Sennett went to grab the telephone, but Tom put a hand out, held the earpiece down in its cradle.
‘Don’t waste your time, Mack. That’s not what this is about. Davis wasn’t after anything. He was trying to protect her.’ He hesitated over what he said next, but knew he had to say it. ‘The problem is with her.’
Sennett loomed over the desk, shoulders forward, arms rigid, the knuckles of his clenched fists pressing into the tooled leather. ‘Shut your mouth!’
‘Come on, Mack. You know everybody in the business has some story or other about her taking—’
‘Shut up, I tell you.’
‘For God’s sake, if you can’t face the truth, how the hell do you expect—’
‘Shut your mouth, I said,’ Sennett bellowed. ‘Before I goddamn shut it for you. I will not have you repeating those slurs to me here in my own office, in my own studio. She told me herself she doesn’t take that stuff. She promised me she wouldn’t. That’s good enough for me. She promised …’
With that, Sennett seemed to run into a wall, or out of steam at least. His body sagged, his head dropped. Tom watched as he closed his eyes, rocked his bull’s neck slowly left and right, and exhaled a massive rush of air. He stayed completely still for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, then, tensing his arms again against the desk, lifted his big head and breathed in slowly, pumping strength back into his straightening spine, his tightening shoulders, his taut, hardening features. A thin smile formed on his lips before he opened his eyes. Tom felt something like hatred coiled in them.
‘Right, enough of this codswallop. I don’t want you bringing it up again. Now get the hell out of here, Tom, and don’t come back until you’ve found her.’
ELEVEN
In any other circumstance he would have laughed out loud when the slot in the wood door snapped back and the pair of goggling eyes appeared glancing left, then right, before settling on him suspiciously. It only lacked an intertitle and harmonium accompaniment to be a close-up from one of Sennett’s screen capers.
‘What’ya want?’
Muffled by the door, the voice flopped weakly into the deserted street. Tom was standing outside a low-slung dilapidated block of shut-up stores a couple of doors down from the corner of Virgil and De Longpre out on the frayed edge of East Hollywood. He could see lights from the traffic on Sunset in the distance, but here all was dark, still and silent. The rain was back, drifting in thin sheets along the street. He had rattled the chains on the door of the boarded-up saloon, its windows like so many others whitewashed out, though not enough to obscure the ghost of a name on the glass: Hannigan’s. Then he spotted the hatch cut in the next door along, and knocked.
‘Come on, open up.’ Tom shuffled his feet and rubbed his hands impatiently. ‘I’m getting wet out here.’
Somewhere near here, a year or so before, he sat with a thousand other happy revellers, picnicking on a sunny hillside, watching and cheering as Babylon was brought to its knees when the vast sets for David Wark Griffith’s Intolerance, which had stood moldering on the Fine Arts studio backlot for years, were finally torn down – the wrecker’s ball smashing the high wooden towers and vast plaster citadels like the wrath of some scornful god. Perplexed as to why Mabel Normand would come all the way out to this bleak industrial sector to do her drinking and doping, the memory of that day brought an explanation. A block or two further east was the old Triangle studio that Sennett had once re-leased to satisfy Normand’s yearning for a studio of her own. No more than two minutes’ drive away, perfect for a break in shooting. Short of being on the lot, Hannigan’s couldn’t have been more convenient.
‘Who d’hella you?’
Tom tutted loudly and fished in his trouser pocket, pulling out a couple of crumpled bills. He smoothed them and held them up towards the dim light. ‘I’m the man with the money.’
There was a grunt and the slot slammed shut. A couple of locks snapped back, what sounded like a chair being dragged aside, and the door swung open. The man was older than expected, thin and stooped. Gray hair ebbed lank down the back of his skull over a greasy shirt collar and a moth-eaten gabardine vest. Tom put a foot in the door, handed over the money. The old guy seemed happy enough, opened wider. The dim light inside revealed nothing more than a three-legged stool and a long hallway with a steel door at the far end. The street door slammed shut behind him.
