by P. J. Conn
After meeting Charlie Goode, Joe didn't know what to expect, but the director, Casper Green, was a tall, slim fellow in a gray suit. He was as handsome as the stars in his films, but preferred directing to playing a part.
"Come in and sit down. Charlie told me you two had the look of real soldiers, but he sometimes exaggerates so I didn't believe him until now. You are exactly what I want for a pair who'll have minimal screen time, but be impossible to forget. You've got memorable faces."
"Is that a compliment?" Max asked.
Casper laughed as though Max had been intentionally funny. "We'll have to get you into a comedy. The film, The Hell of War, or whatever, we've yet to decide on a title, is set to begin filming right after Halloween. Keep your schedules clear from November 1st through the 15th."
"I could come back to LA," Max whispered to Joe.
Joe nodded. "Great. But we like to keep busy, Mr. Green. Do you have a film that's short a couple of actors that's shooting before then?"
"You two ever do a Western?" Casper checked his calendar. "We're beginning one tomorrow, Arizona Sunrise, and I can always use a couple more cowboys in the saloon. Maybe I'll write you some lines." He made himself a quick note. "Just the usual grumbling at the bar that sets the tone for the scene. Come in at seven o'clock tomorrow morning and go straight to wardrobe. They'll get you suited up, and we start shooting at eight."
Max leaned forward. "Do we get to ride horses?"
Joe touched his arm. "They don't usually serve horses in a saloon."
Casper laughed and leaped from his chair. "I can see it now, you two could be arguing over who owns the fastest horse. Maybe you've had fifteen races and one man has had eight wins."
"Shouldn't we use fourteen races so we could be tied?" Max asked. He stood and took a step toward the door.
"Yes, I see where you're going. A tie it will be. See you first thing tomorrow. The gate will have your names."
Joe led the way out the door and hurried them to his car. "I really need to get into my office this afternoon. Can you use the time to arrange for a pick-up from the Salvation Army?"
"Sure, right after you tell me about Cookie Crumble." He stood as though looking for a fight with his hands resting on his hips and his feet firmly planted on the asphalt.
A parking lot wasn't an ideal spot for such a revealing conversation when Max might take a swing at him, and Joe didn't want to have to hit him back. Anyway, it always paid to be cautious. "Let's get some ice cream, and I'll tell you what I know while we eat."
"Promise?"
"I do," Joe swore, and he used the ride to Aunt Lucy's Ice Cream Parlor to think of half a dozen ways to describe Alice's work at Sherry's. None were particularly appealing, but he was out of time. When they arrived, they were shown to a booth where they could talk without being overheard. He hoped the chill air would help Max hang onto his temper.
"I usually order ice cream or a sundae, but the milkshakes are good."
As soon as they'd ordered, Max leaned close. "Go on, tell me the whole story. I can take it."
It sounded like a dare, and Joe nodded thoughtfully. "They have entertainment at Sherry's. Did you notice the poster with photographs of the girls dressed in costumes in the entrance?"
"No, I was looking for someone who knew Alice. What sort of entertainment does Sherry's have?"
Joe drew in a deep breath. "They have some very talented striptease artists. Alice was among the most popular."
"She took off her clothes!" Max cried, and a woman with a small boy seated nearby turned to hush him. His cheeks flushed a bright red, and he took a quick gulp of his water, and lowered his voice. "Alice would never have done that."
"Of course not," Joe agreed, "but Cookie Crumble did. The people who knew Cookie Crumble didn't know her as Alice Reyes. Cookie was a performer, while Alice pursed an acting career."
"The police should have told me that in the beginning." The waitress brought his strawberry milkshake, and Joe's scoop of chocolate ice cream. Max waited for her to turn away before he continued. "Mae should have told me, and you should have told me yesterday. Does Mary Margaret know?"
"Yes, she does, and she was provoked with me for not telling you the truth in the first place. I hope you won't think any less of Alice."
