by Donis Casey
They made it to the promenade deck and around the port side, where the water taxi docked or cast off every half hour to ferry passengers to and from shore. They were lucky. A taxi was tied up at the floating dock, loading a few listless gamblers who were either ready for bed or too skint to play another hand. They made their way down the wooden stairs to the landing, where the pilot gave them all a dubious once-over as he handed Bianca onto the boat.
“How long before you leave?” she asked.
“Five minutes, Miss.” The pilot recognized Fairbanks and LaBelle, but their bruised companion and the bedraggled state of their couture caused him to raise an eyebrow. He had been ferrying Hollywood-types long enough not to be surprised at anything, so no questions were forthcoming.
The three escapees went as far aft on the ferry as possible, behind the passenger cabin, and flopped down on a bench. Wedged between the two men, Bianca blew out a relieved breath. Donahue’s gangsters could still spot them before the ferry left, but it was unlikely that anyone would make a move against them with so many witnesses around.
“Look at my dress,” Bianca groused. “I knew that stupid slit skirt was a bad idea. It’s torn almost up to my hip. And look at this oil spot. And my stockings!” She pooched out her bottom lip. “I paid a fortune for those shoes.”
Fairbanks thought her complaints were hilarious, but Oliver was not so sanguine. “What is it with you two and those ridiculous moves down in the boiler room? This isn’t one of your adventure flicks, and Donahue’s killers aren’t paid to let you win. You could have got us all killed!”
Fairbanks grunted. “Oh, shut up, Oliver, you ingrate. Bianca saved your life. Believe me, I would have let them have you. Besides, what else should we have done? Stood there and let them shoot us?”
Bianca came to Oliver’s defense. “He’s still in shock, Doug. He doesn’t mean anything.” She seized Oliver’s arm and gave it a shake. “How do you think we do all those stunts you see on the screen, Ted? Doug is a tremendous athlete. He has the best physical trainers in the world.”
Fairbanks preened a bit at her praise. “You’re no slouch in that department yourself, little Missy. And that shot! Where’d you learn to shoot like that? Back on the farm at your daddy’s knee?”
“I didn’t even know a shot like that was possible,” Oliver agreed.
An ironic glint lit Bianca’s eyes. “I’d love to tell you I’m just that good. I was aiming for his head.”
Their luck held. The taxi cast off just as Cornero himself appeared at the railing. He yelled something, but they couldn’t make it out over the noise of the boat’s motors.
“Now what?” Bianca said to no one in particular. “My goodness, I can’t believe how far Donahue was willing to go just to keep his daughter and Rudy apart. Is he going to make sure we all die mysterious deaths, like Rudy did? ”
Fairbanks mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “Not if we get to the cops first.”
Oliver made a skeptical noise. The “richer of two evils” bought the most police cooperation these days. “We’d be better off to go to the feds. They’d like nothing more than a good excuse to conduct a raid on Cornero and arrest all his business partners. Or they could nail Donahue for kidnapping.”
“What about the three-mile limit? I thought the Monaco is outside of federal jurisdiction.”
“They could come up with something, Bianca, maybe resurrect some long-forgotten law about piracy on the high seas.”
She thought about this. “I do know a U.S. Marshal,” she mused aloud.
“You do?” Oliver said. She never failed to surprise him.
Fairbanks laughed. “She’s a pip, ain’t she?”
~ Flaming Havoc ~
When they reached shore and disembarked onto the floating dock, they stood in an uncertain little group as the rest of the ferry passengers made their way to their autos.
“Ted, I think you need a doctor,” Bianca said. “Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll see you’re taken care of?”
“I can’t, Bianca. I don’t know what happened to Juan—the guy that Dix sent out to keep an eye on me. He’s bound to get back to shore eventually. He drove me out here in one of Dix’s cars. I don’t want him to see us together or know that we know one another.”
“I can’t just leave you here on the beach like this. Not after we went to such trouble to save you.”
Oliver was touched by her concern, but he said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll get home one way or another.”
