The Long Silence

by Gerard O'Donovan

  This time the pause was longer. ‘You’re right. Why not call her now and ask her to meet me at the club in an hour and I’ll get something set up with Eddie. Even if Delores’s house is full, she’ll know someone else to send her to. Somewhere away from the likes of kindly lonesome heroes like you.’

  She laughed again, and this time he told her exactly how much he’d missed her, and how the hours couldn’t beat by fast enough until he would hold in his arms what he’d been hungering for so much while she was away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Long before the movies came to town, the ramshackle old Hollywood Hotel was a retreat for wealthy consumptives in need of winter sun. A resort for folk who liked good manners, plain food and polite conversation. The lobby still bore a sign pronouncing ‘No movies, no dogs’, though only as an amusing museum piece. Yet despite the largesse rained down on it by those selfsame movies for almost a decade, the interior was looking jaded now. Still the old hotel soldiered on as one of the colony’s principal daytime watering holes, even if the evening trade had vanished to more fashionable venues. It was especially favored by those who thought of themselves as being among the small elite band of pioneers who had recognized this light-drenched patch of California for the movie-making idyll it could be, and made it their home.

  Mack Sennett had every right to claim a place in that select group. Seated on a plush settee in the center of the lobby, he was surrounded by a clutch of chattering young women, all exceptionally pretty and à la mode in pleated skirts and cloche hats, hair poking out in artfully looped kiss curls and bangs, face paint generously applied. Sennett’s Bathing Beauties, a scattering of new signings among them, to judge by the whiff of flash pans in the air and the handful of newsmen flirting and firing questions.

  Tom waited until the last of the newsmen had gone, each with a sawbuck folded into his palm to squeeze an extra inch or two of ink. As Tom approached, Sennett raised his jaw and every face in the circle flashed towards him, glittering eyes, parting lips – a broadside of pulchritude.

  ‘Tommy boy, at last. I was beginning to think you’d gone to ground on me. Sit down, man, here, here.’ He signaled for space to be made beside him. ‘So, what have you got for me? Did you talk to Mabel?’

  Tom embarked on a full account of his morning at Overholtzer’s, Sennett’s forehead furrowing ever deeper but remaining silent for the most part, grunts and sniffs the sole indicators of his thoughts until Tom recounted the details of his brief exchange with Normand.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Mack, they hustled her out of there so fast, it was probably for the best with all those newspaper boys buzzing around. What she did say to me was that you don’t need to worry about her. “Just dandy” were her exact words.’

  Sennett was unimpressed. ‘So where can I reach her?’

  Tom hesitated, looking for the right words.

  ‘You did ask her, I presume?’ Sennett prompted impatiently.

  ‘’Course I did. Only problem is, she insisted she doesn’t want to be reached.’

  Sennett’s face flushed. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mack. There’s really no good way of saying this. Miss Normand said she doesn’t want you calling. Or being anywhere near just now. There was no mistaking what she meant.’

  ‘But that’s, that’s …’ Sennett’s coloring took a trip towards purple, and a scramble for words that would not come did nothing to alleviate it.

  Tom took his chance to get the rest out while he could. ‘That’s not the worst of it. The DA doesn’t want you contacting her either. Woolwine said to tell you that straight.’

  ‘What are you now?’ Sennett growled at last. ‘The DA’s messenger boy? Christ in heaven, I expected you to come back with more than this.’

  ‘Look, Mack, don’t go laying the blame for this at my door. I did what you asked and spoke with her – and I haven’t told you half the mess I had to go through to do that. If Miss Normand doesn’t want to see you, it’s no fault of mine. But if you just keep your hair on for a minute, you’ll see it’s not all bad news. At least we know she’s safe. And we know now the DA’s not viewing her as a suspect.’ You, maybe, he considered adding, but thought better of it.

  Sennett seemed to relax a little and leaned in towards him, his voice even lower than before. ‘That’s all fine and good, but what can we do to make sure she stays safe until they clear her name?’

  ‘That’s just it. I’m not sure you need to do anything. I got a feel from Woolwine that, somehow, Miss Normand is under his protection right now.’

