‘I don’t see them being so careful with the other bull they print.’
Olsen shook his head impatiently. ‘C’mon, we’ve been over this already. We don’t print it unless someone says it to us. Anyhow, movie stars are one thing, but movie business is a whole other ball game. Get the industry side of things wrong and you soon find yourself looking for another job – compliments of Mr Hearst.’
‘Mr Hearst? What’s he got to do with anything? The Herald’s always screaming about how it’s the only independent paper in Los Angeles. It’s your motto, ain’t it?’
‘Yeah, and you’re old enough and ugly enough to know better. Hearst has good as owned us five years or more now. He’s been buying up stock on the sly so long, it’s only a matter of time before he gobbles us up whole. Then you’ll see what “independent” means in this burg. Same as it always did – sweet Fanny Adams.’
Tom was still trying to get his head around that one, but Olsen had already switched back to the only thing interesting him at that moment.
‘Look, Tom, forget about that, will’ya. I been chasing this story weeks now and every door’s been shut in my face, every lip sealed. Then you come telling me about pow-wows and peace pipes. So, for the love of God, if you saw any of those guys in a room together, you gotta tell me – because you know as well as I do, they wouldn’t’ve been in there to exchange pleasantries.’
Tom put his elbows on the table, bunched his fists under his chin and let out a long slow breath. If what Olsen said was right, the last thing the studio needed now was him blabbing to a newspaperman. But maybe they made that choice six months ago when they sacked him. Or yesterday, before he found that telegram. He had his own life to live. That it would be cut a damn sight shorter by Tony Cornero if he didn’t get what he needed from Olsen was enough to push him on.
‘OK, Phil, you can stop begging. I’ve got what you want. But you’ll have to go somewhere else if you’re looking for proof. I was over on the Lasky lot last night – unofficially, you understand. And I saw the biggest mob of studio big shots ever come together in one place.’
‘Hang on, gimme a chance to write this down.’ Olson was transformed, a live wire again, the grin a mile wide, one hand digging in his jacket pocket for a notebook, the other for a pen. ‘You gotta give me detail. Names and times. Everything you got, OK?’
Tom sat back, rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘I’ll give you names, big ones, and while we’re at it, you’re going to tell me everything there is to know about Tony Cornero. OK? That’s the deal, or I walk out the door.’
Olsen’s jaw was back to flapping.
‘Cornero? What the hell’s that biggety boot got to do with anything?’
THIRTY-FIVE
The dark mesh fly screen clacked sharp against the doorframe as another of Sullivan’s brood shot out from the house, ran barefoot across the stoop, down the white wood steps and across the yard, whooping like an Indian brave. Either ‘little’ Eamon, ‘little’ Sean or ‘little’ Donal. Or could be it was Thad junior. Tom never could tell with certainty any of Sullivan’s seven sons from the others, save for the eldest, Patrick, whose height and erect carriage even at fourteen years of age bore the stamp of a born leader. Otherwise, all of them, irrespective of years, appeared to have sprung fully formed from Eleanor’s womb, each with massive limbs and jaws, and topped by yellow hayseed sprouts of hair.
Tom watched his friend’s calm eyes track the boy’s progress until he disappeared from sight, crashing through the line of brush that marked the yard’s northern boundary.
‘The little scamp,’ Sullivan said quietly, almost to himself. ‘I told him he’ll be sorry if he steps on a rattlesnake.’
‘Not so sorry as the rattler,’ Tom laughed. ‘You breed ’em big, friend.’
Sullivan responded with an appreciative hoot. ‘They’re eating me out of house and home. I’ll have to make detective sergeant or go on the take if they don’t stop growing.’
The house was a pretty timber-frame bungalow on a good-size, elevated lot west of Brentwood, the yard dotted here and there with cottonwoods, orange blossom and one elderly pepper tree. Sullivan purchased the land in the spring of 1919 when the arrival of yet another child meant their already cramped apartment in Elysian Park would no longer take the strain. It was a good time to buy. California’s land speculators were falling over themselves in readiness to fulfill war-weary dreams of sunshine, health and prosperity with a flood of new subdivisions and fresh-graded patches of paradise. Sullivan got in early, had his pick, and at a good price. Three years on, he was the proud owner of the best-situated home in a colony of little white houses that spread across the hillside like mushrooms on a damp October night back home.
