by Guy Bolton
Chapter 8
May 12th
At a glance, press coverage of Stanley’s death was better than expected. Although his suicide was front-page news in all the major West Coast dailies, most editorials avoided any unnecessary mudslinging and in Mayer-aligned papers, the headlines tended to follow the M.G.M. line. William Hearst’s the Los Angeles Examiner ran the headline “GALE GOODWIN’S HUSBAND FOUND DEAD,” with a subheading that read “Depressive Homosexual Herbert Stanley Takes His Own Life At Easton Drive Mansion.”
Early that morning, Craine scanned the lead paragraphs.
Hollywood, Cal. May 12—Herbert Stanley, motion picture executive at M.G.M., ended his life in the $60,000 home in Easton Drive he shared with his actress wife, Gale Goodwin. Mr. Stanley, who was 52 years old, hanged himself in his study and left no note. The police reported that Stanley’s maid found the body and called M.G.M. The suicide was reported to the police by Russell Peterson, Publicity Chief at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Film Corporation. “Stanley was alone in their home on the picturesque Benedict canyon estate,” Peterson stated.
Miss Goodwin, staying at the home of friend and fellow M.G.M. actress Joan Crawford, was said to have been devastated by the news. Although she has yet to release a formal statement to the press, in a police interview Goodwin denied there had been any quarrels between herself and Stanley, stating: “My husband has suffered from severe depression for some time.”
Police are not treating the case as suspicious.
The rest of the article continued on page eight. It outlined both Stanley’s and Goodwin’s careers at M.G.M., and there was a full paragraph on Gale Goodwin’s most recent film The Tainted Feather. Interesting, thought Craine, considering Stanley had nothing to do with the picture. Beside the article were photographs of Herbert with Gale and photos of them separately. One picture saw Herbert looking particularly solemn and gray in his office, another saw him frowning at a party at the Lilac Club. That was contrasted with several photographs of Gale looking radiant on a film set. The subheading read: “Widowed, Award-winning Actress Gale Goodwin On The Set Of The Tainted Feather.” Peterson had always been very shrewd with the photographs he provided to the press. He knew that many Americans struggled to read and would flick through newspapers to the pictures.
Other, less M.G.M.-friendly papers were reluctant to follow the trend. The Hollywood Enquirer ran with “WILL HUSBAND’S SUICIDE END GALE GOODWIN’S FILM CAREER?” Subheadings included “Goodwin’s Affairs Drove Husband To Suicide” and “Stanley Betrayed By Movie Star Wife.” In his Tradeviews column, Billy Wilson had even written that Gale was a poisoned chalice who had driven her husband to an untimely death.
Published six days a week, The Hollywood Enquirer was the first—and most popular—daily trade newspaper dedicated to Hollywood’s motion picture industry. Written almost entirely by Wilson himself, the paper reported on studio news and town gossip, not only covering the minutiae of show business but writing scandalous exposés of the illicit activities of Hollywood’s movie stars. Wilson was a constant irritation to studio publicity departments.
Craine sat in the reception area of The Hollywood Enquirer’s offices on Sunset Boulevard, a stone’s throw from Billy Wilson’s many nightclubs and restaurants. He was here to meet Wilson to try to come to some kind of agreement over The Enquirer’s coverage of Stanley’s death. Wilson’s relationship with Louis Mayer had always been a little tumultuous, but the two men had recently fallen foul of each other when Wilson doubled his fee for an annual advertising account with The Enquirer and M.G.M. had refused to extend their contract.
Craine stifled a yawn and glanced at the wall clock to his left. A little after nine. He was exhausted. He still found sleep elusive and had considered taking the morning off to rest but he knew he had to see Wilson this morning before they ran their budget lines for tomorrow’s print and besides, Gale Goodwin was due at the precinct at noon to formally identify her husband’s body.
“Detective Craine?” It was Wilson’s secretary, a slight redhead, holding a tray of Coca-Cola bottles. Wilson was known to drink fifteen to twenty a day.
