by Ed Ifkovic
At 12:05 that night, roused from by bed at the Ambassador by a call from a sputtering Sol Remnick, I heard those awful words. “Max is dead.” Then: “He was murdered.”
Chapter Seven
I sat with Alice and Sol in the living room of the bungalow. Sol had let me in and told me that Alice had asked him to call me because she wanted me there. The dark room was darker now, the burgundy curtains closed. A table lamp was switched on. From where I sat, I could see the closed door of the workroom, a Do Not Enter notice sealing it off. I shuddered but couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“Max let the person in,” Sol was saying.
“What?” I roused myself.
“The door was locked, not smashed in. The windows were all locked. The police checked. Max was in his study, probably talking to someone.”
Alice mumbled, “He was supposed to be sleeping in bed.”
“Someone knocked on his door when Lorena was talking to him. He must have let that person in then.” A pause. “Someone he knew.”
Alice was frowning. “Maybe not. He could have opened the door, and the person forced him into the workroom. They had a gun.”
No, I thought. That was impossible. Max would not allow his own execution. He was too careful after receiving death threats. Alice was thinking like a Mafia bride.
I brewed tea in the kitchen, carried it in on a tray, and handed filled cups to Alice and Sol. Sol placed his on a small end table while Alice, wrapping her fingers around the cup, sipped hers slowly. She was waking up, her eyes looking at me, red-rimmed, blank.
Sitting mutely on the sofa, she was still dressed in the frilly summer dress she’d worn last night to the movies. She’d slept in it-or maybe she hadn’t slept at all. Now it was rumpled, one sleeve slipping off her shoulder so that the strap of her slip showed. A ravaged face, tear streaked, her evening makeup splotchy on her cheeks and under her tired eyes.
“Alice, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled again.
She held out her hand and I took it. I settled in next to her, cradling her body.
She trembled, her teeth chattering, but then, facing me, she said in a mechanical voice, “They didn’t have to kill him.”
Sol jerked his head up and down. “Alice, the police will take care of this.”
Sol’s face looked haggard, his eyes moist. Every so often a shiver passed through his body, his sighs deep and scary.
“They’?” I asked her.
She gripped my wrist. “He had too many enemies. How will they know who did it?”
Sol stood and paced the floor, finally stopping in front of us. We both looked up at him, this squat bulky man who started to tremble. Something was on his mind as he rubbed his chin with an index finger.
“Alice, why did you call Larry Calhoun last night?”
An untoward question, so far as I was concerned, and it struck Alice the same way. “What?”
“When you called me last night, you told me you had tried to reach Larry, but he wasn’t home. Then you called me. I told you to call the police.” His raspy voice was oddly petulant, questioning.
She shrugged and glanced at me. “Really, I don’t know, Sol. I saw Max lying there, I dropped the gun, and I…I thought first he was sleeping and then there was that hole in his head, the clot of blood on his hair, and…I got numb…I had to reach someone.”
“But Larry?”
Alice looked perplexed. “Suddenly I couldn’t remember your number, or Larry’s, or anyone’s. I wasn’t even thinking about the police-I don’t know why. I searched for an old address book that I never use and his was the first number…” Wide-eyed, bewildered. “I didn’t know what to do. I should have called the police. Does it matter?”
“He wasn’t home.” Sol bent down, staring into her face. “Did he call today?”
“The phone has been ringing but I won’t answer it. The police were here all morning and they answered it. So I don’t know…”
I rattled my teacup, annoyed. “Sol, what is the meaning of this?”
“No meaning.” He made a clicking sound, annoyed. “Max is my best friend and…” Again he trembled as he turned away. A fierce edge to his voice. “Larry stopped being a friend sometime ago.”
“Why bring it up now? Do you think Larry killed Max?” I was blunt.
A deep intake of breath. “No, God, no. No.” He closed his eyes a second, his face becoming a grid of deep wrinkles. “No. No. Well, I don’t think so.”
“Then what?”
“He was one of Max’s enemies.”
Alice sucked in her breath. “Sol, not now.”
