“Not the sort of roomer you’d expect, neither,” she said. “Most of us around here are oldsters with no other place to go. This is a young woman.”
“Really?”
“That’s right. Haven’t met her yet, but I seen her around. She’s real pretty. The manager says he thinks she’s got Indian blood.”
Cassie. Damn. What’s she up to? Horn got up, steadying the chain with one hand so as not to disturb the swing. “Is she here?”
“No. I think she’s at work. She works odd hours, though. Mornings sometime, evenings sometime.” She looked down, studying the lit end of her cigarette. “I been keeping an eye on her, ’cause she’s new.”
“You go on keeping an eye on her, Madge,” he said. “I’m sure she could use a friend around here.”
* * *
Horn drove back down First Street and turned south on Broadway. He was to meet Diggs for lunch at a Mexican place in the bustling arcade known as the Grand Central Market. As he passed the market, he caught a rush of pungent smells from the food stalls inside, a mixture of fresh vegetables, spices, grilled fish, and raw meat—some of it leaning toward exotic fare such as pig’s feet and sheep’s heads. He slowed, ready to turn into a parking lot. But just then he spotted Diggs, waving to him from the sidewalk. Diggs sprinted over and got in.
“Look, Dex, I turned down a banquet at the Anchor mission to have lunch with you. Aren’t we going to eat?”
“I found out something. Necessitates a little trip.”
“Yeah, well, I’m hungry.”
“Here. Got us a couple of these.” Diggs opened a paper bag and passed Horn a bulging taco wrapped in a soft tortilla. “I had them put extra hot sauce on yours. I imagined an old southern boy would like it that way. There are napkins in the bag in case you make a mess. You know the way to Glendale?”
“What?”
“You know, where Mildred Pierce made all those pies.”
“I know where Glendale is. Are you being mysterious again?”
“Maybe. All will be revealed at our destination. Just drive, and enjoy the taco.”
They ate on the way, and Diggs fiddled with the radio, eventually finding a station he liked. He turned up the volume a notch, and the strains of Sleepy Time Gal filled the car.
“Harry James,” Diggs said. “Hell of a trumpet player. But I always thought Betty Grable could have done better.”
“You and half of America,” Horn said.
Horn began telling him about his talk with Quinn. “He’s like a lot of reformed drunks,” he said. “With religion added on top of it, which makes him even more—”
“Insufferable?”
“No. Just real intense, you know? He talks a lot about how much Jesus has done for him, but you get the feeling that underneath he still doesn’t like himself very much.”
“What did he say about Rose?”
Horn described some of their conversation. But he stopped short of relating Rose’s admission of murder. Something told him Diggs wasn’t ready to hear it yet.
“He told me she’s going to be buried in some potter’s field, wherever the county—”
“That’s not exactly true,” Diggs interrupted. “Stay on this street for about a mile. You know where Forest Lawn is?”
“I’ve been to a couple of funerals there.”
“That’s where we’re going.”
Twenty minutes later, Horn pulled in at the ornate iron gate, beyond which they could see the green expanse of the cemetery. After Diggs got out briefly and inquired at the gatehouse, Horn followed one of the winding drives up into the hills. Soon they came to a hillside dotted with markers lying flush with the ground.
“They don’t allow tombstones here,” Diggs said. “Guess they’re afraid the place will look too much like a cemetery.” He spotted something. “Over there.”
Horn stopped the Ford behind a car that looked familiar. A man sat behind the wheel. Horn and Diggs walked over the grass about thirty yards to a freshly filled grave being fussed over by a groundskeeper. A woman stood nearby, watching the man work. She was tall and wore a stylish black dress and a large hat under which most of her red hair had been gathered. She turned her head briefly as they approached, then went back to watching. Horn recognized her.
“I didn’t know she’d be here,” Diggs said in a low voice. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. Yesterday I called the coroner’s office in the Hall of Justice. I wanted to see what arrangements had been made for Rose. They told me that since no one had claimed the body, she would be buried in the public cemetery. This morning I called to get particulars, and they told me the body had been transferred to Forest Lawn for burial today.”
