by Phil Swann
Clegg said, “I think we could all use a drink. Trip, would you assist Miss Goetz into our car?”
I helped Gabriella up from the ground, led her to the Caddy, and opened the rear door. She got in without protest.
“Well, we were right about one thing,” Clegg said, over the car’s hood.
“What was that?” I responded.
“She said, I wish he had been in that building. It’s confirmed. Ricardo Goetz got out of the recording studio alive.”
I sat in the backseat with Gabriella as Clegg drove us back to the Roosevelt. No one spoke. Once we got to the hotel, Gabriella robotically walked into the suite and sat on the sofa. I brought her a whiskey, but she didn’t take it, so I set it on the table. I sat next to her, but she continued looking straight ahead, staring at nothing, as if I wasn’t there.
“I’m having some food sent up,” Clegg said, hanging up the phone.
“Great, I’m starved,” I said. “What did you get?”
He shrugged. “Just some food.”
“What kind of food?”
“I don’t know, food. Some meat, fruit, and cheese, I think.”
“What kind of cheese? I hope it’s not brie. I don’t like brie.”
Clegg rolled his eyes. “Would you like me to call back down and tell them to hold the brie?”
“Would you mind?”
“I like brie,” Gabriella mumbled softly.
Clegg and I looked at each other.
I said, “Well then, I hope it is brie.”
“The first time I had brie was when I was girl in France.”
“You were in France as a young girl?” I replied, feigning interest more in an effort to keep her talking than actually being interested in her being in France as a child.
She nodded. “Outside of Paris. I attended boarding school there. The same one Mama went to. At least, that’s what they told me. I don’t remember Mama much. She died when I was very young.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too. I would have liked to have known her. I’ve seen pictures. She was very beautiful. Long dark hair and big eyes that seemed to laugh all by themselves. I like to believe I look like her. Not Gabriella, she doesn’t look like her at all. Gabriella is a silly clown, but Gabby does. Gabby looks just like her. Did you know Gabby means woman of God?”
“No, I didn’t,” I replied.
“My mother named me Gabby. I think it’s a good name.”
“I think so too,” I said.
I noticed a tear break free and roll down her cheek.
I removed a handkerchief from my jacket and wiped it away.
She went on, “I think I was around eleven when I first realized something was different about our life. Papa didn’t like me having friends, and I began asking why the only people who came to our house were the people who worked on the ranch, and they weren’t friends, they were employees. Papa said it was because we knew those people and could only trust people we knew. I remember asking him why, and he said I was too young to understand. Funny how I remember that, isn’t it? Like it was yesterday. But everyone could play music, and that’s when I started singing, so I guess I simply let it pass. Papa was an important man, and we had to be careful who our friends were. Simple as that. The older I got though, the harder it became to believe that fantasy. I recall at one point, I just decided he was a bank robber or an international jewel thief. I don’t know why, but I liked that idea.”
She chuckled and then looked around the hotel room. I think it was only then she realized where she actually was. She reached for the glass on the table and took a sip of the whiskey. She set the glass down and then went back into her head.
I glanced over at Clegg for what I should do. He raised his hands as a sign for me to be patient. He was right.
After a moment, Gabriella continued. “Then when I was fourteen, I brought a friend home from school. Her name was Sarah. Papa took one look at her and became outraged. He screamed at me and told Sarah to leave and to never come back. A week later, I was sent off to boarding school in France.”
She stopped briefly as if to consider her next words. “Even though I was young, I knew. I think that might have been my first inkling of knowing.”
“Knowing what, Gabriella?” I asked.
“Who we were. Who Papa was. Why we had no friends. I seem to remember it popped into my brain like some sort of Divine epiphany. You see, Sarah was wearing a Star of David around her neck. She was Jewish.”
Clegg and I looked at each other.
She went on, “I don’t believe I knew the word, but because we lived in Argentina, I had heard tales about the bad people. I knew Argentina was where many had come to live a long time ago. At least a long time ago to me. I remember wondering if it was possible if I could be one of those bad people.”
She stopped and took a deep breath before continuing, “But, in the way only a child can do, I wiped the possibility from my mind. Forgot I ever thought it and pretended I had made it all up in my head. I suppose going off to France made it easier.” Her voice changed. “I was happy there. Not in the beginning…in the beginning I was homesick, and I cried myself to sleep every night, but eventually poco a poco, I grew to love it. I had friends. I went places. I did things. And people liked me. They liked how I talked and how I sang and how I looked. I taught them all how to make maté.”
Her face fell, and more tears began to run down her face.
“What’s wrong, Gabby,” I asked. “What are you remembering?”
“A picture,” she answered.
“What kind of picture?”
“A terrible, horrible picture.”
“I don’t understand.”
“On my eighteenth birthday, I went to Paris with some friends. We ate in cafés. I tasted wine for the first time, danced, I even sang a song in a cabaret. It was the best day of my life. The next day, we visited the museums.” She swallowed hard. “One museum was presenting a photography exhibition on images from World War II. There must have been hundreds of them, and they were awful, and they made me uncomfortable. Then, I saw it. In one of the pictures, stood a man. He was in a German uniform, an officer, and he was standing in a concentration camp.”