‘Got any heat on ya? Leave it here; pick it up on the way out.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Your funeral,’ the old guy croaked, and shrugged like he could care less.
‘Shorty Madden in the house?’ Tom asked.
The old man looked him up and down before replying.
‘See for ya’self. In the back bar, down there.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the other door, as if there was a choice.
His knock brought immediate results: a brute in a too-short suit and a too-small derby opened the door and grunted at him to come through. He saw plenty not to like as he stepped inside. A thick fog of tobacco smoke penetrated only by a handful of flickering wall lamps kept the long, narrow room in a seemingly permanent state of gloom. It looked like the old saloon had been hurriedly chopped in two, and this side got the raw end of the deal. Along the length of one wall ran an ornately carved bar counter. Behind, the mirrored shelves were tarnished and empty but for dust and a stack of glasses one end. The few drinkers sat at widely spaced tables, identities blurred by the murk but emanating an air of hard men: ex-cons, soon-to-be cons or just plain treacherous types. One table was occupied by a handful of poker players, the noise in the room made up for the most part by their low murmur of calling and bidding, the chink of coins tossed into a pot. The only other sound, emerging indistinguishably from the lightless depths, was a rasping booze-sodden snore.
One man stood leaning against the counter, away from the rest. Like the others, he’d turned and looked as Tom entered, but unlike them his curiosity hadn’t been satisfied and he continued to stare. Tom met his gaze and walked over. He was short – five three, five four, at most – mid-thirties or thereabouts, of medium build, though maybe thinner under the double-breasted suit. His pale, lean face and corn-color side-cropped hair had the look of a man alert and ready, someone who’d learned life the hard way on the streets.
‘You Madden?’ There was something familiar about him, a sense, a memory of someone loitering in a corner of the Lasky lot.
‘Maybe. Who’re you?’ He looked Tom up and down, assessing the nature of his need, the depth of his pockets.
‘Collins. Got your name from someone said you might be able to help me find a friend of mine.’
Madden’s face flooded with skepticism. ‘I look like a missing persons bureau to you?’
Tom stuck an elbow on the bar and glanced round the room. ‘Looks like a few of these guys might be on your books, all right.’
Madden liked that. His shoulders rose, fell and rocked in a laugh that never made it to his eyes. ‘A wise guy, huh? So, who’s this Joe you’re looking for?’
Tom put his other elbow on the bar and hunched over, speaking confidentially. ‘It’s a Joe-ess, actually. Movie lady. A class act. Twenty-four-carat star, in fact. And she’s got this habit, I’m told, of coming over and doing business with you.’
Madden stiffened but kept his mouth shut.
‘Her driver gave me your name,’ Tom went on. ‘Says he’s a good customer of yours, too.’
‘If he’s her driver, how come he don’t know where she is?’
‘I guess she gave him the slip.’
‘Well, I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.’
‘I thought you maybe helped her find some peace and quiet, or maybe you got called in to help the party along, if she’s with pals.’
‘Don’t mean nothing to me. You better go find yourself someone else to help you. A novelty store maybe.’ Madden turned away and raised his empty shot glass to the barkeep.
‘L
et me get that,’ Tom said, motioning that he’d have one too.
‘Your money.’
The tender took a glass from the shelf, blew some dust out, filled it and Madden’s from a wide-necked jar containing clear grain alcohol. Tom took a slug and winced as the back of his throat ignited. ‘Jesus, they don’t make it like that where I come from.’
‘Extra strong for us tough boys,’ Madden smirked. ‘Can’t you handle it?’
‘I’ve had rougher.’
‘You sure about that?’
Tom ignored him. ‘Look, are you certain this lady doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘None of the right ones,’ Madden said gruffly. He looked Tom up and down again. ‘You don’t dress like a cop.’
‘That’s because I’m private.’
‘Well, it don’t make any difference. Means nothing to me. None of my business.’
A hoot went up as someone won a big hand at the card table behind. Tom kept his eyes on Madden. He was getting bored with the cat-and-mouse act. ‘This driver was pretty sure you’re the man who’d know.’
