Just a block to the west ran Spring Street, the financial center, where deals were cut involving water and power and land, where banks hoarded money and insurance companies calculated odds.
Main Street was different. If Spring wore a public face, Main was the street of more private pursuits. For as long as Horn could remember, Main had been the haunt of men and women out of luck and out of pride. During the war, the street had jumped to a manic rhythm as servicemen thronged to its bars and liquor stores and strip joints and tattoo parlors. Now it was just shabby and sad.
He passed a pawnshop, its barred window display crammed with weapons of more or less lethal character: rifles, nickel-plated pistols, hunting knives, switchblades, leather saps, a set of brass knuckles. Up ahead was the Follies burlesque house, all seats 75 cents, the marquee advertising Ruby Renfrew, the Detroit Firecracker. Just beyond the Follies, up ahead on the left, was his destination, the Anchor Mission and Traveler’s Rest.
Horn knew the Anchor. When he first arrived in L.A. at age 22, after two years on the rodeo circuit, hard times had descended on America, those same hard times experienced by Madge and her husband. He had spent several weeks at the mission while looking for his first job. The memories were not pleasant—nights spent on a cot in the big hall, the sour smell of other men as poor and unwashed as he, the minister’s long and droning sermons imposed as the price of meals. But all was not bleak there: The food was regular and plentiful, the bed linens were changed once a week, and Horn learned the valuable lesson of always sleeping with his shoes under his pillow.
The big neon sign out front showed an anchor, slightly askew, superimposed over an upright cross. Underneath was a phrase, also outlined in neon: Ye Who Are Weary, Come and Take Your Rest. Horn pushed through the big front door and found himself at a timeworn reception desk behind which sat a man in shirtsleeves and suspenders. The man, his long face permanently creased into a hound dog’s sad-eyed expression, looked up as Horn came in, then looked again, paying special attention to his clothes. “You hungry, friend?” he asked.
Horn had intended to ask for Rose, but he changed his mind. “Yeah, I’m hungry,” he said. “Can I get something to eat?”
The man tore a ticket off a roll and handed it to him. It said Admit One. “This is good for lunch,” he said. “If you want dinner, you got to be here for the sermon at six. You need a place to sleep?”
“Not tonight,” Horn said and, following the wave of the man’s hand, headed down a long corridor lit by a single feeble bulb. Through the door at the end he could hear many voices and the clink of cutlery. He paused there to take off his tie and put it in his pocket, almost smiling at his sudden and unusual desire to appear down and out. Usually, he reflected, people took one look at his pre-war, out-of-fashion suit and his scuffed, government-issue shoes and assumed a look of mild disdain. Congratulations, he told himself. This time you look too good for your surroundings.
The room was as he remembered it, big and noisy, full of people putting away food. At the far end stood a cafeteria line where a half-dozen of the staff stood ladling out big portions to the shabby men and women who shuffled along with their trays. He scanned the food servers, trying to find Rose, then looked around the room once, then again, before returning to the serving line. It was there he finally spotted her.
She wore an apron over a plain shortsleeved dress and she was hatless, her hair pinned back from her face. As she served up mashed potatoes and gravy onto the passing trays, she smiled, laughed, and joked with those in the line, her face free of makeup and shiny in the steam from the table. She was almost a different woman from the sad character he had seen two nights ago.
He stood there, debating whether to pick up a tray and take his place in line, when he heard a voice at his side.
“So, what’s the deal?”
Horn turned to find a man facing him. He was a shade under medium height, spare and muscular, with a nose just slightly off center, and he wore a work shirt and khakis. He stood balanced on the balls of his feet, full of nervous energy that might need to be worked off at any moment.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I noticed you standing here. You got a ticket, but you’re not in any hurry to eat, and you don’t look like you’re particularly hard up. So what do you need?”
Horn didn’t like the man’s manner. “I thought everybody was welcome here,” he said. “You know, to take their rest, like the sign says.”
“Well, I’m the pastor here, name’s Quinn, and I’m also the doorman and the bouncer, and if I decide you’re not a hard-luck case, ticket or no ticket, you don’t get to eat.” He folded his arms.
Horn decided to try the conciliatory approach. “Sorry to make trouble,” he said with a grin. “I don’t really need a meal, but I came looking for Rose Galen.”
“Don’t know her.”
“Look, I’m an old friend,” Horn said. “That’s her over there, in the serving line. I just want to—”
“Nobody bothers people here,” the pastor said. “You need to leave.”
“Wait a minute—”
“Out.” Quinn was three inches shorter than Horn, but his jaw jutted upward as he stepped into Horn’s face. “Or I call some friends over.”
“Easy.” Horn held up his hands. “I’m leaving. But you really need to go back and brush up on one or two of your Beatitudes.”
Quinn looked at him curiously as he left.
Outside, he crossed the street and took up station in front of a liquor store, where he rolled a smoke and waited. Thirty minutes later, Rose came out, just as a shiny maroon Lincoln Continental coupe, driven by a woman, pulled up in front of the mission. Rose waved, and the woman got out and, taking long-legged strides, joined her on the sidewalk. They seemed glad to see each other and talked animatedly. Then the woman opened the trunk, and they began pulling out armloads of clothing, some of it still on hangers, and taking it inside. Soon the sad-faced man from the desk came out to help, extracting more clothes from the back seat. When they were finished, he huddled with the other woman over some paperwork on the hood of the car.
