“Somebody called—” she began.
“Her father.”
She shrugged. “I told him we don’t know where she is.”
Somewhere inside, Horn heard a shower start up. “Is Addie here? I’d just like to talk to her for a minute.”
She shook her head. “She’s off someplace with friends,” she said with little interest. “Playing tennis or something. All summer, it’s like this.”
“Well, I’d really like to talk to her.” He handed her a slip of paper on which he had written his name and phone number. “Would you mind asking her to call me?”
She made no move to take it. Her expression hardened by a fraction. “You sure that’s what this is all about?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She leaned into the door and brought the cigarette up to her lips. “Look, I’m getting very tired of swatting guys off of her like flies. I’ve told her she better stick with boys her own age or she’s going to have trouble with me. But she’s at that age. All of a sudden, she likes men.” Her voice went sour on the word. “College boys. Older, even. She doesn’t understand all the trouble she can get into.”
Horn fought to hold down his anger. “Mrs. Webb, I’m not a college boy. I’m looking for a sixteen-year-old girl who may be in trouble herself, and I just want to talk to your daughter.”
“Maybe. If that’s so, it’s like I told you. Addie can’t help you.” She eyed him through a haze of exhaled smoke. “You look familiar.”
“A few years ago,” he said, “when you were living someplace else. Clea and Addie went off together. I brought them back, spoke to your husband. You probably saw me then.” He heard the shower being turned off, and he looked past her into the small sitting room. “Is he here? Maybe I could—”
“Mr. Webb is long gone,” she said with no expression. She delicately picked a strand of tobacco off her tongue and studied him with renewed interest. “I remember. You’re the cowboy, aren’t you?”
“I used to do that.”
“Addie showed me a picture of you in a magazine.” She eyed his scuffed shoes and unpressed pants. “You sure look different. Anyway, she thought you were really something. You know, one of those crushes. Sorry to say, she’s way past crushes these days.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I work at the Cocoanut Grove,” she said brightly. “A hostess. You wouldn’t believe all the movie people we see there. Errol Flynn was in the other night. And Red Skelton. You should come in sometime.” Once again, she took in his appearance. “But people dress up there. You know, elegant.” She spoke that word as if it were one of her favorites.
“I know,” he said. The year they were married, he and Iris had gone dancing at the Cocoanut Grove on New Year’s Eve. He remembered the lush sounds of the orchestra, the tinsel and confetti, and the feel of Iris next to him. But the memory, once vivid, was now so faint it could have belonged to another lifetime.
He said goodbye to Thelda Webb. As she closed the door, he heard her call out to someone inside: “Isn’t it time for you to get to work? I need to use the bathroom.”
He hesitated on the steps, still angry over her attitude, when he noticed a little girl on the porch of the adjacent duplex. She appeared to be about five or six, wore a pale blue pinafore and stood with her arms resting on the top porch railing, rocking back and forth, looking at him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You live here?”
She nodded.
“You know Addie?”
Another nod. “She gave me her com-pact,” the girl said, still rocking, reciting the words like a nursery rhyme. “With a mir-ror. ‘Cause somebody gave her a new one. You want to see it?”
“Maybe some other time, honey.” He walked over to her. “Would you do something really important for me?” He laid the slip of paper on the top railing next to her and weighted it down with a 25-cent piece from his pocket. “It’s kind of secret. If you give this note to Addie when nobody’s looking, and don’t tell anybody about it, you can have this quarter.”
She regarded him solemnly. “Secret?”
“That’s right. Secret. And the quarter’s yours, for candy or anything you want to buy for yourself.”
Her eyes drifted to the quarter. “For Gold Bricks?”
“Sure. You can buy five Gold Bricks with this. Just be sure you don’t eat them all at once, all right?”
CHAPTER NINE
On the way home, Horn stopped at a fruit stand on Pacific Coast Highway and bought a watermelon and a bag of lemons. In the kitchen, he sliced up and squeezed the juice of several lemons into a jug, adding a little water and a fistful of sugar. Pouring a glassful, he sat in the rocker out on the porch, swirling the ice cubes around in the glass and taking an occasional sip. The porch was hot but shady in the late morning, and the cold liquid bit gently at the back of his throat with each swallow.
Fresh watermelon and lemonade were two of the things that could instantly take him back in memory to the hill country of northwest Arkansas, where he grew up. He and his little brother, Lamar, would sometimes steal watermelons, because the stolen ones tasted better. If his father caught them at it, he would take them out to the tool shed and whip them both with his belt. John Ray, as the elder, merited twice the number of licks because he had led his brother astray. Their father’s mastery of the Scripture was so complete that he was able to quote the relevant passage in time with his blows, each syllable distinct, ending with a thunderous “Amen!” on the final stroke.
The memories should have been painful. But the passage of time had softened them, Horn realized. The blows of the belt fell in slow motion, and his father’s shouts and his own cries now sounded far away. They had resurfaced briefly only the other night, when he heard Scotty talk about getting even with his old man and Horn had realized that he knew the feeling only too well. Amen to that, brother.