“Why the change?”
“She offered to pay for the burial,” Diggs said, indicating the woman.
“I saw her at the mission, talking to Rose. Who is she?”
“You really should get out to the movies more, John Ray. And I don’t mean the ones with all the horses. That’s Dolores Winter—Doll to her friends. I’ve never met her, but I know her work.”
The woman approached the groundskeeper, spoke to him briefly, and pressed something into his hand. Then she walked over to the two men and stood waiting, her sunglasses hiding any hint of expression.
“Miss Winter, I hope we’re not disturbing you,” Diggs said with a touch of courtliness in his voice, and Horn was reminded of the man’s skill at working with actresses.
“I was just saying goodbye to my old friend,” the woman said casually, her voice a pleasant alto. “I’m finished.”
“I’m Dexter Diggs,” he said to her. “I suppose we’ve never formally met. I admired what you did in Tropic Wind.”
“Thank you.” Although her eyes were hidden, Horn noted that the rest of her features were strong and well-sculpted. “I know you worked with Rose. And didn’t you do one of the Bette Davis things at Warners?” she asked Diggs. “The one where she has amnesia?”
“Guilty.”
“I liked the way you didn’t let her get away with much. Jack Warner should have used you more.”
“There’s a good reason why he didn’t,” Diggs said wryly. “But I won’t bore you.”
“Rose said you were the best director she ever had.” She paused. “That’s not all she told me.”
“Well, it was a long time ago.” Diggs looked slightly uncomfortable.
“She could have used a friend from a long time ago,” Dolores Winter said deliberately. When Diggs didn’t respond, she turned to Horn. “What are you doing here?”
“This is John Ray Horn,” Diggs said. “Another friend of Rose.”
“From a long time ago,” she said, and the sarcasm lay just under the words.
“This is a nice thing you did for her,” Horn said.
She took off the dark glasses and looked Horn up and down, as if measuring him. She wore high heels, and her eyes—pale hazel, he noted—were almost on a level with his. But there was no friendliness in them.
“She mentioned you too,” Dolores Winter said. “Reading between the lines, sounds to me like you had a roll in the hay with her once. Then you showed up, making a nuisance out of yourself when she didn’t want to talk to you. And not long after that, someone came into her room and killed her.”
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” he said.
She stepped closer. “If I find out you had anything to do with it, I won’t wait for the police. I’ll make sure somebody takes care of you.”
They watched as Dolores Winter strode up the gentle grassy slope to the road and, without looking back, got in the front seat of the Lincoln. The driver pulled away.
Horn whistled softly between his teeth. “Remind me never to make an enemy of that particular redhead.”
“Too late. I’d heard she was a tough one. On the way back, I’ll tell you a few tales about her.”
“Sure,” Horn said, looking toward the mound of earth. “But first I want to spend some time with Rose.”
* * *
Horn dug two quarters out of his pocket and dropped them in the near-shapeless upturned hat that lay on the concrete. Beside the hat a man of about thirty sat crosslegged, wearing an old suit, a khaki shirt and no tie. Sightless eyes crisscrossed with old shrapnel scars looked up vaguely at passers-by. Propped against his knees was a roughly lettered sign on cardboard: War Vet. 5th Army, Italy.
As they walked on, Diggs turned to him. “Wasn’t that where you fought?”
“Hmm?”
“Italy.”
“Oh. That’s right.”
“You’re the only one I knew who didn’t come back from the war with a bunch of stories.”
“Well, I’m not much of a story-teller.” But since you’re interested, how’s this? Two-fisted cowboy goes to war, finds out all his heroics were just play-acting. The real Sierra Lane comes back with a different kind of war wound—a missing spine. Almost sounds like a movie, doesn’t it? I could play myself.
