The Long Silence

by Gerard O'Donovan

  It was a move dumb enough to make him hesitate and put a clamp on his temper. Some nagging instinct of self-preservation made him hold back. If they hadn’t felt the need to smash his door down before, why would they now? When he had already agreed to work with them. It made no sense. He forced himself to cut away instead across the small patch of dirt that was his front yard and peer in through the crack of bright yellow in the drapes. The little he could see was enough to leave him dumbstruck.

  Bent over the sideboard, searching with such concentration that the burned-out cigar butt between his lips stood almost erect, was not one of Cornero’s apes but a man he had seen just once before. In the same gray trench coat and trilby he’d worn at the inquest, it was Sullivan’s colleague from the detective squad, Gab Ramirez. Tom shifted position for a clearer view and saw the plundered contents of his cupboards strewn around Ramirez’s feet. Again, a pang of violation twisted his gut, but the impulse to protest was stayed when Ramirez glanced up in response to a shouted summons from elsewhere in the house. There were two of them in there.

  ‘You got something?’ Ramirez asked and got a muffled response.

  Tom watched him turn as though someone else was entering the room. Shifting his position again, he peered from the other angle now and felt the blood slow in his veins. There in the parlor doorway, taking up most of it, was Al Devlin, all done up in his Port Inspector’s uniform.

  Under one arm he carried the steamer trunk from beneath Tom’s bed, cradling it in the crook of his elbow like a toddler’s toy box. He thumped it down on the table and called Ramirez over as he flipped the lid open, dug a hand in and removed with the tips of his fat fingers a long-barreled revolver. The window glass was cheap enough for Tom to make out every word that followed, though he could probably have made up most of it himself.

  ‘The slugs they dug out of Madden were thirty-eights, right?’ Devlin said with conviction. ‘I’ll give you any odds this is the iron that fired them.’

  As he watched Devlin hand the gun over to Ramirez, a glint of gunmetal under the parlor lamp sparked a memory of a long barrel poking out into the wet night from the rear window of a Packard. As set-ups went, it was a doozie. The gun was an old, six-inch Police Positive, just like the one Tom was issued with back in New York, and had handed back when he left the police department. There were tens of thousands of Positives in circulation, but Ramirez would believe the evidence presented before his eyes, even though the gun couldn’t have been in the trunk five minutes. He saw Devlin smirk as Ramirez snapped open the cylinder breach and held it up to his nose.

  ‘Couple of days, most, since it was fired,’ Ramirez said obligingly.

  Sure enough, Tom was being trussed up like a turkey. At a guess, Devlin had contacted Ramirez and not only convinced him to have Tom picked up, but offered to help him do so, personally. Maybe he’d even bypassed Ramirez and gone straight to the DA’s office for a warrant, then forced Ramirez to execute it for procedure’s sake and ensure he had an unimpeachable witness to the discovery of the planted gun. But how had he convinced Ramirez, or the DA, that Madden’s murder was any of his concern?

  Tom turned his attention back to the conversation, the subject now being where the fugitive Collins might be found. Devlin was taking a little too much delight in suggesting that Thad Sullivan was probably up to his neck in it and harboring his old pal.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Ramirez said, bristling at the suggestion. ‘Sullivan is straight as an arrow. One of the men in the squad we can absolutely depend on. If you knew him like I do, you’d know that already.’

  ‘That’s not how he was when we had Collins in custody,’ Devlin scowled, but said nothing about knowing Sullivan better than Ramirez knew.

  ‘Anything else in there might give us an idea?’ Ramirez asked, motioning towards the trunk. Devlin tutted dismissively and shoved it across the table to him. He’d never been one for paper trails. Words were too much trouble. Instead, he rumbled over to the disembowelled dresser, studying the framed old lady on the wall beside it. Then, with more interest, the inscribed portrait of Fay.

  ‘Any idea who the whore is?’ Devlin said over his shoulder. ‘Collins always fancied himself a ladies’ man.’

  Ramirez glanced over at the picture, then at Devlin, his eyes narrowed as if there was something wrong with that remark.

  ‘You know him so well?’

  Devlin, realizing he’d said too much, stared Ramirez down. ‘Do you know her or not?’