  Sennett looked up, sharp as a tack. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just that him and that deputy of his, Doran, they were behaving real protective towards her, as if she was in their care. Woolwine even said it: “My office has the situation in hand.”’

  ‘What situation? Why would she need their protection?’

  Tom wondered if he had said too much. But what choice did he have? Either way, Sennett getting jumpy again would not help anyone.

  ‘Look, I have no idea, Mack. All I’m saying is, if what Woolwine says is true, Miss Normand is safe. She can’t be out on the razzle all night with his guys by her side.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Sennett hissed. ‘I told you before I didn’t want you repeating those lies. And don’t think for a minute I can’t see what you’re up to. No way are you pulling out of this now. Here’s how I see it. You say Mabel’s not a suspect, but every newspaper I read is screaming the exact opposite. They’re the ones we need to convince, and you’re going to go out and find something that proves it to them.’

  Tom threw his hands up. It was like talking to a wall. ‘For Chrissakes, Mack, what the hell more can I do? You can’t control what the papers say. Even if you could, the cops won’t like me poking my nose in deeper, and Woolwine says he’ll stick me in a cell if I go near Miss Normand again. How the hell am I supposed to prove anything when I can’t even talk to her?’

  ‘Know what?’ Sennett was rubbing his hands together as though he’d settled the matter in his own mind and wanted to move on. ‘That’s your problem, Tommy boy. All I know is, you’re seeing this through whether you want to or not. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself without a roof over your head and with a debt collector on your back. Do you understand me?’

  Tom got to his feet, his eyes fixed on Sennett’s. ‘I understand you, Mack. I’ll do what I can. Just don’t expect to hear back from me anytime soon.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  By the time he got back to the house, Colleen was gone. The empty house wrapped round him like cold comfort, his body yearning for rest he had not realized he wanted or needed. It couldn’t hurt to lie down for a minute, pull that neatly folded blanket over him, breathe in a faint scent of …

  Two hours later he woke. Only then did he see the note on the kitchen table, his name in Fay’s handwriting. All it contained was the same invitation she made him on the telephone – to meet at the Palm Court at seven – and a pair of crossed kisses. A hint of jasmine drifted up from the notepaper, her scent raising the ghost of green eyes, full lips, the warmth of silk-smooth skin. A jolt of inspiration. In that moment he saw as clear as the day outside what it was he needed to do. And Phil Olsen was the key to it. He checked his wristwatch. Plenty of time to arrange things before he headed downtown.

  He thought it through again while he dressed, pulling his favorite gray mohair from the wardrobe, a cobalt tie, and a new Mullen and Bluett’s shirt he had been saving for an occasion. If he did this right, he might get shot of Sennett, Normand, the whole shebang. No way could he afford to be dragged any further into their mess. Not with the DA on his back. Even Olsen had hooted like a barn owl when Tom hinted who he was working for.

  Palming his hair into shape with a lick of pomade, Tom grabbed his hat and coat and walked out into the crisp afternoon, swinging the door shut behind him.

  He didn’t notice the enclosed Nash tourer parked opposite or the men in
it, who had been sitting staring at his door for some time. First thing he knew about the punk behind him was the poke of a gun barrel hard in his lower back as he pulled the key from his pocket.

  ‘Christ, what now?’ Tom said, as much in anger as surprise.

  ‘You keep your hands where I can see ’em. Not another move.’

  A voice masking youth with almost comical gruffness. Who the hell this was, Tom had no idea, but he was damned if he’d let some young hothead boost his auto.

  ‘Look, kid, if you want money, OK, but you’re not getting the—’ As he began to turn, he was silenced by a vicious prod in his kidneys.

  ‘Shut up. Not a move, I said – that means your mouth, too.’

  There was a feral snarl to the voice now and Tom froze, arms out, as the boy frisked his pockets, belt and ankles, the gun barrel all the while digging in sharply.

  ‘Get in the jalopy.’ The kid pushed him in behind the wheel. ‘You’ll be doing the driving, I’ll be keeping you on the right road. See those guys across the street?’

