Cast the First Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  Once we’d enjoyed two rounds of cocktails, dinner, consisting of beef and cheese fondues, was served, accompanied by a bottle of Bordeaux. Lucia bragged that Nelson was a gourmet chef who’d trained at the Cordon Bleu in Paris.

  “That was many years ago,” he said, blushing. “After the war when I spent two years discovering myself in Paris.”

  I would have thought he’d discovered himself around the age of twelve or thirteen and had been enjoying himself ever since, but I kept that thought to myself.

  After a demitasse and a smoke in front of the warm fire, I bade the Blanchards good night. Nelson pouted that it was only ten o’clock, but I told him it had been a long, wet day. He made one last suggestive remark about showing me some etchings in the bedroom. I kissed him on the cheek, thanked them both for their hospitality, and skipped out the door and through the slop to my car.

  The rain was lighter now as I wound my way down Nichols Canyon back into Hollywood. With the fun of the evening behind me, I concentrated on the great revelation of the day. Not only was Mickey Harper a New Holland boy, but he was Tony Eberle’s oldest and dearest friend. Why had he lied to me? Why had he claimed to know Tony only casually? Or had he said that? I thought back to my meetings with him. I’d told him clearly who I was and where I was from, yet he showed no sign of recognition, made no attempt to share that he, too, was from New Holland. He’d remained tight-lipped and never said how well he knew Tony. That was my fault; I should have pressed him.

  So what else had he hidden from me? For one, he’d claimed he never saw Tony in the darkened room when he returned home in the wee-small hours of Tuesday morning. That strained credulity. The room was barely eighteen feet across. If nothing else, he would have heard Tony’s breathing or snoring. Yes, I was certain he’d lied about that. And I thought about what else he’d told me. First, that he didn’t know April or her family name. Another hard-to-believe story, especially in light of Mickey’s close relationship with Tony. Then there was the question of his own activities. Had he attended a party with friends Monday night as he’d said? And the biggest doubt in my mind concerned Mickey’s adamant denials that he knew anything about Tony’s current whereabouts.

  I turned onto Hollywood Boulevard and made up my mind to get some better answers from Mickey Harper. But first, I knew, I’d have to find him. And that might prove to be a tall order if the recent past was any indication.

  The other significant development of the day was the roll of film I’d picked up from Thelan’s earlier in the evening. I was pleased to see that the one frame I’d shot of the Rambler indeed showed the rear of the car in good focus. The black numbers on the orange plate stood out clearly: J26 582. I hoped Gene Duerson’s friend at Motor Vehicles would come through for us. If so, I might be able to track down the mysterious April and, I was sure, Tony Eberle.

  The day may have been long and wet, but I wasn’t quite finished for the night. While I’d appreciated Nelson Blanchard’s offer of a nightcap, I wanted to be alone to think. And I wanted another drink.

  I parked my car across from the hotel and set out on foot down Hollywood Boulevard. Musso and Frank Grill was located just a short distance away. I recalled the cabbie who’d driven me into Hollywood from the airport a couple of days before. He’d once dropped Raymond Burr at Musso and Frank. And while it might have been fun to spot Perry Mason in the wild, that wasn’t my motivation that night.

  The joint wasn’t exactly jumping. At ten thirty, diners filled only a few of the booths and tables; the rain had chased away most of the patrons. I found a seat at the empty end of the long mahogany bar. Within seconds, the friendly bartender in a red waiter’s jacket, complete with epaulettes and brass buttons, poured me a healthy two fingers of Scotch, winked at me, and called me sweetheart. I sipped my drink, savoring the sting on my tongue and in my nose. The first bite of whiskey. I felt I deserved it after my disappointing day. In fact, I felt I deserved the second drink as well, which I ordered a few minutes later.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  I turned to see who’d interrupted my thoughts, and my gaze came to rest on a tall, handsome, athletic man with thick black eyebrows and a strong chin. He stood above me in a blue suit and silver tie, his eyes trying to draw me in as if with a rope. He had a cigarette wedged between the fore- and middle finger of his right hand, and he wore a gold Omega watch on his left wrist.

