The Long Silence

by Gerard O'Donovan

  ‘Look, Thad, I’ve got too much racing through my mind right now to want to go dragging all that up again.’ What he wanted was to push it away, let the drink ease him. ‘Let’s save it for another time. Soon, I promise, we’ll have a proper catch-up.’

  ‘Ah, go on with you,’ Sullivan said, grabbing the bottle and pouring. ‘That call I made there was to Central, to tell them I have you with me. It’s as well I did. Devlin’s already been on to them, kicking up a shit storm. You know there’s no way I’ll be a part of the investigation with you involved; it wouldn’t be right. But I spoke to Gab Ramirez who’s on duty tonight, and he reckons it’ll fall to him. He’s a good man. I explained why you’re with me. He’s OK with that, for now. But he wants to talk to you tomorrow. It’ll look a lot better for both of us if you go down to Central and see him without me, and make your statement voluntarily.’

  Tom caught his drift and nodded. ‘Sure, I will. I’ll even call ahead, make certain of when he’s on duty.’

  Just then the food arrived – great steaming bowlfuls of bubbling brown stew, served by an older, dowdier waitress. They ate in silence, absorbing the warm, restorative goodness of it, looking up now and then only to take another slug of coffee or slosh more whiskey into their cups.

  ‘What I don’t get is why you were after this Madden guy anyway,’ Sullivan said, pushing his bowl aside at last and reaching back behind him in an arching, knuckle-snapping stretch. ‘And don’t go pulling that confidentiality bull on me. You owe me that much.’

  Getting up from the table, Tom walked over to the coat rack and pulled the pack of Chesterfields from his pocket. He held one out to Sullivan, who took it, struck a match from the table set and offered it to him before lighting his own, drawing in a deep lungful of smoke.

  ‘So maybe I should have told you this morning,’ Tom said, sitting down again, his voice low across the table. ‘But between you and me, I’ve been doing some digging around on Mack Sennett’s behalf. You know, Normand is his biggest box-office earner, and he’s been busting a gut over how all the bad press about her and the Taylor murder will hit his bottom line. He’s got a half million bucks tied up in her new movie.’

  Sullivan was all attention now. ‘You’re not saying Sennett thinks she had something to do with Taylor’s murder?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. He’s worried about her. And his business.

  ‘So, what’s he think you can do about it?’

  Tom gave him the bones of it. Then, ‘He wanted me to find something solid to prove Normand had nothing to do with the murder. So he’ll have something to throw at the papers if they go after her. But then she went to ground. It’s like she dropped out of sight completely since your guys spoke to her yesterday, so he asked me to track her down, make sure she’s OK.’

  Sullivan leaned forward himself now. ‘You want to be careful, Tom. Sennett’s a dangerous a man to be involved with right now. For Chrissakes, he was one of the first people we talked to.’

  ‘You questioned him?

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’ Sullivan asked, his eyebrows up, a hand clamped on the back of his neck.

  ‘No, he never mentioned it.’

  ‘Funny, don’t you think? You two being so intimate and all. He didn’t mention hiring you, to us, either.’

  ‘Plays his cards close to his chest, I guess.’

  ‘Sure he does. In more ways than one. Says he was out in Santa Monica Wednesday night, playing poker with that movie director guy, Tom Ince, and his buddies at the time Taylor was killed. Know anything about that?’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Do you know Ince?’

  ‘I’ve met him. He’s a good guy. One of the best. If he runs a poker school, it’ll be high stakes, so, sure, I could see Sennett wanting a slice of that.’

  ‘Which could rule him out for doing Taylor himself. But like I said about Normand, just because we can’t place them at the scene doesn’t mean he or she didn’t have a hand in it. What do you reckon?’

  Tom laughed. ‘For Chrissakes, Thad. I’m working for Sennett.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to know. I’d say you’re not someone to go into a thing like this blind. So, come on, if you have an opinion, out with it.’

  Tom sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘OK, for what it’s worth, I just can’t see it. Mack was jealous of Taylor’s friendship with Miss Normand, for sure. Him and her go back so far history barely covers it, and there’s a lot of high feelings involved. But it’s a jump from that to murder. He’d have to be a hell of an actor to pull off all that concern for her while covering up his own hand in the deed, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘It’s not like he’s not used to acting.’

