by Ron Goulart
I headed over to Enery’s throne, stepping around cameras and over cables. “What’s on the menu today besides Ty-Gor?”
“Hi, Frank,” he said, leaving the throne. “I’m not in a very good mood.”
“So I imagined.”
“But I am glad Dorothy isn’t suspected of killing Spellman,” he said. “You and Groucho did a swell job of tracking down these Bensons.”
“Part of the time they were tracking us.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think Dorothy wants to—”
“I know, Frank,” Enery said as we walked clear of the cannibal village set. “She hasn’t called me since the news broke that the Bensons had—allegedly—done Randy in and that she was off the hook. You don’t have to be a master detective to figure out what that means.”
“Nope, it’s obvious she’s ready to move on, Enery.”
He toyed with his dental necklace. “I knew she was … restless. But I didn’t expect it would happen this soon. And maybe I had the idea I was going to be the exception.” When he gave a sad shake of his head, a feather floated free of his chieftain headdress. “Still, I’m going to miss her.”
“Enery, you ought to …” I was having trouble with this.
“Ought to what? Get over her. Sure, I’ll—”
“Know what she was really up to,” I said. “It’s true she didn’t kill Spellman. The Bensons tried to frame her for that, and she’s innocent. But—”
“I know that. It’s in the newspaper.” He was frowning at me.
“It’s possible that none of this other stuff will ever come out,” I continued.
“Stuff about Dorothy?” He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Groucho and I found out that she was still involved with Spellman.”
“No, she swore to me that she—”
“Not sleeping with him,” I said, although I wasn’t even sure that was true. “But helping him work his blackmail racket. That’s really why the Bensons tried to frame her, to get rid of her and Randy at the same time.”
He stopped and put his other hand on my other shoulder and turned me toward him. Frowning more deeply, he asked, “You guys are sure of this?”
“Yeah. After Spellman was killed, she even broke in on his former wife’s place looking for some of his blackmail files,” I told him. “And—well, I had a talk with her a few hours ago, and she admitted she was in it with him.”
“You saw her? Where is she?”
“You don’t want to see her,” I said quietly. “More important, she doesn’t want to see you.”
He sat down in a stray canvas chair. “Jesus, this is tough to believe, Frank,” he said. “I’m starting to think I was an even bigger sap than I realized.”
“Dorothy was fond of you,” I said. “For a while anyway. But she didn’t want to give up the blackmail. It looks like Arnie Carr, her ventriloquist friend, was going to help her carry on.”
My friend held up his hand in a stop-now gesture. “Okay, Frank, I guess that’s all I have to hear right now,” he said. “I better get back over to my throne, we’re going to start shooting again pretty soon.”
“I’m sorry things—”
“That’s okay. You and Groucho did what I asked you to do,” he said, rising up. “Not your fault you dug up more truth than I wanted.”
We started walking back to the cannibal village.
When we got close, an assistant script girl waved at me. “Frank, there’s an emergency call for you,” she said. “From your home.”
“Is my wife all right?”
“Yes, but her assistant wants to talk to you.”
“I’ll see you, Enery.”
“Take it easy,” he advised.
I hurried away in the direction in which the young woman had pointed.
A plug-in phone was sitting on a small table in a dim-lit part of Soundstage 3.
“This is Frank Denby,” I said, nervous.
“It’s okay, Mr. Denby. This is Myra,” said my wife’s assistant.
“Is Jane all right?”
“Yes, but the contractions have started up, and they’ve been coming every few minutes.” she told me in an excited voice. “I telephoned Dr. Mazoujian, and he says to get her over to the hospital.”
“Help her get ready,” I said. “I’ll be there in less than an hour and—”
“Jane doesn’t think she can wait that long, Mr. Denby,” said Myra. “So I’m going to drive her over now. She’ll be at Bayside Memorial Hospital. Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll leave right now. Can I talk to Jane?”
“Just a minute. She’s been packing an overnight bag. Hold on.”
I noticed I’d been inhaling and exhaling through my mouth. I also felt a little dizzy.
After what seemed like a long time, Jane came on the phone. “Drive carefully, Frank. Relax. I’m doing as well as can be expected.”
“I shouldn’t have left you there when—”
“Our daughter’s early. Not your fault,” she said. “Okay, I’ll see you at the hospital.”
“Soon as I can get there. I love you.”
“I knew that.”
As I was hurrying for the exit, Enery caught up with me. “Trouble?” he asked.
“The stork,” I answered, not slowing down.
“That’s great. Good luck.”
I popped out into the gray, rainy afternoon.
Thirty-two
It wasn’t raining in Bayside.
I parked across the street from the hospital—a Southern California sort of hospital. It was three stories high, with peach-colored stucco walls and slanting roofs of red tile. There were many palm tress decorating its wide front lawn.
Running up to the glass doorways, I splashed in at least three puddles.
In the lobby I had to dodge to keep from colliding with a very pale woman in a wheelchair.
She was saying to the younger woman behind her chair, “He should’ve been here by now. He knows when I’m getting released.”
“You know Uncle Lowell, Mom.”
“That’s what’s worrying me.”
I’d been to the Bayside Memorial Hospital before, so I knew exactly where the Maternity Ward was located.
