City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  THE PROBLEM, she wanted to scream, IS THAT YOU’VE GOT A RING IN YOUR POCKET.

  He said, “I know ‘Betty batter faster’ is a bit of a tongue-twister. I thought it gave the lyrics bounce and pop, but we can change it if it’s scaring you.”

  I’m scared that you’re going to ask me to marry you, and I’m even more scared that I’m going to say yes.

  She was saved by a knock on the door. She ran to it, hoping it might be the Dave Brubeck gang inviting her to join them.

  It was a Western Union messenger.

  These days, telegrams were more typically phoned through. The last time she’d received a paper telegram was when Marcus had cabled to say his passport had been confiscated. Had he learned more about the Sinatra situation? If Frank had been shooting a movie, Kathryn would have charged right over demanding to know what he thought he was doing. But the guy was playing the Palace in New York where he probably would have tossed her letters.

  She sent the delivery boy on his way with a large tip, then sliced along the envelope with her nail and pulled out the telegram.

  “Marcus again?” Leo asked.

  She read the telegram out loud. “FBI contact confirms Danford file missing STOP Last person to view was WW STOP New partner has all details STOP” She skipped down to the sender information: Dudley Hartman, Lenox Hotel, Boston.

  “Winchell!” She slapped the telegram onto her kitchen counter tiles. “I knew that slimy toad’s fingerprints were all over this.”

  “Surely it’s a serious crime to filch from the FBI.”

  “Depends on whether or not you’re buddy-buddy with Hoover.”

  “I suppose you want to swing by Hartman’s office and get the lowdown after we’re done?”

  “Leo, we are done.”

  “But you haven’t got the words right—”

  “I promise I will by the time we open.”

  “You know that’s a week away, right?”

  Kathryn jiggled her car keys at him. “Coming?”

  Leo absently patted the square bulge in his jacket pocket, and nodded.

  * * *

  Kathryn pulled her Oldsmobile into the three-space parking lot.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she told Leo. “For months, I’ve been trying to contact Winchell through every channel I can think of—his newspaper, secretary, radio station, agent—but I’ve been getting the runaround. Do you think I should tell Hartman to take the train down to New York and dog Winchell?”

  She pulled her keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. A cold November wind hit her in the face like a wet mop. “While he’s at it, I could get him to pay Sinatra a visit. Rough him up a little, you know?”

  Leo pulled off his hat so that he wouldn’t lose it to the wind. “I don’t think Hartman’s the roughing-up type.”

  They headed toward the front door. “Maybe this new PI knows his way around a knuckle sandwich.”

  Leo smiled. “Hey, Capone, let’s deal with one crisis at a time.” He gave her a feather-soft right hook to the jaw and opened the agency’s front door.

  Kathryn laughed as she stepped inside. The new guy behind the desk leapt to his feet. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  The laughter dried on Kathryn’s lips as her heart lurched up into her throat, pounded her voice into silence, then dropped into her stomach.

  He extended his hand toward her, but she could only drink in his face like a nomad lost in the desert.

  “The name is Nelson Hoyt.” He kept his hand suspended in mid-air, his eyes fixed on hers.

  How could I have forgotten the shade of those gray-blue eyes? And where are his dimples? Ah. They’ve disappeared into those deep grooves etched around the sides of his mouth. And oh, those lips that look like they were carved by Michelangelo.

  Leo shook Nelson’s hand and introduced himself.

  Nelson’s eyes crinkled in the corners. His skin had taken on a craggy quality, like he’d spent the last eight years standing on the bow of a whaler zigzagging the Pacific.

  She forced herself to take his hand; it was warmer than she remembered.

  “Please, take a seat.” He pulled a thick file from his desk drawer and placed it in front of him. “Dudley has been a busy fellow.”

  “Have you been here long, Mr. Hoyt?” Kathryn’s voice came out raspy. “In LA, I mean.”

  “Perhaps you might feel more secure if you knew a bit about me and my background, et cetera.”

  “No, no,” Leo waved away the question “I’m sure Dudley did a thorough check—”

  “I would like to hear Mr. Hoyt’s story.”