  Tom brushed away that suggestion with his hand. ‘Yeah, and there’s a reason why he gave it up years ago to concentrate on making movies and not ruining them. Bluster’s the best he can do these days. And, anyway, why would he hire me if he was behind it? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Not much does, so far,’ Sullivan said. ‘Could be he’s using you to draw us off the scent.’

  ‘Well, he’s not exactly advertising it, is he?’ Tom said, exasperated. ‘I mean, you didn’t even know about me until I told you myself a minute ago.’

  Sullivan had to concede that, but no way was he ready to throw in the towel. ‘Like I say, for me he’s still in the frame. But I’ll tell you something: the DA’s office is not interested. Those monkeys – anything to do with the movies, they steer us clear, so the organ grinders don’t get upset. It’s like the studios are becoming untouchable now.’

  ‘You said.’ Tom pulled himself up short, knowing that if they went off on that tack, they’d never get back. He lit another cigarette and sluiced some more whiskey into their cups. ‘Look, we’re getting way off the subject here.’

  ‘Right.’ Sullivan nodded guiltily as if he too was losing the thread due to the lateness of the hour and the potency of the Powers. ‘So what’s the connection between this Madden guy and Sennett?’

  Tom exhaled impatiently. ‘There is none, far as I know. The connection is with Taylor. That’s the connection you guys need to nail down.’

  ‘Why would Taylor even know the guy? A low-life bootlegger?’

  ‘You can’t take a wild guess?’

  ‘Well, sure, I suppose it must’ve been for booze. It’s just that knowing what I know about Taylor, I’m surprised he didn’t patronize a more fashionable supplier. Seems to me, Taylor was all about the way things look. I can’t imagine him wanting the likes of Madden anywhere near his fancy digs.’

  ‘Correct.’ Tom smiled, wheeling his hand as though he was unspooling a line. ‘Or anywhere near Miss Normand’s digs, to be more precise.’ He let that one hang in the air.

  ‘Miss Normand?’ Sullivan’s eyes lit up.

  Tom was too tired for a guessing game. So he told him straight out about Normand’s dope habit and how he got Madden’s name and whereabouts from her driver.

  ‘I would’ve thought she needed to be even more discreet than Taylor,’ Sullivan said at last.

  ‘Maybe she’s past caring. Remember, this girl’s one serious hophead. She has to get her supply somewhere, and Madden’s front office, Hannigan’s, was only a block north of her studio on Effie Street.’

  ‘Tell me more about this driver guy. What’s his name?’

  ‘Davis. You should have a word with him. But go easy. He got a bellyful of shrapnel over in France. Real bad, poor schmuck.’

  Sullivan sat there absorbing it all, a grinding of his jaw betraying the intensity of his rumination. ‘I still don’t get where Taylor fits in to all this.’

  Tom told him what Davis said about Taylor being desperate to get Normand to quit cocaine, and how he offered Madden money to stay away from her. ‘But she was too good a customer. Madden couldn’t afford to lose her. They came to blows over it.’

  Sullivan’s eyebrows arched like cat backs. ‘Blows? Taylor and Madden? Are you serious? You’re only
telling me this now?’

  Tom shut him up with a hand in front of his face and asked how the hell he could have told him, since he’d been in custody since he found out. It wasn’t strictly true, but it would do for the moment.

  ‘So why the hell did Madden spill this to you?’

  ‘He didn’t. Not in so many words.’

  Sullivan scratched his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. ‘But you’re still saying you might’ve cracked this thing. That maybe Madden shot Taylor because he was getting between him and his best customer.’

  ‘It’s got to be a possibility,’ Tom said, putting his hands up. ‘On the other hand, Madden didn’t deny any of it. Not even the fisticuffs in Normand’s yard. If he was going to stay out of the frame, he’d have to deny that at least. Far as I can see, once he knew Davis had blabbed to me, he reckoned it couldn’t be long before the cops heard, too. What he wanted was to get out of town until the heat died down. Like he was mostly concerned about being pinched for something he didn’t do, and by some cops desperate to make it stick. Frankly, I can see his point.’