  ‘Some two-bit starlet, I guess,’ he shrugged. ‘Enough of ’em about.’

  But Devlin wasn’t letting it go. He plucked the photo frame from the dresser, studying it closely. Tom felt the bile rise in his stomach as Devlin’s eyes greedily roamed the contours of Fay’s features, his spittle-flecked lips mouthing the inscription: ‘For my dearest Tom, forever yours, Fay.’

  It wasn’t until Devlin flipped the frame in his hands, his fat stubs of fingers scrabbling to undo the pins and remove the backboard, that consternation set in. It was a publicity shot taken for distribution to the press, not adoring fans. Stamped on the back of the print were Fay’s name and studio details, the address of the Oasis and the telephone number of her publicity man should further interest be expressed. Further interest? No way could he let Devlin get sight of that.

  To make matters worse, in that moment he saw Ramirez dig his fingers in the trunk and pull out the very papers he had come back to retrieve for Sennett. Surely they couldn’t mean anything to him? But with the Lasky studio letterhead on them, and a telegram from Adolph Zukor dated just a couple of days earlier, they were sure to grab Ramirez’s interest. And so they did.

  He had to do something.

  As Devlin’s fingers pulled Fay’s picture from the frame and Ramirez’s brow furrowed over the telegram, Tom cast about wildly for something – anything – with which to cause a distraction. But there was nothing, only dirt and weeds, within reach. All he could do was rap his knuckles on the windowpane and roar through the glass at the top of his voice, ‘Devlin, you’ve never been anything but a fat bastard crook, no matter what coast you’re on, or what uniform you wear.’

  Inside, he saw the two men stiffen in unison, then react – Ramirez making for the window, Devlin for the door. Tom had barely made it out the gate before Devlin barreled out, bellowing like a bull moose, fragments of the smashed doorframe flying as his bulk burst through it, into the night.

  Tom stood still, stared him dead in the eyes, just long enough for Devlin to cast the photograph aside as he went for his gun, fat fingers fumbling with the holster catch. Then he ran. Ran with Devlin’s apoplectic roars ringing in his ears. Ran like he’d never run before, with the zip and rip of a bullet whipping past, the crack of discharge sounding fractionally behind. He ran zigzag into neighbors’ gardens, vaulted picket fences, ducked behind shrubs, anything that would ruin Devlin’s line of sight until he was beyond the range of a dependably fallible police revolver.

  As he ran, he lost all sense of what was real. His fear was replaced by something cold and lonely, yet ecstatic. Glancing back, he saw Devlin in the growing distance behind, arms out, steadying himself to take another shot. Saw Ramirez hurtle on to the sidewalk and deliberately careen into the fat man, knocking his aim off, screaming at him to lower his weapon and cease firing. All Tom felt was the night air cold on his face as he sped down the hill towards the park on legs oblivious to fatigue. All he heard was the blood pounding in his heart and in his lungs, and the living city rushing past his ears like a locomotive.

  All he knew was he was running.

  FORTY

  Reaching the broad thoroughfare of Sixth, he sprinted across through the sparse traffic and stumbled into the concealing vegetation of Westlake Park. He caught his breath in great gulps of fragrance-laden air, eyeing every vehicle and intersection to assure himself that he wasn’t being pursued. The park boundaries appeared like a ring of pale fire, the surrounding street lamps and house lights delineating the gloom
. Behind him, the lake glittered black in the moonlight, wavering reflections of small fires burning along its edge, a popular spot for hobos to congregate after dark. A good place to lie low for a while. But he didn’t want to. Within the hour, every cop in the city might be looking for him. His house would be watched. He couldn’t risk going back to grab the Dodge.

  The spirit of defiance that possessed him back at the house abandoned him now as the enormity of what had happened opened up to him. That Devlin had been willing to shoot him brought a new clarity to his situation. As did Ramirez’s desperate efforts to prevent it. In the wrangling confusion of his thoughts, two probabilities were blindingly clear. For whatever reason, Devlin was prepared to go to any lengths to frame him for Madden’s murder. And if he ended up in a police cell in Los Angeles, there was a greater chance than ever that a confederate of Devlin’s would ensure he didn’t make it through the night.

