I somehow convinced a drunk Phillip Lowrie to call Skip Barnes and ask for Bo’s number. At first he didn’t want to open that door again. He wanted to forget he’d ever met Skip, but I told him some good might come of his mistake if he could help me find my brother. Yes, I felt like a wretch for lying to Phillip about that, but I was in too deep to tell him the truth now. If Skip gave him Bo’s number, I might find Mickey and Tony yet.
“What excuse can I give Skip for asking?” Phillip wanted to know.
“Tell him you met a producer who’s looking for an actor, and Bo would fit the role to a T.”
Phillip dialed the number and listened. A woman’s voice came on the line. Answering service. He left a message for Skip to call him back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1962
St. Valentine’s Day. I was spending it alone with no chocolates or flowers. As I stepped into my skirt and buttoned it around my waist, the phone rang.
“Got it,” came the voice over the phone.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“It’s Phillip,” he said, sounding injured. “Phillip Lowrie. And by the way, the hotel has you under a different name. Stone. Why’s that?”
“I’m married,” I lied. “Well, not anymore. That is I’m a widow.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
“Did you say you’d got it?” I asked, moving on from my loss.
“The address. I got Bo Hanson’s address. The actor I told you about last night.”
The address Phillip Lowrie provided me was in Malibu, at a place called Paradise Cove. I drove into what appeared to be an improvised fishing village made up of all manner of trailers and makeshift homes. The one Phillip had directed me to was at the far end of the court, moored near the embankment leading to Pacific Coast Highway above. The trailer was an old Airstream job from the thirties or forties, its aluminum finish dull and scratched from years of use and abuse. I circled my car around on the access road and parked it where I could observe the trailer unseen. I watched for several minutes, waiting to see if there was any activity inside. The radio kept me company as I smoked a cigarette. “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”
A car pulled into the compound and stopped on the grass near the Airstream trailer. One of those VW station wagons that look like a box. There was a surfboard strapped to the roof. The man who climbed out of the little blue bus was tall and blond, with shaggy hair all windblown. From a distance, he gave the impression of a Tab Hunter stunt double, but as I stared more closely, I could see that he was rougher around the edges than Tab Hunter. More like a young Randolph Scott.
He grabbed some supplies from the back of the VW—groceries in paper bags—and trudged off toward the trailer. I popped the door and followed.
My knocking prompted an immediate response. The trailer was only about twenty-two or twenty-five feet long, after all. The sandy-haired beach bum stood in the arched doorway and looked down at me.
“Hello, baby doll,” he said, giving me the once-over. Twice, actually.
“Are you Bo Hanson?”
“Last time I checked.”
I tried to see past him, but his broad shoulders filled the doorway.
“May I come in?”
“That depends. What is it you want?”
“I’m from Paramount Studios,” I said. “Since you don’t have a telephone, I’m here to talk to you about a role that’s come up. We think you might just do for the part.”
His face lit up like Yucca Flat on a Saturday night. He grinned all his teeth at me and asked if I was funning him.
“Why would I drive all the way out here to pull your leg?”
“Come on in. I’ll fix you some tea. Or would you rather have a beer? Some reefer, maybe?”
“Mr. Hanson, you should know that the studio frowns on that kind of behavior. We won’t hire you if you’re on grass. You’re no Bob Mitchum.”
Bo turned white and insisted he’d been joking. He had tea, just the normal kind—the kind from China or India or wherever they made the stuff. Would I like an Orange Crush instead?
I climbed the steps and entered the close quarters. The first thing that hit me was the thick odor of marijuana. Not recent, either. The smell had been baked into the upholstery, probably over the course of years. My second impression was the general disorder and grime of the place. The hot plate in the kitchenette was encrusted with the blackened remains of boiled-over beans or canned chili. No amount of steel wool and elbow grease was going to help the discolored countertop, pockmarked with burns and permanent stains. The floor was warped from floodings, courtesy of the tiny clogged sink and the leaning countertop. I smelled mildew. The rest of chez Bo followed the same predictable pattern: ripe odors and willful neglect of any housekeeping. And it wasn’t that the place was too large to clean. Little more than twenty feet from stem to stern, yet every inch presented new horrors.
On one end of the trailer, two twin beds, rumpled and piled with discarded clothes, had been wedged into the space wall-to-wall. There were two pillows on the bed closer to me, one pillow on the far one. At the opposite end of the trailer, a small, ratty sofa sat cockeyed against the wall. Another pillow, a wool blanket, and a shirt had been balled up in a heap on one of the cushions. The kitchen held dominion over the center of the trailer, although there was nothing more than the small hot plate, the drinking-glass-sized sink, and the pair of moldy cabinets hanging on the wall above. Somewhere a toilet lurked. I knew it was there because I could smell it.
“Tell me about the part,” said Bo, handing me a chipped mug stained black from too many tea parties. I resolved to let it sit un-drunk.
“We’re looking for an athletic, swimmer type.”
“I’m athletic. And I swim like a banshee.”
“Do banshees actually swim?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I should’ve said like a dog.”
I squinted at him. “How about like a fish or an otter? Maybe a dolphin?”