Raised voices and a flurry of activity on the ferry boat interrupted their conversation.
“What’s going on?” Fairbanks said to a sailor who had jumped onto the dock to throw off the bowline.
The sailor didn’t pause. “The Monaco’s on fire!” he called as he rushed past them. “They’re evacuating the passengers onto the lifeboats and we’re going back to help.”
The Monaco was three miles out to sea, but they could see an eerie glow on the horizon. Bianca raised her hands to her cheeks, horrified. “Oh, my God! All those people!”
“Is there anything we can do?” Fairbanks asked the sailor.
“Don’t worry, sir.” The sailor jumped back onto the water taxi as the motors revved. “The captain radioed that the evacuation is going well. We’ll get everybody off.” The boat pulled away into the night. The glow on the horizon expanded.
“What could have happened?” Bianca said. “Could a bullet have punctured a gas line?”
“We need to get you out of here, Missy, before Donahue lands.” It took a few minutes for Fairbanks to convince Bianca to come with him, but Oliver would not be persuaded to leave, not just yet.
He waited on the beach all night as one after another, water taxis and lifeboats and civilian pleasure craft discharged their tuxedoed and gowned passengers, most of whom were well lubricated and behaving as though this were all a big adventure. He saw Cornero come in on the very last lifeboat, covered with soot, his hair singed, and clutching a large satchel as though it were a baby. Tonight’s profits, Oliver thought. Oliver faded back into the crowd as Cornero disembarked and walked up and down the beach checking on the welfare of his crew and staff, for which Oliver gave him grudging credit.
Great, he thought. Now I’ve got Tony the Hat on my case. At least Cornero hadn’t seen Bianca’s part in all this. Oliver’s biggest worry now was how to deal with Miles Donahue, infinitely rich, infinitely vindictive, and willing to kill to get his way. But Miles Donahue never landed, not with the rest of the rescued passengers, anyway.
Neither did Juan.
Oliver had no key for Dix’s auto, so he left it in the parking area and hitched a ride into Long Beach, where he called a cab to take him home.
~ Aftermath ~
As soon as he was escorted into Dix’s parlor the next morning, Oliver checked the corner, next to the lamp, but Juan was not there. A tall redhead with a snub nose stood in his place. Dix liked her bodyguards young and good looking.
Oliver had dragged into Santa Monica well after sunrise and had only taken time to change his clothes, wash his face, and put a bandage over the cut on his forehead before driving across Los Angeles to Pasadena to deliver his report to Dix. He was loopy from lack of sleep, but he had no intention of waiting for her to send someone after him. Best to get it over with.
He related the events of the previous night, editing out any reference to Bianca LaBelle or Douglas Fairbanks, and she had listened intently, only allowing herself a brief smile when he told her that he shot the gun out of Donahue’s hand. He told her that after his escape, he had stood on the beach all night, watching the lifeboats land, but Donahue had not appeared.
She nodded. “But you saw Cornero?”
“Yes, I saw him. Dragna made it out, too. I heard on the radio this morning that Donahue is missing and presumed lost, but the rest of the p
assengers and crew made it out. The Monaco burned right down to the waterline. It’s a total loss.”
Dix did smile then, a broad, devilish grin. “I guess now that Donahue and Valentino are gone, Cornero will need a new business partner if he wants to outfit another gambling ship.”
Oliver felt the blood drain out of his face and he swayed on the couch. He should have known. He should have figured it out. “That’s why you sent Juan,” he blurted. “Once I got the names of Cornero’s investors, Juan’s job was to eliminate them.”
It took Dix a moment to figure out who he was talking about. “Oh, you mean Vlad. Vlad’s job was to use his initiative. Apparently, he did.”
“What about Jack Dragna?” he said.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Pfft. Jack and I understand one another. By the way, did you see what happened to Vlad?”