"She was my sister," he hissed. His eyes began to fill with tears, and he comforted himself with a long swig of his milkshake. "What am I going to tell our mother?"
"Your mother has suffered a tragic loss. Does she really need to know about Cookie?"
"You want me to lie to my own mother? Is that all anyone does in this town?"
"Some people, yes, but if the truth will hurt someone, isn't it better to avoid telling it? Archibald Sutton had faith in Alice's talent. He would have found her a movie role soon."
"And then what would have happened to Cookie?" Max asked. "Would she just have disappeared?"
"That's the way to think," Joe encouraged. "When Cookie was no longer needed to pay Alice's rent, she would have quietly retired and disappeared."
"Who was the murderer killing, Cookie or my sister?"
"I believe he was someone she met at Sherry's. Someone who fell for Cookie and it ended very badly."
Max finished his milkshake and set the tall glass aside. "Will you take me back to Alice's apartment? I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Of course, I will." Joe finished his ice cream and paid the bill. When they reached Alice's place, Max got out of the car, turned and then bent down to look at Joe.
"What about tomorrow? Are we working at MGM or not?" he asked.
"I'll pick you up at 6:30," Joe responded. "It will be a great story to tell your mother."
"If I can manage the truth," Max answered, and he walked away, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
Joe waited a minute before leaving. He'd managed what could have been a dreadful scene pretty well, at least in his view, and hoped he could say the same thing after tomorrow.
* * *
Joe stopped by his office to check his mail and found nothing but bills he shoved into the top desk drawer. He kept telling himself he needed a plant or two to give the room some class, but before he could leave to run the errand, someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," he called.
An elegantly dressed brunette edged the door open and looked in. "How long have you been in business?" she asked.
He stood and gestured for her to come in and be seated. "About a year, and I have the necessary experience to handle whatever problem you might have."
She came in, but obviously unimpressed, she swept the stark office with an impatient glance before sitting down. "I'll be quick about this. I'm Florence Fitzgerald, my daughter, Lacy, spoke with you recently with some wild tale of seeing her father with another woman when he's supposed to be in San Francisco. If he's cheating on me, on our family, I swear I'll take his head off with a can opener."
It was such a bizarre threat, Joe needed a moment to respond. "I can't accept a job if there's a chance it will end in violence."
"Don't take many jobs, do you?" Her green eyes had a slight slant, and held a fierce sparkle of disdain.
He could well understand why Mr. Fitzgerald might choose to spend as much time as possible in San Francisco. "That's not really the issue, is it? If you'd like for me to investigate your husband's whereabouts, I'll need your promise he won't come to any harm."
She responded with a hollow laugh and dismissive wave. "Merely an idle threat, Mr. Ezell. Phillip has to remain alive to support us in the fashion to which we've grown accustomed. When he's away, he telephones nearly every night to talk with the children. Of course, he could be calling from Salt Lake City for all we know."
He had seldom disliked a client more, but he thought of Lacy, and forced a smile. "I'll need the basic information, your husband's workplace to begin."
Mrs. Fitzgerald removed a business card from her sleek leather bag. "Here you are. The firm is Fitzgerald, Finegold and S
loan. It's a well-respected architectural partnership, but if Phillip is not where he's supposed to be, his partners will know and lie about it. Don't trust them to be sincere no matter how nice they might appear."
"Do you have a photo of Phillip?"
She handed him a small one. "This is the formal pose they display in their office. It's only a couple of years old."
Phillip was a strikingly handsome man with thick black hair and blue eyes. He had an engaging smile with a dimple in his left cheek, but Joe had met more than one handsome man with a thoroughly corrupt spirit.
"Do you have a number for where he stays when he's in San Francisco?"
"No, he works long hours and doesn't wish to be called there. If I need him before he calls us in the evening, I telephone his office. They give him the message, and he phones us early."
"Lacy reported seeing a man resembling her father as she left a movie theater. Which one would that have been?"
"I dropped them off at the El Capitan on Hollywood Blvd. You must know it."
