The guy dropped the revolver and followed it onto the linoleum, landing on his side and rolling over onto his stomach.
I stood my ground, telling him, “There's more where that came from, brother, you so much as try to reach for the gun or get up."
He didn't try either.
He didn't move at all.
I put down the Brancusi, swooped after the revolver, tucked it inside my belt, and squatted alongside the guy to check for a pulse.
No pulse.
If he was breathing, he was keeping it a secret.
I was breathing enough for both of us, panic-breathing while I convinced myself the cops would see the situation for what it was—self-defense.
Except having to explain about the cottage and what I was doing here and dragging the studio into it and maybe Clark and—
I jumped to my feet, slammed the back door shut, got it chain-locked, and went after the phone.
I reached Strickling at the studio, stammered out the situation in a jumble of words I hardly understood myself. He broke in when I paused for a round of deep breaths, gently urging me to slow down, begin again, tell him everything. “Everything, Al,” he said. “Start with why you're still at the Garden and all that happened after I left you there. Everything, down to the last detail."
When I finished, he said, “Excellent, Al, thank you. Now listen carefully to me. I want you to phone Mrs. Gable, as planned, quickly, before Clark gets there. Afterward, lock up the cottage and go home. Stay home until you hear from me and say nothing to anyone. Do you understand?"
"But, Strick, the dead guy in the kitchen—"
"Al, I'm hanging up now so you can phone Rhea,” he said, calm as a drifting cloud.
The phone went dead in my ear, as dead as the guy in the kitchen.
I phoned Rhea.
* * * *
A week later I was back in my office.
I'd scoured all the newspapers every day, every edition, but nothing appeared about the Garden of Allah, except for Louella Parsons reporting in her Examiner column about a burglary at the cottage of Johnny Weissmuller and his wife, Lupe Velez, while they were visiting her relatives in San Luis de Potosi, Mexico.
Nothing on radio newscasts.
No cops knocking on my door.
The “fixer” had worked his magic.
When Strickling dropped by unannounced, I hoped it might be to tell me what had happened. It wasn't. He was as closemouthed as ever, but his visit gave me opportunity to back into the subject after he settled by my desk and handed over a key, explaining, “This is to the garden court cottage the studio has leased at the Beverly Hills Hotel, for you to check out before or after it gets used tonight by Wally Beery."
I said, “Is this in addition to our cottage at the Garden of Allah?"
"We're no longer using that cottage."
"Should I guess why?"
"Not now or ever, Al, not with me or anybody. Understand?"
I didn't hesitate. “Understood."
He unleashed a slash of an iceberg smile.
Pushing across the desk the sealed interdepartmental envelope he'd brought with him, Strickling said, “I'd like you to run this over to Gable on the Parnell set, but don't let on it's from me. Get it?"
"Got it."
"Good.” His smile this time carried almost an inch of reality.
He leaned forward for a handshake almost tight enough to crack a bone, pushed up from the desk, and headed for the door, where he momentarily paused to say, “By the way, quite a substantial raise will be showing up on your next paycheck,” but not a word about what I'd done to merit the raise.
It wasn't necessary.
We both knew why.
A payoff for keeping my mouth shut about the Garden of Allah.
* * * *
The main access street through the studio was teeming with players in costumes you'd expect to see at a League of Nations assembly, studio personnel, and recognizable faces traveling between soundstages and sets on foot, bicycle, golf carts, and buses meant for eight or ten passengers. It took me about ten minutes to reach the Parnell stage at the south end of the lot, including a delay for hugs from Bob Montgomery and Roz Russell, out for a stroll in the clear March air while the camera and lights were repositioned for a medium shot on their Night Must Fall set.
Johnny Stahl was rehearsing a take with Myrna Loy and Edna May Oliver when I got there, Billie Burke fluttering about like a lost bird with nowhere to land, George Zucco monitoring a game of chess: a taunting Don Crisp sucking on his pipe while Eddie Gwenn pondered his next move, vocalizing every change of mind under his breath.