Her tears gave voice.
“Who was the man, Gabby?” I asked.
“Papa,” she whined. “He was younger, but there was no doubt, it was Papa. I also recognized some of the men near him. They worked on our ranch. They played music in our house.”
For the first time, Gabriella looked straight at me, her moist eyes locking with my own. “What I had worked so hard to put out of my mind was right in front of me, literally in black and white, and I couldn’t deny it any longer. Papa was a Nazi, and so was everyone I knew. I was one of the bad people, Trip.”
She bent over and began to weep harder.
“No, no,” I said, feebly patting her on the back. “That’s not true. It was your father, Gabby. That doesn’t make you one of the bad people. It was your father. Just because he was—”
“You don’t understand,” she wailed. “In the picture, standing beside him was a woman and a little girl. It was my mother, and the little girl was me. It was me, Trip! It was me! I am one of the bad people!”
She fell into my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
I said nothing. I just held her.
I looked over at Clegg. His face was stone.
After a few moments, Gabriella collected herself and sat up. I gave her my handkerchief, and she wiped her face and eyes.
I didn’t push. I waited until she was ready to talk. It didn’t take long.
“After that, things started coming back to me—little things from when I was a child. They were only fragments, pieces of a forgotten past, like being cold, cold like Argentina never was. And men who wore uniforms always coming in and out of our house. The sound of sirens, dogs barking, and lights flashing through my bedroom window at night. Even now, I still have images that appear in my brain I don’
t remember but know are my memories.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not my friends. But when I returned home, I told Papa. I told him I knew who he was and what he had done. I told him I had no interest in hearing his excuses, and I demanded he never attempt to rationalize or apologize for his actions. I also told him things were going to be different. I was going to have friends, and I was going to sing, and there was nothing he could do about it because if he tried to stop me, I would tell everyone his secret, and I didn’t care what happened to him.”
“And what did he say?” I asked.
“What could he say? I was his daughter. Surprisingly, he became as invested in my singing career as I was. He formed the band. He put on my shows. He even invented Gabriella.”
“That’s…amazing,” I said.
“Not really,” Gabriella replied. “I think he knew it was the only way he could remain in my life. He knew I could never forgive him. At least with music, he’d have some kind of relationship with me. He was right.”
I looked at Clegg to see if he wanted to ask anything. He gave me a look that said I should continue. So I did.
“When did Anthony come into the picture?”
Gabriella sighed. “About a year ago, Anthony saw me performing in a club in Buenos Aires. He became a fan, and then we…well, he became a fan. He told Papa he could get me a record deal in the United States, and perhaps even an American television show. The rest, as your people say, is history.”
Clegg came over and took a seat in the chair across from us. He leaned in and put his arms on his knees. His tone was far gentler than before. “Miss Goetz…Gabby, when did your father call and tell you he was okay?”
“About an hour after the explosion, I guess,” Gabriella answered.
“Did he call you at Cabaneri’s house?
She nodded.
“Was Anthony there?”
“No, he left with Papa.”
Clegg glanced at me.
Gabriella continued, “He said he would drop Papa off at the recording studio and then come back to the house. He never did. Papa called, told me what had happened at the studio, and suggested I take a taxi back to our hotel. He sounded scared, not at all like himself. That’s the last time I spoke to him.”
Clegg nodded. “Gabby, do you know who blew up the recording studio?”
She shook her head. “No, not specifically. But I suspect it was someone who knew who my father really was, as well as my band.” She looked at me. “I’m glad you weren’t killed, Trip.”
I smiled. “Me too.”
“At first, I thought it might have been you who did it. I know now you didn’t. But I want you to know if you had, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
She began to cry again, and I hugged her.
There was a light knock on the door, and Clegg got up. “That must be our food. I’ll get it.”
Gabriella pulled back and stood. I did the same and watched as she walked across the room.
“I’m sorry, Gabby,” I said.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “My television show?” she asked, trying her best to compose herself.
I shook my head.
She nodded. “Was any of it real, Trip?” she asked, as more tears fell.
I went over to her. “You’re real. Your talent is real.”
“Is it?” she whimpered. “I wonder.”
“Gabby, listen to me. You’re a singer, and one of the best entertainers I’ve ever worked with. I saw how you were with those veteran performers, Berle, and Benny, and Damone, you were good. Great, actually. You impressed me. No lie. And you’ve had a hit record. That was real. You sang ‘Midnight Tango,’ don’t forget that. By the way, who wrote that song?”
“I did,” she answered.
“Are you serious? You wrote ‘Midnight Tango?’”
“Yes.”
“No kidding. Well, now I’m genuinely floored. I didn’t know that. Look, I know you don’t believe it right now, but you’re going to be fine, Gabby. I know it. Better than fine, in fact, you’re going to come back better than ever. A talent like yours doesn’t come along every day. You’re too good, and listen, I’ve worked with some of the best, so that’s saying something coming from me. I have very high standards regarding such things.”