In his last letter, Lamar had said their father still preached every Sunday, even though his congregation had been shrunk by the war and other changes to the little town. Horn took a long, cool swig. When you’re a man of God, he reflected, it must be hard to have a son like the one he turned out to be. Running away from home, winding up in a Sodom called Los Angeles, working in a godless enterprise called the movies, and finally going to prison. For a while, during his acting days, Horn thought his father might have some cause to be proud of him, but no word came. The Reverend Horn had always considered the motion pictures frivolous and almost certainly dismissed cowboy movies as unworthy of any attention. Horn wondered if the preacher’s voice was still strong and sure and if the old man ever thought about him.
He picked up a day-old newspaper and paged through it. There was a new Bette Davis playing at the Egyptian, and Horn considered going. Somewhat to his surprise, he’d developed a liking for Bette Davis while up at Cold Creek, where the inmates had no choice about the movies they saw. One week the film was Jezebel, and Horn, desperate for some diversion, went to see it. He came out impressed with her character’s guts and determination and her willingness to admit foolish, destructive behavior and try to change. The woman seemed more real to him than most male characters he was seeing on the screen, certainly more real than anyone he had portrayed. Since then, he had tried to see more of her movies, but was careful not to mention it to anyone, especially Mad Crow. What’s next for you, amigo? he could hear his friend drawl. Joan Crawford? Ethel Barrymore? Tallulah Bankhead?
He put aside the paper, picked up the phone, dialed the long-distance operator, and asked her for a number. She said she’d call back. While he waited, he sat on the porch and smoked as Rose Maddox, on the record player, sang I Want to Be a Cowboy’s Sweetheart with her brothers accompanying her. Horn liked the song and let it repeat twice.
The operator rang, and in a few
seconds he heard a familiar voice.
“Hey, little brother,” he said.
“Hey, John Ray! Son of a gun. Knew this had to be you, ‘cause I don’t know anybody else out in California. How you doin’?”
“Just fine. I thought I’d give you a call and see how Sally was doing.”
Horn heard him cover up the receiver and yell to his wife that it was John Ray calling to ask about her. “She says that’s real nice of you.” There was a little static on the line, and Lamar’s voice, although clear, sounded as if it was coming from the next room. He and Horn always seemed to end up shouting on long-distance calls, as if they simply didn’t trust the equipment to do its job. “She got out of the hospital three days ago, and she’s getting around. Doctors said having your appendix out ain’t nearly as big a thing as it used to be.”
“Glad to hear it. You tell her thank you for sending those strawberry preserves. Kids all right?”
“Everybody’s fine. We saw one of your movies a couple of weeks ago, over in Rogers.”
“Which one?”
“The Lost Mine.”
“That’s been around for a while. Guess they’re getting a little extra mileage out of it.”
“It was playing with a Charlie Chan. We’d seen ‘em both, but you know, we don’t get many new movies around here. The kids hadn’t seen it, though, and they had a good time. They talk about you a lot.”
“So, uh. . . .” Why is this so hard? “You seen the old man lately?”
“Sure, just the other day.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Well, I don’t know. . . I guess he’s just getting old. He’s using a cane now. Don’t know if I told you that. He wouldn’t want me to. And I think he’s having some trouble with his hearing. But he still preaches every Sunday. Some of the congregation, they make jokes about how his sermons are twice as loud now that his hearing is bad.”
“I don’t suppose he went to that movie.” Horn hadn’t meant to ask. The words just came out.
“The one with you in it? No, he didn’t.” Lamar’s response was quiet, and Horn had to strain to hear it. “But you know, he doesn’t go to the movies much at all, unless they’ve got something about God or Jesus. So. . . .”
“I know. That’s all right.”
“You want me to tell him anything?”
“No,” Horn said. “Just that you talked to me, and I asked about him.”
“Well, he’d appreciate that,” Lamar said, but he didn’t sound convinced.
After hanging up, Horn went to a table by the couch where he had left the photo that Paul Fairbrass had given him. It was about 5 by 7 inches and on heavy paper, printed in a matte finish, and it looked like the work of a professional studio. He stared at it. Clea wore a sweater over a blouse with a Peter Pan collar. Her pale hair backlit and almost aglow, she looked up and to the left, smiling. She had become what you would call a very pretty girl. Her looks hinted at the woman to come, not yet there but visible not far off. It was her smile that seemed most familiar to him—open and trusting, speaking of little-girl delights in horses and pebbles in jars, of carousels and skinny crescent moons. Look at this face too long, he thought, and it could break your heart.
Fairbrass said they had looked for her at the Santa Monica Pier. Horn remembered her riding one of the garishly painted carousel horses at the pier one Fourth of July weekend, her jaw set grimly, leaning way over to grab the brass ring but missing it by several inches each time. “Wait ‘til you’re bigger!” he had yelled to her over the calliope music, but she just shook her head and leaned out farther.
The phone rang.
“Mr. Horn? It’s Addie Webb.”