  Tom turned his head cautiously in the appropriate direction, saw two apes in the Nash glare at him as they pulled into the road, and got the picture.

  ‘Get after them.’

  The kid climbed in, kept the gun on his lap out of sight but at the ready as they trailed the other auto down the hill, past the lake and west on to Wilshire. Tom risked a glance at his captor. Pale pitted face, wiry with an ill-cut suit, no collar and an oversize bakerboy cap that looked like it had put in some hard miles on someone else’s fatter head. Seventeen at best, he reckoned; a hard-bitten air already.

  ‘Look, kid, would you at least tell me where we’re going?’

  ‘You need gas or something?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Then shut up and drive. You’ll know when you know.’

  The boy twitched the gun at him. An ancient, rust-pitted Colt, like something passed down from Camp Drum. He saw how the boy clasped it hard and close to his leg, itching to use it, to prove himself. Saw enough to pray it had a good strong hammer spring and alert him to every crack and dip in the road ahead.

  Twenty minutes later, Tom watched the Nash turn off the seafront in Santa Monica on to the ramp leading down to the municipal pier. He steered the Dodge down the decline, wondering what in hell awaited him there. Below and to his right, another road led off to the wide shore under the bluffs, where movie stars and millionaires built beach houses as elaborately appointed as the mansions they inhabited in the folds of the Hollywood Hills. Between the row of wooden houses and the ragged hem of surf was a sweep of flat yellow sand dotted with strolling couples and picnicking family encampments. But the Nash ignored the beach turnoff and proceeded onwards, thudding off the ramp and on to the wooden boardwalk where the pier began its advance to the horizon.

  Tom followed, carefully negotiating the throngs of Saturday-afternoon walkers drawn out by the salt sea air and the attractions of Looff’s amusement park on the pier’s south side. Out there, up and under an intricacy of wooden scaffold, the Blue Streak roller coaster was doing a brisk trade, a chain of cars rocketing round the fearsome elbow twist, shooting riders out high above the surf before whipping them back inland again. The buffeting wind served up their screams in snatches.

  ‘We’re going to the amusement park?’

  The kid’s mouth broke into a broken-toothed grin. ‘Yeah, maybe we take you up on the high ride, mister,’ he cackled. ‘Let you down the hard way.’

  The car ahead drew to a stop by the Hippodrome, in the lee of which the breeze dropped off. Tom pulled in and killed the motor. For a moment all he heard was the wheeze and whoosh of a carousel organ grinding out a jaunty tune, caught the hot, sickly-sweet waft of candied popcorn belching from an open window. The two goons had already dismounted the Nash. They lumbered over, and the smarter-looking one – brow like a dead caterpillar, jaw like a blacksmith’s hammer block – pulled the door open.

  ‘C’mon, outta there, this way.’ He crooked a thick, hair-backed finger and strode off, leaving his mute companion to urge Tom on with a shove in the back like a jackhammer. The kid stayed in the Dodge.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Out along the boardwalk they walked, past food stalls and day-trippers, shrieking children, hucksters sharping from suitcases. Out beyond the shelter of the buildings and the crowds, out to where the full arc of the blue bay came visible either side. Silent but for the wind whipping about their ears and their own footsteps echoing more and more hollow as they went. Past fishermen trying their luck, courting couples doing much the same, gulls wheeling above, waves slapping and gurgling against the pilings underneath. Out above the water to the distant pier-head, where two men stood alone, leaning on the sea-rail, gazing at the shimmer on the water and the haze far out on the horizon.

  The taller, more athletic of the two, turned to observe Tom’s approach for the final twenty yards.

  ‘Collins, right?’

  He didn’t put a hand out, didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t need to, his face plenty familiar from the newspapers. Still in his twenties, Tony Cornero was already a man of notoriety and substance, a hustler made swiftly rich and powerful by a single fall of the legislative axe: the Volstead Act. Thirty months down the line, he was one of the best-known bootleggers on the West Coast. Admired from afar for his panache and swagger in the face of the dry squads, splashed in the press for his daring coups, he was feared by anybody smart enough to recognize the ruthlessness of his operation and the other, less visible avenues into which his criminal enterprise extended. Up close, he looked the perfect gentleman. The English look he sported – immaculate cream Oxfords, white cashmere sweater, gleaming tan brogues – suited his strong Italian features, the nod to Valentino so obvious it ached. A platinum and diamond watch, brilliant against the black hair on his wrist, completed the picture, but nothing glittered sharper than his eyes.

