by Ed Ifkovic
Quietly: “This is important, Nell,” I said.
She nodded.
An hour later, in Mercy’s dressing room, we sat with Detective Cotton. The detective listened to my terse summary, sitting there impassive and largely unblinking. He cleared his throat. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” I expected more. Backslapping, accolades, hip-hip-hurrahs.
“It makes sense…”
I broke in, impatient with his manner. “Of course it makes sense.” You bumbling fool, I added, hopefully to myself.
Detective Cotton smiled, and I realized he was a man used to condescending to women-a man whose world-a downtown precinct of testosterone-jumpy cops-was a sanctified male preserve. A man who, had he the misfortune to be married, most likely treated the little missus like chattel, some Doris Doormat to do his bidding. I was very familiar with his ilk, frankly. And yet I’d thought him decent, a good cop. A man who seemed to entertain the idea that I might contribute to the investigation.
“You’re a tough bird to read,” I remarked.
“Why so?”
“I don’t know if you value the ideas of women.”
“I value a good idea.”
“That’s not answering my statement.”
“I don’t answer statements. I answer questions.”
“You’re playing games, sir.”
“So, Miss Ferber, I do think you may be on to something here, and I’ll not fault you for that. But I’ve been conducting my own investigation, you know, and this morning, finally, I convinced a judge-actually I convinced Jack Warner through his boy Jake Geyser-that the matter needs to go before a grand jury. It’s time. And my case, I’ll tell you frankly, is against James Dean. Warner isn’t happy, and Dean has been forewarned. It’s going to get messy, but this now has to leave the studio and go downtown. The case has languished too long…”
I felt my heart in my throat. “So you’re going to name Jimmy as murderer.”
“We’re going to name him as number one suspect-not murderer. We’ll couch the arrest in language the studio will tolerate. Means the same thing, just delays the inevitable.”
“Give me twenty-four hours,” I demanded, sharply.
“What?”
“I want to test my theory.”
“I can’t do that.” He shook his head.
“Of course you can.”
He looked surprised. “True, I can but…”
“If I’m right, I could save you some embarrassment.”
“And if you’re wrong, I seem the procrastinator.”
“It’s less embarrassing than mud in your face. Detective Cotton, you may be the detective in this case…”
“I’m glad you noticed.”
“But it seems to me it’s my detecting we’re entertaining now.”
“An amateur’s luck.”
“Sir, a veteran writer’s keen eye.”
“Miss Ferber…”
“Detective Cotton.”
He had trouble smiling. All right, he nodded. “You have till midnight tonight.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll be in bed by ten, sir.”
A short time later, as Mercy and I were leaving the dressing room, I spotted Jimmy. He wasn’t happy-agitated, jumpy, constantly pushing his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “That goddamn Cotton,” he yelled. “He’s here, and I said…you know what he said?…he…said…ah…don’t leave town…like…”
“Jimmy.” I took his arm. “Stop. Don’t let this get to you this way.”
He looked at me, almost uncomprehending, and then walked away. “Jimmy,” I called after him, but he kept going.
Much later, walking out of the building, Mercy and I stopped, transfixed by an odd tableau on the sidewalk by the front gate: Jimmy, in animated conversation with Tommy and Polly, with Nell standing some ten feet away, nodding, that infernal cardboard box at her heels. For a minute the two women watched as Tommy seemed to become more and more agitated, swaying his body, still unfortunately clad in that red jacket, and spitting words at Jimmy. Jimmy, himself antsy, cupped his eyes, staring through the blinding sunshine at his friend. When we got near, the talk shifted, as Polly moved between the two men. “Stop this,” she pleaded, one of her hands on Tommy’s chest.
Tommy’s face got closer, and a purplish color spread across his features. “You used Polly,” he screamed.
Jimmy looked at Polly, tucked between them like a swaying lamppost, a woman taller than both men. She stepped back and held her hands up in the air. “Stop this.”
Jimmy said nothing.
“You used Polly.”
Jimmy looked at Nell, standing apart. “You told him?”
“I didn’t know it was a secret.”
Jimmy shook his head, grinned. “That was a bedroom confession, Nell.”
