by Donis Casey
Blanche could not believe how happy it made her to hear that. But she said, “I appreciate the thought, Miss Bolding, but I don’t want to ever have anything to do with Graham Peyton again.”
The name seemed to hang in the air after she uttered it. Alma sat back in her chair. She had gone white. “Graham Peyton.”
“Yes, ma’am. You know him?”
“Oh, honey, you lucky thing. You have escaped a fate worse than death!”
~Pluck, Initiative, and Fried Chicken
will get you noticed.~
Since Alma had already spilled the beans about Mills’s opinion of her work, on her fourth day of mess duty Blanche felt comfortable enough to ask Mr. Mills to let her take the lunch cart out to the cast and crew on location. The look of harried disapproval he gave her made her think that she had made a mistake in asking so soon, but he growled, “Go on, then.”
She didn’t hang around long enough to let him reconsider. She threw several towels over the wheeled handcart to keep it warm and fly-free and hurried to today’s shooting location about a quarter mile up Slaughterhouse Gulch. Alma Bolding was sitting by herself just behind the cameraman as he shot a scene set in a barroom that carpenters had built right in the gulch. It was a tall, three-sided room with gauze draped over the top to diffuse the bright sunlight. It had a floor, a bar, tables, bottles, and glasses. Blanche marveled at the illusion. It was the first time she had actually seen a scene being shot. The director, Elmo Reynolds, was prowling the perimeter, gesticulating at costar Frank Campeau and two extras who were sitting at a table pretending to confer about something very serious.
Alma turned in her chair when she heard the rattle of Blanche and the cart bumping across the ground toward her. “Ah, there she is! Bring that over here, honey. I’m famished.” She threw the towel off the cart and groaned. “Not more rubber chicken.”
“Try it, Miss Bolding. I heard you complaining about Mr. Mills’s chicken last night. I fried this batch up myself, just for you.”
Alma grinned before taking an experimental bite out of a thigh. Her dark eyes widened. “My goodness. What a difference.” She examined the thigh like it was a science experiment. “What did you do to make it so juicy?”
“Well, in the first place, it’s a thigh and not a breast, and thighs are juicier. Second, Mr. Mills is a real good cook. He can do magic things with chicken I never seen before. But he don’t know how to fry it. I swear he boils it first before he fries it.”
Alma laughed. “Well, damn, honey, the man is from New Jersey. What does he know about southern fried anything?”
“I didn’t exactly tell him he was doing it wrong, but I asked him to let me do the frying this morning. He got all bothered when I didn’t boil the chicken first, but I told him that this is the way my mama and grandmas and their mamas back to Eve fried it and I reckon they know more about how to fry a chicken than any fancy chef in Paris, France. He let me go ahead, but I think he just wanted me to have to eat my words. I’ll tell you, the cowboys and the crew couldn’t get enough of my chicken, and Mr. Mills is the one who had to eat his words. I had to save this for you, Miss Bolding, since the rest of it got ate up.”
Alma, who had never learned to boil water, enjoyed Blanche’s tale immensely. “I hope Mills doesn’t give you any trouble for showing him up.”
Blanche shrugged. “I think he was proud of me, but he’d never say it.”
“You’re a sassy little thing, aren’t you?”
Blanche’s first impulse was to apologize for stepping out of her place, but she reconsidered. Alma Bolding seemed to like sass. “Well, Miss Bolding, if a chicken is going to sacrifice her life for your dinner, you should at least make it worth her while.”
To Blanche’s relief, Alma smiled. “You’re my kind of gal, puppy.”
“Is it all right if I watch for a few minutes?”
“I don’t see why not, if Mills can spare you. Just keep out of the way or Elmo will toss you out on your ass.”