Although I’d never actually been in a Maternity Ward waiting room before, the one I now found myself in seemed familiar. That was probably because it resembled most of the waiting rooms in the dozens of hospital movies I’d seen over the years. There were three other husbands sharing this one with me. One fellow, who was pacing and chain-smoking, looked to be a few years younger than I was. The other two, older and more relaxed, sat calmly reading from the collection of vintage copies of the Saturday Evening Post, Liberty, Life, and Collier’s.
If the young expectant father hadn’t already staked out the pacing space, I would probably have been pacing myself. Sitting, I failed to get through three separate short-short stories in three different back issues of Collier’s. I was too restless even to read all the way through the longer cartoon captions. I checked my wristwatch at least once every two minutes.
“Your first kid?” one of the relaxed fathers inquired. He had black curly hair and a good start toward a second chin.
“It is, yes. Yours?”
“First one with this wife,” he answered. “Two with my first wife. Things’ll go better if you relax.”
After looking again at my watch, I said, “That’s good advice, except—”
“Mr. Denby?” asked the slim, middle-aged nurse who had come into the smoky waiting room.
“Here!” I popped up out of my chair, shedding the several vintage magazines from my lap. “Is there anything wrong?”
She smiled a patient smile. “Your wife is out of the delivery room,” she said. “And you’re the father of a baby girl.”
“What about my wife?” asked the pacer.
“No news yet, Mr. Reisberson,” the nurse told him. “If you’ll come along with me, Mr. Den
by, you can view your daughter. And in just a bit you’ll be able to see your wife.”
I asked, following the nurse, “They’re both all right?”
“Yes, both of them are fine. Your daughter weighs six and a half pounds.”
The two relaxed expectant fathers smiled at me. The curly-haired one said, “Congratulations, buddy.”
The nervous father went right on pacing and smoking.
On the other side of the large glass viewing window, a different nurse was holding a baby. She pointed at the blanket-wrapped baby and then toward me.
From what I could see, my nose pressing to the glass, our daughter was exceptionally cute and already had a sprinkling of dark curly hair. I didn’t pay much attention to the other newborn babies who were resting in the three rows of cribs.
As I watched, the nurse placed our baby in one of the empty cribs.
“Don’t settle on that one until you’ve seen all the rest, Rollo.”
Turning briefly away from my daughter, I noticed Groucho standing just to my right. “Too late, we’ve decided on this one,” I said. “Besides, she’s the best-looking of the lot. How’d you know I was here, Groucho?”
“I phoned your domicile, and Jane’s assistant, after shamelessly flirting with me, told me what was in the wind,” he explained. “I’m glad she did, because the only thing that I knew was in the wind was a rather shabby kite and a few—”
“Our baby is a girl,” I cut in.
“Ah, just as Jane foretold.” He sighed. “Then I fear there’s little chance of your naming your offspring Groucho.”
“I’d estimate none at all, actually.” I was again watching our daughter’s crib. “Jane’s pretty much decided on naming her Jillian.”
“With a G or J?”
“J.”
“Cheer up then, Rollo, that’s not that far from Julius.”
“Far enough.”
“Tell your missus that I approve of Jillian as a name,” Groucho said. “I’ll show my appreciation with a suitable gift to commemorate the occasion. In fact, if I can get to the five-and-ten-cent store before it closes, I’ll pick you out a suitable gift this very day.”
What do you think?”
“Best-looking baby on the West Coast.”
“Not in the whole darned United States?”
“I’d have to get a closer look at her before committing myself.” Jane, propped up with two pillows, was sitting up in her hospital bed. I was standing beside the bed, holding her hand.
“They’ll be bringing her in here soon,” my wife said.
“Dr. Mazoujian told me she’s fine,” I said. “And you’re fine, too.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said Jane.
Leaning, I kissed her. “I’m going to try not to get involved with any more murder cases for the immediate future,” I promised. “Therefore, you don’t have to worry about my getting conked on the head.”
“You’re sure you won’t miss being slugged? It’s become such a part of your life.”
To switch the conversation from my tendency to get sapped, I said, “Groucho dropped by the hospital. He thinks Jillian is a terrific name, and he says he’ll be sending us a present.”
“What sort of present? Another dog, do you think?”
“Not unless they sell dogs at Woolworth’s. Groucho is—”
At that point a nurse entered the room, bringing in our new daughter.
Also by Ron Goulart
Groucho Marx, Secret Agent
Groucho Marx and the Broadway Murders
Elementary, My Dear Groucho
Groucho Marx, Private Eye
Groucho Marx, Master Detective
GROUCHO MARX, KING OF THE JUNGLE. Copyright © 2005 by Groucho Marx Productions Inc. and Ron Goulart. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eISBN 9781429924344
First eBook Edition : May 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Goulart, Ron, 1933–
Groucho Marx, king of the jungle : a mystery featuring Groucho Marx /
Ron Goulart.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-312-32216-X
EAN 978-0-312-32216-8
1. Marx, Groucho, 1891–1977—Fiction. 2. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction. 3. Motion picture industry—Fiction. 4. Screenwriters—Fiction. 5. Jungle films—Fiction. 6. Comedians—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3557.085G755 2005
813'.54—dc22
2004066412
First Edition: July 2005