“But dogs can swim, too.”
“Can you act, Bo?”
“I sure can,” he said. “I can act like a banshee.”
“Do you have anything stronger than tea?”
A half hour later, we were making progress. Bo had calmed down, especially after I’d told him to go ahead and blast the weed.
“So what’s the movie?” he asked through a curtain of smoke.
“Twistin’ on the Beach,” I said.
Bo choked on his spliff. “You got to be kidding me. My agent told me Twistin’s been canceled.”
Oops. I hadn’t heard of that development.
“He said the studio pulled the plug after the producer got knocked off. And the second actor disappeared, too. Is that the role you’re talking about?”
I fidgeted. “Sorry, I misspoke. We had a meeting about that movie this morning, and the name stuck in my head.”
“Then what’s the picture?”
“I’ve been asked not to mention the title just yet.” What a terrible lie. “But Mr. Stemple will provide those details when you meet him. I’ve come here to ask you to have your agent contact him tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he said. “Say, what’s your name again?”
I glanced away. “Fetterman. Dorothy Fetterman.”
“What do you do at the studio? Script girl?”
“Yes, I’m a script girl,” I said, envying Dot her glamorous job. It must have been a thrill to have such responsibility. And respect. “You mentioned the actor who was going to play the second lead in Twistin’ on the Beach. Do you know him by any chance?”
“No, afraid not.”
“I thought all struggling actors knew each other.”
“Not me. I spend most of my time out here, especially when the surf’s up. This winter the waves have been cooking.”
“So you don’t know Tony Eberle?” I repeated. “You must compete for the same parts. You’ve never run into him at a casting call?”
He
shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Well, I should be getting back to the studio,” I said, rising to leave.
“Are you sure you have to go so soon?” he asked, his right eye twinkling at me. “Maybe we could spend the afternoon together.”
I smiled. “In here? What about your roommates?”
“What roommates?”
“The clothes on the beds,” I said. “It looks like you’ve got company. And more than one.”
Bo waved a hand to dismiss my concern. “They crash here now and then. I don’t expect them back anytime soon.”
“Are your friends surfers?”
My questions were making him suspicious. His friendly demeanor faded, and his eyes narrowed. “Just some buddies of mine,” he said.
“That’s a girl’s jumper over there on the bed,” I pointed out. “You like to entertain girls and boys?”
“Buddies, like I said. Maybe you should get back to the studio, Dorothy. I just remembered I have to prepare for an audition.”
“Do you want this job, Bo?” I asked, making no move to vacate the trailer.
He hesitated. “Well, sure. Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”
“Then do me a favor. Tell me where Mickey is.”
“What?”
“Mickey Harper. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? And the owner of that balled-up shirt on the sofa. The blue-and-tan panel shirt.”
Bo threw a glance at the bed then turned back to me. He insisted that it was his shirt and he didn’t know anyone named Mickey Harper.
“You couldn’t fit into that shirt if you greased yourself up like a banshee.”
Bo gaped at me but said nothing.
“Okay. I believe you, Bo. But Mr. Stemple is a tougher sell. Maybe you’re not quite right for the role after all.”
“What? No, I’m perfect for it. Come on. Give me a chance.”
Bo stared at me, his pupils dilated like a couple of saucers, and not from the low light inside the trailer. I couldn’t be sure what thoughts were coursing through his head, but he might well have been weighing his friendship with Mickey against a potential meaty role in an Archie Stemple film. I didn’t know exactly what Mickey, Tony, April, and Bo were up to in that smelly Airstream trailer, but make no mistake, that was Mickey’s shirt on the sofa. I knew because I’d stretched it out to dry on my radiator just three nights before.
“You’re not really a script girl, are you?” he asked.
I shook my head and treated him to a sly smile. He wiped his brow and—so it seemed—searched for an escape hatch from his own trailer. I was well aware of just how wholeheartedly I’d embraced my Dorothy Fetterman role. I relished it. What a heady sensation. And, I realized, it was more than a bit creepy on my part.
“You’re some kind of big shot, aren’t you?” said Bo, studying me in the close air of the dark trailer. “Kind of young. But maybe you know how to get ahead.”
“Is that how you hope to impress me, Bo? By impugning my reputation?”
“Look, Dorothy, Miss . . .”
“Fetterman.”
Now that he thought I was something more than a script girl, Bo Hanson changed his tune. Like a batter who’d just been called out on strikes, he realized too late that he’d blown it. He set about begging for my forgiveness with a phony ardor only a hack actor like him could muster. I thought that if I’d actually been Dorothy Fetterman, this guy never would have landed a role in one of our pictures. Yet his fawning only made me feel more like Dorothy. For the first time in my professional life, I was on the receiving end of the respect that had always been reserved for people wearing trousers. I urged myself to rein in my zeal for the farce I was playing. I wasn’t Dorothy Fetterman, no matter what Bo Hanson believed.
Once he’d run through his repertoire of sad, rueful, and contrite expressions, he returned to my question about Mickey.
“Miss Fetterman, I don’t know why you’re interested in Mickey Harper, but . . .”
“Don’t forget Tony Eberle,” I interrupted. “And April Kincaid. I assume that’s her jumper over there.”