An A.D. directed me to Clark's dressing wagon.
I stepped up to the door and knocked.
"Sure, c'mon,” Clark called out.
He was stretched out on the lounger, studying the script, but tossed it aside, rolled into a sitting position, and lunged forward when he saw it was me, growing a smile the size of China and grabbing me like a long-lost love.
"Hey, kiddo, you're a sight for sore eyes,” he said.
"Not as sore as the last time I saw you, Clark."
"That's for damn sure, but you sure turned the trick with that call to Rhea."
"Strick's idea, remember?"
"Like with writers who crank out the words, however fine, it still takes an actor to bring them alive. You did that with the call, kiddo. Thanks to you, all quiet on the western front. For now, anyway."
He pointed me to the vanity chair and settled back on the lounger after lighting up a Lucky from the gold cigarette case in his robe. He pulled a deep swallow and let the smoke drift out his nose and the corners of his mouth.
I said, “How's the shoot going?"
"I should be dragged out behind the barn and shot for agreeing to take the role, but it was either this or Louie B. whooping my ass with a suspension. I take off the robe, you'd see the kind of monkey suits they got me in."
He carried on that way for a few more minutes before dismissing the subject with a wave. “Anyway, kiddo, to what do I owe this visit and the pleasure of your company?"
I held up the interdepartmental envelope and sailed it over the narrow divide. He caught it mid-air, one-handed, and cocked a curious eyebrow. “And this is?"
"For you from me,” I said. “See for yourself."
Clark parked the Lucky on an ashtray, gingerly worked open the flap and inched out an 8x10 color photograph, which he studied for an eternity, his eyes filling with tears, making deep throat noises I took for anguish before he said, “God, she is so beautiful, so very, very beautiful, the baby, my baby, my baby Judy. No mistaking who her daddy is, not with those ears. My ears, the poor little darling.” He looked up at me. “Thank you and God bless you, Al,” he said, knuckle-wiping his eyes and returning to studying the photo.
That's how I left Clark—playing out a typical Hollywood happy ending.
* * * *
Robert Benchley staggered by the office three days later, a full load on although it was barely past eleven, to tell me I'd be getting a call from Police Detective Danny Crowle. “Nothing serious, old man,” he said. “He has some questions for you about Pete Shaker."
"I don't know any Pete Shaker,” I said.
"Of course you don't."
"Help me out here, Bobby. What's a Pete Shaker?"
"A friend of mine I met at the Masquers Club, or maybe somewhere else. You've seen one club you've seen them all, or at least one. I was setting up a naughty prank with Pete last week at the Garden, to play on Weissmuller, but Tarzan, it so happens, was away somewhere, and then I caught sight of you gabbing it up with Clark Gable. Gable's better than Weissmuller even in a jungle. Red Dust, right? So off Pete goes, and might I interest you in a modest pick-me-upper, old man?” Benchley revealed the flask he always carried in his hip pocket. “A fine Bombay Sapphire, wets your whistle like the Johnstown flood."
"I'll take a rain check. Tell me the rest about your friend Pete."
"Just it,” Benchley said. He flipped open the lid, raised the flask to his mouth, and reared back his head, took a large swallow, finger-dried his lips, and snapped the lid shut. “I didn't see Pete after I sent him off, not for days, so I called the police like a standing up citizen is supposed to do and reported him missing. What Police Detective Danny Crowle will be calling you about. And Gable, if he's not off in the jungle somewhere playing Hide the Banana with Harlow."
"Bobby, on second thought I will have that drink,” I said.
Copyright © 2009 Robert S. Levinson
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: RUSSIANS COME AND GO by Scott Mackay
As Penny Snow eased her police cruiser up to her brother's house, she saw that his van wasn't there, and that the morning newspaper hadn't been taken in. She pulled into his drive, got out of her radio car, walked to the side door, and knocked.
"Leo?” she called through the glass. The corners of her lips tensed and her shoulders rose. She listened. “Leo. Come on. Open up. It's me."