So his name was Vlad. “I don’t know what happened to him. I never saw him again after Cornero nailed me. I figure that if he managed to get off the ship, he’d have made his way back to you. Donahue’s punk told Cornero that he recognized Juan… Vlad…and knew he worked for you. Your boy probably has taken up residence at the bottom of the Pacific, along with Donahue.”
Dix nodded, unaffected. Dead bodyguards were the price of doing business. “Too bad. He was good. Effective without any fuss.”
Oliver sighed. “Did he have any family?”
“No. Just a cousin who works at the fishery over in Corona. Maybe he wants a job.” She looked thoughtful. “You look done in, Ted.” Dix was always so solicitous, so motherly toward him. “You had better go home and get into bed.”
~ Love is Dangerous, but Hatred is Exhausting ~
Dix was overcome with momentary fatigue and poured herself a shot of whiskey. Her plan had worked out better than she expected. She had figured that it would take a while to eliminate Cornero’s backers once she knew who they were. She hadn’t planned on the Monaco burning. Now she would have start from scratch to outfit her own fleet of gambling ships. However, she didn’t have to deal with Cornero if she didn’t want to. She was sorry to lose Vlad, but Oliver had worked out all right. He was a competent investigator. She’d use him for side jobs again.
She didn’t know why she felt low. That had been happening more and more lately, tiredness that came upon her suddenly and for no particular reason. Well, maybe there was a reason. A few months earlier, when Oliver had discovered that her second-in-command, Mr. Ruhl, had been stealing from her for years, the betrayal had taken something out of her. Ruhl… If she had ever trusted anyone in her life, it was Ruhl. That’s why she had to kill him. No matter what you feel for somebody, you mustn’t ever let them get away with betraying you.
Funny. It didn’t bother her nearly as much when Oliver turned up evidence that her own son had been involved in Ruhl’s embezzlement scheme. Graham had always been a disappointment. Had she loved her boy? She didn’t know. She tried. She wanted to love him. The truth was that five years earlier, after he disappeared without a word, Dix had been quietly relieved to be rid of his troublesome presence. At the time, she told herself that he had run afoul of somebody dangerous and gone on the lam, even though she suspected he had met a bad end. She had tried to find him but not very hard. When his skeleton had finally turned up on the beach a few months ago, she wasn’t surprised.
But she’d never rest till she found his killer. Mercy could be the end of you in this dangerous way of life, especially if you were a woman.
She poured herself another shot and chugged it. Bracing. She was feeling much better. Fortunately, the weariness never lasted long.
August 1932
~ James Quirk’s Last Interview Photoplay Magazine ~
Photoplay’s beloved managing editor, James R. Quirk, passed away from pneumonia and heart disease on August 1. The following interview with Bianca LaBelle is the final article that Mr. Quirk wrote, a mere two weeks before his death:
I have followed Bianca LaBelle’s career from the moment she burst upon the Hollywood scene in 1921 with her first Bianca Dangereuse film, The Golden Goblet, through her successful transition to the talkies, to her recent Academy Award nomination for The Borgia Woman. I met with Bianca early in July at her estate in Beverly Hills to discuss her latest project, the formation of a new production company called Cherokee Pictures.
I spent two hours with Miss LaBelle, had a wonderful time, learned everything about her philosophy of moviemaking and her expanding media empire, and learned nothing at all about Miss LaBelle herself. Bianca LaBelle is smart, witty, and fun to be with. But Bianca LaBelle is a sphinx. She’s a fine actress who never talks about her art. The expressive beauty of her eyes, soulful glance, her poise, all lend to her allure. Perhaps it is true that men are intrigued by a mysterious woman, and I believe that Bianca is mysterious because she knows all about herself and does not care to share any of it. She says nothing of her childhood other than it was a happy, healthy one, but there is a sadness about her that makes me wonder if she hit rock bottom before she came up again. The heights, now that she is among them, can’t kid her. An intelligent person learns something from each mistake. The next time she knows what to avoid. I have known Bianca for years, but I have never met the real Bianca LaBelle.