Sol looked ready to sob. “Someone has to answer for this.”
Room service delivered dinner to my room at eight o’clock, but I barely touched the poached salmon. Parched, I downed glass after glass of water and pushed the plates away. I kept dropping ice cubes into my glass and refilling it, but the water was never icy enough.
I stared out the window, down at Wilshire Boulevard. Headlights were popping on, like fireflies appearing across a grassy field.
L.A. was empty for me now, a wasteland of wide boulevards and endless palm trees and redundant convertibles cruising up and down Wilshire Boulevard. Everyone in L.A. had to keep moving, driving, driving, afraid perhaps to stop. To stop was to realize that there really was nowhere to go. To escape you drove to the water’s edge or into the desert. Both landscapes dwarfed a soul. Endless palm trees. Endless turquoise cars and jade-green station wagons. Maddening.
New York had tunnels with rickety and smelly subways, a whole world underground. I’d never been on one, nor would I ever; but there must be a cold comfort in being buried down there. No sky to remind you that the sun would soon set. That night had fallen. That one more day of your life was gone. There was no time down there. You stopped counting the hours down there. Time in a vacuum.
Restless, I decided to walk outside the hotel, though I avoided the manicured grounds and the robin’s-egg blue pool. And, of course, I didn’t venture too far away on the boulevard lest Detective Tilden, idly dreaming of Malibu surf, send a squad car to rescue me from the noxious yellow smog and careening bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I needed to set something in motion-if only my body. I needed answers. Let me retrace the steps I’d taken this past week. Someone, I knew, had something to tell me. But what?
I stopped by the door of the Paradise Bar amp; Grill and noticed that the flickering “i” had abandoned its struggle to illuminate. Perhaps during my remaining week in L.A., I’d witness the complete disappearing act of the eatery-why not? Everything disappeared in L.A.
Yesterday I sat in this restaurant with Alice and Lorena. A wonderful evening filled with laughter and silliness. While I enjoyed their company, someone was murdering Max.
I shivered.
I needed to think about the people out here. I needed a plan of action. A glass of red wine, I thought. Quiet, alone.
The dingy room was nearly empty, a few drinkers hunched over the bar, the same portly bartender Harry polishing a glass as he took my order. He sat me at a table by the door, recognizing me. “Lorena’s taking this hard,” he murmured in a kind voice. “Real hard. She won’t get out of bed, Ethan told me. She can’t believe it.”
“Well, no one can.”
One of the bar patrons, a shriveled old man with hair tied into a careless ponytail, weathered sandals on his bare feet, sauntered to the juke box. Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa” came on, staticky but lovely, and the barfly swayed back and forth, humming along.
In a booth by the kitchen, Tony huddled with Liz Grable, Tony in the same seat he occupied last night with Ethan, who was nowhere in sight. Though they sat in shadows, I could see Liz leaning across the table, her hand resting on top of Tony’s, a comforting gesture. Gazing around the room, he spotted me. For a second he looked confused, squinting, and he whispered something to Liz. She watched me surreptitiously, her hand shielding her face; but the gesture was transparent, a child playing hide-and-s
eek. Then they both gave up and simply gaped at me, brazenly.
I finished my wine, laid a five-dollar bill on the table, and stood; but Harry, coming from behind the bar, refilled my glass, tapped the rim, and mumbled, “On the house.” He grinned. “Slow night in town and you’re my favorite customer.” I slid back into my seat.
“I doubt that, sir. But thank you.”
“It’s been a rough day, right?”
I took a couple sips, decided I’d had enough, and pushed the glass aside. At that moment, Ethan Pannis strolled out of the back room, a wad of cash in his fist. He handed it to Harry, and I heard the ping ping of a cash register drawer popping open. Ethan spotted me, a puzzled grin on his face, and he walked over.
“A woman of surprises, Miss Ferber.”
“I like this place.”
He gazed around the nearly empty room. “You seem to be the only one.” He nodded toward Harry. “He take good care of you?”
“The best,” I answered.