“Why don’t we sit over here?” Horn indicated a vacant bench. Around them, Pershing Square was an oasis of grass and concrete, banana trees and bird of paradise flowers, in the middle of downtown L.A. They had stopped there on impulse, a few blocks from Grand Central Market and Diggs’ car, in order to sit and talk for a while. The winter sun glared off the windows of the tall buildings around them and brightened the ornate brick facade of the Biltmore Hotel across the plaza. Office workers strolled around and bums lolled on the grass, unshaven faces turned to the sky.
“My uneducated theory is, they never quite knew what to do with Doll Winter,” Diggs said, continuing part of their earlier conversation in the car. “She’s spent most of her career at Magnum Arts and done pretty well in supporting parts—you know, the wisecracking best friend, the gun moll, that kind of thing. But most people thought she was too tall and too unconventional to be a leading lady. She sometimes did her own makeup, which offended a few people who thought that movie stars should just sit back and be pampered. And there was a little talk, here and there, that she liked girls as much as she liked boys.”
“Oh?”
“It was probably bullshit. Maybe she’s not all delicate and fluttery like Luise Rainer. Who cares? But in this town, that kind of talk isn’t good for anybody’s career. So she never got a chance to show what she could do. Until Tropic Wind came along. Did you see it?”
Horn shook his head.
“It’s based on a novel about a madam at this bordello in Honolulu just before the war. The studio took a gamble on her, and she was perfect for it. Big, brassy, a little beaten down by life, but unstoppable. She was directed by J.J. Drummond, who gets good work out of women. Of course, they had to tone down a lot of the racier stuff. In the movie, she’s a ‘hostess,’ for God’s sake, and her girls are ‘escorts.’ But the spirit of it comes through.
“Trouble is, she’s too old for most of the best parts, and now, once again, they don’t know what to do with her. That’s Hollywood. I would’ve liked working with her about ten years ago. We could have made beautiful music.”
“She’s something to look at,” Horn said. “Too bad she hates my guts.”
“I’m sure she’ll change her mind when she finds out how lovable you can be,” Diggs said. “But don’t make any plans in her direction. That man in the car with her was her husband. Wait a minute.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. He’s her ex-husband, several years younger than she is. Used to be a big-shot screenwriter over at MagArts, but he lost his job. She took him back in, and they live together in one of those peculiar Hollywood relationships that no one has thought up a name for yet.”
“Well, she must be a generous soul,” Horn said. “When she’s not snarling at people.”
Diggs excused himself, walked over to a vendor’s cart and returned with a bag of hot peanuts. They began cracking the shells.
“Besides talking to Quinn,” Diggs said, “have you found out anything else about Rose?”
“A little.” Horn told him Madge’s story about Jay Lombard. “They met right over there,” Horn said, gesturing toward the Biltmore. “Mad Crow knows a few things about this guy, and I don’t like any of what I hear. I want to know more about Mr. Lombard.”
“Be careful, John Ray. He sounds like trouble.”
“I will.”
“You’re acting a little like one of those private detectives in the movies. And you’re not exactly….” Diggs trailed off uneasily.
“I know. An ex-con should watch where he sticks his nose.”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t worry. This really isn’t all that different from what I do already—looking for Joseph’s deadbeats. I’ve gotten pretty good at that.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you find the son of a bitch who did it,” Diggs said, working to extract a recalcitrant peanut with his thumbnail. “But just remember, in the movies, those private dicks get beat up a lot.”
Seeking to change the subject, Horn reached into the inside pocket of his sport jacket and pulled out the photo of the young woman he’d found in Rose’s room, which he had carefully removed from its frame. He briefly told Diggs about it as he showed it to him.
“Very pretty,” Diggs said. “I’d guess this was made about twenty years ago, judging by the hair style. But who knows what it means? She could be a long-lost relative, or someone Rose went to school with.”
“I know. But it’s an unanswered question, so….” Horn flipped a shelled nut in the direction of one of the square’s many pigeons. The bird hopped over and, in quick, jerky motions, made a snack of it.
“Something I didn’t tell you about my talk with Quinn,” Horn said. “I didn’t know whether you needed to hear it or not.”