They had been outside a good half-hour now since Sullivan suggested a breath of fresh air – his euphemism for a drop of the hard stuff. But, so far, none had appeared. Instead, Sullivan had embarked on a rambling jeremiad triggered by a report in the newspaper about the looming civil war in Ireland, which he had taken, quaintly, to calling ‘the Old Country’.
‘He’s nothin’ but a blackguard and a traitor,’ Sullivan said bitterly of Michael Collins, leader of the fledgling Irish Free State, cursing his betrayal of the ‘cause’ in accepting Britain’s decision to partition the island. Tom kept his own counsel other than to point out his namesake’s political pragmatism. From what he heard, Sullivan’s alternative, the rebel leader Eamon de Valera, was a cold, heartless stick of a man who cared more about ideals than people’s lives. Tom was only too happy to turn his back on all that bloodletting and strife. But a large part of Sullivan’s heart remained wed to his birthplace, and Tom didn’t like to offend that sentiment, except occasionally in jest.
‘Speaking of blackguards, you’ll never guess who I thought I saw last night.’
Sullivan, knowing his flow was being deliberately diverted, rose from his cane chair and padded in long, loping steps towards the far end of the stoop. ‘Go on then, who?’ he said at last, bending to fiddle with a loose board.
‘Mikey the Grapes.’
Tom had woken with a start in the early hours of the morning, felt Fay warm beside him, his dreams haunted by the shuffling figure he’d seen coming out of the clinic on the Lasky backlot. Now it was clear as day who he had been reminded of: Mikey ‘the Grapes’ Ross. A nasty piece of work, one of Devlin’s chief confederates back in New York. A ludicrous thought. He had quickly drifted off to sleep again, but a trace remained, haunting his dreams.
‘Where was this?’ Sullivan squatted, thrusting his hand into the void beneath the boards.
‘Is that not kind of beside the point? Anywhere west of the Bowery would be a miracle, no?’
Tom had expected dismissal, or a note of derisory disbelief. Ross was one of the lowest criminals they encountered in New York. He was said to have fallen under a streetcar as a child and suffered terrible injuries to his legs. But it was Sullivan who gave him the nickname that stuck, mockingly attributing the man’s twisted gait to hemorrhoids. To the delight of those whose lives he made a misery.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Sullivan grunted, his shirt close to splitting across his back as he scrabbled deeper under the stoop. ‘Not with Devlin out here now. Them two were always tight as arsecheeks. Can you imagine one without the other? It’s not like Devlin wouldn’t have plenty to set him to work on, with a whole new port at his disposal.’
The thought crawled round in Tom’s head until Sullivan gave a sigh of victory and pulled something free from the void.
‘Ah, there you are, a ghrá mo chroí,’ he said, cradling in his arms like a new-born infant a bottle of tobacco-colored whiskey, three-quarters full.
‘Bushmills?’ Tom laughed. ‘Where in Christ did you get that from?’
‘Father Doran.’ Sullivan’s grin was beatific. He snatched two tumblers from the sill and blew the day’s dust from them. ‘He was most appreciative when I helped a nephew of his who turned up in rags at the railhead last week
. The Santa Fe fellas wanted to chuck him in pokey. I persuaded them to be more charitable.’
‘Trust in the Lord, and do good,’ Tom intoned.
‘And he will give you the desires of your heart.’ Sullivan laughed, uncorked the bottle with his teeth and poured two generous measures.
‘One thing’s for sure, you can always rely on a priest to have the best of what drink is going. Sláinte mhaith.’
Tom raised his glass to the toast and drank deep. Here was a kind of nationalism he could appreciate. He paused a moment before continuing. ‘If Ross was out here, what would he be doing at Lasky’s? And coming out of the clinic of all places? Since the war you see a lot more men around in his kind of state. Maybe someone’s making a flicker about it.’
‘No matter,’ Sullivan said, settling back again. ‘I’m sure Ross’s not the reason you graced us with your presence today. Are you going to tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?’
Tom grinned and held out his empty glass. ‘I could do with another stoke of the fire before I do.’