  He had to get in touch with Sullivan and fast. He needed to get to a telephone, but that didn’t have to be a problem. He’d been on his way to see Sennett at the Ambassador, and there were plenty there. The booths in the lobby were too public to risk, but he was on good terms with the manager of the Cocoanut Grove supper club, Jimmy Manos. Whatever else he knew, Manos was no friend of the cops. He would be sure to help.

  Dusting himself down, Tom set off across the park, heading for the exit on Seventh. Years spent getting movie folk out of trouble had taught him the quiet ways in and out of all the best places. So, keeping to the unlit streets, he made his way to the rear of the hotel, then in through a kitchen delivery door. It was a route he had used a year or so before, but in the opposite direction. Getting Tommy Meighan out quick after he thumped some bozo in the lobby over a girl. The memory was still strong enough to raise a smile as he negotiated the maze of the service basement, confident enough not to be challenged by staff.

  Emerging into a mirrored hallway, his feet hit carpet and the syncopated beat of ‘Wabash Blues’ echoed in his ears. Sunday nights at the Grove were always busy, a last chance to blow off steam before the hard slog of living began for another week. Checking his reflection, he reckoned he just about cut the mustard. Most men in the place would be in evening rig, but seeing as how he would not be asking for a table, he could probably get away with it. He waited as the swallow-tailed head waiter snagged a money-dripping couple ahead, seeing them in personally. Slipping in unnoticed, he saw Manos leaning on the balustrade that separated the dining area from the dance floor, watching the dancing below.

  ‘Hey, Jimmy,’ he said, hoping to keep the hurry out of his voice.

  ‘Tom.’ Manos didn’t turn or show a sign of having seen him come in. Wearing the best-cut dinner suit in the room, with dark good looks and hair slicked back to a patent leather shine, he liked it put about that Valentino based his Latin-lover look on him. Folk might have swallowed it if he hadn’t been built like a blockhouse mauler, his girth unvarying from shoulder to knee. ‘Good to see you, buddy. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Too long,’ Tom agreed. ‘Lasky’s not paying the checks anymore.’

  ‘Your credit’s good here any time. You know that.’

  On the bandstand, Abe Lyman and the boys were striking up ‘April Showers’ and couples were crowding on and off the dance floor, women glittering head to toe, men all stiff and starched. Tom eyed the room, the exuberance of the decor, from the sparkling night-sky ceiling and arabesque arches right down to the paper monkeys hanging from fake palm trees that Manos bought straight off the set of The Sheik. This was one of the few nightspots in town that lived up to the myth of movie glamour.

  ‘Look at this crowd,’ Manos snorted. ‘Handsome guy like you could make it back in a’hour, easy. Take one or two old girls for a flap round the dance floor. They’d cover your expenses for sure. Worked for Rudy.’

  He glanced round at Tom with a teasing grin that promptly fell from his face. ‘Or maybe not. What’s this?’ He flicked a hand at Tom’s crumpled lapel. ‘You can’t afford a decent suit even?’ He looked again, this time concerned. ‘You OK, Tom? You in trouble?’

  ‘No. Not yet. But I need a phone and a place to rest up for a half-hour. I thought maybe you could let me—’

  Before he could finish the sentence, Manos was ushering him around the dance floor and out along a corridor leading off.

  ‘Like I say, Tom, any time.’

  Manos opened the door into a small office, mostly taken up by a carved walnut desk, a tigerskin rug and a couple of overstuffed leather armchairs. ‘Take as long as you need. There’s a washroom at the back, towels and fresh shirts in that cupboard by the side.’ He looked at Tom appraisingly. ‘They should fit fine now you slimmed down a bit,’ he grinned. ‘Gimme the jacket and I’ll have one of the busboys press it.’

  ‘Thanks, Jimmy, but I’ll pass on that. I’ve got to be ready to go.’

  Manos liked the sound of that. He smiled again and pointed towards the washroom. ‘There’s a private door back of there, leads down to the delivery yard. You know, if you don’t want to show your face on the way out. Give you a chance to check out my new motor, too.’

  Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You betcha. Mercer Raceabout. One heck of a machine.’

  ‘You going up in the world, Jimmy?’

