I was reminiscing so hard that I didn’t notice Hank Shepard return until he handed me a Gibson that filled a highball glass.
“The large economy size,” he said. “It’ll save me a trip or two to the bar. Suddenly, I’d rather be dancing–if you and Pidgin don’t mind, that is.”
“Ella,” I said, but the combo had come back to life, and Shepard didn’t hear me. I watched him pantomime his invitation to Ella. She seemed to remember him, but none too fondly, which pleased me. Still, she acquiesced. They headed for the dance floor together, Ella leading the way.
I looked around for Drury, thinking that I might pass the time by quizzing him on Eden and the gamble he’d taken with it. Before I could find the director, Gilbert Traynor and his bottomless glass found me. He took me by the arm and led me away from the packed center of the room, to a corner near the unused end of the bandstand. The peewee orchestra was directing its efforts toward the crowd we’d left behind, so here, on the group’s flank, it was almost peaceful.
Traynor was feeling as nostalgic as I was, but over a different lost time. “Funny you should mention the Phaeton Six tonight,” he said, his hand on my shoulder. “I’d just been thinking about the old days when the family built automobiles instead of rearview mirrors. Carson got me thinking back. He told me about this movie of his over lunch.” He gestured toward the photos on the wall behind me. “The Imperial something.”
“Albertsons,” I said.
“Thanks,” Traynor said. “Carson had no idea–couldn’t have had any idea–what that story meant to me. It was my family’s story. The Traynors could have been the heroes of his movie, the inventors who changed the world with their automobile and put the goddamn Albertsons in their place.”
I’d gotten to know Drury too well over the course of the day to believe that he was unaware of the parallels between his movie and the sentimental Traynor’s family history. I should have warned the sap–one Hoosier to another–to keep his checkbook buttoned up, but that would have been taking bread out of Paddy’s mouth as well as Drury’s.
“What do you do for the company?” I asked.
“I’m the president, which is another way of saying I don’t do much. That’s the real problem with the Traynor family. The pioneers and the inventors are dead. The only ones left are the figureheads. The hood ornaments, I should say.”
Traynor kept talking, but I stopped listening. Over his shoulder I could see the dance floor and on it Ella and Shepard. Ella had just moved the publicist’s right hand upward from the small of her back where it had strayed. The big hand strayed even farther down when she released it. Ella was trying to push herself clear of Shepard as I handed my drink to Traynor. I reached them just as the grinning Shepard blocked Ella’s openhanded left cross by grabbing her wrist. I grabbed his in turn and squeezed it until he let Ella go.
“Excuse us,” I said to her as I twisted Shepard’s arm around behind his back. All I heard of her reply was my name.
Shepard was facing the double doors of the kitchen, conveniently enough. I shoved him forward, and we passed harmlessly through the intervening dancers as though Hermes Pan himself had choreographed our exit. Shepard stretched out his free arm to push open the swinging doors, almost decking a Chinese waiter with a tray of little sandwiches. The waiter smiled broadly as we passed him.
When the doors swung shut, I could hear Shepard addressing me. “Will you listen to me, Elliott? Let go of my goddamn arm and listen to me.”
I looked around for the exit that Drury had used on the night he’d snookered Errol Flynn, but I couldn’t find it. Meanwhile, the kitchen staff–more Chinese–were taking a lively interest in us. I spotted another swinging door and pushed Shepard through it. We ended up in a walk-in pantry lined with shelves of cans and boxes. It was only five feet wide and ten feet deep, but that was big enough for my purposes.
I gave Shepard a shove toward the far end of the closet and released his arm. He twisted around to face me, still talking a blue streak.
“Get out of my way, Elliott. I’m warning you. You lay another hand on me, and you’ll hear some things you’d rather not know.”
“Like what, for example?”
Shepard looked smug and said nothing.
“Things about my wife?”
The smug look became a sneer.
“Like she slept with a few soldiers she felt sorry for during the war?” I asked. “Like she fell to pieces inside when her brother was killed in France? That she was so deadened by it that after the war she’d wander home with any man who came along, even a heel like you?”
Shepard had paled steadily as I’d squandered his bargaining chips. I stepped forward, nice guy that I was, to catch him if he fainted. He took advantage of my good nature and threw a right, telegraphing his plan with a nervous glance at my idle left hand. With that kind of notice, I could have blocked the punch in my sleep. Awake I did even better, hitting Shepard square on the chin and driving him into the loaded shelves behind him.
In a movie the shelves would have collapsed, showering the publicist’s blond head with noisy odds and ends and maybe even a bag of flour as a topper. I had to make do with Shepard collapsing in his own little heap, the collar of his tuxedo jacket up around his droopy ears.
Ella was waiting for me outside the kitchen doors. She didn’t look the least bit concerned for my safety, I was flattered to see. No one else took any notice of my return or Shepard’s absence. Certainly the musicians didn’t. They were laying into “Stardust” like they held the copyright.
“Let’s dance,” I said.
“I promised the next one to your friend from Indiana,” Ella said. “But now that he’s seen the way you cut in, he’ll probably give up his turn.”