She waited for an answer but none came.
Giving up on the side door, she walked to the front one, knocked loudly several times, then listened for his footsteps. She heard nothing. Her apprehension increased.
Reluctant to invade his privacy, but knowing the events of last night warranted active and perhaps even urgent measures, she pulled out her own key—the extra he'd given her to water his plants while he'd been away in Europe—and went inside.
The house was quiet. She walked to the kitchen. “Leo?"
She got no answer. She took a deep breath and tried to keep her worry under control.
She pulled out her cell phone and dialed his workplace.
Bob Leckie answered after the third ring.
When she asked Bob if Leo had come to the garage, the owner said, “I was expecting him a half hour ago. He's usually never late. Is everything all right?"
She glanced around the kitchen, looking for blood, her nervousness getting worse. “We had a big birthday party for me last night at Bluefield's, and him and Gavin Booth got in a fight."
Bob hesitated. “Like a physical fight?"
"You remember the one they had ten years ago, when me and Gavin broke up?"
"Everyone in town remembers that."
Her eyes narrowed anxiously. “This one was a lot worse.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Leo didn't phone or anything, did he?"
"No. And I'm a little surprised."
She took a moment. “If he shows up, have him call me."
Once she ended her conversation with Bob, Penny tried Gavin, and grew doubly concerned when her old high-school boyfriend's phone went directly to voicemail.
She left a message. “Hi. It's me.” She couldn't keep the apprehension out of her voice. “I just want to make sure you guys are all right.” She looked up at the clock, her stomach churning. “Things got pretty out of hand last night. I'm at Leo's house. He didn't come home. And I guess you didn't either.” She paused. “Last night was ... weird. What's gotten into you two?” She glanced out the window where she saw a couple birds land on the drive. “Anyway, I hope you're all right. Call me when you hear this."
She left Leo's house, distracted, consumed with worst-case scenarios.
She drove to the Lincoln County Sheriff's Department, the next department over from hers, and talked to Gavin's father, Sheriff Carl Booth.
She found Carl, a man of sixty-one, in his office. He looked up from his computer. “Well, well, well. What brings you here?” Carl did a double take. His grin disappeared. “You look like you've just eaten roadkill. What's wrong?"
Her lips tightened as she felt the troubling events of the previous evening press down upon her. “Leo and Gavin had a big fight last night at Bluefield's."
His eyes narrowed. “At your birthday party?"
"Yes. Then Leo gave Gavin a lift home, but the fight wasn't really over yet, and I'm afraid they might have gotten into it again while they were on the road. Now I can't find either one of them. Have you spoken to Gavin today?"
The corners of Carl's mouth turned downward. “No. Were they drinking?"
"Gavin was. That's why Leo gave him a lift home.” She paused. “Did something happen between them over in Europe? I've never seen them like that before. Not even when me and Gavin broke up."
Carl's face sank, and in a tone that was halfway to resignation, he said, “They met a girl, is all. Christine somebody-or-other."
She stared at him, assimilating this information. Then she said, “The fight got way out of hand. I had to break it up. Gavin had a bloody lip and Leo had a bloody nose. Do you think they would let a girl make them fight like that?"
"I wouldn't think so.” Carl sighed. “I'm sorry they wrecked your party, Penny."
Penny stood there. “I hate to have to tell you this, Carl, and I don't mean to worry you unnecessarily, but Leo more or less threatened Gavin. And it was a real serious threat."
Carl squinted at her. “And after that, they left in the car together?"
"By that time they were trying to patch things up. But when Leo said the threat, it scared me."
"Don't bother sugarcoating it for me. What'd he say?"
She hesitated. “Well ... it wasn't flamboyant or inventive, or anything, but it sure was dead to straits. He said, and these were his exact words, that he was going to kill Gavin if Gavin didn't shut up."
Carl stared at her as a puzzled arch came to his brow. “Shut up about what?"