  Tom studied Sullivan’s reaction but all he got was a blank expression.

  ‘The guy was a street rat,’ Tom continued. ‘If he was going to murder someone, you would expect he’d do it himself. But he fits the description of the killer about as well as Normand does. He wasn’t a big guy. Not at all. And if he did shoot Taylor, why in hell is he lying cold on a mortuary slab himself right now?’

  ‘You tell me, Sherlock,’ Sullivan said in an oddly peevish tone. ‘Maybe he overstepped the mark? Street guy like that, maybe someone higher up doesn’t like the dust kicked up by taking out a swell like Taylor. That’s got to draw heat his way.’

  ‘So why draw even more attention by killing Madden?’ Tom said. ‘Apart from anything else, I can’t see Madden passing up the chance to rob the place while he was there, if only to cover his tracks. You said yourself none of Taylor’s valuables were disturbed. There’s got to be something else going on. Something we’re missing.’

  ‘Well, it’s a hell of a new direction, Tom; I’ll give you that. I’ll get the boys to follow up on it straight away.’ Sullivan slapped his two hands down on the table and heaved himself out of the seat. ‘You look all done in. I’ll drop you to yours, and then I need to call this in before I head for home myself.’

  Tom stood up, wincing as a twinge arrowed through his lower back. He checked his wristwatch. It was getting on for four.

  ‘When’re you on duty again?’

  ‘At ten a.m. sharp, would you believe it!’ Sullivan snorted. ‘Do you want me to stop by on my way in, give you a lift to Tenth and Hill?’

  The address rang a bell way at the back of Tom’s memory, but why it did refused to come to him. He put his hands up, wondering at the grin spread across Sullivan’s face. ‘Why would I want to go to Tenth and Hill?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to find Miss Normand.’

  ‘Of course I do, but …’ Tom shot a tired, frustrated glance heavenwards. ‘Look, just tell me, Thad, would you?’

  Sullivan grinned. ‘Because that’s where Gab Ramirez told me the Taylor inquest is being held, tomorrow morning.’

  Tired as he was, the surprise managed to jerk him upright. ‘An inquest – so soon? On a Saturday? Are you sure?’

  ‘Darn right. I told you they want to bury this quick. And guess what? Your Miss Normand has been subpoenaed to give evidence. What do you think of that?’

  ‘They served her?’

  ‘Must’ve,’ Sullivan grinned. ‘Looks like we managed to find her when you couldn’t. Maybe you’re not such a hotshot Sherlock Holmes after all.’

  Sullivan looked so pleased that Tom had to give him that one.

  ‘Look, don’t sweat it,’ Sullivan said. ‘Thing is, Ramirez says Woolwine wants it kept as hush-hush as possible. So there’s no guarantee you’ll get in without a badge or a subpoena. But with me, you’ll sure as hell have a better chance of getting through the door.’

  SEVENTEEN

  A glow of yellow light in the window. He pushed through the unlocked door and there was Colleen on the sofa, a blue-and-white plaid blanket around her and the table lamp lit on the floor beside. Looking up sleepily from an old copy of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang he must have left lying around.

  She sat up, wrapping the blanket closer, eyes widening as he stepped further into the light. ‘Oh my, what happened to you? Your face, it’s …’

  ‘Scarred for life?’ He laughed, touched by her concern. ‘I don’t think so.’ But he stepped across to the overmantle mirror to be sure, wondering if he’d really done such a poor patch-up job at the Hibernian. What he saw was reassuring. ‘Some might say it’s an improvement.’

  ‘Who did this to you?’ She was on her feet now, standing beside him under the mirror, her nose wrinkling as she smelt the whiskey on him. ‘Were you in a fight?’

  ‘No, not exactly.’ He frowned at his reflection in the glass, incongruous, his ill-used features accentuating the difference in their ages, stirring something long distant within. ‘I got jumped. But don’t worry. It’s a hazard of the job. It looks worse than it is.’