Uninvited, he sat down opposite me. “Lord, Miss Ferber, Lorena woke me before dawn. Alice called her at five or so. At first I couldn’t understand what she was telling me. She’s fallen apart. I’ve never seen her…like that. She’s always so composed. I didn’t know what to think.”
“I’ll have to call her.”
“She’s got us all rattled here. She keeps calling me but then she has nothing to say. You know, Metro is reeling from the news. That’s all everyone was talking about at work today. But it’s sort of sad…”
“Why’s that?”
“They’re all afraid news accounts will mention Metro. You know, Show Boat. The blacklist.”
I made my voice chilly. “Murder has a way of getting in the way of things.”
He ignored that but pointed at Tony. “He’s out of a job, you know. A new cross for me to bear. The only person surprised was Tony.”
My mind was elsewhere, but I said, “Well, I suppose Frank will pull a few strings.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No more. Frankie’s sick of him. He’s told me, Frankie has. No more. ‘Let the bastard screw up.’ I’m sick of him. Maybe a few years ago when he had some talent, when he was skinny and goofy and spouted Jack Benny jokes with a world-weary sarcastic edge, he could get away with it. Now he’s just a fool.”
“And yet you indulge him.”
He squirmed. “You know, I have no choice. I made a promise to my brother Lenny who told me to take care of Tony because he’d never be able to take care of himself. Tony’s always been a little too…slow.”
“So you feed him money and drink. Lots of drink.”
“What choice do I have?” He didn’t look happy with my words. “But not drinks. Don’t you believe that. That…well, I let him drink here, purposely, and Harry and I do our best…I mean, yeah, he gets…plastered. Of course, last night I had trouble saying no, given his moaning over the last stand-up job he’ll ever have.”
“Well, you can’t be a babysitter forever.”
He watched me, silent, then turned to gaze toward Tony and Liz, Liz still holding her hand over Tony’s. “He’ll drink himself to death.”
“What a horrible thing to say!”
“I’m pragmatic, Miss Ferber. You know what kind of man I am. I’m being realistic. That’s all I can be.” He smiled. “But I’m only half serious. I’m hoping he’ll marry the lovely Liz Grable, cosmetician to the starry-eyed. I’m hoping he’ll straighten out. And the two of them will hole up in her studio apartment and…”
Liz and Tony stirred. Probably sensing they were the subject of our talk, they ambled over to my table. Suddenly it was a party. They pulled up chairs and we sat in a circle. Tony wore a hangdog look of a soul battling a fierce hangover. He said nothing, just nodded at me, a sliver of a smile on his face for a second. Liz glanced at the bartender who shuffled over and poured seltzer into a glass, placing it before Tony. He sipped it slowly, then touched his right temple, as if he had a headache. Which he probably did-and deserved.
“How are you, Miss Ferber?” he asked out of the blue, and I almost missed his words because his voice was so soft, breathy.
I said nothing.
Liz said something about leaving, and Tony looked at her. I found myself staring at him-there was something simple and boyish about the face, bloated through it was. Out of that carnival sequined sports jacket and wearing a simple blue dress shirt and khaki slacks, he looked like an average Joe, the man who pumped your gas. He’d been a handsome man, I could tell, a face that probably charmed and sometimes even dazzled. Dissipated now, florid, spent. A dreaming boy who became a failed man. Listening to Liz, he cocked his head, glanced at me, and I saw wariness there, hesitation. Through slatted eyes, he betrayed a sly regard for the world that made him a figure of fun.
He finished the seltzer.
“Well,” I began, stretching out the word.
Tony spoke over my one word. “You know, I’m afraid what’s gonna happen to him.”
“What?” From me, stupefied. “Who?”
“Frankie. You’ve heard the rumors. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“I don’t follow you, Tony.”
He leaned forward in his seat. “You know that dumb thing Frankie said the other night-that nonsense about killing Max. Murdering him in a heartbeat. That bitch Parsons picked up on it and now it’s all over town. He threatened to kill Max. That can’t be good. He’s, like, wanted to kill others.”
Ethan frowned. “No one takes that stuff seriously, Tony.”