“Well?”
“He said Rose told him she killed someone.”
Diggs swivelled around on the bench and gave him his full attention. “Killed someone?”
“She wouldn’t give him any details. An accident, maybe, but it sounded worse than that. When she told him about the place where it happened, her description made it sound almost like some kind of celebration. Maybe a party. Remember when we talked at your place? You told me about the parties you and Rose went to, how wild they were, and you said someone died.”
Diggs nodded slowly.
“What do you know about that?”
“John Ray, it was a long time ago. I just remember hearing about some woman who died of…who knows what? She could have been drinking too much or getting too high on this or that. People talked about it for a day or so, and then life went right on, just as crazy as before. It took the Depression to sober us up—”
“Dex, this is important. Can you try to find out who she was, and how it happened? There may be no connection with Rose, but I need to know.”
“All right, my friend.” Diggs got up heavily. “I’ll ask around. But I hope it’s nothing. There’s been enough sadness around here lately.” He gave a tired wave. “I think I’ll walk back to my car.”
* * *
As Horn drove home, he twisted the dial on his radio but could not find a clear music station. He found himself listening to the distinctive whine of Louella Parsons as she gossiped about the famous, about their marriages and divorces and fracases with their studios. She seemed to take special delight in their misfortune.
Today, though, it was mostly good news. Horn caught the end of a report on Rita Hayworth’s dalliance with Prince Somebody-or-Other, then a breathless rumor: Are Joe Louis and Lena Horne about to take a trip to the altar? Finally, Louella reminded her listeners that after two years on Broadway, it was still hard to get tickets to Annie Get Your Gun. Horn was puzzled by this news. He had heard Ethel Merman singing on the radio once, found her voice even more grating than Louella Parsons’, and quickly changed the station.
Nearing the end of the canyon and approaching the turnoff that led up to the cabin, he saw a bright splash of color in the trees just off the road. It was a Yellow Cab, one of the
big De Sotos, and it sat just outside the locked gate. As he drew nearer, he could see the outline of the driver but no passenger.
Horn halted on the canyon road and honked his horn once. “You looking for an address?” he yelled. The driver got out and walked down the gravel road toward him. Horn looked once, then again in surprise. It was Cassie.
She wore the cabby’s uniform of slacks and a company jacket over a white shirt and one of those clip-on plastic bow ties. Her dark hair was gathered under a hard-billed cap. It was an outfit that some women would avoid at the risk of looking mannish or just foolish. But Cassie, he decided, handled it well. She stopped by his door.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“My new job,” she said. “I started driving this morning. What do you think?”
“I think it’s crazy,” he said. “But do you care what I think?”
“Not really.” She seemed uncomfortable, as if she had been sent to deliver an unpleasant message and wanted to hurry through it.
“You don’t just walk into a taxi company and ask them to give you one of their cabs,” he said. “How—”
“My uncle,” she said. “One of the Yellow Cab managers likes to play poker.”
“Don’t tell me. He owes Joseph money. Or a favor. Or something.”
“Or something.”
“Your uncle’s still looking after you, isn’t he?”
Her mouth tightened. “He would probably say so, but then he expects me to be grateful and do things his way. He has two ways of getting what he wants—doing you favors or muscling it out of you.”
“When has he muscled you?”
“You saw him hit me.”
“Cassie, I know he’s sorry about that. He’s not a violent man.”
“Tell that to his horses.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard some of his ranch hands talking about how he’s going to break that mustang, the one he bought. On the reservation, I’ve seen horses handled by men who shouldn’t ever be allowed near them, and I’ve seen horses with blood on them….”
Her words trailed off, and Horn remembered something about the little girl he’d met on his visit with Mad Crow years earlier. She loved horses, especially young ones. Once, pledging him to silence, she snuck him onto a neighbor’s ranch, where they stealthily approached a corral fence so Cassie could feed chunks of carrot to her best friend, a chestnut filly. She’d given it a name, even though it wasn’t hers.
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