“Good morning.”
“Apologies for keeping you waiting. Mr. Wilson will see you now.”
Billy Wilson was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk with a telephone receiver in one hand and a bottle of cola in the other. There were two chairs opposite him. Craine sat in one of them.
“Well I won almost fifty grand on the horses last week, Reuben, so capital shouldn’t be a problem,” he said unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. He rolled his eyes toward Craine and mouthed “sorry,” but Craine knew he enjoyed having him wait. “Well, I can’t deny I like a flutter from time to time myself, but the way I see it, the only way to beat the house is to own it!” Wilson laughed, snorting briefly before catching himself. Craine had already heard that Wilson was planning to sell off his club and restaurant assets and build hotels in Nevada. More than that, he also knew that he was talking to Chicago mafia rings about sharing the costs. He was hoping the latter information might give him some leverage in negotiation.
Wilson placed the receiver back on the cradle. He spoke quickly, punctuating rapid sentences with small sips from the soda bottle. “My apologies, important call from my accountant. How are you anyway, Craine? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Six months, if not more. Simms taken you off the studio roll?”
Wilson was baiting him but Craine wasn’t going to rise to it. They’d known each other for years, had gone through this charade countless times. “I’ve been on leave,” Craine replied.
A lowering of the tone. “Your wife, yes of course. My condolences. I always liked her.”
Craine balled his fists. The day after she died, Wilson printed an article stating that Celia was a drug addict. He then published an exposé of studio practices that encouraged actors and actresses to use psychostimulants such as methamphetamines to enhance performance and control weight gain. It also said that most contracted talent then relied on sedatives to get to sleep at night. It wasn’t the article itself that bothered Craine—the accusations were mostly true. But Wilson also had a photographer break into his house and take pictures of Celia’s empty bath. This, and another picture of his wife’s body being loaded into a morgue truck, accompanied the text under the subheading “Celia Raymond: Victim Of Her Addictions.”
“Anyway, are you still a regular at the Lilac Club?” Wilson went on, switching effortlessly into cheerier gears. “I’m surprised we haven’t bumped into each other recently.”
If he’d have seen Wilson at all Craine might have throttled him at his table. “Mr. Wilson, I was hoping to talk to you about your latest issue.”
“Of course,” said Wilson, still smiling inanely, “I digress. Did you enjoy it?”
“There were aspects of it I thought we could discuss.”
Wilson let out an exaggerated sigh. “You mean you were hoping to persuade me to change my stance on Stanley’s death? Well you won’t. Mayer thinks he can run Los Angeles with an iron fist but you won’t get me pandering to his demands. Do you know what tomorrow’s headlines will be? I worked on them all night. Let me read you the proofs.”
“That won’t be necessary. I appreciate your personal position on M.G.M. All I’m asking is that you protect yourself from libel.”
“Libel? Is that what you think it was? Nothing defamatory about it. And why is it that you deem it necessary to come into my office and threaten me with libel, Detective?”
“It’s not a threat.”
“Then you’re simply here to forewarn me. How kind,” he said drily. “I didn’t know the L.A.P.D. were so thoughtful.” Wilson loved to rile people. Craine knew having him groveling in his office would be something of a minor triumph. “Mayer’s been involved in cover-ups for years, Craine. You think I didn’t know that Gable’s got illegitimates scattered across America and that Spencer Tracy wakes himself up in the morning with a quart of bourbon. I know everything. And you? D
on’t think I don’t know about your involvement, coming in here every few months begging favors like some kind of L.A.P.D. poodle.”
Wilson leaned forward across his desk, speaking softly as he baited Craine for a reaction. “Smoothing out those little criminal crinkles, isn’t that what they have you do? Magician, that’s what they call you, isn’t it? Make all those little convictions disappear. That rape case eighteen months ago with the girl at that M.G.M. party—after you replaced the lead detective, all the key evidence for the prosecution went missing. How exactly did you manage that? Louis Mayer must have been delighted to settle out of court.”