  He smiled the way he used to whenever Kathryn won an argument, or caved in because it was easier. “I’m ex-FBI.”

  Kathryn swallowed hard. “Where were you stationed?”

  “Nome, Alaska.”

  So that’s where Hoover shanghaied you. No wonder I never heard from you again. “Who even knew the FBI had an office in the middle of nowhere?”

  “It’s right near the Bering Strait where only fifty-five miles separate Russia from the States. As you can imagine, with the Cold War and everything . . .”

  “Did you enjoy your time there?”

  “Hated every minute of it,” he said. “There’s nothing to do but sit around and think of loved ones. I stuck it out for three years, then quit the Bureau and headed to Seattle where I joined the Pinkerton agency. I liked the work well enough, but my dad fell ill, so I came to LA to nurse him.”

  “How is he now?”

  “He died earlier this year.”

  “Oh!” It was too pained a cry for the father of someone she was supposedly meeting for the first time, but Kathryn had only the warmest feelings toward Wesley Hoyt. It was like hearing that a favorite uncle had passed away. “I’m sorry to hear that. I lost my mother recently, too.”

  Leo pulled back.

  “Unfortunately, Pinkerton didn’t have an opening in their LA office but I met Dudley at a private eye convention and he made me a partner. Life has a way of working out, doesn’t it?”

  Kathryn chanced a peek at Nelson’s left hand—no wedding ring. But did he know that she and Leo were together? Of course he does, you big dummy. The guy is a detective—and one of the sharpest people you’ve ever met.

  Leo cleared his throat. “Shall we review what Dudley has discovered?”

  Nelson flipped open the folder. “The FBI started a file on Danford when he declared his candidacy for the Massachusetts governorship. Between Dudley’s contacts and mine, we’ve been able to determine that Voss zeroed in on a disgruntled FBI agent who Voss knew would have access to Bureau files.”

  “That Voss sure is a crafty old fox,” Leo said. “Right, honey?”

  It was an effort for Kathryn to pull her eyes away from Nelson’s naked ring finger. “What do you know about this disgruntled FBI employee?”

  “He was a rising star at the headquarters in DC until he fell afoul of Hoover.”

  “Falling afoul of Hoover? That can’t have been pretty.”

  A wry smile lingered on Nelson’s face. “He was banished to Boston, which made him the perfect person for Voss to target in order to learn what the Bureau held on Danford.”

  “Do you know what was in my father’s file?”

  “We have a fair idea.”

  “Even though Winchell stole it?”

  “Let’s just say that disgruntled employees don’t hold up to a touch of the strong arm. Evidently, it contained the details for all his business trips, which were the usual places around New England. But an odd one stood out. Your father went to Allagash, Maine, right up near the Canadian border, looking to buy a maple tree plantation, unaware that Voss had started taking tons of photos and developed the ones where he looked guilty or furtive or was meeting with men on the street. And when the perfect opportunity arose, Voss grabbed it.”

  “Operation Pastorius?” Kathryn asked.

  “Correct. Evidently, Danford spent several idyllic childhood
summers in Amagansett out on Long Island and had always wanted a vacation home there. So as he roamed New England hunting for maple plantations, he also made several trips to Amagansett looking for the right house. It was unfortunate timing that he was there on June 12th, 1942.”

  “When the Germans landed?”

  “Voss must have danced a merry jig when he learned about that.”

  Metal clanged against metal from the Formosa Café kitchen next door. She could hear the manager reminding the staff “every last mother-humping pot needs to be scrubbed spotless.”

  Kathryn couldn’t look at Nelson anymore. Her pulse thundered in her ears; she felt the color draining from her face and yet she was hot as blazes. Say something, Leo. I doubt that I can.

  Five seconds of eternity crept by. “Photos can help build a convincing case,” Leo said, “but surely that’s not all Voss did?”

  “He managed to get a hold of official letterheads from the FBI and the OWI, and forged reports describing Danford as a person of interest.”

  Kathryn crossed her arms. “Did the FBI know Danford’s conviction was a frame-up?”

