by Guy Bolton
“The body . . . Stanley . . . Mr. Stanley’s body has been removed from his house by representatives of the medical examiner’s office. A pathologist will be completing a full autopsy in the coming days.”
“. . . Do we know if he was on any prescription medication?”
“That, I am unaware of.”
“. . . What about rumors of Stanley’s sexuality?”
“Miss Goodwin did not deny the rumors.”
“. . . Was she planning on divorcing her husband? Was that why he killed himself?”
Simms stepped forward and pulled O’Neill away. “Gentlemen, no more questions. Thank you, we’re out of time. No more questions, please.”
Jonathan Craine watched as the herd of umbrellas dispersed and the shaken figure of O’Neill was ushered into the safety of the police department. He had reason to be pleased. The fruits of his labor had paid off. Still, he wasn’t sure if he trusted O’Neill. He was always two steps ahead, always questioning the facts. What was he angling for? Did he want a promotion? Money? The Detective Bureau wasn’t known for its ethical idealism.
Craine’s Fleetwood was parked in the road. When he reached his driver’s door, a hand leaned out and opened it for him.
“Allow me,” said Russell Peterson, standing a little too closely by Craine’s side with his umbrella held over both of them. There was rain on his stubble like dew on freshly cut grass and Craine thought it odd he hadn’t shaved that morning.
“Satisfied, Mr. Peterson?”
Peterson smiled in slow motion. “Aren’t we always, Detective Craine? Your efforts to make good on our arrangement are appreciated.”
Craine took the door from his hand. “I’ll contact you tomorrow then.”
“Will you be speaking to Wilson?”
He was referring to Billy Wilson, owner of The Hollywood Enquirer. They shared a long history, and the thought of seeing Wilson filled Craine with unease. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “pending the outcome of today’s press release.”
“We’re expecting negative press. Insider talk on The Enquirer’s budget lines has been nothing but scathing and Mr. Mayer is anxious.”
“Do you have something to offer Wilson in return?”
Peterson inclined his head. “We’ll review our position over advertising costs. A favorable deal if Wilson amends his stance.”
“I’ll pass on the message.”
A nod signaled the end of their conversation and Craine slid into the driver’s seat. As Peterson walked back toward his waiting car, Craine’s eye was caught by a man wearing a long beige coat over a dark, chalk-striped suit. He was standing near the top of the steps and remained so as the press broke away, staring at him with a look delivering recognition yet completely devoid of expression. Did he know him? Beneath a petrol-blue hat, Craine saw russet-brown hair, almost red. An unfashionably trim ginger beard halted at the jawline where a long scar ran up to his temple.
There was a tap on the window to his left. “Detective Craine?”
Craine’s secretary, Elaine, stood on the sidewalk, wrapped tight in a clutch coat with her hands tucked under her armpits. She didn’t have an umbrella, and a scarf around her head did little to protect her hair from the rain.
“Don’t you have an umbrella?” he said, winding down the window.
“I left it with Detective O’Neill. There was a call for you from your son’s school. Father Calloway.”
“Is something wrong? Has something happened to Michael?”
Elaine turned against the wind as rain buffeted her face. “He didn’t mention anything. He asked if you could visit. He’s been calling here—”
“Fine, if he calls again you can tell him I’m on my way. Get inside or you’ll catch a cold.”
“Good night, Detective Craine.”
As he turned the ignition, Craine looked back again at the steps but the man with the red hair had disappeared.
Chapter 7
“I’m not worried about his studies,” said Father Calloway, pushing a prayer book to one side so he could rest his elbows on the desk. “Michael is by far the brightest pupil in his class.” Calloway’s face was wide and round, framed by a thick beard and wispy gray hair that had begun its slow retreat up his forehead. His office was in an old bell tower that overlooked the school courtyard. The room was small and dark, with wood-paneled walls and a low ceiling. It reminded Craine of a confession booth.
Craine was quiet for a moment, head bowed, staring at the knuckles on his right hand. He knew Calloway was studying his face.
“Then what is the problem, Father?”
“We’re worried about his social development. He remains reclusive, his behavior troubles his teachers. I’ve left messages at your work.”
“I’ve been away.”
“I wrote to you in New York.”
“I received your letters.” The letters explained that Michael was having trouble adapting to the death of his mother. They suggested that it wasn’t good for Michael to be without a parental figure. The inference was clear: Craine had abandoned his son.
“Then you know he won’t talk to anyone. He still hasn’t.”
“He’s quiet, that’s all. I was a quiet child.”
“He’s not quiet, he’s mute, Mr. Craine. He hasn’t said a word since the accident. Not to his peers, not to anyone. I’ve seen him mumble his prayers to himself, but that’s about all. Mostly he rereads the same chapters in the Old Testament or plays marbles with the other boys, but he’ll never talk to them. He plays completely silently, one hand always clinging onto his bag of marbles. You know the one I mean?”
“I know it.” It was a gift from Celia, given to Michael at Christmas a few days before she died.