Liz grunted. “The police do.”
“It seems to me…” I began.
Again, Tony stepped all over my words. “Frankie ain’t popular with the cops.”
“The police will investigate. He must have an alibi…” My words trailed off. I really didn’t care for this conversation. A mistake, my traipsing into this dive.
Tony looked puzzled. “A man like Frankie don’t need alibis. His word is his word, Miss Ferber.” A child’s avowal of faith.
Frustrated, Ethan spoke evenly, looking into my face. “He says he had a fight with Ava and drove out into the desert. Just drove around by himself. All night long. He does that, you know. It cools him down. The emptiness…”
Tony’s voice rose. “People are saying he didn’t shoot Max himself but, you know, he had someone else do it. I heard that on the radio.”
I sipped my wine while planning my words. A few seconds passed. “I find it disturbing,” I said in an acrimonious voice, “that we’re talking about Frank’s sullied reputation and Tony’s last job and no one here is talking about Max, a dear man, now murdered. You all knew him for a long time.”
Silence at the table. No one looked at me.
“Of course, we’re sorry,” Ethan said finally, matter-of-factly. “We’re not barbarians.”
“Really, Miss Ferber,” Tony said. His bloodshot eyes clouded over. “That’s all we’ve been talking about.” But then he bristled. “You’re a little unfair.”
“Really?”
Liz crossed her arms and muttered under her breath. She’d dabbed some whitish powder on her face, covered it with rose-tinted blush, and in the dim light, she looked garish, a platinum-blonde geisha girl gone to seed. A smear of red lipstick blotted a front tooth, giving her a jack-o’-lantern look. “Max ruined all of our careers,” she said.
“Come on, Liz,” Ethan pleaded.
She pouted. “It’s true, Ethan. Dammit. You know it. Me and Tony. Tony was a bright, clever comic. Variety mentioned him once. Max booked him into fleabag venues.”
Ethan held up his hand and said to me, “Tony forgot to show up for work.” Then to Liz, “You know that. The drinking. He took Lenny’s death…it got to him. And let me remind you that Tony was the one who fired Max.”
“There was a reason,” Tony blustered. “When Alice married Max…”
Liz barreled on. “What about me? I quit but he’d already really dropped me, you know. I could have had bigger parts, but he
kept saying this was wrong, that was wrong. He said he took me on as a favor to you two. Baloney!”
Ethan was shaking his head back and forth. “Now’s not the time.”
“And you too, Ethan. You wanted to be famous. He wouldn’t circulate your script. He said it was lame. Remember.”
Ethan glanced at me and his eyes twinkled. “‘Lame’ is a gentle word for my script, Miss Ferber. Like every other person in this town, I came to Hollywood to make my fortune. A passing dream. But it won’t be from scenarios, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “Real estate, though not this lovely bar.” He waved his hand across the dim room. “Numbers for me-not words. And he was right about you, Liz.” He drew his lips into a cruel, razor-sharp line. “You have no talent.”
She screamed. “How dare you! You…use…Tony. You made him believe all kinds of nonsense. You made him-angry all the time. You, dammit.” She stifled a sob.
Tony patted her wrist. “Oh, Christ! Leave her alone, Ethan. Ruin one life at a time, okay? You want to hear my theory about Max, Miss Ferber? I’ll tell you. It’s something Liz and I talked about earlier. Alice killed him. Just like she killed our brother. She’s not that cheerful lady I seen you with here last night. Little miss housewife out with the girls. Lenny was going to divorce her, so she pushed him over a railing. And Max knew it. She shot him before she got here. Planned it all.”
“Ridiculous,” I thundered. “For what reason?”
Tony’s voice had a metallic tone now, cold and sharp. “Maybe killing husbands has become a habit for her. It gets into the bloodstream, you know. Maybe he got on her nerves. The pinko stuff. She married a Communist. Maybe she didn’t like being pointed out as the wife of a card-carrying Moscow boy.”
“Shut up, Tony,” Ethan said.
“No, I won’t.”
Liz was talking to the back wall. “Max ruined us all.”