Blanche stood behind Alma’s chair and watched the action as the actress ate. At regular intervals, the director Elmo Reynolds would yell at the actors through a megaphone. He was only ten yards from the action, but the hand-cranked camera was surprisingly noisy, and even though this was a silent movie, the actors were actually speaking dialogue to one another. Blanche couldn’t help but laugh when one of the extras threw in a line that was hilariously filthy and had nothing to do with the script. Alma nearly choked on her chicken, and Elmo called a stop.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shrieked.
The extra did not look abashed. “What do you care, Mr. Reynolds? The audience won’t be able to hear me, anyway.”
“People can read your lips, you idiot. Now just say the lines you were given. And don’t let Mix hear you talk like that in front of women. Let’s break, anyway. The food cart is here. Fifteen minutes for lunch or we’ll lose the light.”
Blanche was still euphoric when she wheeled the cartful of licked-clean plates back to the mess tent. She was relieved to see that Mills’s minions had already cleaned up after the crew’s mid-day meal, so the only dishes she would have to wash were the ones in the cart. But Mills had other plans for her. He waved her over. “Blanche, get your hat. I need to drive into Prescott for supplies before I can start on supper, and I want you to go with me.”
Blanche was surprised. Mills usually took his assistant cook with him on these supply runs, and that was fine with Blanche. She had no particular desire to go back into Prescott, but she knew better than to say that to Mills. After all, she told herself, what are the odds that Otto Schilling would be anywhere near the greengrocer’s?
~“You will be mine.
You are mine.
Mine!”~
Mr. Mills loaded up the back of his flatbed Model T with empty crates and drove south from Slaughterhouse Gulch to Prescott. To Blanche’s relief, he did not go all the way into downtown, but skirted Montezuma Street and turned south on Granite.
He pulled up to a small greengrocer’s with a sizable display of late summer and early fall vegetables ranged across the boardwalk in front of the store. Mr. Mills left Blanche outside ogling the produce while he went inside to fetch the proprietor, who, according to the sign on the window, sported the unlikely name of Wu Fan. Most of the vegetables that were piled up in boxes and across tables were things that Blanche would expect to see at this time of year—crisp little apples, carrots, onions, leeks, squashes, peppers, and potatoes. But Blanche was impressed with the healthy displays of some produce that was hard, if not impossible, to find in Oklahoma. The hard little green grapes that grew wild in the woods behind her parents’ farm bore little resemblance to these fat, purple fruits oozing juice down the sides of a crate. She had never before seen tiny pine nuts or pistachios. The huge pile of sticky dates looked delicious, and she was so sorely tempted to take a sample that she clasped her hands behind her back like a five-year-old who had been warned not to touch. She was wondering at the small box of hairy little nut-like things labeled “lychee” when a quick movement at her feet caused her to jump back. What had she seen? Was it a rat?
She shuddered and bent over to peek under the sidewalk table, ready to leap back into the truck if she had to. But the bright button eyes staring at her from under the lychees belonged to no rat.
“Hey, dog,” she greeted, delighted. “Come on out here and say hello.”
The small, unkempt creature of no particular breed stayed where it was, but it did favor her with an enthusiastic tail wag.
She didn’t have time to coax it. Mr. Mills reappeared, accompanied by the eponymous Mr. Wu, who was carrying a crate of potatoes almost as big as he was.
“Come on, Blanche,” Mills said. “There are a dozen bags and boxes inside. Help us load up.”
She tried to ignore the dog as she made several trips back and for
th from the grocery to the truck, but it was hard. It was still under the table, but its whiskery nose would poke out and twitch enticingly every time she passed. She couldn’t decide what weird liaison had produced such a creature. He was very small, but she didn’t think he was a puppy. More like a lap dog, like her great-aunt’s Pomeranian, but not nearly so elegant. She had seen a French bulldog once. It was more like that, except much hairier.
She would have spoken to it again, but Mr. Wu caught sight of it and burst out with a cascade of Chinese curses and would have kicked the little intruder if it hadn’t beat a hasty retreat.
Blanche loaded a last bag of onions, feeling disappointed that the dog had gone. She stepped out from behind the truck onto the boardwalk and practically bumped her nose on Otto Schilling’s waistcoat.