Nell, filled with the confidence of a Greyhound ticket in her bag, yelled back, “What kind of man tells a girl he’s sleeping with that he enjoyed sleeping with his good friend’s girlfriend. Crowing about it.”
Jimmy stared at her, confused. “I gotta stop getting drunk,” he mumbled to himself. “I fall into bed with strangers.”
Nell seemed ready to leave, twisting her body away, but at that moment she caught my eye. She folded her arms over her chest, reminding me of a sullen Buddha, and the look in her eyes was hard, deliberate. “I’m not sorry,” she said, bluntly.
Jimmy spun around, looking helpless. He took a few steps back, glancing back at the studio entrance, then looked toward the parking lot. I realized he wanted to get away. He didn’t want to be here, not because he disliked drama, certainly, but because this somehow no longer mattered to him. He’d already moved past this. Past Tommy. Past Polly.
“You don’t deserve…” Tommy faltered. Then, in a swaggering gesture, he indicated the building behind him. “This.”
Jimmy, quiet, swung his head around, following the direction of Tommy’s arm, and started to walk back to the studio. But his face registered alarm, and I looked. There, in the doorway, stood Detective Cotton, watching. Jimmy’s face got beet red, and he faced Tommy. “You’re a small man, Tommy.”
Polly reacted. “Jimmy, stop it.”
“I mean it,” Jimmy sputtered. “Small.” And he actually laughed. “And that’s the problem here. You know, you’re tiny inside.” He caught his breath, intoxicated with the new word. “Tiny.” He stressed the word. Said, the word hung in the air like a curse, awful but true. I noticed him glance back at Cotton, and the look was different now: triumphant, sure.
Tommy’s body shook. Jimmy stepped closer, waiting. Nell muttered something-to me it sounded like a grunt-and Tommy suddenly lunged forward, socked Jimmy in the jaw. Jimmy reddened, fell back, but then rushed forward, shoving Tommy back a few steps. In seconds the two were grappling with each other, wild, off balance; and with one calculated and powerful thrust of his muscled arm, Jimmy hit Tommy squarely on the side of his head. Tommy slumped to the ground and lay there, gasping for breath. Jimmy rubbed his still-clenched fist, contemplated his bruised knuckles, and, spotting Mercy and me, forced a thin, what-can-I-do smile, and walked away. Then he stopped, turned to face Cotton, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Facing the detective, he mumbled, “If I felt I belonged someplace.”
Slowly, almost jauntily, he walked away.
Mystified, I looked to Mercy, who whispered, “His character in Rebel says that . Big scene, climax, really.”
I shook my head. Hollywood: the place where people speak in someone else’s lines.
Nell looked like she was going to follow Jimmy but then thought better of it. She saw me looking at her with censorious eyes, and, throwing back her shoulders in an arrogant gesture, grabbed her meager cardboard box, cradled it in her arms like a heavy child, and walked toward the parking lot.
I turned to Mercy, “Now that’s an exit worthy of De Mille.”
Stretched out on the ground, Tommy was moaning. Polly knelt down and cradled his head in her lap. She whispered, “You d
on’t need him, Tommy. We’ll leave Hollywood. He’s always used you-us. He used me, too. You know that. He uses any girl. You know how he is. It didn’t mean anything to me, what he did. It’s you and me…” On and on, still cradling his head and rubbing his temples with her fingertips. She looked shattered, pale as dust; and she swayed back and forth, rocking Tommy.
I turned to walk away, and Mercy followed. Mercy whispered, “I’ll never understand that relationship.”
I muttered, “What relationship?”
When I glanced back, Polly was still holding onto a whimpering Tommy, whose eyes were closed now, but Polly was staring down toward the end of the lot. I followed her gaze. Jimmy stood there, leaning against a car, smoking a cigarette, his body rigid. From a distance, he could have been a young Jett Rink, surveying his worthless Texas acres, his Little Reata, God’s forlorn land.
I looked back at Polly. She was rocking the sullen, immobile Tommy now, but she was looking at Jimmy-not with disgust or hated or even pique. No, I realized, the look was one of desperate longing.