“One of our boys took a marble off him this morning. Wouldn’t give it back, so Michael clean broke his nose. Boy’s parents are in an uproar, came in here demanding Michael be expelled.” Tired of sitting, he pushed himself off his chair and swung himself toward the window. “I said that wasn’t possible, that I couldn’t do anything of the sort without talking to his father first. But I’ve had no word from you, Mr. Craine. I didn’t even know you were back from New York.”
Craine had been in denial about his responsibilities, he knew that. But he wanted to get his life in order first. Celia had been such a good mother and he would be so weak in comparison. Better to have no father than a bad one, surely? “I was planning on coming to see you,” he tried to explain. “I apologize if I’ve been difficult to get hold of. I wasn’t aware of the urgency of the situation.”
“Look, I have no intention of expelling Michael,” said Calloway. “He belongs here, and if you don’t mind me saying, that other idiot had it coming to him. But in all seriousness, Michael needs help. I’m not in a position to—”
“He found his mother,” said Craine, interrupting. “Did you know that? He found her dead. You can understand he’d be upset. They were very close.”
Calloway ran a finger between his neck and clerical collar. He looked hot, uncomfortable. “We know,” he said, “but there are things he needs that we can’t help him with. What I mean is there are things we can’t offer him.”
“If he needs extra help, if he needs to see a doctor, I’ll pay for it. I’ll donate to the archdiocese if necessary. Money isn’t an issue.”
Calloway shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean? Look, I’ll speak to this other boy’s parents. What’s his name? What’s their address?”
“He needs his father, Mr. Craine. What Michael needs is you.”
Craine sat upright, straightening himself. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here to spend time with him. He’s why I came back.”
“Then do you think he should return to his family home? The summer break is fast approaching.”
Craine flustered. Michael couldn’t stay with him. He wasn’t ready. And even if he brought the maid or the nanny back he wasn’t sure it would be good for Michael.
Good for either of them, in fact.
He glanced toward the door to make sure it was still shut. Michael was sitting on a bench outside. He lowered his voice: “I’m busy with work. Things are a little difficult for me right now. I want to take him out. Tonight. We’ll go to the pictures.”
“I think he would really benefit from spending some time with you, Mr. Craine—more than the occasional evening visit and the odd excursion.”
Craine’s nostrils flared, blood coming to his face. “I think I know what’s best for him; I am after all his father. This is a boarding school, isn’t it? Or was I misinformed?”
Calloway nodded. “This is a boarding school.”
“Then I assume Michael is one of many boarders of his age.”
“He’s not alone, no.” Calloway stepped back to his chair and took a seat.
“And you say he’s not expelled.”
“I won’t be taking the matter any further.”
“Then I see no reason why he shouldn’t continue as he is.”
Father Calloway sat back, defeated. For a long moment he said nothing. “Yes, Mr. Craine,” he said, picking up the prayer book on his desk and placing it in his lap, “Michael is more than welcome to stay.”
Craine drove them to a picture house on Broadway and asked for two tickets to whatever was showing. When he collected his tickets he spotted Michael facing across the street, staring at a breadline trailing two blocks south. The Depression was most visible here downtown, where panhandlers and indigent transients sold oranges and pencils to make enough money for a decent meal and maybe a bottle of something.
Craine tapped his shoulder. “Come on, Michael, let’s go inside.”
Craine followed the blue neon strips to their seats. The vendor had told him The Tainted Feather was ten minutes in but the name of the picture didn’t resonate until he saw Gale Goodwin’s face projected in close-up onto a thirty-foot square. He considered leaving but it was late now and he was tired. Even though he doubted he’d sleep tonight, he had no intention of staying out any longer than necessary and he chose two seats near the back of the screening room so they could make a timely exit when the curtains closed.
When they were seated, Craine leaned down, whispering, “Are you alright? Do you want anything to eat? Popcorn? Peanuts?”
Michael shook his head, eyes staring intently at the screen.
“You know, Father Calloway said you were fighting. You shouldn’t hit people, you know that. But if you’re standing up for what you believe in then that’s different. That’s important.”
Again, Michael didn’t reply and Craine realized that what Calloway had told him was true: Michael was mute. He wondered how long he would stay that way and whether he should take him to a doctor. But doctors in L.A. would likely put him on medication and that wasn’t what Craine wanted. Michael wasn’t mentally ill. He didn’t need his brain fixing. He was sad.
It was a good picture, one that Celia would have liked. She was one of the few actors he knew who genuinely enjoyed going to the movie theater. She loved pictures, would go twice a week if she could. Craine was apathetic, as he was increasingly to most things in life. Michael sat quietly throughout the whole movie. Like his mother, he loved every second, would ask to go every night when he was younger. Craine scanned Michael’s face quickly, noticing a light on behind those narrow eyes, his pupils glowing brightly at the movement on the screen.
When the picture ended they drove for forty minutes without saying a word. The rain had stopped and Broadway was buzzing with nightlife. They passed drunk college boys staggering out of bars; a barker was yelling about a midnight showing of some B-picture; a little further down the street a gang of Mexicans were fighting outside a drugstore. You didn’t see many Latinos in this part of Hollywood. Most Mexicans lived in the flats or toward Happy Valley, relegated to a new social substructure beneath the white working classes.