  She accepted that and sat down again, tucking her legs under her. He turned and stared at her without saying anything, his eyes slowly roving her face.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, embarrassed, tugging at a loose lock of hair. ‘It’s gone four, you know.’

  ‘I had a kid sister looked a little bit like you, back in Ireland. You kinda remind me of her, you know, your smile.’

  ‘I heard that one before,’ she said smartly. ‘And I bet her name is Colleen.’

  The hardness in her voice took him aback momentarily, then he got it and laughed. ‘No, really, I mean it. Her name’s Mary. God’s honest truth.’

  He thought better now of sitting down on the davenport beside her, but the tiredness was beginning to overwhelm him so he pulled a straightback from the table and sat on that.

  ‘So where is she, this sister of yours, now?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t know. Back in Ireland, I guess. Lost touch with her. I was only fourteen when I left. Had no choice. My ma died. Da was gone years before. Maybe your folks told you: Ireland’s a stone-hard place, land and people. My brother Pat, he took the boat a year before, got a good job as a rigger in New York, said I should come over, he’d take care of me.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Sure he did. Sent me the ticket. Got me work, made sure I kept up my reading and writing, didn’t let me squander my pay on booze like all the other lads on the job. He was a good, kind man.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He’s gone too. Fell from the one of the towers we were rigging. Metropolitan building on Madison Avenue. I never could look at it after without feeling sick to my stomach. He was tapping off rivets on one of the outside beams, lost his footing. Stumbled out into the air like you would off a sidewalk. Except it was twenty floors up. Didn’t stand a chance. I still hear him scream, in the night, sometimes.’ He stopped and looked up, realized the whiskey had turned him maudlin. Knew for sure he wasn’t talking only to himself when he saw the horror in her expression.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to …’ In the lamplight, he saw the glint of tears brimming on her eyelids.

  ‘It’s OK. It was a long, long time ago.’ He pushed his hands through his hair and stood up, wincing as he caught the wound at the back of his skull. ‘Look, I’d better be hitting the sack. Anyone call while I was gone?’

  ‘Sure, loads of ’em. You’re popular, ain’t’ya?’ She reeled off a list of creditors he’d been avoiding for weeks. ‘And a lady called, too, after hours.’

  ‘She leave a name?’

  It couldn’t be Fay. She wasn’t due back for a week yet. Unless he got it wrong. But he’d been counting down the goddamn days.

  ‘I didn’t catch what she said first. Sounded surprised there was a girl in your place taking calls. Fay, I think she s
aid. Then changed her mind and made it Mrs Parker.’

  ‘Long-distance?’

  ‘No. Said I should tell you she was back in town. Made some crack about the trouble she’s taken to come back early. I didn’t catch it. Put the phone down real hard. My ears are still ringing from it.’

  ‘Really?’ That didn’t sound like Fay.

  He looked up, saw Colleen smiling wide at him, barely able to control her laughter, teasing at the concern on his face.

  ‘No, not really,’ she said. ‘She was all nice and polite. Said she’d try again in the morning. A real lady, I guess.’ She halted there, but couldn’t resist asking the obvious question. ‘She’s your girl, right? Your sweetheart?’

  He nodded, cautious.

  ‘So how come she goes around calling herself Mrs Parker? She a widow or something?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She was all interest now. ‘How?’

  EIGHTEEN

  For an establishment more accustomed to the reverent hush of death, the Overholtzer funeral parlor was abuzz with activity. Outside the white stucco building on Tenth and Hill, a determined band of newsmen jostled for position, competing with a growing congregation of stargazers. As each in a succession of shining limousines and landaus disgorged its passengers, the throng convulsed and surged. Fans ogled at the movie folk dismounting the machines. Reporters held notebooks aloft, waving, yelling questions. Photographers thrust their cameras out – no need for flash pans this dazzle-bright morning – beckoning and pleading. Every now and then, these efforts paid off and, forgetting this was no premiere or gala dinner, a famous face would stop, smile and pose for the photographers. But most played their assigned roles, hunched and silent, eyes unseeking, hurriedly mounting the steps, pushing through heavy doors that closed behind them with a dignified thud.