Chapter 21
Mercy and I walked to the Smoke House across the street. Neither of us spoke, which was the way I wanted it. Echoes of Jimmy and Tommy’s silly squabble still rang in my ears. But, more so, I was baffled by Polly and Nell. Why had Nell chosen to tell Tommy of Polly’s one-time infidelity with Jimmy? Mercy was shaking her head. I was glad she was there-someone I could talk this out with, someone levelheaded, smart. A woman with fire in the soul, strength in her sinew. Luz Benedict herself, the strong-willed spinster of Giant.
But a noisy Tansi and Jake, both entering from the sidewalk, interrupted my reverie. Each carried accordion files bursting with papers, each in a hurry. “Edna,” Tansi exclaimed, “don’t forget your two o’clock meeting with Ginsburg and Stevens.”
“I won’t, Tansi.”
Jake turned to Tansi, “We can’t talk. We’ll be late for Warner’s meeting.”
But Tansi hovered over me. “We just met Nell in the parking lot. She said Jimmy hit Tommy.” Wonder, stupefaction; then an odd smile. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Jake made a tsk ing noise. He wouldn’t look into my face and began to move away. Pulling her folder close to her chest, Tansi rushed after him.
Mercy and I still didn’t talk, just sat there with coffee. Then Mercy broke the silence. “You look tired, Edna.” A pause. “Don’t forget your two o’clock meeting.”
I groaned. “No, I’m skipping it. They don’t know it yet.”
Then, relaxing, we ordered sandwiches and more coffee, and we talked and talked. I posed an idea, and Mercy played off it. Yes, no, maybe; a possibility. At one point Mercy started to ask a question and then stopped. “You’re right, Edna.”
From my purse I withdrew the napkin I’d scribbled on, and spread it on the table. “Four points,” I said, looking at it. “Indisputable. At least to me. Let’s go over this again.”
But we were interrupted by Tansi, who surprised us. “A reprieve. Warner is with some lawyers, so I get an early lunch.” She waited for me to invite her to join us, but I said nothing. I drummed my fingers on the slip of paper before me, impatient. I wanted the time with Mercy. But Tansi, grinning nervously, uncomfortable with the silence, simply stood there. “I thought I’d join you for lunch, but, you know, if you’re busy, well, then…” She waited.
I looked at Mercy, then nodded. “No, of course, Tansi, please join us.” I picked up the napkin, carefully folded it, and tucked it back into my purse. “We just ordered.”
“I want to hear all about the Jimmy/Tommy brawl.”
“There’s nothing to say Tansi. Those two just don’t get along any more. The end of a friendship that was doomed from day one. And Tommy is angry so he strikes out. Jimmy is-well, Jimmy is just himself. It was an ugly, unpleasant moment, two wilderness bucks locking horns in front of two females. This Hollywood parking lot is, I guess, the last frontier.”
“But…” Tansi started. “But is Jimmy hurt?”
“No,” Mercy said. “Tommy suffered a bruise, though.”
Tansi looked relieved. “As it is, Jimmy gives the makeup people a challenge, what with his sleepless nights, those bags under his eyes, the sloppy shaving…”
So we chatted idly throughout lunch, and Tansi lingered, even having a cigarette after the sandwich. Mercy kept looking at me.
“Edna?” Tansi offered me a cigarette.
“Remember when Jake gave me his pack of cigarettes?” I asked. Tansi shook her head. “Well, I just smoked the last of that pack, up in my room. Last night. I’ve also made a vow never to smoke another cigarette.”
Mercy spoke up. “I’ll never stop smoking. Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Tansi added.
I reached inside my purse, and withdrew something. Mercy watched as I dropped a matchbook onto the cluttered table, and all three of us watched it fall between a plate and a glass. It just lay there.
“I thought you didn’t want a cigarette, Edna,” Tansi said.
“I don’t. I told you I’ll never smoke again.”
“Then…” She glanced down at the matchbook, and I saw color rise in her face. She looked at Mercy, who was staring at her, holding her breath.
“What?”
“I believe these are yours,” I said.
