At first the boys were nice if fresh. Then after a couple of drinks, they got a little pushy. I was taking things easy given my unease. In fact, I hadn’t even taken a sip of the two drinks the tall blond named Larry poured for me. I was seated next to a large potted plant and was doing my part to make sure it didn’t die of dehydration in the June heat. Janey, on the other hand, was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. One and a half cocktails were about her limit, and after that you could find her either with a lampshade on her head or passed out on the couch, depending on the breaks. Now, with five leering men standing by, Janey slouched into her chair catatonic. I was sure they were waiting for me to follow my friend into the arms of Morpheus, but I had other plans.
“Will one of you kindly call a cab for us?” I asked. “I think we should go now.”
“Come on,” said Larry, putting an arm around my waist, “the night’s young. Let your friend sleep it off. We’ll make sure you get home later.”
I had to play this carefully. Even if I could scratch my way past five grown men and reach the door, there was no way I’d be able to lug an unconscious Janey with me. So making a break for it was off the table.
“Pour me another?” I asked, tapping my glass with my right index finger. He snatched my drink to oblige. “Where’s the powder room?”
One of the other gents showed me the way into the bedroom down the hall. Once inside, I used the phone to dial my brother, Elijah, who was staying with a friend in Murray Hill that summer. When I returned to the living room, Larry asked what had taken me so long. I told him that was an indelicate thing to ask a lady.
“Lady?” he scoffed. “Let’s drop the act. Come on, we want to have some fun.”
He placed my new drink on the table and slipped an arm around my waist again.
“Actually, what took me so long was the switchboard,” I said as he nuzzled my neck.
“Switchboard? What are you talking about?”
“The switchboard at the Nineteenth Precinct.”
Larry let go of my waist. His lips relinquished their claim to the nape of my neck. “You called the police?”
“Janey’s father,” I lied. “He’s the duty sergeant at the Nineteenth. What took me so long was that the switchboard operator couldn’t find him at first.”
“What? Why would you call the cops?”
“I called Janey’s father because she’s not feeling well. You wouldn’t want her father to think you didn’t take care of his little girl, would you?”
Larry stammered something incoherent then looked to his buddies for assistance. Two of them shrugged, while the other two were already pulling on their jackets and straightening their ties.
Three minutes later, Larry and Hank—I believe his name was—were helping Janey down the stairs, each with one of her arms over their strong shoulders. Once outside in the warm evening air, they bolted, leaving us leaning against a lamppost. Janey crumpled to the ground and vomited in the gutter, but at least she was safe. Five minutes later a taxi screeched to a halt in front of us, and Elijah and three of his beefiest friends poured out.
“Where are they?” asked Elijah, and I saw a tire iron under his arm. His companions were similarly prepared with baseball bats.
“They’ve run off,” I said. “We’re all right. Janey’s out. I think they slipped her a Mickey.”
“How did you get out of there?” asked the largest of Elijah’s friends, Sammy.
“I told them I’d called the police. I said Janey’s father was a cop and gave them the chance to do the right thing before he showed up. They were quite eager to help after that.”
Elijah was furious with me. He lectured me as we rode home together in a taxi, swore I was going to get myself killed someday if I didn’t change my ways. I was sure he would rat me out to Dad as soon as we got home, but he didn’t. He said instead that we’d had a good time with some of his friends.
The following morning, my birthday, my parents presented me with a brand-new Leica M3 camera. I’d shown some interest in photography, though the sum total of my photographic experience consisted of snapping pictures at Coney Island with my father’s Brownie.
It was a beautiful and expensive gift. And as I struggled to find the words to thank them, my father told me that it would have a positive influence on me. Create a healthy activity that I could enjoy for the rest of my life.
“We hope you won’t abandon it as you did the piano. So much potential wasted.”
That put a damper on my enthusiasm for the gift. But my father hadn’t finished.
“Now we all know about your occasional bouts with whiskey,” he continued, and I groaned inside. “And now that you’re eighteen, you have the legal right to drink. But that doesn’t mean you have to overdo it. My hope is that you’ll spend more time with this camera than you will with the bottle.”
That did it. I remember promising myself in that very moment that I would go out and buy myself my first legal bottle of whiskey later that day.
“Thank you, Dad,” I said, giving him a hug. “Thank you, Mom. I’ll treasure this camera always. And, Dad, I’ll never forget what you said.”
Andy’s voice called me back from my memory. I smiled, not having heard a word of what he’d said. Then Gene returned. I glanced at my watch. God knows what Andy had been going on about, but four full minutes had passed since Gene left the table.
“Well?” I asked.
“Got it,” he said with a broad smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We parked alongside the curb in front of a squat three-story apartment building on North Edgemont. The surrounding residences, mostly modest family homes and bungalows, seemed to want no part of the box of grayish bricks, as if they were holding their noses and shrinking away from the ugly neighbor. Andy, Gene, and I climbed out of my car, braving a light rain, and approached the front door. Reading from the list of tenants—there were eleven names and one vacant apartment—I found A. Kincaid in 2B. Inside the door, a red notice informed us that 3B, a furnished bachelor, was for rent.