Afraid that Rose may leave with her friend, Horn quickly crossed the street, careful to dodge a passing trolley, which clanged and sparked as it went by. He stepped up behind Rose and tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
“Remember me?” he asked. “The guy with the bad memory?”
“Oh.” She backed away from him, panic washing over her face for an instant. Then she recognized him.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey!” He turned to find the other woman standing inches away. “Who the hell are you?”
“Uh….”
“Is he bothering you?” she asked Rose.
“It’s all right,” Rose told her. “I know him.” Her face was pale but composed.
“Yeah?” The woman had turned to face Horn again. “How well?” She was tall, with a mass of auburn hair barely covered by a beret perched precariously on one side. She wore a tweed suit, man’s style but woman-tailored, and appeared well put together underneath it. Horn guessed her age at somewhere around Rose’s, but it was obvious she was doing a much better job of holding back the years. For an instant, he had the feeling he had seen her before.
“It’s all right, really,” Rose said. “We’re old friends. He won’t do me any harm, so you can call off your dogs.”
The redhead gave Horn a last once-over. “I don’t think I like his looks,” she said, but this time she spoke with a lighter touch.
“Too bad,” he said. “I like yours.”
“Lot of good it’ll do you,” the woman said. Then, ignoring him, she gave Rose a quick hug. “Got to go, hon. Much shopping to do. Say hi to Saint Emory for me.” Seconds later she gunned her engine and was gone.
“Who the hell was that?” he asked Rose.
“What are you doing here, John Ray?” she demanded. “Emory mentioned there was a man looking for me in
there. Was it you?”
“Yes, it was. And if Emory is the pastor, I thought he behaved in a very un-Christian way.”
“He was just trying to protect me.”
“From what?”
“Oh….” She looked uncomfortable, as if she’d said too much. “He’s protective of everyone who comes to the Anchor. He says some people are poor through no fault of their own, and we can’t give them much, but we can allow them their privacy. He doesn’t want people coming in and gawking at them. Or at those who try to help them.” Then, as if remembering to be angry, her voice took on an edge. “How did you find me?”
“Your friend Madge,” he said. “I rolled her a cigarette and made a friend for life.”
“Madge.” She shook her head. “She’s a dear, but she loves to gab.”
“So who’s your redheaded friend in the shiny car?”
“Oh, that’s Doll. You didn’t recognize her?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“I just wondered.” A chilly breeze swept across the sidewalk where they stood. She took a near-shapeless wool cap out of her pocket and put it on, then wrapped her coat more tightly around her. “I really should go.”
He took a step toward her. “Rose, I came looking for you today, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.” When she didn’t reply, he pressed on. “Have you had lunch?”
She laughed. “Of course. Stewed chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. One of the best meals I’ll get this week.”
“Well, your friend Emory wouldn’t let me have any, so I’m still hungry. Will you sit with me for a while?”
Doubt crossed her face, then resignation. Finally she sighed. “All right, I know a place. Do you like Chinese food?”
CHAPTER FIVE
They walked back down Main to First and turned right. After a few blocks they entered a doorway under a sign that read Far East Cafe. Chop Suey. The inside was high-ceilinged and dimly lit, and dark wood partitions divided the space into many curtained-off alcoves. The Chinese hostess greeted Rose with affection and showed them to a booth. Soon they had a steaming pot of tea, and Horn ordered won ton soup.
“This neighborhood is mostly Japanese,” Rose told him, “but the owner here told me once that Japanese like Chinese food. A little farther down the street is a Buddhist temple. Early in the war I was walking by, and I saw hundreds of Japanese waiting outside the temple with suitcases. Before long, trucks began pulling up and taking them away.”
“I remember,” he said. “It seemed right then, didn’t it?”
“Not to me.” She took off her cap and shook out her graying hair. It was cut shorter than the style of the day, but he decided that it looked good on her.
“This is quite a spot,” she said, indicating the restaurant. “They say politicians from City Hall come in here and make deals behind their private little curtains. And since police headquarters is not far from here, you see a lot of….” She stopped, noticing his expression. “You don’t like the police, do you?”
“I don’t like the police.”
His soup arrived, and he started on it, surreptitiously studying her as he ate. Strangely, although the worry lines still played around the edges of her eyes, the lack of makeup only enhanced her strong features. Her movements showed no sign of the other night’s nervousness. He found himself comparing her face to that of the haggard-looking creature in the bar. Sober and in the light of day, she’s still a good-looking woman, he decided.
“You’re staring at me,” she said.
“Sorry.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Which is the real Rose, the one you see today or the drunk?”
“Well, which one?”
“Both.” She held her cup in both hands, blew off some of the steam, and took a sip. Her fingernails were clean but not very well tended. “Both. Today I served food to a lot of people who are worse off than I am. Tonight, if I feel like it, I’ll go back down to Broadway and….”