“That’ll save you from hearing about Traynorville,” I said, taking her in my arms.
“Hearing more about Traynorville, you mean,” Ella said.
We began to move to the music, but not in our old, easy way.
“I can handle guys like Hank Shepard,” Ella said. She’d meant her delivery to be matter-of-fact, I thought, but it came out sounding tired.
“Just like I can tie a bow tie,” I said. “Only being an old married guy, I don’t have to.”
We struggled on, trying to find the walnut shell under which the band had hidden the beat. When Ella spoke again, she returned to the subject of Traynorville.
“Quaint little custom you Hoosiers have, naming towns after yourselves. So nice for the post office. There’s an Elliottville, I presume. Or is it Elliott Town?”
“Elliottopolis,” I said. “We had to change it, though. Pronouncing it gave people the hiccups.”
“Seeing it in print would cure them,” Ella said. Then she put her head on my shoulder.
9
Ella and I left the party early, soon after Hank Shepard emerged blinking from the kitchen. The next morning we slept in as long as the kids let us. I hung around the house after that, playing catch in the front yard and listening for the phone. I was expecting a call from Paddy announcing that we’d been fired because I’d pasted Drury’s right-hand man. I wasn’t sure how Paddy would take it, but my guess was he wouldn’t be pleased. He would have preferred my pasting Drury.
The call hadn’t come by ten o’clock, so I drove downtown to 59 Belmont Street, armed with my winning smile and a hip flask. Shepard had mentioned buying John Piers Whitehead a drink before he’d sent him packing. From what I’d seen of Shepard, the drink might have been his own idea. Then again, it might have been Whitehead’s price for cooperating. So I decided to have a second payment handy.
Belmont Street was not included on chamber of commerce tours of Los Angeles, to judge by its weedy lawns, quilted pavement, and the veteran sedans and coupés squeezed against its curbs. The residents were spaced out better than their cars. Whitehead’s block had only small apartment buildings
and private homes, although several of the bigger houses had been divided into flats.
Fifty-nine Belmont had never been a private home. The white stucco building with the red tile roof contained four apartments, two up and two down, the upper ones serviced by a balcony that spanned the front of the building and a staircase that ran from the balcony to the front walk.
I couldn’t find a directory, so I checked each apartment in turn. Whitehead lived on the southern side of the second floor. He’d lived there for some time, too. The little paper nameplate in the slot on his mailbox had acquired a sepia tone.
The man who answered the door could have used some sun himself. His wool vest and tie were inappropriate for July in Southern California, but they looked–and smelled–like Whitehead had worn them through a decade of Julys. His head was small and well along on its way to hairless. What hair he had left was combed forward like an antique Roman’s. He had the features of a Roman senator–his nose high-arched and his chin square–but his skin was blotchy, and his eyes had a yellow cast. I was prepared for Whitehead to be older than Drury–everybody seemed to be–but not this much older. I guessed him to be in his late fifties, which meant he’d been pushing forty when he and the teenage Drury had set Broadway on fire.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I represent Carson Drury,” I said. “I’d like to talk with you.” As I said it, I realized that I was up against the same problem Hank Shepard had faced when he’d dealt with Whitehead. Drury’s old partner hadn’t confided in Shepard because he hadn’t known him. Whitehead didn’t know me, either, or so I thought. I had one of my Hollywood Security business cards out, but I didn’t need it.
“You’re Scott Elliott,” he said, shaking my hand. “You were in Rhythm on the River with Mary Martin and Bing Crosby and Basil Rathbone.”
“That picture was made fifteen years ago. How do you happen to remember it?”
I’d said something wrong. Whitehead’s smile faded away. “I remember things,” he said.
“May I come in?”
Whitehead half-turned toward the dark room behind him and then shook his head. “I was just going out. For breakfast,” he added.
“I can always use a second breakfast. I’ll buy if you’ll let me tag along. It isn’t every day somebody recognizes me.”
I was trying to point out that we had something in common: membership in the Has-Beens of America Society. That link or my offer to buy won the point for me. Whitehead kept me waiting while he found the jacket that matched his vest. Then he led me east on Belmont to Olympic Boulevard.
“It’s just a short walk,” he said. “I never drive.”
As we passed the DeSoto, I considered tossing my flask through its open window. Now that I’d actually met Whitehead, I was even less comfortable with the idea of liquoring him up. He wouldn’t have thanked me for the gesture. When we reached the corner, he gazed at a bar called Maxie’s as though it was the girl he’d left behind.
Across the boulevard from the bar was an old-fashioned, railroad-style dining car. “There we go,” I said. “Just what we need.”
I took Whitehead by his patched elbow and led him across the four lanes of homicidal traffic. The diner’s lunchtime crowd hadn’t arrived yet, assuming the place had a lunchtime crowd. I found us a booth with plenty of privacy and ordered coffee and bacon and eggs from a waitress who didn’t know she was dealing with two celebrities. Whitehead seconded my choices without much enthusiasm. After the coffee arrived, I offered him a cigarette. He held it very delicately, between his thumb and forefinger, but he drew on it like a man siphoning gasoline.
