Tell me something different.’
‘Like what?’ Davis tried to make a laugh, but all that emerged was an anxious rattle in his throat.
‘Like what really happened over at Taylor’s place.’
The man looked oddly relieved, and Tom noticed the hint of a smirk form on his lips. He reached out for the bills but they eluded his grasp.
‘Not so fast. What you got?’
‘Like I told the cops, I waited in the street while Miss Normand went in.’
‘You were in the car all the time?’
‘Sure. I mean, I got down to brush out some peanut shells she shucked on the carpet on the way over. That black boy of Taylor’s came out; we traded some words. A couple minutes later, Taylor walks her out, and off we drive. Didn’t hear nothin’, didn’t see nothin’. Except her blowin’ kisses at him out the back window.’
‘You came straight back here?’
‘Where else?’
‘And she wasn’t acting strange.’
‘Nope, not a bit.’
‘So, when did you hear Taylor was dead?’
Davis swallowed, glancing at the bills again, checked they were still there. ‘Not till yesterday morning. I heard a racket comin’ from the apartment and ran in. Saw Miss Normand shrieking and weeping and all, Bessie trying to calm her.’
‘What time was that?’
‘’Bout eight thirty. I waited inside until the doctor come. Bessie told me Mr Taylor’d been found dead in his front parlor. Didn’t hear till later he was shot. None of us did.’
Looking at the man’s face, Tom could accept he was telling the truth. It sounded about right.
‘So where’s she now?’
‘Somebody came and picked her up earlier … Don’t ask me who, cos I didn’t see. Last time I saw her was last night. Up at the Cocoanut Grove—’
‘She was at a nightclub last night?’ Tom asked, unable to conceal his astonishment. ‘That’s a strange way of grieving.’
Davis didn’t like that. ‘What the hell would you know about it? People have different ways. Miss Normand, too. So she went out and tried to drown her sorrows.’
Quick as it had r
isen, the anger died in his eyes and for a moment he seemed lost, his face a blank. Then he began again with a vague shrug of the shoulders. ‘Like I say, she must’ve been having a high ol’ time because it was past midnight when she came out and told me I could go.’
‘You left her there?’
‘Why not? It’s not like it’s a million miles away.’
He wasn’t kidding. The supper club at the ritzy new Ambassador Hotel was only a couple of blocks up on Wilshire. Even so, no way would Mabel Normand, international movie star, walk to or from anywhere.
Davis caught the skeptical look on Tom’s face.
‘Look, it happens all the time. She wants to go on somewhere with a bunch of pals – what’s the point of me trailing after her? I gotta sleep too, you know. She was with Harry Williams, Lew Cody and that gang. They’re a wild crowd, like to party big time. She’s always going off with them one place or another.’
‘And sending you home?’
‘Sure. Unless she wants to take them some place. Then I drive. She’s the boss.’
‘So what time did she get in?’
‘No idea. Only, Bessie said she went out again this morning. Picked up, like I say.’
Tom looked at his wristwatch. This was going nowhere.
‘OK, Davis,’ He handed him the ten bucks. ‘I guess you weren’t holding out on me after all. Do you have any ideas yourself about Taylor? Ever see anything going on when he was with Miss Normand?’
‘Hey, I look like a detective now? For all I know, it could’ve been you shot him.’ Again the smirk broke out on Davis’s face and his hand went to his waistband where he’d tucked the ten-spot. ‘Look, I’m not risking my job to get one over on you, pal. ’Course, if you wanna guarantee that—’
Tom shot a hand out and grabbed a thick clump of Davis’s oiled black hair, the grunt of shock turning to a yelp of pain when he whipped the driver’s head around and smacked it against the hood of the car. With his free hand, he grabbed Davis’s arm and jerked it up in a lock behind his back. Out the side of his eye, he noticed a peppering of tiny scars on the underside of the forearm.
The Long Silence Page 4
