by Bill Bernico
“Yeah, well, the bars are full of ‘em,” he said, turning away from me and slipping another sheet into his typewriter.
“I mean a particular girl,” I said. “Have you ever seen her?” I held the picture out in front of him.
He turned his head briefly and then back at his typewriter. “Nope,” he said and began pecking away again, ignoring me.
“How can you be sure?” I said. “Take another look.”
Stein stopped typing and swiveled his chair toward me again. “Look,” Stein said, “I see hundreds of girls in the space of a week. After a while they all start to look alike. So if you don’t mind, Mr. Cooper, I have a lot of work to do. Good-bye.”
He started his rapid hunting-and-pecking again without paying any more attention to me or my picture. I reached over and ripped the page from the typewriter roller. That got his attention. He jerked the partial page out of my fingers. He stood staring, waiting for an explanation.
“I didn’t want to say anything at first, Mr. Stein,” I told him, “because you seemed like a nice enough guy, but this is more than just a missing girl. We’re talking murder here.”
That also got his attention. He stepped away from the typewriter and put on his glasses. I handed him the picture again. “Think, Mr. Stein,” I siad. “This girl is from Wisconsin. She just got into town recently so if she came through here it would have to have been within this past week.”
Stein took the picture from me and studied it again. When he looked up his eyes told me that he’d had a sudden surge of memory. “Now I remember,” he said. “She was here last week some time, I think.”
“Do you remember her name?” I said. He gave me a blank look. “It’s Selma Holquist from Wisconsin,” I said.
“No,” Stein said, “I’d have remembered a name like that. This girl’s name was Lila, no, Lola something-or-other.”
“Think hard, Mr. Stein,” I prompted. “I’m sure it’ll come to you.”
“Palmer, Parson, er, Pal... Parker. That’s it. Lola Parker.” He smiled as if proud of turning in a fine acting job himself.
“What do you remember about her?” I said. “Did she leave any address or mention where she was staying?”
“I don’t know, for Christ sake,” he said. “I don’t keep track of every bimbo that passes through here.”
“This one was no bimbo,” I said. “She was just sixteen, just a kid. That makes it a felony if she spent any time on your casting couch.”
I took the picture from his hands and headed for the door. Before exiting, I turned and said, “Thanks, Mr. Stein. You’ll have to tell all this to Sergeant Hollister again. It wouldn’t hurt you to jog your memory some more before he gets here.”
Stein took a seat behind his typewriter again but was in no hurry to commence pecking away. He stared at the blank paper for a moment before looking to see if I’d left.
I showed myself out and was about to get into my car when I heard a familiar voice from behind. “Matt?” the voice said. “Matt Cooper? Is that you?”
I turned to see one of my old friends, Fran Anderson. “Fran?” I said. “Gees it has been a long time, hasn’t it? Let me look at you. Why you haven’t aged a day.”
Fran had been a friend of the family since I was in short pants. She and her husband, Bill were a frequent fixture around the Cooper household during my formative years. Her husband had passed away several years earlier and I really hadn’t seen her since the funeral.
She was in her late fifties and had brown hair, highlighted with waves of silver. She was a small woman, perhaps five-one with a slender build. With her youthful clothes and short-cropped hair, she looked many years younger than she actually was.
She gave me a big hug and stepped back to look me over. “Matt,” she said, “you’re just as handsome as ever. I’m surprised some lucky gal hasn’t thrown the halter over your head yet.”
“I was married, Fran,” I started to explain but quickly changed the subject. “What are you doing here?”
“Hell, I work here,” she explained. “Have since Bill passed on. I’m an assistant to Karl Mueller, the director.”
“No kidding,” I said. “You like what you’re doing?”
“I love it, Matt,” she said. “Simply love it.” She smiled and hugged me again. “What brings you to our studio? Wanna be in pictures? Hey, they’re making a cops-and-robbers picture here next fall.”
“I know,” I said. “Mr. Stein was good enough to tell me that much but not much else.”
“Stein?” she said.
“Actually, Fran, I’m on a job,” I said. “I’m looking for a girl who’s been missing for a while.” I pulled the photo out and handed it to Fran.
She studied it for a second and frowned. Without looking up she said, “I’ve seen this girl,” she said, “but I can’t place her.” She handed me back my photo. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Holquist,” I explained. “Or at least it was when she left home. Out here she’s probably using the name Lola Parker. It’s a long story. Maybe we could continue this over dinner tonight.”
“Why Matt,” she said blushing, “If I wasn’t old enough to be your, your...”
“...Older sister.” I finished her sentence for her and squeezed her hand.
“You’re on,” she said. “We can catch up on old times, too. How does eight sound? Say Robbins on Sunset and LaBrea?”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “It sure was nice to see you again, Fran.” I left the parking lot and drove back to my office.
By the time I got back to my office, the sun had set and Hollister and the lab crew and come and gone. All that remained was a small stain on the floor next to my chair. I sat behind my desk and was about to reach for the phone when it rang. It was Dan Hollister.
