“Sounds dire,” I said. “Where do I come in?”
“Of course I’d love to offer you a job, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I wasn’t aware I’d asked for a job. I want to know how I’m supposed to help you.”
“I need to find Tony Eberle.”
“But you said he was a nobody. Why?”
Dorothy rose and crossed to the bar, where she poured herself another glass of pastis and water. Then she grabbed another tumbler, dispensed some whiskey and ice into it, and handed it to me.
“We believe Tony stole a script from Bertram Wallis’s house,” she said, retaking her seat. “We need that script.”
“I know where you can get it.”
Her right eyebrow arched. “You do?”
“If you want the script, I can show you where it is. But that’s all you’ll get. A script.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t think that’s what you’re after. And to prove it, I’ll tell you right now where the script is. At the Writers Guild.”
“What?”
“Bertram Wallis registered his last script with the Writers Guild. They have a copy on file. So your job is safe, don’t you see?”
Dorothy pursed her lips and looked away. She reached into a silver box on the table and pulled out a cigarette.
“All right,” she said, lighting it and taking a short puff. “It’s not a script I’m looking for. What I really need is Tony Eberle.”
“But why?”
“Because he has what I am actually looking for.”
“Tell me what it is. I might be able to help.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
“Then you’re on your own for finding him.”
Dorothy took another puff of her cigarette. “If I tell you what it is I’m looking for, can you keep it in strictest confidence?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know what you’re going to tell me.”
“You can’t print this in the paper, even in your little New Holland, New York.”
“If it’s something scandalous, you have nothing to worry about,” I said, thinking her insistence on absolute secrecy could only point to some shocking revelation or salacious gossip. “My paper doesn’t print that kind of thing.”
“Then we have an agreement? You won’t print or repeat any of what I tell you? My job and others’ reputations are at risk if you do.”
I sipped my drink and stared at her. I didn’t respond. I’d already told her I wouldn’t print anything scandalous and didn’t want to appear to be begging. She read the answer in my eyes.
“There were photographs in Bertie Wallis’s home,” she said. “They’ve gone missing.”
“Photographs of what?”
“Surely you can figure it out, Miss Stone.” We were back to formality. “The photographs disappeared late Monday night or Tuesday morning. At least that’s our best guess.”
“So some of Wallis’s personal photographs were taken from his house the night he was murdered. And you suspect it was Tony Eberle who stole them. Why not call the police?”
“We can’t involve the police in this. The pictures are pornographic. We need to find Tony Eberle immediately.”
“How do you know they’re pornographic?”
“Because we recovered the negatives. Those have already been destroyed, along with all the other dangerous pictures. But there are some prints missing.”
“And there are faces in the photographs you’d like to protect,” I said, wondering how she’d managed to “recover” the negatives and prints from Wallis’s home.
“Precisely. And since you seem to have some kind of direct line to Tony Eberle, I am counting on you to tell me where he is.”
“But you suspect him of having something to do with Bertram Wallis’s murder. Why would he hand over the pictures to you?”
“Because if he agrees, he’s going to appear in a major new picture next year.”
“You would cast a murderer in one of your movies?”
“Only if he’s innocent, of course.”
“Who’s in the photos?” I asked, taking her by surprise. “It must be someone important to the studio if your job is at stake.”
“Don’t ask me that. I can’t tell you. But, yes, there is someone in the photos whose reputation as a ladies’ man we must protect at all costs.”
“It’s not Raymond Burr, is it?” I asked to break the tension.
A short laugh escaped her perfectly painted lips. “If only,” she said. “I wish my problem were as simple as Ray.” Then she turned serious again. “I’m willing to pay you for your help. But you must find Tony Eberle for me quickly.”
“I have a job. I’m paid by my paper.”
“I’m sure the figure I have in mind is more than you earn in a year.”
I gulped. “But what if he didn’t palm the pictures? What if it was someone else?”
“The offer is for the photographs. All of them. I don’t care how you get them.”
One of those long, sleek Jaguars pulled up at the curb outside the McCadden Hotel at the appointed hour of 9:45 p.m. I skipped down the stairs in a sensible navy shirtdress gathered at the waist by a white belt.
“How lovely you look,” said Nelson Blanchard as I climbed into his car. “Hot date?”
“You should know. You’re it. And I know you’re pulling my leg. I was told to dress down for this place.”
He glanced at me, his eyes taking me in. “In that case you’ve succeeded. You look like a librarian.”
“Good.”
We made our way east along Hollywood Boulevard, turning south at Cahuenga, chatting as we went.
“I’m really grateful you agreed to do this,” I said.
“It sounded like fun. How could I refuse?”
“Have you ever been to a gay bar?”
“Oh, yes. Many times. Lucia and I play in many different sandboxes. We’re broadminded, as you know.”
“And she doesn’t mind?”
He turned his attention from the road to me and flashed his horsey grin. “She quite enjoys palling around with queers. Finds them more entertaining than most of our straight acquaintances.”
“She doesn’t object to your squiring me about tonight?”