On the quiet road that twisted toward Michael’s school, Craine said, “When I left, I know I didn’t really tell you when I was coming back. I should have told you how long I was going away for. I realize that. But I’m back now. I have my job back.”
He was making excuses. He was always making excuses without ever really apologizing. He shot Michael a side glance but he was staring at the footwell. “I would have come to see you sooner but I’ve been busy,” he went on. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I thought about writing but in the end I figured it would be easier if we talked about it. I’ve been thinking about selling the house.”
This seemed to get Michael’s attention. He looked at him. A blank expression but a look nonetheless.
Encouraged, Craine continued: “You remember before Christmas your mother mentioned about moving East? Do you remember that? We discussed it a few times.”
Discussed was the polite term. They’d fought about it for weeks. He tried to recall the argument they’d had that final night. He could remember Celia’s incessant pleas that they leave California and move to New York, but his memory was blurred and unclear and he couldn’t quite envisage the scene or remember the words.
“I’ve been talking with real estate agents about putting the house on the market. Just to see what happens. It could free up some money. And it’s a big place, too big for the two of us. Besides, I thought a change of scene would do us good. Maybe move out of the city. Maybe move East like your mother wanted.” In truth, he had no idea. He only knew he didn’t want the life he had anymore. “I was brought up in New York. Did you know that?”
Michael stared at him. A long pause, then finally a tilt of the head. So slight Craine wasn’t sure if it was a nod or not.
Craine broached the next part carefully. “You could come with me, but I was wondering whether you wanted to stay here.” He couldn’t picture their life together, is what he meant. There was too much that hadn’t been said and being with Michael just reminded him of everything he’d lost. Both of them were still coming to terms with what happened that night. But rather than bring them closer together, Celia’s death had somehow created a greater rift between them. And now, whenever he looked at Michael, he saw Celia’s eyes looking back at him. Judging him. So it became easier, perhaps even for both of them, if they spent time apart. Craine would allow Michael to process the loss of his mother as he himself dealt with the passing of his wife. There didn’t need to be any crossover. “You have your school here,” he explained, “and your friends. I don’t want this to disrupt your education unnecessarily. But you could come visit . . .”
Whatever expression was on Michael’s face changed into something darker.
“Think about it. We don’t have to decide now.”
It was a lot for Michael to take on board, he knew that. And he was ignoring the bigger issue, the elephant in the room. The boy had found his mother dead and they needed to talk about it. But for someone so skilled in the art of interviews and interrogation, Craine found it remarkably hard to talk to his son on an emotional level. He knew that he loved Michael, knew that he cared for his well-being, but he worried so much about his abilities as a father that he couldn’t communicate that love in any way. He didn’t hug him and couldn’t speak to him earnestly without both of them feeling uncomfortable; at times it seemed to him that he was merely Michael’s parent by proxy, little more than a legal guardian.
They reached Michael’s school and Craine pulled up outside the main gates and sat behind the wheel with the engine running.
There were many things he wanted to tell his son, but in that moment the words failed him. “When your mother . . .” he began before he changed his mind. He couldn’t talk about what had happened. He wasn’t ready. For what felt like a long time it was silent in the car except for the sound of the engine humming. “Father Calloway says you’re doing well at school,” he said eventually. “That’s good. Your mother would be pleased.”
Michael didn’t look at him. He fingered the inside passenger handle and opened the door,
using his arms to push himself out. He shut the door behind him then walked through the school gates toward the double doors of his dormitory.
“I’m sorry you found your mother,” he wanted to say. “I’m sorry that you blame yourself for my failings as a husband. It’s not your fault she died. It’s mine.”
But Craine didn’t say anything. He put the car in gear and drove away. He didn’t even say goodbye.
Seven miles away, the tall, lean figure of Paul Kamona walked through the foyer of the Morden Hotel carrying a small leather briefcase. He wore a large felt fedora and a single-breasted gray suit with a plain white shirt. Perhaps his face was paler than most, his hair cropped unfashionably short at the temples but, that aside, he looked like any one of the many traveling salesmen who stayed at the Morden. He nodded to the young night clerk sitting at reception then took the cage elevator up to his room on the first floor.
The room was spacious but spartan. Kamona put the briefcase on the floor near where his other luggage stood, took off his jacket and checked his pocket watch. A little after midnight. He had ten hours to wait for his phone call. He went over to the window and looked out at the rear parking lot. Good: his rented Ford was parked directly below, a few feet from the fire exit door.
Kamona was always very particular about where he stayed when he was working. Like most of the hotels he stayed at, the Morden was mid-price, busy enough that he didn’t stand out, quiet enough that he was left alone. Most importantly, however, the Morden had more than one entrance and exit. Kamona had been absolutely insistent that he had a room on the first floor that was as near to the emergency stairway as possible.
He pulled the curtains closed, fastened the chain on the door and placed the briefcase on the bed. He undid the brass latches, lifted the lid and pulled out a long-barreled Mauser pistol fitted with a steel Maxim suppressor. Then, with the same meticulous approach he had with everything in life, Paul Kamona set about cleaning his favorite weapon.