But the bottle stayed where it was. ‘I was hoping you came to tell me how it went with Ramirez.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I haven’t had a minute. I’ve been up to my—’
‘I don’t care what you’ve been up to,’ Sullivan growled. ‘You better get down to Central and talk to him damn quick. He was chewing my neck about you when I got in last night. He’s not a man to mess with. If you don’t watch your step, he’ll get a warrant served, and I might not be around to save your skin next time. I went out on a limb for you, Tom. Don’t let me down.’
Tom muttered an apology, but it washed over Sullivan.
‘Look, just do it. I don’t want to have to ask you again.’
Sullivan grabbed the bottle, tugged the cork and poured himself a tot before pointing the neck at Tom’s empty glass. ‘Are you going to have another or not?’
As Tom held his glass out again, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Listen, I’m sorry. I will see Ramirez, but it’s got even more complicated now. I haven’t told you all of it. I’m in trouble, and I’m not sure what to do.’
Sullivan’s brow furrowed, and Tom stretched out a hand and placed it on his friend’s forearm. ‘It’s not what you think. You’re not harboring a fugitive. Not yet.’
Sullivan poured him another slug of liquor, saying nothing.
‘I was hijacked outside my house yesterday,’ Tom said, ‘and taken to see Tony Cornero. Out at the end of Santa Monica pier.’
‘God almighty,’ Sullivan muttered under his breath in disbelief. ‘What did that dago good-for-nothin’ want with you?’
In detail, Tom described what had happened, from the moment he’d been jumped by the kid to the threats Cornero made on the pier. Sullivan, who had punctuated his listening with attentive grunts and queries, finally admitted, ‘Christ, I’d forgotten how much trouble you can get into in a day.’
‘So long as it’s less than I can get out of, I’m OK,’ Tom said. ‘Problem is, I can’t see an out from this one yet, other than to fold and do what the man says. Maybe he’ll leave it at that.’
He looked up and caught Sullivan’s skeptical glare.
‘Don’t be fooled by the clothes, Tom. He may be smooth on the surface, but he’s a vicious greaseball at heart, and slippery with it. Downtown’s been all over him like a swarm, but never got the sting in. You know that’s why you had to go to him, don’t you? He almost never leaves Santa Monica. He’s got every man in the local PD paid off, from brass to beat. So long as he stays there, he’s untouchable. If he wants a jaunt down to Tijuana or up to Monterrey, it’s by boat – and he’s got plenty of ’em. They say he even has a Pierce Arrow that’s never been outside the Santa Monica city limits. Never seen a dirt road.’
Tom drained his glass. ‘That’s what this newsman pal of mine said earlier, while pointing out that the rest of Cornero’s mob are under no such constraints. He says Cornero had it easy so far because he got in early and built up the muscle to force out competition this side of Frisco. But it’s just too tasty, and there’s all sorts of punks and small-timers piling in again, snapping at his heels, trying to grab his action, there’s so much movie and oil money washing round out here.’
‘He’s not wrong about that.’ Sullivan shook his head slowly. ‘A prohie I know said they smell a war on the way. Told the morgue to buy in extra gurneys. Nobody’s going to do anythin’ to stop it.’
‘So that’s what happened to Madden, right? Business?’
‘Got to be the likeliest,’ Sullivan nodded. ‘From what you say, Cornero seems convinced enough of it. Only question for him, probably, is who was the shooter working for? And you stepped right in and churned up the mud even more. Their heads must’ve been fairly throbbin’ trying to figure it out. Can’t rightly blame ’em for leaving it to you to clear up.’
‘Ha-ha,’ Tom said, scathingly. ‘All of which gets us precisely nowhere. What I need is a plan.’
‘What more can I say? Follow your gut and go with it as far as you dare. See how it works out. Failing that, I hear Vancouver’s nice this time of year.’
‘Not funny, Thad. I like the weather here just fine.’
They lapsed into silence again, gazing out towards the bright blue strip of ocean lining the horizon in the still afternoon. Nothing to be heard but the chirrup of birdsong and the homely sounds of housework leaking from the kitchen. Tom wondered how it must be to live so, envisioning his own house built, his own yard to sit in, his own brood to watch with care and pride. Somehow, the picture wouldn’t come clear.