Wilson leaned back, content with his little speech, but he could read nothing in Craine’s face. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Mr. Wilson, I’m sure you’re busy and I don’t want to waste your time. In your column you suggested that Stanley was driven to suicide by his wife. What evidence do you have to support such a claim?”
“I have my sources.”
“Well, who are they?”
“They’re viable. And anonymous. As all of yours seem to be. What did Hearst’s paper say? Quoting from unnamed sources, as always: ‘Witnesses close to the victim say he was a closet homosexual who suffered from depression.’ Delightful.”
“There’s no sign of foul play here, Billy.”
“There was no note, Craine,” Wilson went on, speaking quickly: “What about that little piece of information all the other papers have skirted over so neatly? Who doesn’t leave a note before they kill themselves?”
“You’re fabricating conspiracies out of nothing,” Craine replied just as quickly, grateful O’Neill wasn’t here. “There was no sign of a struggle, no evidence that he was murdered. And absolutely nothing to suggest that Gale Goodwin had any involvement.”
“You’re coming in here, telling me it’s scurrilous to write that Gale Goodwin drove her husband to suicide when you don’t even know the real reason he killed himself. Depressed? Queer? That’s all hearsay. Goodwin must have been involved.”
“You don’t need to write that in your papers.”
“Why? Because City Hall needs M.G.M.’s help in the polls and no one wants to upset Mayer?”
Craine ignored this. Both of them knew it was true. “I’m asking for your help.”
“You’re asking a favor from me but you have nothing to offer in return. Why would I support a studio that has gone out of its way to drive me out of business? M.G.M. used to burn my newspapers at the studio gates. Why should I help them? Why should I help you?”
Craine had anticipated this remark. He knew that promises of advertising revenue alone weren’t going to change Wilson’s mind. No, he had only one crucial bargaining tool. Please let it work. “In return for your compliance,” he said, “I will have the police department turn a blind eye to your hotel ventures in Las Vegas.”
“Blind eye?” Wilson laughed. “What makes you think I have anything to hide? So what if I’m expanding operations out there? The business plan is entirely legal. Ingeniously, the State of Nevada does not prohibit gambling or the sale of liquor. It’s going to be my mecca for the free spirits of America. Christ, even prostitution is legal. Tell me, Detective, in America’s last free state, what illegal activity could I possibly be involved in?”
“I could ask Frank Nitti.”
Wilson’s grin dropped away like a picture falling off a wall. He put his hands in his lap and slid back in his chair.
“Nitti?” he said finally, “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” He took a deep breath and tried to sit up straight.
Frank Nitti had become head of the Chicago syndicate when Al Capone was put in prison for tax evasion. He controlled narcotic and gambling rackets but had supposedly been trying to branch out into California. There was barely a person in America who hadn’t at least seen his name in the tabloids.
“Do you think the L.A.P.D. isn’t aware of your ties with the Chicago syndicates? I hear you’ve been having conversations with Frank Nitti about expanding operations out there. You’ll never get the money together alone, will you? You need help, I can understand that. But Nitti’s sitting on a pretty high branch in the mafia, Billy. Hoover’s got the F.B.I. running a war on crime all over America. Do you really want Hoover knocking on your door? Do you think Nitti would like that?”
Wilson’s long fingers pulled at his shirt collar. “Is this a threat? Is this blackmail?”
“This is a conversation. You could consider it an offer.”
“What do you want?”
“You know exactly what I want.”
Wilson sat back in his chair. Craine had to wait a full minute before he said, “When a member of the Hollywood family dies, Detective Craine, it affects all of us.” He nodded his head and assumed a judicious frown. “Stanley’s death is a tragedy and deserves a full tribute. I think tomorrow we’ll even dedicate a few pages to his poor widow. How about that?”
“That sounds suitable.”
“She has a picture out at the moment, doesn’t she? Maybe we could write a few paragraphs on it.”
“I think that would be decent of you.”