No one answered when we knocked on 2B. The door was locked, and neither Andy nor Gene would entertain my suggestion that they put a sturdy shoulder or two into the door, just to see what happened. We trudged back down the stairs to the entrance. I examined the list of tenants again, and, remembering Evelyn Maynard, I buzzed the super. Andy asked what I was hoping to accomplish.
“I’m going to get him to let us into April’s room,” I said.
Gene chuckled. “You’re going to convince him to kick the door down? I doubt it.”
“Buy me a drink if we get in?” I asked. “Each?”
Gene and Andy exchanged a glance. “Deal,” said Gene. “But drinks are on you if he calls the cops.”
A crooked little man peered out of a door down the hall. Then he shuffled out to see what we wanted. He was shorter than I—in part due to his posture, part due to his height—with salt-and-pepper hair and a long, tangled gray mustache.
“What you want?” he asked. His accent was hard to identify, but I narrowed it down to something between Spanish and Polish.
He squinted as he spoke, looking up at his interlocutor from his stooped position.
“I’d like to see the room you’re renting,” I said. “Three-B.”
The gray man took a step back, almost as if I’d staggered him with an uppercut. “You?” he asked. “I don’t think this is the right place for a fancy girl like you.”
“Nevertheless, I am interested in renting the apartment. Is it weekly or monthly?”
He stared up at me, his loose lower lip hanging a little limp to the left side, following the gravity of his cocked head.
“Either. Who are these guys?” he asked with a halfhearted gesture to indicate Andy and Gene.
“Them? My brother and my father.”
Andy smiled dumbly. Gene looked positively insulted.
“They don’t look much like you.”
“Thanks,” I said, confusi
ng him and slighting my friends at the same time. I threw them a high sign to indicate that it was all part of my plan.
Mr. Szolosi, as I soon found out his name was, showed us to the third floor. As we climbed the stairs, Andy asked me what I had up my sleeve. I whispered that he should watch and follow my lead. Once we reached the top, the super stopped on the landing to catch his breath, threw a resentful glare my way, then fished some keys from his pocket and let us into apartment 3B.
“This might do,” I said, surveying the dim room.
There was, of course, nothing acceptable about the empty place. The smell of dusty old paint and crumbling plaster filled the air. Light barely managed to penetrate the grimy windows, whose dark-green roll-up shades were faded and looked brittle from years of baking in the sun. I noticed the wallpaper above the window was peeling like the skin of an overripe banana. The floors had been worn bare, warped and scratched, and were in need of a master carpenter to sand, refinish, and—in the end—throw down his tools in disgust and declare defeat. They were beyond all hope of salvage.
“You like this place?” asked Szolosi.
“I’m not so sure,” said Gene, surprising me. He wandered around the room, wiping a finger over the dust on the windowsill and assuming an expression intended to communicate indifference or disappointment. “That place we saw in Silver Lake was a sight nicer than this one.”
“But that one wasn’t furnished,” I said, playing along.
Then, turning to the super, I asked why there was no furniture in the apartment.
“We threw out everything. The guy who died here— Sorry, the guy who lived here left it a mess. The landlord will put a bed, a table, chair, and some drawers in here.”
“See?” I said to Gene. “New furniture.”
“Not new, but clean,” said Szolosi. “Kind of.”
I strolled around the room, pretending to be considering the pros of this white-glove residence versus Gene’s imaginary palace in Silver Lake.
“Now I’m not sure,” I said at length. “What if I don’t like the furniture he picks? Perhaps you could show me a different apartment to give me an idea of what it might look like?”
The super frowned. “Lady, this is the only room for rent.”
“I understand that. I just want to see what this apartment would look with furniture. Couldn’t you show me the one below? It must be the same layout.”
Mr. Szolosi drew a sigh and wiped an itch off his face. After a moment’s reflection, he agreed.
“You don’t touch nothing,” he cautioned as we made our way down to the second floor. “Just a quick look. That’s all.”
April’s apartment matched the one directly above perfectly. With the exception of the meager furnishings and some personal effects strewn here and there, the place was empty. But it had the look of a temporary solution, as if the tenant had no intention of staying. No pictures on the walls, no television or radio, no telephone. Only a couple of chipped plates and glasses and simple flatware for one lonely person. In fact, I would have bet dollars to doughnuts that April had never even cooked a meal there.
Standing a few feet inside the room, with Andy, Gene, and Mr. Szolosi behind me, I struck a pensive pose, chin in hand, as if I were struggling to decide. But in reality, I was scanning the room, furiously searching for something, anything, that might provide a clue of where April Kincaid had gone. There was nothing. No personal touches anywhere.
“Who lives here?” I asked the super.
“Why you ask?”
“Because I’d like to know who my neighbors will be. I don’t want to live above someone who makes a lot of noise or throws wild parties.”
“A girl lives here. Very quiet. No worries.”
“Do you know if she has a boyfriend?” I asked, worried it was one question too many.
It was. Szolosi glared at me and said I’d seen enough. I apologized and asked for just another minute to decide. He stewed but didn’t say no.