For the first time, she smiled. “That’s right, you’re a professional, as you so passionately reminded me of once.”
I smiled back. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You did,” she replied. She dropped her head. “I’m sorry for how I acted, Trip. Not only at the studio, but at your apartment. I was…well, I was—”
“Don’t give it a second thought, Gabby. I don’t.”
She looked up and smiled sadly. “I have no band now. Without one…well, I guess I’ll just go back home.”
“You can put together another band. Hey, wait a minute. You know what? I might be able to help with that.” I pulled out my wallet. “I have a phone number, it’s in here somewhere, he’s an old friend from Vegas, a piano player, and he’s really good, he can play anything. He also knows a ton of first-class players. His name is Pinky Leibovitz. I just ran into him a few days ago. Here it is,” I said, pulling out Pinky’s business card. “Give him a call and—no, you know what? I’ll call him. I’ll set up a meeting between you two. This is going to be great. You’ll love him, Gabby. He’s the guy who can set you up with a new band. I know it. This is a perfect match. I’m so glad I thought of—”
Gabby grabbed me and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Oh, Trip,” she whispered in my ear. “You wouldn’t know a perfect match if it came along and punched you in the face.”
I didn’t respond.
She let go and stepped back. “Thank you. I can’t wait to meet him.”
Clegg returned. “There’s food on the bar. You two should eat something.”
“Thank you, Agent Clegg,” Gabriella replied. “If you don’t mind, I think my face is in need of…how do you say it, la sala de polvo,”
“Beg pardon?” I replied.
“She’s asking for the powder room,” Clegg said. “It’s right through there.”
“Gracias.”
As Gabriella walked away, a voice echoed in my head, and a chill went down my spine.
“What’s wrong?” Clegg asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“No, just heard one.”
“What?”
“Another thing I should have picked up on and didn’t. Just like when I talked to Gabriella’s band the first day at the television studio. There was something about how the one brother—Lorenzo, I guess it was—something about how he spoke that bugged me.”
“What was that?”
“How he pronounced the word worst. He said the food in the commissary was the worst he’d ever put in his mouth. But he didn’t say worst, he pronounced it vorst, with a vee sound. As long as they had lived in Argentina, and had been faking their accent, I suppose the fatherland still had a way of creeping in at times. Especially when one was drunk. I should have seen it.”
“Trip, I don’t think I would have even caught that one,” Clegg said. “But that’s not what’s bothering you now, is it?”
“No. It’s Gabriella excusing herself to the powder room.”
“Why does that bother you?”
“Because Miriam did the same thing at the restaurant on our date.”
“So?”
“So, she did it right after I told her about the drunken twin brother. The one fished out of the Hollywood reservoir.”
“You think she made a phone call?”
I shrugged. “Don’t you?”
Clegg thought for a second, and then picked up the telephone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Someone who can answer the last question we both have.”
“Who?”
Clegg spoke into the phone, “This is Mr. Smith in room 1220. Would you conn
ect me to—” He stopped talking and looked at me. “Never mind, operator. Thank you.” He hung up. As he did, Gabriella came back in.
“Miss Goetz,” Clegg said. “Trip and I need to run out for a little bit. Would you mind being our guest for a while longer? I can have Agent Carson go back to your hotel and pick up some clothes for you.”
“Am I under arrest?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Clegg replied. “I just think it would be best if you stayed here until Trip and I sort everything out.”
“Am I in danger, Agent Clegg?” Gabriella asked.
“Honestly, ma’am, I don’t know. Until I do, it would put my mind at considerable ease if you’d stay here with us. It’s a big suite, and you’d have your own bedroom. You can say no, of course, but I hope you won’t.”
“Please, Gabby,” I added.
She looked at me and then back to Clegg. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
“Thank you,” Clegg said. “Trip, get your jacket, and put on a tie.”
“Why? Where are we going?”
“To get some hummus.”
Chapter 16
The writer Dorothy Parker once quipped, “Los Angeles is seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.” A funny line, no doubt, but not technically true. There is a downtown Los Angeles, albeit relatively few people live there, and tourists seldom visit. But it’s where City Hall is located, as well as all manner of businesses residing in skyscrapers rivaling those of any other city in the world. I think Dorothy’s wisecrack stemmed from the fact the county of Los Angeles is often referred to as L.A., even if the town one happens to be in is Santa Monica, Burbank, or Hollywood. Dorothy also said palm trees were “The ugliest vegetable God ever created.” She wasn’t a fan of the City of Angels.
The Moroccan Gardens was a swanky restaurant located in downtown Los Angeles on Fifth Street—in other words, deep within the actual city of Los Angeles. It wasn’t hidden away by any means, but it was definitely off the beaten path, situated on the ground floor of a bank building, and flanked on either side by office towers only identifiable by their addresses.