Wilson’s cheeks twitched momentarily before he resumed a coat-hanger grin. He rose from his desk and looked at his watch. “I’d love to offer you more of my time, Craine, but I’m afraid I have some very important meetings to attend to.”
“Thank you. Expect a call from Russell Peterson in the coming days. I understand M.G.M. are looking for some advertising space. If the price is right.”
Craine stood up, satisfied, and walked to the door. Simms would be pleased. He imagined Peterson would send over a case of champagne, as he so often did. Craine left the room before Wilson could offer his hand. If only they’d found Wilson’s body hanging from his ceiling fan, he thought. Now that would be worth reading about in the papers.
Chapter 9
Kamona woke at nine. He washed his hands, showered and dressed then sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the phone to ring. He always had an arrangement with the client whereby they would call him two times daily at prearranged times: usually ten in the morning, and ten at night. He would try to answer the phone on both occasions but might miss a call if he was preoccupied with work. He never took the client’s number or met them face to face. Anonymity was a vital part of the process. If it was truly necessary, the client could call outside of the scheduled times but Kamona preferred to stick to the set routine. He lived by routine.
The telephone rang at ten.
“Kamona?” The client’s accent was hard to place. Usually they were Italian-American but this time Kamona couldn’t be sure and to be honest, he didn’t care.
“Yes.”
“I called you last night. And the night before.”
“I was occupied.”
“Did you get the pictures?”
“They weren’t there.”
A hint of annoyance. “You’re certain?”
“I’m certain.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That she didn’t have them.”
A long silence.
“What about Campbell? Did you find Jimmy Campbell?” As with the client, Kamona knew almost nothing of the target apart from what he looked like and where he lived. His occupation was unknown, his revoked raison d’être completely irrelevant. Most of the time, the targets were low-level mobsters who’d done something to upset one of the six families. More often than not they were informants, police witnesses or turncoats, but what they’d done, why they’d done it and who they’d done it to was never relayed to Kamona by his superiors and he preferred it that way. The rules were put in place for a reason: were he to come in contact with the police, there would be nothing to tie him to the target and vice versa.
“He wasn’t at the given address. I waited two days. He never returned.”
The client seemed concerned. “I need you to find him. Do you have a day rate?”
“Five hundred.�
��
“I’ll double it. Find Campbell. Find the pictures.” The line went dead and Kamona put the phone down.
His Mauser was on the nightstand, cocked and loaded. Kamona picked it up and checked that a round was chambered. It was. He wiped the handle down and packed it in its leather briefcase. He’d be sure to need it again today.
Shortly before eleven o’clock, O’Neill parked his Plymouth behind the Los Angeles Theatre, ignoring the street kids who laughed at his rusted hubcaps and broken fender. It was his mother’s car—she’d given it to him when he’d moved out of home, claiming she didn’t like to drive at her age anyway. “Save your money and try and buy a house,” she’d said to him, and a few months ago he’d done exactly that, combining his own savings with his father’s inheritance to put a deposit down on a one-story on the southern fringes of Cypress Park.
It was earlier that morning when he was making breakfast at home that O’Neill had started to think more about what his father would have said about the Herbert Stanley case. He would never have disobeyed chain of command. And yet, he would probably have argued that it was worth presenting his findings again at a later date, pursuing independent investigation before providing his superiors with more information on which to base a conclusion.
The decision made, O’Neill had a uniform car pick up Herbert Stanley’s housemaid, Rosa Martinez, for questioning at Central Headquarters, and took her up to the interview room himself, taking the service elevator in case Simms or Craine were around.
Mrs. Martinez wouldn’t speak English when he tried to talk to her, so O’Neill brought in one of the secretaries from the pool and had her translate. She spoke tenderly of her employer and three times kissed the silver cross hanging around her neck, repeating again and again that he was a good man; he deserved to go to heaven. But Stanley’s passage through purgatory was of no interest to O’Neill. What mattered was building up enough evidence to warrant a formal inquest into Stanley’s death.