He had her arm in a vice-like grip before she quite knew what was happening.
“Well, I’ll be damned! Look who we have here.”
Blanche didn’t pause to consider the irony of the situation, or plan, or do anything resembling thought. She opened her mouth and screamed like a banshee, all the while kicking her captor in the shins for everything she was worth.
Mills and Wu spilled out of the store, but they were beaten to the rescue by a furry whirlwind of fury that sank its needle teeth into Schilling’s ankle and resisted all efforts to dislodge it. Schilling bellowed in pain and Blanche took advantage of the distraction to slip his grip and run into Mr. Mills’s arms. Mr. Wu ran into the fray brandishing a nasty-looking metal rod and flailed about with it, unsure whether to aim for the shrieking fat man or the ratty little canine attached to his ankle.
Blanche pressed herself against Mr. Mills’s shirt and cried, “Don’t hurt it!” But Wu managed to land a kick and the dog yelped and ran off.
Schilling limped back up onto the sidewalk, red-faced and heaving. “I ought to sue you for damages, Wu.”
Wu was not intimidated. “I never see that mutt in my life. If not for me, it chew your leg off.”
Schilling didn’t express his thanks. He had other matters on his mind. He pointed at Blanche.
“That girl belongs to me.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mills’s question could barely be heard over Blanche’s wails of protest.
“I paid good money for that girl. I bought her debt. She owes me. Now, hand her over.”
Mills was incensed. “I think not, Mr. Whoever-you-are. This young woman works for Miss Alma Bolding, and if you don’t leave forthwith, I will send for the police.”
“Hah! The police will be on my side.”
“Miss Bolding and Mr. Tom Mix and the entire crew of his latest motion picture will most assuredly not be on your side, you blackguard. Now, leave before the cavalry arrives.”
A crowd was gathering, and Schilling could tell that it was time for a strategic retreat. “All right, all right, I’m leaving.” He leveled a finger at Blanche. “But this is not over, little girl.”
Schilling stalked off and when he disappeared around the corner, Mills pushed Blanche out to arm’s length so he could get a good look at her. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m all right.” She was panting with alarm, so ghostly white that Mills feared she would faint. “But please, let’s get out of here before he comes back.”
Mills snapped his fingers to get the grocer’s attention. “Add this to my account, if you will, Mr. Wu. I think we’d better make our exit.” He gestured for Blanche to get into the truck.
“Can we take the dog?” she asked, then fell to her knees and began scrambling about under the produce tables without waiting for an answer.
Mills started to object, but Mr. Wu said, “That mutt hang around here all the time. If I catch him, I kill him.”
Blanche backed out from beneath the grapes, holding the squirming pooch by the scruff of the neck. She clambered into the truck and Mills gave the starter a crank before he got in beside her and shifted into gear. “I think that when we get back to Slaughterhouse Gulch you are going to owe me a story, little girl.”
~What hideously delightful
creature is this?~
When Mills pulled up before the mess tent, Blanche did not hang around. She leaped out of the truck and ran straight to Alma Bolding’s tent with the dog in her arms. Alma was in the middle of a costume change and Mrs. Gilbert was on the floor, pinning up the skirt, when Blanche burst in.
“He found me! What shall I do?”
The two women gazed at her as though she had suddenly grown two heads, so Blanche decided more explanation was in order. “I went into Prescott with Mr. Mills and ran right into the man who bought me from Graham, Otto Schilling. He said he owns me! Mr. Mills threatened to call the police but the bad man said the police would be on his side. I have to get out of here.”
Mrs. Gilbert and Alma were both standing at her side now, each with an arm over her shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, puppy,” Alma said. “Nobody owns you, and I’ve got an army of lawyers who will bring the bastard up on charges.”
“But he’ll kidnap me.”
“Honey, we’ve got a dozen cowboys and crew who will say otherwise if he tries anything. I’ll ask Tom to arrange some guards out at the cabin…” She hesitated, finally noticing what Blanche was holding. “What the frick is this?”