  “We don’t know that for certain. I’d say probably not at the time, but now they’re aware of it. We do know that the FBI agent Voss befriended is the same one who gave Winchell access to Danford’s file.”

  “What does this disgruntled agent do?”

  “He’s in charge of FBI records and archives for the state of Massachusetts.”

  “Voss sure can pick ’em.”

  “Our working theory is that he gave your father’s file to Winchell, so Winchell knows about the frame job that got your father convicted.”

  Kathryn picked up one of the pencils strewn around Nelson’s desk and started threading it through her fingers. “But I told Winchell he can take the glory of spearheading an investigation that will lead to my father’s exoneration.”

  “Perhaps there’s a reason why he’s keeping you out of the loop.”

  The pencil snapped in half. Kathryn turned to Leo. “I need to go to New York and confront him.”

  “Our full dress rehearsals start in three days,” Leo pointed out, “and the first public performance is next Friday. You can’t pull out now. I’m sorry, but you just can’t.”

  My father’s freedom is more important than standing on a stage singing about Betty Crocker’s goddamned batter. I need room to breathe and time to think. She looked down at the two halves of the pencil in her hand.

  Nelson said, “I might have a way for you to corner Winchell without having to leave LA.”

  Kathryn noticed that he was wearing the same necktie he’d worn the last time she saw him. It was at the Radio Room the night he’d figured out that “the girl” Bugsy Siegel kept mentioning on the FBI-bugged phone was Kathryn. It was a beautiful tie, aquamarine, patterned with tiny alternating seagulls and anchors in white. “Let’s hear it,” she said.

  “I have a pal who’s pretty high in security at Fox. He told me that there’s a plan to sneak Winchell into the studio to interview Marilyn Monroe.”

  Kathryn wondered why Gwendolyn didn’t know about this. She was closer to Marilyn than most people. “If you’ve heard of it and I haven’t, that meeting must be super-duper secret.”

  “My buddy owed me a big favor so I called in the chip for you.”

  “Thank you.” Kathryn felt her face redden. “Does Marilyn know about this?”

  “I got the impression that this is a mutual-back-scratching deal between Winchell and Zanuck. Marilyn’s given no interviews since she announced her divorce and Winchell wanted her first one, so he traded Zanuck a big feature story on The Seven Year Itch.”

  Kathryn felt a twinge of envy—not so much that Winchell had hooked such a big story but that she hadn’t thought of it first. “Do you know where this interview’s taking place?”

  “On the set of her current movie.”

  “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give him that much. When’s this happening?”

  “You must have someone at Fox who can help with that. I suspect you know how advantageous the element of surprise can be.”

  Hoyt smiled. It wasn’t a polite, lips-together-teeth-hidden smile, but a broad one, glowing with sincerity. He wasn’t naturally given to smiley outbreaks, but when he did, it was like the whole room glowed brighter, the colors more vibrant.

  She felt her heart melt and needed to look away before both men read her mind.

  Nelson said, “Your best bet to get your hands on Danford’s file is through Winchell.”

  Leo slapped his hands onto his knees. “Anything else we need to know?”

  Nelson hesitated for a split second, but it was long enough to quiver Kathryn’s antenna. “Ever heard of a guy called Barney Ruditsky?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who?” Leo asked.

  “Ex-NYPD, now an LA private eye, but he’s always got a vague gangland stink.”

  “What about him?” Kathryn asked.

  “I’ve heard that DiMaggio has engaged him to tail Marilyn Monroe. You might want to pass it along to interested parties.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Leo got to his feet and shook Nelson’s hand. “You’ve done a first-class job. Thank you.”

  “Yes.” Kathryn felt unsteady on her feet and short of breath.

  When Nelson shook her hand, he clamped the free one on top and gave it an extra squeeze. It was almost imperceptible, but it nearly undid Kathryn completely. His eyes followed Leo to the door, then darted back to Kathryn. His thoughts shone like neon: I’ve never forgotten you.

  “Thank you so very much.” She hated how her voice shook. “For everything, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “Please call me Nelson.”