“Matt, where have you been?” Dan said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”
“Gees, I didn’t know I needed to check with you when I went somewhere,” I answered. “Next time I’ll leave my itinerary with your secretary.”
“Everyone’s a comedian,” he said. “Why don’t you quit gumshoeing and look up Hal Roach? I’m sure he could use another Keystone Cop.”
“What do you want, Dan?” I said. “I’m pretty busy at the moment.”
“It’s that dame we found in your office,” he said. “She’s obviously not Estelle Holquist and we don’t know who the hell she is. Just thought you might have found something on her.”
“Nope,” I said. “Nothing solid yet. I’m snooping around the studios, though. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”
I returned the phone to its cradle and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. There were now nineteen flies on the ribbon and none of them seemed to be in any hurry to leave. The wall clock ticked and the minute hand eased its way to the bottom. Seven-thirty and still I had no idea where to look next. I was all set to run through a second fly inventory when the phone rang again.
“What do you want now?” I said, expecting Dan Hollister on the other end.
“Matt, does your mother know you answer the phone like that?” Fran Anderson said.
“Sorry, Fran, I thought it was someone else,” I said apologetically. “What’s up?”
“Matt,” Fran said, “I’m running a little behind here. It shouldn’t take much longer, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to get to Robbin’s by eight. You want to swing by the studio and pick me up?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where will you be?”
“In the projection room in the Statler Building,” she said. “The door outside is stenciled with a big, black S-9 and it’s right across the way from where we talked this afternoon. Just come on in. I think I have something that might interest you. I’ll leave your name at the front gate.”
“I’ll be there,” I assured her. “In fact, I’m leaving now.”
I drove back to the lot at Behemoth Pictures and parked outside of building S-9. The inside was dark and I could hear the clickity-click of
film running through a projector. Fran sat in one of several theater-type seats with a clipboard on her lap. I tapped Fran on the shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her seat.
“I’m sorry, Fran,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Fran held her hand over her heart and looked up at me with a frown. The frown quickly changed to a smirk and finally a full smile. “Sit down, Matt,” she said. “I have something to show you.” She pressed a button on her intercom and said, “Max, would you put on reel three again?”
I took the seat next to Fran and waited. A minute later the film started and we watched. For two or three minutes the film fluttered by and still I had no idea what I was looking at. I nervously shifted my weight in the chair.
“What am I looking for?” I said.
“Just hang on a second, Matt,” she said. “This is only a screen test. It’s coming up. Right...there.” She pointed to the screen.
I looked at the six people in the scene. Two men took up the major portion of the screen with their dialog. In the background there was an old man fishing off a bridge, a woman pushing a baby carriage and a couple sitting on a park bench. The person on the screen that caught my eye was the girl on the park bench.
“Isn’t that the girl you’re looking for, Matt?” Fran said, pointing to the girl on the bench.
“It sure is,” I said. “How old is this film?”
“These are the rushes from last Monday’s screening,” she said. “I mean Monday before last. Nine days ago.”
The woman pushing the baby carriage came closer into the main scene as I rose from my chair. I looked at the screen and sat back down. “Fran, would you have him play this last part back again?” I said.
Fran instructed Max as I asked and the scene appeared again. The woman pushed the carriage right past the two main characters and I got a good look at her face. “Well, well,” I said. “If it isn’t our own Mrs. Holquist.”
“Who?” Fran said.
I explained to her how this woman had come to my office posing as Estelle Holquist and how she’d later turned up dead in that same office. I told her how I’d met the real Mrs. Holquist and about my connection to Selma, a.k.a. Lola Parker.
“Do you have a roster sheet on that day’s filming?” I said.
Fran flipped through several pages on her clipboard and stopped at the one marked Monday. I looked over her shoulder at the names of the people in that screen test scene. I could discount all the male names and that of Lola Parker. That left two other people who were in that scene. “Which of these is the lady with the baby carriage?” I said.
Fran pointed to the last name on the page. “Virginia Bishop,” she announced.
“What’s this screen test for, Fran?” I said. “I mean what’s the name of the movie?”
“It’s for a drama called November Children,” she explained.
“Really, I said. “What’s it supposed to be about?”
“Well,” Fran explained, “the short version is that a small California town is importing lots of migrant workers to help sway the vote on an important issue. Once they get what they want the plan is to send all the migrants back home again.”
“Sounds like a hit,” I said. “What about Bishop?”
“She was supposed to be here for another screen test this afternoon,” Fran explained. “She never showed up.”
“Well, if there are any awards for playing dead, she gets my vote,” I said. I made a note of the names from the screen test sheet in my note pad. “Thanks, Fran. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on that dinner. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, Matt,” she said. “Go on, do your job. And give my regards to you mother next time you see her.”
She squeezed my hand and I gave her a big hug. I drove out the front gate and back to my apartment. I could do without a lot of things, but sleep was not one of them.
The next morning I drove over to the precinct and told Dan Hollister what I’d found. He was in his usual receptive mood.
“So we got some dame claiming to be this mother,” he said. “Why? And who in the hell is Virginia Bishop anyway?”