“No, I don’t think so…”
Emphatically, “Oh, yes.” I breathed in. “I’m sorry, Tansi, I really am, but when Jake offered me a cigarette, you did, too. You even lit my cigarette. And you slipped your matchbook across the table at me. Later I recalled picking it up, dropping it in my purse. Last night, lighting the last of Jake’s cigarettes, I reached for the matches, and I remembered. I had taken them from you.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Well, dear, I do. Sad to say. Do you see what they say?” All three of us glanced down at the matchbook, face up. Stamped in gold on the dull brown surface was Ruth’s Grill. With a telephone exchange. And the slogan, “Cocktails and Steaks.”
I pushed the matches across the table. “Take them, Tansi. They’re yours.”
“They’re not.”
“Tell me, Tansi, how did you happen to have matches from a restaurant across the street from Carisa’s apartment? A place you said-more than once-you never went to. A neighborhood you studiously avoided. A neighborhood you insisted I stay out of-fear for my safety.”
“I must have got them somehow-from Jimmy, maybe.” Tansi stared into my face. “Or maybe from Jake. He went there a lot. He told you that.”
“I sat in the same grubby restaurant one afternoon with Alyce and Alva Strand, in the same spot where Carisa sat when she was with another woman. And the two were arguing, Carisa yelling at her. They just saw the back of the other woman’s head…”
“But you can’t blame that on me. Really, Edna, that’s impossible.” She looked around the room, as though for a familiar face. When she looked back, she smiled. “I don’t like this, Edna. We’re friends, you know.”
I sighed. “We are friends, Tansi. I’ve known you since you were a baby.” My mind wandered a bit. “I remember…”
“Edna.” Mercy touched my wrist, softly. “Maybe Tansi can explain.”
Tansi, a little hysterical, “I just did. Didn’t you hear me? I don’t know how I have to explain such a trivial thing as…as a matchbook. I’ve had dozens over the years. From all over. I pick them up. Smokers pick them up. Just as you did. You said you picked mine up, no?”
I sucked in my breath. “Do you remember the afternoon you drove me to the hotel? You were in your new car and…”
“What does my car have to do with it?”
“Manuel Vega’s granddaughter recalled seeing a woman sitting in a car in front of the apartment the night Carisa was killed. She was on a bus, but looked, and thought she saw Jimmy running out of the apartment building. Of course, we learned that it was Tommy, but she thought it was Jimmy. She thought he was joining a woman who was waiting in a car.”
&nbs
p; “That wasn’t me. I’ve never gone there.”
I rushed my words. “I asked Connie about the car. She couldn’t describe the woman, but the car she recalled. Vividly. A brand-new Chevy Bel Air. Shiny turquoise with white top.”
Tansi shook her head. “So? Do you know how many such cars there in L.A., Edna? Dozens. We’re car people out here, and it’s a popular car. We like our cars…”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “That’s why Connie mentioned it. She likes cars, too. And movie stars. Like Jimmy. But that got me to thinking. Tommy ran out-Carisa didn’t let him in-but he was not joining the woman in the car, waiting there, watching. There had to be a reason Connie would notice, even if it didn’t quite register with her. She obviously sensed someone waiting in front of the place where she lived. Like a lot of kids, she’s in tune with street life. She spent her hours anticipating the visits of James Dean, her idol. So it stayed with her. Tansi, I think you were there that afternoon. I think you went there, for whatever reason, despite what you’ve said, and watched. You were watching for Jimmy, too. And you saw Tommy run out. And you went in to see Carisa…”
“No, for God’s sake, no!” Tansi thundered. “This is preposterous. Really, Edna.” A tinny laugh. “This is not one of your melodramatic fictions, you know.”
I sighed. “I only wish, Tansi. But my instinct tells me…”
Tansi swirled around in her chair, then looked at Mercy, her eyes searching her face. “Mercy, tell her. Are you hearing this story? A matchbook and a car. A thousand of one of them, hundreds of the other. Circumstances.”
Mercy looked down at her hands, and she seemed surprised they were shaking. There was sadness in her voice. “Edna.”
I held up my hand. “You must have gone to the apartment after Tommy fled, somehow got inside, argued with Carisa-probably about the letters she sent Jimmy and Warner, including the horrible one that very day to Warner, the threat about Confidential; and I know you probably didn’t want to go there. And the argument escalated and you threw that statue…”