“Of course not,” he said, watching the road again. “She insisted, especially since she couldn’t make it. She has her usual acting recital this evening. And she suggested I bring you home later for a nightcap.”
“Let’s see how the evening goes. I don’t want to hate myself in the morning.”
Nelson chuckled. “You are a clever girl, Ellie. A shame you’re as straitlaced as a librarian.”
The Wind Up was a bit of a hole in the wall on Melrose Avenue, near the corner of Wilton. Not far from Tony and Mickey’s apartment, I noted. Nelson almost missed the place, as the front windows were painted over, and the only evidence of a business inside was a small neon sign over the darkened door. A vagrant was camped out in the entrance of the café next door, drinking from a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Across the street, another bum sprawled in the entry of a wig shop. Judging by the empty bottle next to his head, I figured his evening was over. We parked in the filling station next to the one-story storefront and entered by the side door.
A long bar, packed with well-dressed men between twenty-five and fifty. Dark wood paneling, quite old-fashioned, and several chairs and round tables against the wall. There was a small pool table where four young men were engaged in a game of eight ball. A short, square, silver-haired woman behind the bar looked us over with suspicion.
“Are you folks sure you have the right place?” she asked. “You look lost.”
“Oh, no,” said Nelson with a confidence that defused some, but not all, of the woman’s doubts. “I’m a friend of Henry Dornan’s. He’s a regular, I believe.”
She nodded. “Sure. I know Henry. Nice fellow.” She scrutinized us for a long moment then asked if
Nelson was a cop.
“Heavens, no,” he said. “Just a modest movie producer out for a little drink and fun.”
“What’s your name?”
“Nelson Blanchard, ASC.”
She nodded again. “And who’s your little friend?”
“This is my date for the evening. Ellie’s an actress, trying to break into the movies.”
The bartender looked me over then said I was pretty but not Hollywood pretty. I nearly stormed out the door.
“Yes, I know. But she’s a wonderful actress. I was thinking she could play the librarian or perhaps the mentally deranged sister. A blind girl. They’re usually plain, aren’t they?” He turned to me. “You could play a blind girl, couldn’t you, Ellie?”
The bartender wiped her hands on a rag and asked what we’d have. Then she called out to other patrons and asked them to welcome Nelson and Ellie. Everyone turned and greeted us.
A few moments later, a table opened up, and we sat down with our drinks. I pulled out a cigarette, and Nelson extended his lighter.
“That was pretty good back there,” I said. “I thought she was going to ask us to leave.”
Nelson waved a hand to dismiss my praise. “Nothing to it. If you’re a stranger, they’re naturally suspicious. It helps if you know someone.”
“Who is Henry Dornan? Is he really a friend of yours?”
“I’ve met him, but we’re not friends. He’s a set designer over at Paramount. And he’s a terrific swisher. I figured he must be an habitué.”
“Good guess,” I said, finding his pronunciation a tad precious. “And what’s ASC?”
“American Society of Cinematographers.”
“You’re a member?”
He blushed. “Strictly speaking, no. Quite difficult to get in. But she doesn’t know that.”
We cheered each other, and then Nelson asked me about my plan of attack. What did I hope to accomplish with my first visit to a gay bar?
“There was a book of matches from this place in Tony Eberle’s apartment. I want to find out if anyone here knows him. Then, if I’m truly lucky, I might be able to track him down.”
Nelson weighed the merits of my plan. After a suitable period of reflection, he said he didn’t see how I’d be able to gain the confidence of the patrons.
“You saw how careful the innkeeper was. These boys will be even more skeptical. It’s their daily routine, after all, to be careful with their secret.”
“How would you approach it?” I asked.
He thought a moment, took a swig of his drink—Bourbon—then glanced around the bar. I couldn’t say what he was thinking, but he was in deep study of the men in the room. At length, he turned back to me and smiled.
“Perhaps I could ask around. I’m a producer, after all.”
“And a member of ASC,” I added.
He laughed. “Clever you. Let’s enjoy our drink for a few minutes. Then we’ll order another. We don’t want to appear eager.”
The clientele was well behaved. And, if you weren’t paying close attention, you might never guess you were in a gay bar. The men all appeared to be “normal.” Straight. No swishing, as Nelson had said, and no open displays of affection. In fact, most of the patrons strutted around the place as if the hair on their chests was itching, and the scratch they were searching for would be wearing a skirt and heels.
We sat at our little table, nose to nose, trying to appear to ignore the other patrons, for the better part of an hour and two drinks. I was enjoying Nelson Blanchard’s company, which surprised me, especially in light of our introduction the previous summer in the Adirondacks. At the time, I’d suspected the Blanchards of adultery, sex with a minor male, and double murder, all in the same week. As things turned out, I’d been mistaken about the double murder. And now I found myself delighting in pleasant and engaging conversation with the middle-aged man who’d wanted to share me with his voracious, omnisexual wife. She’d once told me that his bark was worse than his bite. I doubted that. I’d seen his teeth. And, given half the chance, Nelson Blanchard, ASC, would have performed perversions on my person to make Caligula blush and look away. But sitting in a gay bar in a dodgy part of Los Angeles, I realized that even degenerates like Nelson Blanchard had their charm. My affection for him was growing. Like a fungus, perhaps. But it was growing all the same.