  I shrugged. “It’s a free country. But I must warn you I’m not looking for company.”

  “I’ll take that as your opening offer. We can negotiate from there,” he said, appropriating the chair next to me.

  He signaled to the barkeep, who seemed to recognize him and know what he was drinking.

  “Chuck Porter,” he said to me, holding out a hand.

  I took it, debating whether to give him my real name or not. I figured there was no harm. Mr. Chuck Porter probably trolled this place nightly, tossing out his net to see what he might snare. A pretty actress on the make for a steak dinner and a couple of drinks. Maybe a girl looking for a rich friend to help with the rent in exchange for the occasional evening of thrills. Or even a naive out-of-towner. Well, I wasn’t in the market for steak or a roll in the hay, and I could certainly buy my own drinks. Ultimately, though, I found him just charming enough to bear, and I resisted the urge to tell him to push off.

  “A pretty girl like you should smile,” he said. “Come on. I’ll bet you’ve got a beautiful smile.”

  “I smile when someone says something funny.”

  “Good one,” he said with a chuckle. “So, does Ellen come here often?”

  “I don’t know about Ellen, but Ellie doesn’t. First time.”

  The bartender slid a Manhattan under his nose.

  “There you go, Mr. Alden.”

  My new friend blushed and cleared his throat. He took a drag of his cigarette then stubbed it out in the ashtray on the bar.

  “I use a different name here,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper, by way of an explanation. “Just for business purposes, you understand.”

  “Are you a spy, Mr. Porter?”

  He cracked a toothy smile. “No, nothing like that. I’m in the music business. Capitol Records. I’m sure you’ve seen our headquarters on Vine.”

  I took a sip of my drink and nodded, unclear why anyone in the music business would need to use an alias. He wore no wedding ring, but I was sure of one thing. This guy was married and a cheater on the prowl.

  “Yes, I’ve seen it,” I said. “It looks like a great big layer cake.”

  “We like to think it’s more like a stack of records. I could give you a tour if you like. Tonight.”

  “I told you I’m not looking for company.”

  He shrugged and took a swig of his Manhattan. “You’re not waiting for someone, are you? If so, say the word, and I’ll withdraw to lick my wounds at the other end of the bar.”

  “Actually, I was hoping William Hopper might drop in and sweep me off my feet.”

  “William . . . William Hopper the actor? Paul Drake?” Chuck couldn’t tell if I was joking or not. A strike against him in my book.

  I giggled. “Wishful thinking. I’m not meeting anyone, Mr. Porter. I came in from the rain for a drink.”

  “That’s your second drink,” he said. “And please call me Chuck. We’re old friends by now.”

  I retrieved a cigarette from my purse and lit it.

  “You should know that I have a horror of men who keep track of how much I drink,” I said. “Or who watch me secretly from across the room. Perhaps you’re a spy after all.”

  “Duly noted. Apologies, Ellie.”

  “Ellen.”

  “Sorry, Ellen. It’s just that you caught my eye,” he continued without missing a beat. “You can’t blame a fellow for appreciating a pretty girl.”

  We sat quietly for a minute. I didn’t mind chatting with him, but he was mistaken if he thought he was striking gold this evening.

  “Do you know
Ray Charles?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “The singer?” I asked. “I’ve never met him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Tonight? At Capitol Records?”

  Chuck smiled and said no. “Next week he’ll be in town to record his new LP. Not with Capitol, but he’s a friend of mine. I could pull some strings.”

  I thanked him but said that while I appreciated Ray Charles, I was more of a Sam Cooke kind of gal.

  “You wouldn’t know him, by any chance?” I asked.

  He didn’t. Strike two. But over the course of the next twenty minutes, Chuck treated me to war stories about the music business. He was a producer, so he said, and knew almost anyone who’d ever strummed a guitar, tickled a piano, or banged a drum. For fun, I asked if he’d ever met Fritz Wunderlich. He shook his head. Then he told me he worked in the movies, too. Rather some of the singers he handled did. What is it that makes some men fall in love with the sound of their own voices?

  “Have you ever heard of Rockin’ Johnny Bristol?” he asked.