  Leo opened the office door. A broad strip of afternoon sunlight cut across Nelson’s desk, illuminating the swirl of emotions playing out on his face. Leo stepped out onto the sidewalk to smoke a cigarette. She looked over her shoulder; her eyes glistened with stifled tears. “Nelson—”

  “I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  She attempted a smile, but it collapsed before she got very far. Wrenching herself away, she followed Leo outside. Don’t look back, you fool. Move forward. She unlocked her car and climbed in.

  But she had failed to close the door of the Melrose Detective Agency. Through the gap she saw Nelson’s silhouetted shadow outlined on the wall behind him. It looked like he’d hadn’t moved since she walked out.

  CHAPTER 29

  Gwendolyn pushed aside the drapes covering Sheila Stuart’s second-story window and peered up Kilkea Drive.

  “Anything?” Sheila asked from the sofa.

  “What color did you say Marilyn’s new Cadillac is?”

  “White.”

  The streetlights came on. “She should be here by now.”

  Sheila laughed amiably. “Punctuality is a negotiable concept for her.”

  When Kathryn had come home with the news that Joe DiMaggio had hired Barney Ruditsky, she and Gwendolyn had debated telling Marilyn. Poor Billy Wilder was forced to juggle a budget, schedule, and release date while patiently coaxing a charming comedic performance out of a leading lady who was falling apart on the inside.

  Zanuck had hauled Gwendolyn back into his office. “I know her marriage crashed and burned,” he told her, “but isn’t there anything you can say? Hell, if it helps, tell her, ‘Zanuck’s waiting for you to fail so let’s show him.’ Just get her in front of the cameras with a minimum of dents in that cotton candy ego of hers.”

  Gwendolyn and Kathryn had decided that with only a few more days left on Itch, they’d tell her about this Barney Ruditsky situation once the movie was in the can. After the wrap party, Gwendolyn had driven Marilyn home. Unsure what sort of reaction she was going to get, it had taken some effort to muster the courage.

  Marilyn had laughed. “Is that who it is? For a famous PI, he’s terrible at his job.”

  “You don’t sound too upset,” Gwendolyn had
remarked.

  “Honestly, it’s like being in a French farce. One day, I was driving down Wilshire and the lights at Rodeo Drive turned red so I had to slam on the brakes. We nearly bumped fenders!”

  Gwendolyn had let Marilyn stew over the knowledge that this wasn’t some two-bit gumshoe. If someone as high profile as Ruditsky was trailing her, word was bound to leak out, prompting magazines like Confidential to come sniffing around.

  “I need to put a stop to this.”

  Gwendolyn had been relieved to hear the determination in Marilyn’s voice. “You really do.”

  “But I don’t want to be alone when I confront Joe and Frank.”

  “Sinatra?” Since hearing Marcus’s news, Frank’s name sparked ferocious outrage inside Gwendolyn. “What’s he got to do with all this?”

  “They’re practically joined at the hip these days. If a private eye has been hired, then Sinatra is probably connected somehow.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  “Turn the tables on the lot of them,” Marilyn had replied with a giggle.

  The light bulbs and neon along Sunset crowded a late-fall dusk. “For the world’s most famous dumb blonde, you sure are a smart little so-and-so.”

  “Don’t clue the menfolk in. We all need an edge.”

  When Gwendolyn had returned home to the Garden and told Kathryn what Marilyn had in mind, Kathryn had declared that she couldn’t wait to get her “hands on that skinny little Sinatra bastard. I don’t care if Barney Ruditsky is there.” She had been furious when she’d learned that Marilyn’s trap was set for Friday, November fifth. It was the same date as Suncrockerhouse’s debut at the Pasadena Playhouse, which Leo had now organized to be broadcast live on KNX.

  “Don’t worry,” Gwendolyn had told her, “I’ll scream loud enough for both of us.”

  The next week had flown by, and now Gwendolyn was standing at Sheila’s window. She let the curtain drop back into place and checked her watch. It was getting close to a quarter of eight. Technically, Marilyn wasn’t late yet, but Kathryn’s broadcast was due to start soon. “Mind if we switch stations?”

  Sheila waved her hand toward her old wooden Philco sitting on the bookshelf behind her.