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to get it.”
“Do you need money?” As soon as he asked the question, he realized how pointless it sounded.
She laughed. “Well, doesn’t everybody? But are you offering me a loan? No offense, John Ray, but look at yourself. You’re not much better off than I am.”
His expression reflected his frustration. “At least tell me where you’ve been and what’s been happening to you,” he said.
She reached over to refill both cups, moving slowly, as if she was using the time to marshal her thoughts. “You’re being polite,” she said. “You want to know how I wound up the way I did.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Maybe you’re prying.”
“I know. But I have an excuse. I like you, and I want to know about you.”
She rolled her eyes, looking almost playful for the first time. “It’s boring.”
“Bore me.”
“Well, here goes. I grew up in Kansas and came out here a long time ago—even before you lived here—to work in the movies. I was lucky and got a few parts. Later, when things didn’t go so well, I decided to move back home to Wichita and live with my folks for a while. I didn’t fit in there, so I moved to New York. I worked at different things—”
“What kind of things?”
“I sold gloves in a department store. I was a waitress for a while.” He saw that she was looking him in the eye now, daring him to say something. “I worked in an escort service, dating men who could afford to pay for an evening’s company.”
He didn’t meet the challenge. “All right,” he said. “What then?”
“I moved back to L.A. to give the movies one more try. I should have known there weren’t many jobs available for a has-been actress who drank too much. That’s when I met you. Smoke onthe Mountain was my last film. You probably didn’t know your co-star was at the very end of her not-so-glorious career.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “What happened then?”
“Not much. My parents died, and although they didn’t leave me much, it was just enough to keep me at Rook House and allow me to eat out every now and then and buy an occasional bottle to take back to my room. Although, as you saw the other night, it’s always better if a kind gentleman comes along and offers to—”
“All right, Rose.”
She reached across the table and touched his arm briefly. “Enough of that. Let’s change the subject. If you can eat and talk at the same time, I want you to tell me about yourself, everything you’ve done since we worked together. First of all…well, that night I saw you, I knew something bad had happened to you, but I was drinking, and I couldn’t quite remember what it was. Now I know: You were in prison.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I don’t mind.” He finished the last of his soup. “I’ll back up a little first. After that picture we were on together, I worked steady and did all right. In 1940, I was Medallion Pictures’ top cowboy, and if you looked at all the studios I ranked pretty high, right after Gene and Roy and a few others. When the war came along I was drafted, and when it was over I went back to work. One day…. Do you remember Bernie Rome Junior?”
“Mr. Rome’s son? Vaguely,” she said. “I think he was off at college, but I saw him once when he visited the set.”
“Uh-huh. Well by the end of the war, his daddy was starting to train him to take over Medallion, even though the only thing that seemed to interest Junior was polo and spending Daddy’s money. One day, Junior brought some East Coast gal out to the lot, someone he was trying to impress. He had some of the boys saddle up my horse, Raincloud, so he could jump a few fences for her. Raincloud broke a leg against the fence and had to be put down.”
“Oh, no,” Rose said. “I remember your beautiful horse. I never heard about it. I’m so sorry.”
“I took it out on Junior. They called it felony assault. He got a busted jaw, and I got two years.” He pushed
the empty bowl away from him. The waiter silently parted the curtain and laid the bill on the table, then departed as silently.
“That’s terrible,” she said.
“I don’t talk about it very often, but you’re a good listener. Now it’s your turn again. The other night, you said something bad had happened to you too. What was it?”
“Oh, I was just feeling full of self-pity,” she said, making a face. “I do that when I drink. But don’t stop now. Are you married?”
He pulled out his makings and questioned her with a look. When she said, “No, thanks,” he began rolling a smoke. “I got married about a year after I knew you,” he said. “It didn’t last. She divorced me while I was in prison.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Any children?”
“She had a daughter when I married her. Name’s Clea, and she’s seventeen. I see her every now and then. Her mother too.”
“That’s good,” Rose said. “So now we’re up to the present. Are you still in the business?”
“No,” he said, and it came out a growl. “Mr. Rome saw to that. He made sure no studio would hire me. For anything. I’m working for Joseph. You saw him the other night—”
“I liked him. How is he?”
“He liked you too. He’s doing all right. Or would be, except for this niece of his who’s staying with him and working in his business. She grew up in a little town just outside the Lakota reservation, and now that she’s living here in L.A., she’s gone kind of wild.”
“Is she the one who came into the Green Light with the two of you the other night, the one with the bruises?”
“That’s her. It was your friend who gave her the bruises. That’s the reason we were there.”
“He wasn’t my friend, just an acquaintance. If he hit her, I’m sorry I spent any time with him. But the girl and I had a nice talk.” She smiled. “I liked her.”
“I’m afraid she’s trouble, Rose. Drinks too much, gets in fights, runs around with the wrong guys. Joseph feels responsible for her.” Horn shook his head. “Being a father doesn’t come naturally to him. She even seems to enjoy getting on his nerves. Every time she goes over the edge, he gets a little crazy and goes right over the edge himself.”
While I Disappear Page 5