  Strike three. Johnny Bristol was exactly the type of teen idol that I couldn’t stomach. All teeth and hair and muscles, with a pedestrian voice and a stringless guitar for a prop.

  “Not my speed,” I said, nodding to the bartender for one more drink.

  Chuck tried to pay for it, but I refused. I might have enjoyed passing some time chatting with the big side of beef, but I wanted there to be no confusion in his mind as to my intentions. He took it like a man.

  “What brings you to Los Angeles?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “What makes you think I don’t live here?”

  He smiled indulgently.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’re quite a looker. Not at all provincial. But once you’ve spent some time in LA, you can spot the interlopers pretty easily.”

  “I’m in LA to meet someone,” I said cryptically.

  “A man?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “A love affair?”

  “Nothing like that. I’m a reporter, here to interview an actor.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Rock Hudson?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tony Curtis?”

  “No one as famous as that.”

  He thought hard, scratching his head and squinting at the light. “Then it must be Ed Wynn.”

  “You’ve never heard of this fellow,” I said, trying to sip my drink with a huge grin on my lips. Chuck Porter was cleverer than I’d thought. “He’s just a young actor from a small town.”

  “Try me. I know a lot of people.”

  This Chuck Porter refused to take a hint. I asked him if he knew Paul Newman to get him off my back.

  “Afraid not,” he said. “But I once spilled a drink on Joanne Woodward in the Beverly Hills Hotel bar. She was quite gracious, considering it was a bloody Mary and she was wearing a white silk dress.”

  I’d had my fill. While it was mildly amusing to listen to Chuck Porter/Alden talk about himself, I’d originally intended to enjoy a quiet drink by myself as I tried to sort out what I might do to find Tony Eberle. Now, three whiskeys in, I felt my faculties punching out for the day. Suddenly I was annoyed at this man who’d deprived me of my own time.

  “I doubt I would have been as magnanimous,” I said. “And before you spill your Manhattan on me, I’ll say good night.”

  My words seemed to sting him, like alcohol in the eye. He straightened up and cleared his throat. He put on a brave face, trying to mask the affront with bravado before managing to fashion a counterfeit smile out of his pursed lips. He fished into his breast pocket and produced a business card.

  “If you change your mind, Ellie, let me know.” His curled lip told me he knew I’d been pulling his leg about my name.

  I pointed out that the number and address were in New York.

  “I live in New York but spend most of my time out here. I’m staying at the Roosevelt Hotel, room 135.” His eyes offered one last invitation.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1962

  A rhythmic banging invaded my dreams. The “Anvil Chorus” from Il Trovatore, I thought, but realized that wasn’t right. No, it wasn’t Verdi. It sounded more like someone pounding on wood than iron. Then I awoke with a start, lost in one of those terrifying moments when you don’t know where you are. I found my bearings soon enough, but the disorientation was an unpleasant way to greet the day.

  The knocking on my door resumed, this time with an accompanying baritone.

  “Miss Stone, it’s Marty. The bellhop,” came the voice from the other side.

  “Just a minute,” I called out, leaping out of bed.

  Marty must have heard “Come in,” because the doorknob rattled back and forth. Standing there stark naked, trapped in no-man’s-land halfway between the bed and bathroom, I screamed at him to stop. The lock held, and the knob returned to its resting position. My modesty safe by a whisker, I wrapped myself in a robe.

  “What is it?” I asked through the door.

  “You got a telegram,” said Marty from the corridor. “It’s marked urgent.”

  I opened the door a crack. “At six a.m.?” I asked, eyes half shut. “Since when does Western Union deliver so early?”

  “Yeah, about that. This came in last night around a quarter to seven. You had just went out.”

  I swung open the door and grabbed the wire from him. “Why didn’t anyone give this to me last night when I came back?”

  Marty shrugged halfheartedly as if to apologize and explained that Mr. Cromartie at the front desk had lost it and didn’t find it till about fifteen minutes ago. “He was sitting on it.”

  I examined the wrinkled telegram in the low light, my sour face surely betraying what I thought of the news. “You mean he sat on it for twelve hours?”