“I don’t know, Dan,” I said. “You know as well as I do that this town is full of kooks who’d do anything for a buck or to just get their mug up there on the screen. Who knows why people do what they do? The point is I still have to find the kid, don’t I?”
Yeah,” he said. “You go find the kid. I have to find Bishop’s killer. Whether you like it or not, we’re both involved in this one. Or did you already forget about this Bishop dame, not to mention Hart?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “And when I find whoever shot Phil I’ll...”
“You’ll what?” Dan said. “Did you forget which side of the law you’re supposed to be on? Just find the kid and leave the justice to the courts.”
“What justice?” I said. “Even if I find the guy, he’ll probably walk on some technicality. It’s happened before with those bleeding heart judges and slick lawyers.”
“I don’t have time to listen to you belly ache about the inadequacies of our justice system,” Dan said. “Besides, I have work to do. Don’t you have some place you have to be?”
I gave Dan one last glare before leaving. I didn’t bother trying to argue the point with him. I needed answers and I could usually get a few right down the street on the boulevard.
Hollywood and Ivar was Trixie Weber’s favorite corner and I could usually find her there about this time. She wasn’t there but I knew where she lived and decided to pay her a visit. The first time I came across this prostitute, I was on another case and I was looking for her boyfriend, who had broken into a lot of coin-operated machines in the public Laundromats.
After that she became a prostitute and was always on skid row. One night I was looking for a guy who hung out at a downtown tavern. I walked in the front door of the tavern and was walking down the length of the bar looking for the guy when the back door in the tavern opened. They had rooms behind the tavern, and Trixie came walking out with some guy right behind her.
As she walked by I said to her, “Hi, Trixie, how are ya?”
Quick as a dart she said, “Ask this guy behind me, he just had me.”
That was Trixie, always good for a laugh. She turned out to be one of my best informants.
I went up to the house, knocked on the door, and she answered it. She was teasing her hair, it was all stuck out and standing up on her head, looking sort of grotesque. She had the most beautiful black eye that I had seen in a long time. I talked to her briefly about her boyfriend and she said that they had had a fight and he had taken off. She didn’t know where the hell he was and she didn’t care.
“Actually, he’s not the reason I came to see you,” I said. “I need some help finding a runaway.” I pulled Selma’s picture from inside my coat and showed it to her. “You know how it is around here. They no sooner get off the bus than some pimp swoops down and escorts them away with promises of fame.”
Trixie looked over the picture. “There’s something familiar about her face but I can’t place it,” she said.
“Maybe she worked the streets in your area,” I said.
Trixie snapped her fingers and pointed one in my face. “That’s it,” she said. “I’ve seen this girl on the boulevard.”
I smiled at the prospect of wrapping this one up quickly. “Which corner?” I said.
“Not a corner,” she added. “It was in a car. It stopped at the light on Highland and I leaned in to the passenger’s side window. The driver told me to beat it. I looked in the back and this girl was there with some older guy. I guess he wasn’t interested in a threesome.”
“What did this guy look like?” I said. “Did you notice what kind of car it was? How long ago was this?”
“Wait a minute, Matt. One at a time,” she said, handing the picture back to me. “You know how many tricks I see during a typical week. What makes you think this guy was anything s
pecial?”
“There must have been something out of the ordinary,” I said, waiting for her memory to kick in.
Trixie thought for a moment. “Come to think of it,” she said, “it did seem peculiar that the guy in the back was bald. I don’t just mean the regular ring-around-the-back kind of bald. This guy had his whole head shaved. Smooth as a baby’s ass.”
“What about the car?” I said.
“A car’s a car to me, Matt,” she said. “You seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“What color? Anything!” I said, clutching at whatever I could get.
“A big one,” she said. “A big silver one. You know, lots of leg room in the back where these two were. They both had their legs straight out in front of ‘em.”
“Anything else?” I grilled her.
She thought for a moment. “Just the front,” she said. “You know, where the hood is. There was some lady leaning over trying to fly.”
“A Rolls Royce,” I said. “That’s the hood ornament of a Rolls-Royce. Thanks, Trixie.” I gave her a hug and turned to go.
Just before I left, I said to her, “You’d better get a steak and put it on the black eye.”
She said, “Hell, Matt, if I had a steak, I’d eat it.”
I left with more than I’d come, but in this town Rolls-Royces were not exactly a novelty item. Everyone who was anyone had a Rolls.
Dan Hollister was his usual cordial self as I pulled up to the station. He was just coming out the front door as I was getting out of my car. “You got a minute, Dan?” I said.
“No,” he said and kept walking toward his car.
“I might have something on this Holquist case,” I said. Dan kept walking. “Wait a minute, for Christ’s sake. Are you interested or aren’t you?”
“Not now, Cooper,” Dan snapped back. “I’m on my way to another case.” He paused at his car long enough to see the look in my eyes and then added, “Get in. We can talk on the way.”
I climbed in beside him and we sped off toward the downtown district. “Where are we going?” I said.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Dan answered, “I thought you had something important for me.”