“What exactly are you after from Drury?” I asked.
His yellowed eyes avoided mine like twin butterflies dodging the same net. “Oscar Levant was in that movie, too,” he said. He moved his tongue around in his mouth, inspecting his teeth. “Rhythm on the River.”
“I remember,” I said.
“Not as well as I do,” Whitehead said, his voice so dry it brought dusty Alora to mind.
“How could that be?”
He shrugged and cleared his throat.
“Have some coffee,” I said.
“Don’t have a taste for it, thank you.”
“Let me sweeten it for you.” I unscrewed the top of the flask before removing it from the pocket of my suit coat. There wasn’t much room in Whitehead’s mug. Just enough for one healthy shot of rye.
He didn’t ask why I wasn’t joining him. He was beyond that kind of pleasantry. He took the mug from me and made room for another shot. I poured it and put the flask back in my pocket. I didn’t bother replacing the cap.
“What are you doing for Carson?” Whitehead asked, his feathery voice gaining strength with each word. “Are you in production now? You can’t be acting for him; he’s using the original Albertsons cast.”
“You answer one for me first,” I said. “How is it you knew about Drury’s latest project? It was supposed to be a secret.”
“Kay Lamantia told me.” Whitehead was holding his mug beneath his Roman nose, inhaling its fragrance. “Kay was our costume designer on First Citizen and Imperial Albertsons. Carson tried to hire her for the reshoot, but she wouldn’t come out of retirement. She was nice enough to call me for a chat.”
He took another killer drag on his cigarette and waited for me to live up to my end of our bargain.
“The company I work for was hired by Drury,” I said. “We’re in the security business. I haven’t been an actor since the war. There are various schools of thought on why my career ended. One is that the studios lost interest in me. Another says that I lost interest in acting. I like to think I just aged out of my character, like Mickey Rooney.”
Whitehead actually looked as though he wanted to console me, which didn’t brighten my day. “You asked me how I happened to recall that movie of yours,” he said. “It’s a funny thing. I don’t remember the movie I saw last week as well as I do Rhythm on the River.”
“We went to its premiere shortly after we arrived in Hollywood–Carson and Alice, the socialite Carson was married to at the time, and I. He was already having an affair with that German actress, but poor Alice didn’t know it. She and Carson were like two children at that premiere. So excited to meet Mr. Levant, I remember. I remember everything about that night: what Alice wore, where we sat, who snubbed us and who was nice, where we ate afterward. The entire golden time between that premiere and our own is sealed in my memory forever. They were the happiest days of my life.”
“The happiness ended with the Albertsons premiere?”
“No, with the premiere of First Citizen.” He looked down at the last swallow in his mug and decided to hoard it. “We had to release the picture in New York, you know. Hollywood was up in arms over our treatment of D. W. Griffith. But the change of venue worked to our advantage. New York still loved Carson, so the first night was a triumph. Poor Alice was gone by then, but then so was the German actress. Carson had moved on to that opera singer person. I remember feeling sorry for Alice that night in New York, which was vanity on my part. I was next on Carson’s hit list.”
The waitress brought our food, cutting off Whitehead’s performance. I thought I’d have to prime his pump again, but after he’d pushed his plate away untouched, he helped himself to another Lucky from the pack I’d left on the table and continued his story.
“Carson’s always been an artist who dictated his work. Brilliant? Yes. Inspired? Yes. But utterly dependent on other people to bring his ideas to life. On Broadway I was the expert he needed. In 1938, when he found me, I was heading up a little theater group for Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration, producing, directing, raising the curtain, collecting the tickets. One day Carson showed up on my doorstep with notes for a radical new Hamlet under his arm. He’d just gotten back from Europe, where he’d been touring with a circus.
“That’s what my life was like from then on, a circus. Before I knew it, I was producing a Hamlet directed by and starring Carson Drury in a barn of a theater called the Empire Palace. It was the kind of theater you book ice shows into, not Shakespeare, but Carson filled it night after night. The play would have run for a year if its star hadn’t gotten bored.
“After that it was one project after another. More of them failed than succeeded, but that didn’t matter. Carson always used a new idea to eclipse an old failure. Together we formed Repertory One, with Carson as the brilliant innovator and me as the one who changed the light bulbs.”
Whitehead pushed his empty mug across to me. I signaled the waitress, and she brought her coffeepot over.
“Just half a cup, please,” Whitehead told her.
She noted his full plate, sniffed at his breath or maybe just at him, shrugged, and went away.
I filled the empty part of his cup. He nodded in acknowledgment and drank, this time in a slow, thoughtful way.
“I got my first hint of trouble when we moved into radio. I was out of my depth at first, and Carson knew it. I was even more lost at RKO.”
“Why did he even bring you out here?”
“He was a little frightened of the move, I think. He wanted familiar faces around him. But he felt at home soon enough. Carson has a natural genius for gauging the potential of a medium–and exploiting it. It wasn’t long before he’d surrounded himself with the best soundmen, cameramen, special effects artists. He began dictating to them directly, shutting me out.
Come Back Dead Page 6