  ‘Where else?’ Manos chortled, then reached into the desk drawer, drew out a key fob and laid it on the leather top, stroking it delicately like a lover’s hand. ‘You oughta take her for a ride, Tom. Like I say, she’s a beauty. Goes like the wind. Ain’t nothing gonna catch her.’ He pulled his hand back, leaving the key, his palm out flat, an unspoken offer.

  ‘Thanks, Jimmy. You’re a pal.’

  Patting the side of his nose with two fingers, Manos turned to go. ‘I gotta get back out there. I’ll send a boy in with something reviving. And don’t you worry about the bad guys. We’ll head ’em off.’

  As soon as the door shut, Tom grabbed the handset, easing himself into the chair behind the desk, clicking for an operator. Waiting to be connected, he took in the framed photos hung like trophies on the wall behind, all featuring Manos, arm draped around members of the movie colony’s elite: Jimmy acting the fool with Doug Fairbanks. Jimmy with Wally Reid, with Charlie Chaplin, Tom Mix, the Gish girls, Tony Moreno. None with Valentino, although the one of him shadowboxing with Jack Dempsey was impressive, and in pride of place.

  ‘Hello, Central? Yeah, I need to speak to Sullivan in the detective squad. It’s urgent.’

  Urgent or not, Sullivan had not yet arrived, though he was expected shortly. Tom declined an offer to speak with the duty officer, checked the apparatus and left his number but not his name, saying only to tell Sullivan it was an emergency and had to do with ‘our friend Ross’. He prayed that would be enough. He removed his jacket and dusted it down with a brush he found in the cupboard. He washed his face and hands, ice-cold water as good as balm, and helped himself to a crisp new shirt and a couple of dabs of Manos’s personal pomade worked in with a pair of tortoiseshell brushes whose inlaid silver initials made him wonder about the source of such a generous gift.

  He was sitting at the desk again when he heard a rap on the door and automatically answered. Manos’s head turtle-necked in, his face a picture of strained apology, a rumpus coming from behind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom—’

  He hardly had time to react before Manos was levered out of the way as the door opened fully and in burst Mack Sennett, crimson-jowled, white tie askew, apparently the beneficiary of a skinful of bootleg hooch.

  Tom breathed a sigh of relief, of sorts. ‘Jesus Christ, Mack—’

  ‘I thought you said meet in the lobby, Tommy,’ Sennett brayed. ‘What the hell were you up to with Jimbo? He good as flung himself in front of the door when I said I seen you two sneaking off down here.’

  Manos strode in behind him, still off kilter and attempting to compose himself. A man in his position couldn’t get on the wrong side of a studio boss, not even a loo
se cannon like Sennett – it would be bad for business. But he wasn’t the type to lose face either.

  ‘Mr Sennett, I must insist—’

  ‘It’s all right, Jimmy,’ Tom interjected. ‘My fault. I thought I was meeting Mack later. I got it wrong. Are we OK to conduct our business in here, just for now?’

  Manos got the message, gave him a skeptical glare, nodded curtly at Sennett and swung back out of the room. Not happy, but in possession of his honor at least. It would be a while before the balance of this particular favor could be paid.

  Sennett made an obscene gesture in the direction of the closing door and lowered himself into one of the armchairs. ‘Who made him Grand Vizier all of a sudden?’ He fumbled, arranging himself better in the chair. When he looked up next, his mood had changed. He looked around approvingly. ‘Nice digs. Jimmy got a private supply in here?’

  ‘You look like you’ve had plenty, Mack,’ Tom said, settling back again. ‘What has you so excited, anyhow? Miss Normand get in touch at last?’

  Sennett laughed, but there was little amusement in it. He smoothed his suit with his hands, brushing off his inebriation like rain. ‘Funny you should ask. She telephoned before I came out. Said she was sorry for being so “elusive”. She was real upset.’

  ‘I guess she has a right to be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t fool yourself,’ Sennett said. ‘It wasn’t Taylor she was crying over. It was herself, as usual. Got all bawly to soften me up, then asked straight out if it was me set the private detective on her, poking into her private affairs.’

  ‘I’d have thought I was the least of her problems,’ Tom said, restraining himself from laughing in Sennett’s face. ‘I haven’t seen her since the inquest.’

  ‘You tell her you were a private man then?’ Sennett asked, eyes hard now, no trace of the drink he had seemed consumed by moments before.