“Addie! I’m glad I found you.”
“I was surprised you wanted to talk to me. I haven’t seen you for a long time.” She sounded much older, more self-assured. But she spoke softly and guardedly, as if worried someone might overhear her.
“It has been a long time.” They spoke for a while, and then he said, “Listen, Addie, did you know Clea was gone?”
“No,” she said, sounding puzzled.
“Her parents say she’s run away, like the other time. I’m hoping you can help us—”
“I think my mom’s waking up from her nap,” she said in a low voice. “She wouldn’t want me—”
“Addie, I really need to talk to you.”
For a moment, he could hear only her breathing. Then she spoke urgently: “Listen, I need to go out to Malibu this afternoon. If you’ll take me, we can talk.”
“Sure. Your house?”
“No, better not. I’m getting a ride as far as Pacific Coast Highway. You can take me the rest of the way. Do you know the gas station at Entrada and PCH?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
* * *
She was waiting by one of the pumps at the Flying A station, wearing sunglasses, a short beach robe and espadrilles. He pulled up next to her. “Hi, Mr. Horn,” she said excitedly, coming over to the car.
“Hello, Addie.” He wouldn’t have recognized her. She was taller and had filled out, but there was more. Dark eyes, outrageous lashes only partly hidden by brunette hair that swept lazily over part of her face, Veronica Lake−style. If Clea’s picture spoke of the young woman to come, in Addie she had arrived.
Without meaning to, he studied her. Boldly, the broad smile still on her face, she studied him right back, just as her mother had done. Finally, he reached over to his right and opened the door. She came around and got in.
“It’s really nice to see you again,” she said. “I’m meeting some friends at the beach. It’s not far.”
He pulled back onto the highway and headed up the coast. Almost directly overhead, the sun burned through the coastal haze, but a breeze off the ocean tempered the heat a few degrees. A few cottages hung precariously off the cliffs that loomed to the right. They had a temporary look, as if they had been placed there by the children of a race of giants who would soon return and capriciously move them elsewhere.
Addie undid the sash on her robe and rolled down her window, letting the warm air wash over her. Underneath she was wearing a tight-fitting white two-piece bathing suit. Her hair was held in place by a band that matched the color of the suit, and her legs were tanned. “This is fun,” she said.
“I talked to your mother today,” he said. “She didn’t want me to see you.”
“She doesn’t want me to see anybody,” she said lightly. “Especially lately. She wants me to stay little Adele, and I’m not that girl any more. She tries to chase away every boy—”
“It’s not just boys she’s worried about.”
“She’s jealous,” Addie said, and Horn heard satisfaction in the words. “She thinks I’m trying to steal her boyfriends.”
“Are you?”
She made a sound of disgust. “I can do better. This one’s an auto parts salesman.” She giggled. “Who smacks when he chews.”
“Did she meet him at the Cocoanut Grove?”
“I don’t know. I suppose she told you she’s a hostess there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s a waitress,” Addie said. “Except on Saturday nights, when she’s the cigarette girl.” She leaned back in her seat and looked sideways at him. There was something devilish about her smile. “A bunch of us at school went with Clea to see one of your movies. We thought you were very cute.”
“I don’t do that any more,” he said. “It was just a job, and nobody takes that sort of thing seriously anyway.” Except for the ones who do, he said to himself, thinking of the boy on the porch with the withered leg.
“Clea did.”
“For a while, maybe. Then, when she was older, she was embarrassed to have a cowboy actor for a father.
She would rather have had Tony Martin. Or maybe John Payne. Those were the pictures she had on her wall.”
“You said she hasn’t come home?”
“That’s right. Addie, I need to know anything you can think of that would help me find her. Friends she might be with. Places where she might go. Anything.” When she didn’t respond, he went on: “This Tommy Dell. She might be with him. Do you know him?”
“I know him.” She spoke quietly. “He’s a creep.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, why would I?”
“Can you think of any way we could locate him?”
She thought for a moment, then suddenly clapped her hands together and leaned forward. “I know exactly how. Do you know Central Avenue?”
“Sure.” Central Avenue was L.A.’s Harlem, the place to go for music and dancing and excitement off the beaten path. He and Iris had had some good times there.
“Well, I just remembered,” she said, sounding breathless. “Tommy told Clea once that he has business at some of the nightclubs. I don’t know what he meant exactly, but he said he goes down there a lot. From the way he talked about it, he made it sound. . . I don’t know,, I’ve always wanted to go. We could do it tonight.”
“We?”
“Sure. White people go there all the time, don’t they? They say it’s the best music around. You like jazz, don’t you?”
“There are a whole lot of clubs on Central.”
“We can look for him, one place at a time.”
“I don’t know about you going, Addie.”
“Don’t be stuffy, Mr. Horn. You need somebody to point out Tommy, don’t you? And besides, you’d fit in better if you had a date. I’ll be your date.” She giggled. “Your pretend date. Oh!” She gestured to the left. “Here. This is where I get off.”
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