* * *
Bianca sighed and closed the magazine. The rest of the article consisted of her talking about the pictures that she wanted to produce—artful, well-written pieces that would never be financed by the big studios—and Jimmy Quirk trying to wrangle personal information out of her, like he always did. She had become an expert in ways to dodge his questions.
Jimmy’s unexpected death had been a shock. The official word was that he had died of bronchial pneumonia complicated by a weak heart, but she knew that his years of heavy drinking hadn’t helped anything. In fact, he had had a bit of a buzz on when he came to Orange Garden to interview her for this very article. He was hardly drunk enough to notice, but tipsy enough to lower his inhibitions about broaching uncomfortable subjects.
They had been sitting in her living room, next to one another on her white couch. The interview was over. He had closed his steno pad and returned it to his briefcase. She had stood to show him to the door, when he said, “You know, August 23 marks the sixth anniversary of Rudy’s death.”
She sat back down, curious to know what was on his mind. “I’m well aware, Jimmy.”
“Did you love him, Bianca?”
“I did, in my way. He was easy to love.”
“I guess you’ve heard all the rumors that have popped up about his death in the last few years. About him being murdered and all.”
“I’d have to be blind and deaf not to.”
“Do you believe it?”
“What, that he was murdered? What if I did? What good would it do to dredge that all up now? How could anything be proven after all this time?”
Quirk leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “I know something about that, you know.”
Bianca hadn’t thought about the circumstances surrounding Rudy’s death for years. She thought she was over the trauma of it all, but Quirk’s statement caused her heart to skip. “What are you talking about?” How could Quirk know that Miles Donahue had had Rudy murdered? Quirk had been aboard the Monaco when Donahue died. When she had asked him to help her find Jenny, had she inadvertently put him on the murderer’s trail? It’s always a mistake to involve reporters in anything, she thought.
Quirk seemed to regret his comment at once. He leaned back into the cushions and put a finger to his lips. “Never mind. I should have kept my head closed.”
“Oh, come on, Jimmy. You can’t say something like that and leave me hanging. What do you think you know about how Rudy died?”
“Nothing. Really. I just had a theory and nosed around a little. Maybe I’ll tell you someday. Maybe not. I will say this, though. You ought to talk to George Ullman
. If anybody knows what really happened to Rudy, it’s him.”
He refused to say any more. He left for New York shortly thereafter and she never saw him again. As for George Ullman, he was living on the East Coast with Beatrice. She had not spoken to him in ages.
A few weeks after Jimmy died, his wife, May Allison, who had given up acting and become a scriptwriter, moved back to California. In fact, Bianca and her little dog, Jack Dempsey, had paid a condolence call on May only the day before the Photoplay piece was published.
The women had spent a pleasant few hours telling each other amusing stories about Jimmy. He had been such a fixture in the entertainment industry, had known everybody, had an opinion about everything and wasn’t shy about sharing it. Few of the current entertainment journalists, if you could call them “journalists,” had nearly the class that Jimmy had.
When Bianca finally stood to leave, May handed her a sealed letter with her name on it. She recognized Jimmy’s bold handwriting.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a letter for you from Jimmy. Something he wanted you to know. Don’t open it now. Wait until you get home.”
“For me? How odd. Do you know what’s in it?”
“I don’t,” May said. “He gave me the envelope a few days before he died. But I swore upon the soul of my mother that I’d never, ever, open it. He also told me that I can’t ever tell anyone that the letter even exists. And you must swear the same.”
“Goodness, May…”
May held up a hand. “Never, never, ever.”
Bianca had sworn, then tucked the letter into the big orange satchel she normally carried instead of a purse, where it had lain unread for several days.
* * *
Bianca put on her biggest, floppiest sun hat and her dark glasses, bundled Jack into her roadster, and drove to Casa del Mar near Santa Monica for a walk on the beach. The little pooch was ancient now, but even if he couldn’t walk very far without a rest, he still loved to nose around in the sand. While the dog explored the detritus washed up by the surf, Bianca sat on a towel under a beach umbrella, watching a group of children playing on the beach.