Blanche’s panic, which had abated after Alma’s assurances, sprang back to life. “He’s just a stray, but he saved me from Mr. Schilling. He bit him and I was able to get away. Please let me keep him. I know all about dogs. I’ll take care of him. You won’t even know he’s around.”
Mrs. Gilbert looked skeptical, but Alma was already chucking the dog under the chin, much to his apparent pleasure. “Look at this, Delphinia,” she said. “What the roving hell kind of a beast do you think it is?”
“A mongrel, for sure. Perhaps part one of those Mexican things, a Chihuahua?” Mrs. Gilbert ventured.
“Looks like he’s part rat and part drain hair.” Alma was rubbing the creature’s ears as it frantically licked her hand.
“He loves you, Miss Bolding,” Blanche said. “Please let me keep him.”
“Well, of course, puppy.” Alma backed off a step and rubbed her saliva-damp hand on the skirt of her costume. “Hey, Delphinia, now we have two lost puppies.”
Mrs. Gilbert grabbed Alma’s wet hand and began wiping it with a towel. “Blanche, take some rags and soap and wash that thing off in the creek. It stinks. I’m going to go talk to Mr. Mills in a few minutes. And don’t think about Schilling anymore. If he shows up again, we’ll take care of him.” She shot Blanche a stern glance. “But no more trips into Prescott for you.”
Blanche clutched the little dog to her breast, limp with relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you both.”
After she left the tent with the dog in one hand and a bucketful of bath supplies in the other, Alma and Mrs. Gilbert gave one another a look that indicated they were of one mind.
1926, Santa Monica, California
When you’re rich, you think you can getaway with anything. And as far as Ted Oliver had been able to see, you could.
Still squatting down beside the accidental grave on the beach, Ted Oliver listened with interest as Officer Poole related his unflattering biography of the late Graham Peyton. Oliver had found that Poole usually tried to do the right thing, which is why he had cultivated a relationship with him. Not many cops cared about the right thing these days. Poole had been with the Santa Monica Police Department since its inception in 1904, shortly after the town was incorporated. In fact, he had been born here, which was probably why he gave a damn about the community.
Santa Monica had been a prosperous enclave for as long as it had been in existence, but it had been a quiet little beach retreat until recently. Now the megawealthy were moving in. The stars of the silver screen, the moguls, oil magnates, and businessmen. The motion picture industry
was taking over Southern California, and a filthy industry it was. In the early days, the movie business was wide open, creative and entrepreneurial, but in the past few years, the studio system had been on the rise, geared to making profits and even more profits. The flickers may have been selling dreams, but the reality of the motion picture world was becoming more like a nightmare. Too much money and no morals.
The studios, the press, the law, the business community were all in cahoots. The big studios kept their stable of actors in line with threats of scandal, real or invented. And if they could manage it, they made sure there was scandalous behavior to hold over an actor’s head. It wasn’t hard. Human nature is weak and it doesn’t take much to tempt people. Especially people with big ambitions and bigger egos. Payoffs were rife, drugs were everywhere. In fact, some of the studios had their own purveyors of vice on the payroll. Prohibition was the law, but alcohol was easy to come by. Need a classy young lady to provide entertainment to a dignitary? There were plenty of pretend starlets who’d do whatever necessary for a part.
Plenty of women—and pretty young men, too–who had been lured to Hollywood with promises of fame ended up being traded around like merchandise, locked up in a whorehouse servicing oilmen and producers, virtual prisoners. No money, no prospects, too ashamed or scared to contact their families or the law to ask for help. Not that help would be forthcoming. The police were mostly on the take.
Oliver had never considered himself a pillar of virtue. He knew the way things worked here, and he wasn’t above taking the occasional small consideration as an inducement to look the other way. But Oliver did have his standards. Gambling and gin were one thing, but murder and pimping out naive young girls was something else altogether.