Her frustration crept through in a sudden outburst. “I don't know! That's why I asked you if something happened in Europe because they haven't been the same since they got back. I don't think they would kill each other over a girl, do you? Gavin didn't mention anything else about Europe, did he?"
"No.” Carl's voice took on new firmness. “And you better tell Leo not to be making death threats, not in my county, and especially not against my son. He should know better, what with his prior record."
"I know, I know, but the fight got so bad I guess he couldn't help himself. What scares me is that he was stone-cold sober when he made that threat."
"And by the time they left, they were okay?"
"Seemed to be. But I'm worried the fight, whatever it was about, might have flared up again. That threat Leo made wasn't just bar talk. He was serious.” She shook her head and sighed. “Which is why I'd feel real happy if we could find them."
* * * *
At work two days later, driving around her own jurisdiction of Jefferson County with her partner Matt Oldham, Penny said, “Leo still hasn't come home."
"Has Carl heard from Gavin yet?"
"No. He has the guys in patrol keeping a lookout for both of them, though."
Matt shook his head. “It's getting a bit much, isn't it?"
Penny nodded. “Especially because Leo always tells me his job at Bob Leckie's garage is the best one he ever had. It's not like him to miss work. And he always calls every day, no matter what. And he hasn't."
* * * *
Working the night shift, Penny got home at six thirty the next morning.
After having something to eat, she checked her phone messages and found one from Carl.
"I thought I'd better let you know. Gavin's back, and he's beat up real bad, in the hospital with two fractured ribs, a broken hand, and three big cuts to his head.” Carl paused. “Leo can't be doing that. He's twice Gavin's size. I'm sorry, Penny, but I'm afraid I've had to issue a felony warrant on him."
Though she should have gone to bed, she was so frantic about her old high-school boyfriend, and so worried about Leo, she decided she would have to talk to Gavin personally to get more of the details. So she showered, changed, and drove to Lincoln County Regional Hospital.
She found Gavin lying in his hospital bed, propped up, dazed. He had two sutures over his brow and a small one at the corner of his mouth. His left eye was swollen shut. Penny tried to clamp down on the old emotions of tenderness she used to
have for him, but found it hard.
She shook her head to stop the way her eyes were misting up and hurried over. “Gavin, I'm so sorry."
He tilted his head. “Penny?"
"Look at you. What happened?"
Over the next five minutes, Gavin, in a disjointed halting fashion, filled her in on what had occurred after he and Leo had left Bluefield's.
"We wound up at Avery's Truck Stop.” He lifted his hand, which was now in a cast. “Leo pushed me over, and I fell on my hand. That's how I broke it. The ribs I think broke when I crashed into a car mirror. I also knocked my head on the asphalt and must have passed out for a while. Then he drove off and left me there. I actually don't remember the police coming to get me. All I remember is waking up here."
Tenderness, heartache, regret, and worry pervaded her soul. “And do you have any idea where Leo's gone?"
He shook his head. “I have a vague recollection of him taking off down the highway.” Gavin swallowed. “I'm sorry, Penny. We messed up bad. I wanted you to have a nice birthday party. The last thing I should have done was gotten into a big fight with your brother."
* * * *
The next day, she showed up at Carl's office and offered, on behalf of Jefferson County, to help Lincoln County find Leo.
The sheriff motioned at the coffeemaker. “Help yourself. And there's a box of donuts in the lunch room."
She got coffee, skipped the donut, and sat at the evidence clerk's terminal all morning.
As Lincoln and Jefferson Counties had the same software system, she had no trouble finding her way to Leo's file.
After some initial study, she couldn't help thinking with a great deal of puzzlement that there was some questionable police work concerning Avery's Truck Stop.
She read the police report carefully: “Victim saw the perpetrator flee Avery's Truck Stop at twelve-thirty Sunday morning and head south on Highway 111 at a high rate of speed."
But there were no follow-up entries regarding Avery's. No one had gone out to question any possible witnesses, which at first struck her as perhaps an oversight, but then, after a minute, seemed odd, because Carl generally never overlooked anything.
AHMM, November 2009 Page 13