I returned to my intense examination of the room. There had to be something of hers to steer me in the right direction. But I wasn’t finding it. I was at the point of surrender when I saw it. There, on a mullion of the window, a small black-and-white snapshot, pinned to the wood by a thumbtack. I wandered into the room, still feigning interest, and got close enough to see the photo. I reached out and lifted it slightly to see better. The super shuffled over and told me not to touch anything.
“I was just admiring this photograph,” I said. “She’s pretty. Is she the girl who lives here?”
“That’s not your business. Come on. Out. Let’s go.”
Mr. Szolosi griped and scolded me all the way down to the street. At the front door I broke the news to him that I had decided to go with the other place. He said good riddance, or something approaching that, and slammed the door.
“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Andy. “What do we do now?”
Gene hushed him and fixed me with a stare. “Wait a minute. What did you get in there, Ellie? Was there something in the snapshot?”
I smiled and nodded.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The three-and-a-half-by-five photograph was wrinkled and scratched, but I had seen the pretty young woman without any trouble. Dressed in a dark waitress uniform, she looked to be relaxing after a long shift in a restaurant. Reclining in a chair, holding a cigarette in one hand, she’d planted the other in her mussed hair and propped her shoeless feet up on an ottoman of some kind. An impish smile curled her lips as she stared at the birdie. And stitched into the left breast of her uniform was the name Charlie Horse Diner.
I drove Andy and Gene back to Hollywood where they took their own cars to do some research. We agreed that they would check out the Charlie Horse while I sent off a wire to my editor about my progress. We would then meet after lunch to discuss the results at the snack bar at Hollywood Ranch Market on Vine Street.
CHARLIE,
TONY STILL AWOL. HAVE LOCATED GIRLFRIEND’S APT. SHE IS ALSO MISSING. HAVE FOUND IMPORTANT LEAD TO FOLLOW. WILL INFORM YOU AT EARLIEST.
NOT EASY TO FIND SOMEONE WHO DOESN’T WANT TO BE FOUND.
IF I SEE WALSH IN LA, BOYS WILL COME OUT TO PLAY, AND GEORGIE PORGIE WILL RUN AWAY.
ELLIE
I sent the cable and spent ninety minutes in my hotel room, scribbling out a follow-up to my first article, concentrating on the death of producer Bertram Wallis. While not implicating Tony in so many words, I dutifully reported that the police wanted to question him. I wasn’t sure if Charlie would publish it, but I was determined to give him the full story, including that Tony’s phone number had been found on the dead man. I held back the revelation that his roommate was, in fact, a son of New Holland as well. That might have to come out later, but for now, I wanted to keep that information as an ace up my sleeve. More likely than not, Tony and Mickey’s living arrangements were a well-guarded secret. I couldn’t believe Tony’s father knew anything about it, or he wouldn’t have given Fadge Mickey’s name.
But why hide the friendship at all? So what if two young men were sharing a modest apartment in a big city far from home? They wouldn’t have been the first to do so. My brother, Elijah, had done the same after college. And those memories of Elijah prompted me to circle back to one question that continued to nag me: was hometown golden boy Tony Eberle queer?
The Hollywood Ranch Market on Fountain and Vine covered almost an entire city block. Open twenty-four hours a day, the market offered everything a housewife needed to feed her family and clean her house. There was also a snack bar in front where the famous and not-so-famous alike were often spotted sipping coffee or stuffing a hot dog into their mouths. I ordered a Coke and waited for my pals to show up. When they did a few minutes later, I was treated to two stony faces.
“What happened?” I asked.
“No luck on the Charlie Horse Diner,” said Andy. “Nothing in the phone book under that name.”
“So then what?” I pushed.
“Huh?”
“What did you do next?”
“There’s no Charlie Horse in Los Angeles,” explained Andy. “It must be somewhere else.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Where?”
“Who knows? Must’ve been an old snapshot. Impossible to say where April came from.”
I was just a reporter for a small afternoon daily in a mill town in upstate New York, and yet I knew I’d be looking for a new job if I told my editor what they’d just told me.
“Can’t you dig a little deeper?” I asked. “Maybe check some phone books from surrounding cities?”
Gene lit a cigarette and shook his head. “We checked the valley, too. Look, Ellie. This is a needle in a haystack. It’s a big country. She could have come here from anywhere. Back East, the Midwest. James M. Cain said most Californians came from Iowa. Isn’t that right, Andy?”
“How helpful. Then what do you think we should do?”
“Watch her place,” said Andy. “She’s bound to go back there eventually.”
I had my doubts on that score. We’d all seen the apartment. There was nothing she might need inside. Why would she return there at this point? Perhaps once Tony had resurfaced, but not before. No, I was sure April Kincaid had gone to ground with her boyfriend and wouldn’t come back until the all clear sounded. I shared this opinion with my friends.
Gene drew a sigh, then a deep drag on his cigarette. “If you can find her with an old photograph from God knows when or where, I salute you. But I don’t have a steady job anymore. I’ve got to land a scoop or I’m going to starve to death one of these days.”
“But that’s precisely why you can’t sit on your duff waiting for April to come back,” I said. “You’ve got to go out and find her, Gene.”
Cast the First Stone Page 10