“I don’t know why you’re interested in them, but I don’t know where they are.”
As his words faded in the trailer, the door latch moved. Before he could wipe the oh-damn-it look off his face, the door swung open and Mickey Harper stepped inside. Bo slapped himself on the forehead. There went his movie career. I was going to see to that.
“What are you doing here?” Mickey asked me from behind two black eyes and a bandaged nose, mementos of the recent beating he’d endured.
“I need your help. Tony needs your help.”
“I don’t know where Tony is,” he said, turning away just as April arrived behind him with a bag of groceries of her own.
“My God,” she whispered. “How did she find us?”
“Is Tony with you?” I said.
“Dorothy, this isn’t what it looks like,” said Bo. “Do I still have a chance for that role?”
“Dorothy?” sneered April. “Who’s Dorothy?”
“Her,” said Bo, indicating me with a jog of his head.
“No she’s not. Her name is Ellie Stone. She’s been lying to you.”
“Where is Tony, April?” I asked. “If he’s innocent as you say, I can help him. Dorothy Fetterman promised me a new role for him.”
“I thought you were Dorothy Fetterman,” said Bo.
“Tony’s not here,” hissed April. “You’re not going to find him. He knows the cops want to hang this murder on him, and he’s not taking any chances.”
“But I’m on his side.”
“You’re on your own side. You don’t even know him. You just want to sell newspapers.”
“Newspapers?” asked Bo. “I thought you worked at the studio.”
“We saw your article in the Times,” she continued. “You plastered his name all over the newspaper. Practically accused him of murdering that awful man.”
“He’s long gone,” said Mickey softly. “Gone someplace where the police won’t find him.”
“Please, Mickey. Unless he murdered Bertram Wallis, Tony can still salvage his career. He can make it in the movies. Dorothy Fetterman promised me he would have a good role in a major motion picture next year. A major motion picture. Not some beach bum surfer movie.”
“I thought I was getting a role in a picture,” said Bo.
“Tell me where he is.”
“I want that role!”
“You’ll never find him.”
“For God’s sake,” said Bo, trying to wrest my attention away from the others. “Tony’s on his way to Ensenada.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
With Bo Hanson’s declaration, the veil of secrecy was torn away. April wailed . . . well, like a banshee at the idiot who’d just given away Tony’s whereabouts. At the end of a stream of insults and profanity, she also finally succeeded in convincing Bo that I was not Dorothy Fetterman, I did not work at Paramount Studios, and there was no juicy role waiting for him. He exhibited all the civility of a petulant rhinoceros that had just been kicked in the rump. He clearly regretted the false apologies he’d issued a few moments before, if threatening my well-being and calling me a very, very bad word meant what I thought it did.
In the interests of safety, I stepped outside the trailer to put some distance between him and me. Mickey followed.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked. “Rat out Tony to the cops?”
I lit a cigarette and stared at the gray Pacific below as it stretched to the horizon. To my right, I could see Point Dume. A cool breeze ran up the hill from the ocean. I stood there and shivered, wondering how to answer him.
“Without Tony, I really don’t have much of a story. And without a story, I suppose I’m finished. Unless . . .”
I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled toward the ocean. The wind blew back the smoke and scattered it behind me.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you can tell me about
the photographs.”
Mickey said he didn’t know what I was talking about. I explained about the photos missing from Wallis’s house.
“Tony doesn’t know anything about that,” he said.
“What about April? And you?”
“I didn’t steal any photographs.”
“I thought you weren’t even there.”
“Right. That’s why I didn’t take them. I wasn’t there. I’ve never been there.”
I turned back to watch the ocean. A squadron of ten or twelve brown pelicans wheeled into view over the water and headed west for a few hundred yards. Then, as if on command, they began plunging headfirst into the ocean one by one. They’d dropped in on a school of fish, and the feast was on.
“Why must you always lie, Mickey?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve been to Wallis’s place several times, including the night of the party.”
“No, it’s not true.”
“Didn’t you get your bruises that night? Your split lip?”
“No, I fell.”
I decided to tack in a different direction. “Phillip Lowrie.”
His eyes grew, but he gained control over his reaction in short order. Assuming a nonchalant air, he asked me to repeat myself.
“Phillip Lowrie,” I said.
“Who’s that?”
“Skip Barnes.”
That one hit the target. Mickey uttered a short gasp and took a step back. He glared at me with some kind of combination of surprise and hatred. Or maybe it was dread. After all, I knew a lot that he’d tried to conceal.
“Why don’t you tell me where Skip Barnes fits into your life?” I continued. “How he fits into your bruises and finances and late-night parties. Tell me about how you got kicked out of the Wind Up.”
Mickey’s horror dissolved into a breakdown. He began to cry right there in the grass of the trailer court overlooking the Pacific. I wanted to comfort him, but his lying had exhausted my patience and sympathy. I wanted him to unburden himself and finally spit out the truth. A warm hug and a pat on the back weren’t going to encourage him to talk. So I waited. Then I realized he was just buying time, hatching yet another lie for me. The tears were all an act.
Cast the First Stone Page 21