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to come out here.’ He smiled, surprising Tom with the warmth of his manner.

  ‘No need,’ Tom said. ‘Thank your goons here. They do an irresistible line in abduction at gunpoint.’

  ‘I wanted to be sure you’d accept my invitation.’ Cornero gave an entirely Latin ripple of muscle from his neck to his wrists, signifying anything from apology to indifference.

  ‘You know who I am, no?’

  ‘Sure, I do.’

  ‘This is my associate, Jimmy Sanchez.’ Cornero gestured at the squat, brick-built Mexican beside him, who didn’t look round but tossed his head back in acknowledgement while maintaining his gaze seaward. ‘We share some business interests.’

  Not a name or face Tom recognized. ‘I’ll take your word for it. But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me.’

  ‘No? Well, we can help you with that.’ Cornero clicked his fingers and a goon stepped forward, slipping a fistful of brass on his knuckles. Tom took an instinctive step back and felt something solid behind him. The other ape. He put his hands up, as close to pleading as he thought wise, taking the opportunity to point out his existing bruises.

  ‘OK, fellas, let’s stop right there, can we, please? This has to be some kind of mistake. I may look like a punchbag to you right now, but, believe me, that’s not by choice.’ The next line he addressed to Cornero direct. ‘Just tell me how I can help you. I don’t know what you think I did, but I assure you, I didn’t do it. I’ve been too busy getting the stuffing knocked out of me somewhere else, OK?’

  Tom pointed again at the evidence on his face, and Cornero, curious, flicked a finger up. The apes stepped back. Now Jimmy Sanchez, too, turned round for a look, easing back, elbows on the rail, real cool.

  ‘Lot of people saying you killed a good friend of ours, last night.’

  ‘Excuse me – what?’ It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard; it was simply too much to comprehend.

  ‘Shorty Madden,’ Cornero said. ‘You trying to tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that?’

  ‘Jesus H. Chr
ist.’ Tom felt the color blanche from his cheeks as a cold rush of fear filled out his understanding. He looked around wildly, seeing nothing, not even the backhand slap that snapped his head back round and brought him back into focus.

  ‘Is that all you got to say?’ Cornero didn’t look any angrier, but an imminence of violence had settled on him like the still, metallic air you get before a lightning storm.

  ‘No, no … I mean, I know about it, uh, I was …’ Tom’s thoughts piled up and tumbled out in no particular order. ‘I mean, I was there. But I didn’t do it, I just saw it. That’s all. Why in hell would I want to kill Madden?’

  ‘That’s what we want to know,’ Cornero said calmly. ‘Why would you do that? I know he wasn’t always the sweetest of guys, but he was good at what he did. Made money for me. How much were you into him for?’

  It was a better motive than the cops had come up with, but now was not the time for compliments. ‘Nothing. I didn’t owe the guy a cent. I never even met him until last night. Look, you have got completely the wrong idea here. I didn’t do it. Even the cops can’t pin it on me, and God knows they want to.’

  Cornero shook his head again and tutted melodramatically. ‘Wally here says you did.’ He flicked his head towards the larger of the two apes, but all Tom could do was stare uncomprehendingly at him.

  ‘What?’

  Then it clicked: the iron jaw, the grunting brute at Hannigan’s. It was him, all right, only minus the stupid derby.

  ‘Wait now, wait,’ Tom said. ‘He, he … Wally was on the inside door, right? He must know I left Hannigan’s a whole half-hour before Madden, right?’

  Cornero looked to Wally, who nodded.

  ‘So what were you doing still outside when he got shot?’ Cornero asked.

  ‘I asked Madden to meet me outside. I was there when he got shot, sure, but I didn’t do the shooting.’

  ‘So you lured him out. Same thing. My question was why? Who are you working for?’