‘Well, you go back and tell him to watch what he’s insisting. Could get a fella into trouble.’
‘I know what you mean. We had a long talk. He gave me a hot tip about your dealings with another friend of the lady in question. A recently deceased friend.’
Madden jerked back as though he’d been struck. ‘You wanna watch your mouth, mister,’ he growled, teeth clenched.
Tom didn’t budge. Out the side of his eye, Tom saw the barkeep’s hand sneak under the counter, ready for trouble. On his back, he felt a roomful of expectant stares.
‘Like I said, I’m no cop. All I’m looking for is some help here. You scratch my back, and I’ll—’
‘Yeah, I’ll scratch it all right, all the way into a box.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Tom stared hard at him. If he’d been going to do anything, he would have started before. Already the room’s attention was drifting away. ‘Strikes me you’re smart enough to want to stay out of the spotlight just now.’
Madden turned away again and leaned into the bar. He sniffed, pinching his thin nose. A vaguely defensive note entered his voice. ‘You got the wrong idea. I didn’t go anywhere near the guy,’ he said, pushing his empty glass out in front of him.
The barkeep filled it silently. Tom declined with a hand flat across his glass. As Madden went to drink, he noticed for the first time the scuffed wear on his shirt cuffs. He checked out the man’s collar and the jacket. Same thing there. For a dope peddler to the stars, maybe Madden wasn’t doing so good.
‘So, like I said, I don’t care about that,’ Tom said. ‘I’m only trying to find the lady. If you can help me, there’s money in it for you. My client has plenty. Enough for you to disappear for a while, if you want. Wait for the storm to blow out.’
Madden put his head in his hands and stared at the cracks in the wooden counter, thinking hard. He was feeling the heat all right. ‘How much?’ He asked it firmly, like a man who’s made up his mind.
‘A hundred bucks.’
‘Make it two, I’ll make some inquiries.’
‘That’s kind of expensive – for inquiries.’
‘Yeah, well, take it or leave it. Mexico can be pricey this time of year. For two fifty I can maybe take you to her myself. Maybe. You got wheels?’
‘Sure I do, but I don’t carry that kind of money on me.’
Madden scowled. ‘Money up front or no deal.’
‘OK, but we have to go get it.’
‘No, you do.’ Madden shook his head. ‘I gotta make a call first anyhow. You go get the moolah; I’ll see you out front in, what – say, a half-hour?’
It was going a little too easy now, and Tom couldn’t help wondering if Madden was taking him for a ride. But he couldn’t risk being wrong on that. He’d just have to play the hand and see how it came out.
‘Two fifty, half an hour, outside.’
‘Y’want the lady, that’s the deal.’ Madden spat on the floor for emphasis. ‘And remember, I see the dough before we go anywhere.’
TWELVE
It was teeming down outside, pattering a racket on the Dodge’s canopy. Sitting in the open cab, staring back at Hannigan’s, Tom was thinking too hard to care about the rain squalling in on him. He didn’t have two hundred and fifty bucks, and wouldn’t give it to Madden if he had. As soon as he clapped eyes on him, he knew he wasn’t right for Taylor: too short, too young, wrong build for the description given by the witnesses. Nor did he appear to smoke. After speaking with him, he was convinced. Sure, he was good at the tough-guy act, but Tom had met a few killers in his time and he wouldn’t have ranked this yellow-head street rat in their number. Not for a thought-out job anyway. If Madden was in the dope business – and there was no reason to doubt it – it had to be storefront, selling goods on for someone bigger, taking a cut. That way, it even made sense he was anxious to get out of town. If the cops were sniffing around and he really had been dumb enough to trade punches with Taylor, it couldn’t stay a secret for much longer. He would know in his bones that a small fish like him would fry up nicely if the DA needed someone quick in the pan.