“It’s time,” he said, eyeing one of the older gentlemen at the bar.
The man was dressed in a dark suit, tie loosened below his square jaw. I figured he was about forty-five. Athletic, with a full head of black hair and some gray at the temples, he reminded me of a younger Charlie Reese. I probably shouldn’t tell my editor that.
Nelson stood and made his way over to the bar, where he leaned in to order another drink. Then he turned his head and engaged the man beside him in a conversation. I couldn’t hear from my vantage point, of course, but the two seemed chummy if smiles were any indication. Nelson’s new drink arrived, but he hadn’t finished. Ten minutes passed before he returned to join me at the table.
“Well?” I asked. “Any luck?”
“What? Oh, no. Sorry, he’s never heard of Tony Eberle.”
“Then what were you talking about for nearly fifteen minutes?”
“This and that. It turns out we share the same dry cleaner. I’ve invited him up to the house next week for dinner. Lucia will adore him.”
I rolled my eyes and stood up.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To talk to the lady bartender,” I said.
It was past eleven thirty, and the crowd had settled in. Everyone had a drink in hand, so I took advantage of the lull and asked the lady if she knew a young fellow named Tony Eberle. Her expression soured, and I was sure she didn’t appreciate being asked about her patrons.
“As a matter of fact, no,” she said. “But I keep my boys’ names and business private. Why are you asking?”
“Because he disappeared a week ago, and no one has been able to locate him.”
“Who’s he to you?”
I cast my eyes downward and summoned a gulp. “He’s my younger brother.”
The lady patted my hand and refilled my drink. “There, there, honey. Take a little sip and you’ll feel better.”
“I didn’t come out here to be an actress,” I said, building on my lie. “My parents sent me to find out what happened to Tony. We’re all worried sick about him.”
“And your friend over there?” she asked. “What’s his story?”
I glanced over at Nelson, who was watching two young men play pool a few feet away. “My uncle,” I said. “Mother’s brother. He’s the black sheep of the family for obvious reasons.”
She nodded. “Poor guy. If families would only realize that these boys are the way they are through no fault of their own. A little more understanding and maybe they wouldn’t spend quite so much time in places like this looking for Mr. Right.”
“But wouldn’t that hurt your business?”
“Sure. But I never thought I’d be as successful as I am doing this. I love these fellows. They’re my boys. But I’d rather see them happy with their families than looking for a tiny bit of acceptance in here.”
“This is my brother,” I said, wiping a feigned tear from my eye as I handed her Tony’s photo.
She held it at arm’s length and studied it for a moment. She shook her head. “No, never seen him before. Are you sure he came here?”
“No. But I found one of your matchbooks among his things. I just thought I’d chance it.”
“Hold on a sec,” she said. “Hey, boys. Any of you ever seen this fellow?”
She held up the photo for public inspection. Several young men approached the bar and took a look. They passed the photograph around, and a few raised eyebrows in appreciation of Tony’s good looks.
“I don’t know him,” said one. “But I wouldn’t mind an introduction.”
“None of that, Danny,” said the bartender. “This boy’s miss
ing, and his sister here is worried sick about him.”
Danny assumed a suitably sheepish expression and offered an apology. Then one of the men at the other end of the bar chimed in.
“I’ve never seen him in here, but I met him once. He was with another fellow who used to come here. You threw him out, Helen. Remember? A small kid, really beautiful eyes and striking face.”
Helen, the bartender, frowned and retrieved the photograph. She handed it back to me and suggested I should leave.
“Why?” I asked, doing my best to summon a real tear. No luck.
“Because your brother was associating with a person who’s not welcome here. I don’t want trouble like that in my place.”
“But Tony’s never even been in here.”
“So much the better. I’m sorry for your troubles, honey. But I can’t have young men meeting rich fellows for money in my bar.”
“May I at least speak to the man who knew Tony’s friend?”
She thought it over for a second and agreed. “Make it quick.”
I made my way over to the handsome young man who’d claimed he’d seen Tony. He was slim, dressed in a pair of gray wool trousers and a dark-blue V-neck sweater. His brown hair was relaxed, wavy, and, had I met him anywhere else, I would have pegged him for a Harvard or Yale undergraduate heading to a mixer.
“My name is Ellie,” I said. “Ellie Eberle.”
He waited to hear what I wanted.
“The man in the photograph is my missing brother, Tony.”
“Oh,” he said simply. “Sorry. My name’s Phillip. Phillip Lowrie.”
“I was hoping you could tell me where you saw Tony.”
He glanced around the room, cleared his throat, then stammered for a few beats. “I don’t remember where exactly. It was a party. I’m sure of that.”
“Was he with Mickey Harper?”
“Yeah. That was his name. I’d forgotten it, but now that you mention it . . . I met Mickey a few times in here.” He diverted his eyes and coughed. “And at some other places. I think we have a mutual friend or two.”
Cast the First Stone Page 19