‘Whatever you do,’ Sullivan broke in on him, ‘don’t go telling Ramirez about Cornero. He’ll have your ass in the slammer double quick.’ He threw his hands up, unwilling to contemplate it. ‘Holy Jesus, what a mess. I guess your Sennett thing’s had to take a back seat with all with this going on?’
‘No, not at all,’ Tom said. ‘I mean, I’m damned if I can see how Taylor and Normand tie in with the rest of it anymore. But one thing I know for sure is Sennett’s being set up like a sap.’
‘How so?’
Tom batted the question away. ‘It’s movie stuff. Nothing to interest you.’
‘Anything to do with them two interests me.’
‘You don’t seriously still see either of them in the frame for it?’
‘Indulge me,’ Sullivan said.
Skirting the details of how he obtained the information, Tom told him what he had uncovered about the Lasky studio using Normand to divert press attention from Minter.
The big man tutted. ‘I guess they have to protect their own. Maybe they’re right to. I mean, what is this thing with Normand and Taylor? Why does she deny she was engaged to him, if she was?’
‘Come on, Thad. They’re movies. Maybe it was no more than fantasy to her. Or him, for that matter.’
‘But he was banging her, right?’ Sullivan’s color was rising again, the frustration clear in his voice.
‘From what I’ve heard, yes, almost certainly.’
‘And Minter?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Who can say? Everything I’ve heard says she was crazy for him. Crazy being the word. But there’s no way of telling if he was feeling it back. Why so interested again?’
Sullivan sighed heavily. ‘Woolwine’s latest is Taylor could’ve been a homo. Secret, like. I mean, how crazy is that? But you know this Sands – the ex-valet, took Taylor to the cleaners? Well, Woolwine and Captain Adams put two and six together and got the hots for Sands blackmailing Taylor, then murdering him when he refused to cough. Except there’s not a shred of evidence Sands has been back in town since he ran off. You know the guys at Lasky’s, Tom. Ever hear anything about Taylor being a fairy?’
‘No,’ Tom laughed. ‘Never a word. Until last night.’
Sullivan’s eyes widened with anticipation, but Tom put his hand up. ‘Don’t get excited, old pal. It was one of a hundred stories, each one dumber than the last. Four days ago, no
one had a word to say against Taylor. He was a living, breathing, exceptionally well-tailored saint. Now, if you listen enough, he was into every vice known to man: boozing, doping, gambling, pederasty, Crowleyism, bestiality – even had a thing for sniffing women’s undersilks, according to some. You name it, all of a sudden Taylor wasn’t just into it, he wrote the goddamn guide book for it.’
Thad snorted. ‘It’s the same for us. Every time we speak to someone new, the story changes. One guy swore on his life Taylor only went with men. When I told him we tracked down a wife and child Taylor abandoned in New York, he didn’t bat an eyelid. “Well, we all know why he left them, then” was all he said, and flapped his goddamn wrist at me. I’m telling you, the more we hear, the less we actually know. I’m beginning to think we might never get at the truth.’
‘Not unless …’ Tom trailed off. A glint of sunlight on the sea, a tiny sail tacking in the distance, drew his gaze further west and an image bloomed in his mind of Nita Naldi’s milk-white haunch, and Fay and June Mathis deep in conversation on the set of Blood and Sand.
‘Not unless what?’ Sullivan said impatiently.
But Tom was already getting out of his chair, knocking back the last of his whiskey, reaching out to Sullivan, pulling him to his feet.
‘Listen, Thad, I know I said I wouldn’t ask any more favors, but this could be important. Can you call Central for me? Get them to dig out an address I need?’
THIRTY-SIX
The road trailed off into a jagged expanse of rocks, red earth and brush. Tom stopped and scanned the rising ground to either side. Searching for evidence of a track or habitation. But there was nothing. The only thing to do was reverse the Dodge to a point where he could turn without busting the wheel springs. Doing so, he caught a flash of alien white in the sunlight. It looked like the painted upright of a signpost twenty yards behind. Sure enough, that’s what it was, complete with a hanging arrow snapped off and pointing directly down at the loosened dirt below. He tilted his head and read aloud what he had been looking for.
The Long Silence Page 20