One other thing seemed certain: Madden would not take him to Miss Normand. Not knowingly, anyhow. Either he was awaiting Tom’s return with the intention of getting him somewhere quiet to rob him at gunpoint, or it was a ruse to get rid of him and he planned to hightail it out of Hannigan’s just as soon as Tom was gone. That had to be the more likely, because he would have insisted on going with him to get the money otherwise, to be sure he didn’t bring any cops back. If Madden really did know where Normand was holed up, he would have cottoned on, too, that he could squeeze a lot more than two hundred and fifty bucks out of her to stay quiet about it if she really didn’t want to be found. One way or another, Tom was expecting to see Madden walk out that door any second. And he was ready to follow him, on four wheels or on foot.
But Madden didn’t emerge. After twenty minutes or so, Tom was starting to think he might need to reassess his plan when he saw a pair of yellow headlamps cleaving up the dark street towards him. He slid low on the bench seat, watching as a dark, fully enclosed Packard tourer pulled up across from the speak. It didn’t so much park as sit there, lights doused, engine running, steam rising from the hood as it idled in the rain. Another minute passed, slow as a dirge. Then a wedge of light angled out across the sidewalk as Hannigan’s door opened and Madden – he was wearing a hat, but it was him for sure – emerged into the street. Buttoning his jacket against the rain, Madden pulled his brim down and ran across to the waiting tourer. One foot on the running board, he leaned in to speak to someone in the back through an open window. Tom strained to hear but was too far away, the hiss of the rain and rumble of the engine baffling the voices.
He had to know what they were saying. Sliding across the seat, he eased the door open and dropped on to the sidewalk. Crab-like, he scuttled along in the shadow of the auto in front of his, and the next, until he ran out of autos and slipped into the deep recessed porch of Bergmann’s shoe store, keeping the Packard in sight through the curving plate glass of the display windows. By now he could hear Madden’s voice raised in argument, and saw him begin to walk away, gesticulating angrily and cursing. The only other word Tom thought he caught was – could it be? – ‘Taylor’.
What happened next was so fast he only recalled it later in magnesium-bright fragments: Madden striding back across the street, the Packard’s headlamps flaring, the auto pulling away, the sheen of a long-barrel revolver nosing out the open window. Stepping out from the porch, for Tom, was an act of pure instinct. As was his shout of warning. But the yell only confused Madden, who swung round, panicked eyes fixing on Tom emerging from the shadows, and only then looking back over his shoulder, too late, catching nothing but muzzle flash.
The first round thumped into Madden’s back by his left shoulder blade, sending him into a spin that halted abruptly when a second bl
ew a dark gout of blood from his chest and he catapulted back as though his feet had been sliced from under him. The third slug smacked into his skull as he fell, the back of his head evaporating in a spray of red rain as his body attempted one last mid-air convulsion.
Tom dived as the Packard came level, loosing off at him now. He did his best to become one with the sidewalk as a couple of shots hit the storefront behind, and the plate glass shattered and fell, crashing to the paving in shimmering cascades all around. Above the crystal din, he strained to distinguish the Packard’s engine. If it stopped, he’d have to get up and run for cover elsewhere. But the roaring motor passed on, a squeal of tires on the wet street signaling a corner turned. He stayed down. Stayed down until all he heard was the rain again, a hissing on the street broken only by his own heartbeat and the pop and crash of falling glass.
Only then did he drag himself up from the ground, standing as best he could and using the hood of the nearest automobile for support. He patted himself down, examining his limbs and torso for injury or rupture, shaking glass and rain from his coat. He was unscathed but for a graze on his left wrist where he’d hit the sidewalk awkwardly and a bloody scratch on his right knee, the worst of which was a four-inch rip to a good pair of suit pants.
He was OK. He didn’t need to look to tell the same could not be said for Madden. But look he did, unable to keep his eyes from the rain-spattered heap lying sprawled in an expanding stain of blood, his narrow frame contorted beyond nature and any possibility of life. As Tom stumbled over to the body, he became aware of other presences on the street now, peering down from unlit windows, out from cautiously opening doors. A burble of shocked and excited voices leaked from the light-filled doorway of Hannigan’s, the raw, stupefied ‘Jesus Cwyst, Jesus Cwyst’ of the ancient doorman joining the muttering figures spilling into the street, circling the dead body at a distance.
The Long Silence Page 7