"Yes, of course I do. Did you also pick them up after the show?"
"I did, and met them at the corner. My son, Tom, loves Roy Rogers's movies with all the horses and cowboys. I can't abide them myself. He told me the whole story on the way home, but Lacy was very quiet. I assumed she'd simply become bored with cowboys."
He made a few last notes, placed the business card and photo in Lacy's folder, and asked Florence for her home address and telephone number. She looked as though she could afford more than his usual fee, so he raised it twenty dollars per hour, and she didn't even blink. She paid his retainer in cash and left without saying good-bye, leaving a noticeable chill behind.
The custodian must have passed her in the corridor and looked in. "A new client?" he whispered.
"Yes, but hopefully our association will be brief."
"She reminded me of my second wife," CC said. "Gorgeous on the outside, but without a speck of heart on the inside."
"I hope you weren't with her long," Joe sympathized.
"No, sir. We parted company when she met a man with more money than sense. I bless that day every year." He emptied the trashcan. "You have a good afternoon now."
"Thank you, CC. See you tomorrow." He'd wait until he'd actually worked at MGM before telling the story, but he knew CC would enjoy it.
He reached for the phone, called the number on Phillip's business card, and a secretary answered. "Good afternoon, is Phillip Fitzgerald in?"
"He's working on one of our projects in San Francisco this week. May I take a message?"
"This is Joe Ezell, and I'm following up on a conversation I had with Mr. Fitzgerald on a project that interested him. Would you give me his number in San Francisco, please?"
"He prefers to return calls, and I'll be happy to forward your message."
"Fine, give him my name, and number and tell him I'm a dear friend of Florence's. He'll know why I called."
Joe gave her his number, hung up and leaned back. If Phillip sat at his drawing board in his Los Angeles office, he'd call back within fifteen minutes or so. If he actually were in San Francisco, it would probably take him until tomorrow. After he'd waited half an hour, he gave up on speaking with Mr. Fitzgerald for the day and left to finally buy himself a colorful houseplant.
* * *
After work, Mary Margaret had a meeting with the nurses managing the scholarship honoring Georgia Dixon, a nurse who'd been murdered, and Joe cooked his own dinner that night. He made an incredibly good grilled cheese sandwich, and made notes as he savored it.
He'd wanted more business, but now he needed to focus on how to handle it. Focus was one of his favorite words, and he printed it and underlined it twice. He could justify pretending to be an actor to gain access to the same circle of folks Cookie might have known. He'd certainly not charge Leon Helms for what would surely be a brief excursion into the movies, however.
Max had asked if everyone in town lied. What if the people he'd questioned hadn't spoken the truth? He often came home late from Mary Margaret's, so he might not have been in his apartment the night Alice Reyes died. Brett Wayne had said he'd not heard anything that weekend. What if he'd lied? Maybe Alice had called for help, he'd gone to her rescue, and then strangled her when she didn't appreciate the gesture as he'd expected her to?
It was logical, and Brett would be sure to hide his guilt behind an innocuous interest in the next tenants in apartment three. In Joe's view, no one else in the building looked suspicious. Unless the librarians weren't as square as they seemed. If they really were into sex games, they could have picked up Alice at Sherry's. Maybe their tastes had been too extreme for Alice, and John or Melissa had strangled her in an angry fit.
Bernice Ross, who vamped it up as Lily Montell , had asked about the residents of the apartment building where Alice had been found. Was she merely steering the suspicion away from herself? What if she'd taken Alice along to the type of parties Archibald Sutton had sworn he didn't send his pretty clients to?
Then again, maybe Archibald Sutton had lied through his teeth, and he did have a tie to mob run parties where beautiful girls were at a premium.
Joe couldn't overlook the other girls at Sherry's. They might have been better friends with Alice than they admitted. Maybe the whole bunch were guests at private parties. What about the bouncer at Sherry's, Corky Coyne? He could have strangled Alice with one hand. There were also the nameless men who showered Alice with flowers and gifts.