  Marty pshawed. “Of course not. He got up to use the bathroom three or four times in the night.”

  I thanked Marty and tipped him a quarter.

  Safely behind my locked door again, I tore open the wire and read. It was from Charlie Reese.

  ELLIE,

  SITUATION TENSE. SHORT WANTS YOU TO FIND EBERLE IMMED. SAYS GAZETTE SENDING DUNNOLT TO GET STORY. SHORT THREATENS TO SEND GEORGE IF NO RESULTS SOON.

  FRIENDLY ENCOURAGEMENT FROM ME. FIND HIM AND REPORT BACK.

  CHARLIE

  I rolled my eyes. So easy for folks on the sidelines to demand a touchdown pass like ordering a beer. It was another matter altogether to throw a perfect spiral while being chased by a pack of pituitary cases in tights and plastic helmets. I might have been more concerned if I hadn’t had April’s license number in my possession and a new pal with contacts at the DMV. In fact, I was due to meet Gene and Andy at Hody’s coffee shop at eight.

  At 7:45 a.m., armed with my trusty, busted umbrella, I hurried down the stairs to the street. Mr. Cromartie called to me from the front desk. Did he work twenty-four-hour shifts?

  “Telegram, Miss Stone,” he said.

  I told him that Marty had already given me the “rump-led” wire. But Cromartie said there was a second one that had just arrived. I hoped he hadn’t had time to sit on this one, which was from none other than Artie Short, owner and publisher of the New Holland Republic. I read.

  STONE,

  FIND EBERLE. URGENT. DON’T UNDERSTAND DELAY. NO SUN BATHING ON MY DIME. REPORT BACK THIS PM WITH INFO.

  A. SHORT

  This second telegram upset me more than the first. I hated being told I was failing by people who had no idea of the challenge, the job, or the rain. Through no fault of my own, I had arrived in Los Angeles to find my subject vanished without a trace. His only friend was lying to all and sundry about his whereabouts, and the studio executives were asking for my help. Through sheer stubbornness and persistence, I’d managed to follow Tony Eberle up a deserted canyon road that led to a dead man’s home. A dead man who’d hired young T
ony himself for his picture. And now, thanks to my ingenuity and quick thinking, I had what I believed was the license plate number of his girlfriend’s car. Striding through the light rain on Hollywood Boulevard toward breakfast at Hody’s, I bit my lip and swore I would locate Tony Eberle that very day. And when I did, I’d wire Artie Short to tell him that my tan was coming along just fine.

  “Did you get it?” Andy asked me as I sat down at the table next to Gene, opposite him.

  I dug into my purse and produced the photo envelope from Thelan’s as if pulling a rabbit from a silk hat. Slapping the pictures on the table, I put on my best poker face and stared Andy down.

  “She got it,” he said, a grin mushrooming into a huge smile. “I told you she had it.”

  “Let’s see.” Gene reached for the envelope and then pulled out the print.

  Andy burst into laughter, as Gene examined the photo. He, too, smiled.

  “Excuse me,” he said, rising from the booth. “I’m going to call my friend at Motor Vehicles right now.”

  While Gene was in the phone booth, Andy congratulated me for the fine job I’d done. Then he asked if he could see my camera. Turning it over in his hands, treating it like a fragile work of art, he cooed like a dove.

  “This is a swell camera, Ellie. I’d like to get a Leica someday. They’re pricey, though, aren’t they?”

  “It was a gift,” I said simply, as I fell into a distant memory.

  On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I’d slipped out of our apartment on lower Fifth Avenue and joined my girlfriend Janey Silverman in Union Square at half past eleven. We boarded an uptown Lexington train and jumped off at Sixty-Eighth Street. From there, Janey led the way to an apartment on Seventy-Fifth and Third where five recent law school grads were throwing a party. At least we’d been told it was a party. But when we arrived, there was no music, no food, and no other guests. There was, however, plenty of alcohol. I got a bad feeling right off the bat, but Janey told me to relax. She knew these fellows. On closer questioning, she admitted that she’d only met one of them, and he wasn’t even there.