One of them could have taken a rejection very badly, but why would they have stuffed her body in the Thornton's refrigerator? He kept getting stuck on that point.
He hadn't had time to question Stuart Helms, but there was a frat house full of possible suspects there. After filling several pages with notes, he was satisfied he'd spent enough time on Cookie Crumble and set them aside.
The mystery novel he hadn't finished called to him, but now that he'd become a detective, mysteries weren't nearly as enjoyable to read as they once were. He could spot the murderer too quickly, which didn't actually happen in the real world.
* * *
The next morning, Max Reyes stood in front of his sister's apartment house, and Joe greeted him warmly, "Good morning. Sometimes scenes are cut from films, so even if we're paid for the day, it doesn't mean our faces will get on the screen."
"Every Western has a fight in a saloon though, doesn't it?" Max asked.
"I believe so, but the fights aren't real. Or at least I hope they're not." He kept the conversation centered on the film as they rode to MGM. Once there, Max was too busy to get in a word about his sister.
At wardrobe, there were a couple dozen other guys pulling on jeans and pearl button shirts. Most had outfits already set out for them, and Joe and Max had to hurry finding boots and hats that fit.
A whiskered older gentleman gave them some advice. "Most of us have our own boots. You'll want to get your own if you plan to work more Westerns. No use hobbling around all day in a pair of uncomfortable boots, and believe me, wardrobe has some excruciating pairs."
Joe quickly found what he meant. He finally went with a pair a size larger than usual and advised Max to do the same. He stomped around a bit, but the boots still felt strange. "We'll be leaning against the bar, so maybe no one will see us walking around."
"Didn't you ever dress up like a cowboy when you were a kid?" Max asked. He'd been lucky with the first pair of boots he'd tried, and walked as though he'd always worn them.
"Sure, had holsters with a pair of cap pistols too, but that was a long time ago." After hurrying to get dressed, they rode a tram to the set and sat for an hour while Casper Green and the male leads of the film discussed the script. What there was to discuss about a fight in a saloon Joe couldn't imagine. He was grateful Max appeared to be lost in his own thoughts and remained silent by his side.
Joe enjoyed movies, but before that day he'd not considered how much technical expertise they involved. There were cameras, cable
s, lights, microphone booms, and the men to run them and make everything appear real. There were make-up artists ready to touch up the star's splendid tan, but the extras didn't get any such attention. By the time they finally did a run through of the fight scene, it was nearly noon.
The whiskered gent led the way to the food trailers. "The big stars eat in the commissary, but all we'll get are sandwiches. I'm glad for them anyway."
Joe took a ham sandwich and Max took turkey. There were sodas to wash down their lunch, and then they went back to work, such as it was. They did a slow walk through the fight, and despite Casper Green's offer to write lines for them, they weren't given any. All he and Max had to do was lean against the bar, and then back out of the way once the fight began.
When they were released for the day at three o'clock, they returned their clothes to wardrobe, and put their names on them for tomorrow. Joe was ready to go home and take a long nap. "I swear there's nothing worse than standing around doing nothing all day."
"Riding home on the train with my sister's casket will be a lot worse."
"I'm sorry. That was thoughtless of me," Joe stressed.
When they reached Alice's apartment, Max turned to Joe. "I found a good café around the corner, so you needn't worry about taking me to dinner. See you in the morning?"
"Sure thing."
* * *
Joe headed for his office rather than home, and pushed himself to use the rest of the day looking for Phillip Fitzgerald. He and Mary Margaret went to the Jumpin' Plate often enough to be recognized, and he wondered if the owners of the café across the street from the El Capitan Theatre might recognize Phillip.
Thinking it was worth a try, he washed up in the restroom and drove to Hollywood Blvd. He found The Pepper Mill Café located across the street from the El Capitan Theatre, and entered wearing a congenial smile. He showed the cashier Phillip's photo and used his inheritance story without mentioning Mr. Fitzgerald by name.
