While I Disappear

by Edward Wright

  “Really?” Evelyn asked.

  “You’ve never seen them? There’s this bunch of muscle boys, they have their own spot out on Santa Monica Beach. They lift barbells and do handstands and generally show off. Lewis isn’t as serious as some of them, but now that he’s not drinking, he’s decided that his body is his temple and he wants to keep the temple all spruced up.” She laughed. “I say good for him. At least he’s not gambling or snorting God knows what up his nose, like some screenwriters I could name.”

  “He told me he’s between jobs,” Horn said.

  “That’s a creative way of putting it. I think it’s best we don’t talk about that, good people.” Doll watched as the maid cleared the table and freshened the drinks. “How about some more gossip?” She told an affectionate story about her last leading man, lingering on a detailed physical description of his most notorious attribute. When the laughter had died down, Diggs and his wife got up to say their goodbyes.

  “You’re sweet people,” Doll said to them at the door. “I’m sorry it took such a sad event to bring us together. Let’s see each other again.”

  When they had left, Horn began to phrase his own goodbye, but she tapped him lightly on the chest. “Don’t go yet,” she said. She led him back to the patio. “I’m curious about you. Dexter told me just enough to make me want to know more.”

  “He told you we worked together?”

  She nodded. “You did westerns. I’m sorry I never saw any of them.”

  “You didn’t miss much.”

  “He said you were good.”

  “Well, he’s very kind, old Dex.”

  “He said you went to prison for assault.” Her eyes lingered on his bandage. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you if you’re still up to your old tricks. But since then, Dexter said, you’ve had trouble finding work.”

  “That’s not quite true. I’m not welcome at any of the studios. But I have a job.”

  She stared at him with a half-smile, as if she knew about his job and was too polite to pursue the subject. Then she said, “According to Dexter, you’re someone who’s good to have for a friend. He said back when you were in the movies, your studio had somebody lined up to play your Indian sidekick, but you wanted a real Indian, not some imitation, and you made a lot of noise until they hired…. What was his name?”

  “Joseph Mad Crow.”

  “Uh-huh. And he said you and Joseph are still friends.”

  “We trade favors back and forth. He’s done a lot for me.”

  “You don’t like to talk about yourself, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I find that pretty damn refreshing. Most of the men I know won’t shut up about themselves.” They heard the front gate open and close. “That’s Lewis,” she said. “I suppose we’ve been putting this off, but we were going to talk about Rose.”

  “That’s right. Before we do, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, as long as it’s personal.”

  “I had a visit from the police not long after Rose was killed. According to them, a couple of people told them they should take a hard look at me. One was a bartender. The other they wouldn’t name. It could have been this old gal who lived in Rose’s rooming house, but if it had been her, I think they would have just gone ahead and said so.”

  “Uh-huh.” She drew small, wet designs on the top of the patio table with her iced tea glass. Up close, he decided she was gorgeous—not a perfect look, like George Hurrell’s airbrushed photos of Norma Shearer or Jean Harlow, but a more flawed and down-to-earth beauty. Nothing about her was delicate. She was, he reflected, a little too tall, a little too broad in the shoulder and hip. When taken separately, certain details, such as mouth and nose and eyebrows, were a little too abundant.

  But in some kind of physical alchemy, he decided, the parts added up to a package that worked. He was attracted to her in a way that almost startled him. It had nothing to do with her smart conversation or wicked sense of humor. Doll Winter simply exuded sexuality like a faint perfume. He wondered if she could see the effect she had on him.

  “I can think of one other person,” he said, “who saw us together not long before Rose was killed.”

  “You mean me, don’t you?”

  “If you tell me it wasn’t you, I’ll believe you.”

  “And if I tell you it wasme?”

  “I’ll believe you, but I won’t be happy about it.”

  “All right, here it is,” she said. “They got in touch with me because they knew Rose and I were friends. They asked me for ideas about anyone who might have wanted to…you know. All I knew about you was that I’d seen you talking to her on the street, and you were pushing yourself on her. I described you. They seemed to know who I was talking about. That’s all.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table. He didn’t offer a light. “Sorry if it made problems for you, but—”

  “I thought you never apologized.”

  She lit up, inhaled greedily, and exhaled audibly. “That was a slip. It won’t happen again.”

  “You said we could talk about Rose. Do you mind if I ask you some things?”

  “Ask away.”

  “When did you meet her?”

  “I don’t remember the exact year, but it was a long time ago. She was only a year or two older than I was, and she was already working in Hollywood. She called herself Rosemary Gale back then, and she was everything I wanted to be. I was this pathetic little thing, nineteen or so—well, not so little, actually, since I was already pretty grown-up looking. But there I was, fresh out of Long Beach, all star-struck and desperate to become an actress. I don’t know if you remember what it was like back then—”

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t move here until later.”

  “I can’t tell you how glamorous Hollywood was. It was near the end of the silents, although we didn’t realize it at the time. I’m talking about Valentino and Garbo and Swanson and John Gilbert and Theda Bara. They had amazing faces. To the rest of us, they were almost like gods. For a while, I worked in wardrobe at Magnum Arts. The job was terrible, but I didn’t care. I could see the gods and goddesses strolling around the back lot, and I was in heaven.”

  “About Rose,” he prompted her. “How did you meet her?”

  “It must have been at a party, since she never worked at MagArts.”

  “Dex tells me the parties were wild.”

  “They were.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Drinking and doping and people pairing off in the bedrooms—men, women, any combination you could think of. Now that I’m a lady of a certain age, with a house and a mortgage and an ex-husband, I look back at little Dolores Winter from Long Beach, the outrageous things she did, and I don’t recognize her.”

  “What about Rose? According to Dex, she could be—”

  “She was,” Doll said emphatically. “Once I got to know her, I thought she was a wonderful girl. I loved her like a sister. But I won’t lie to you: Rose was a hellion. She was the one who got me into the best parties—or worst, depending on your point of view. She got me dates too. She fixed me up with Howard Hughes once, back when he was young and rich and horny and just beginning to understand how much fun he could have in this town. And little Dolores must have been ripe for corruption, because she went along with all of it.”

  “Dex said there was one party where somebody died. A young girl.”

  “Really? That sounds vaguely familiar. I may have heard about it.”

  “Her name was Tess Shockley.”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  “What happened to Rose? Her career, I mean.”

  “I wish I knew. Dexter asked me the same question. One day she was just…gone. Dropped out of sight. I lost track of her for the longest time, right up until a few months ago, when she sent me a note through the studio publicity department. She said she’d seen one of my movies, complimented me. I looked her up. I was horrified to see where she was livi
ng, but she didn’t seem to be particularly ashamed. Anyway, we picked up again just like old friends.”

  “You’ve been helping out at the mission.”

  She waved that away. “I was glad to,” she said. “I’ve been lucky. Why not spread some of it around?”

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed her?”

  She shook her head. “No. Or why. Unless it was just one of those random things. The place she lived….”

  “I don’t think it was random,” he said. “I think it was revenge.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know if I can explain all of it,” he said. “It’s too complicated. But you know Emory Quinn at the mission, don’t you?”

  “Sure. A little strange, like a lot of fanatics, but I like him.” Noting Horn’s expression, she went on. “Most people have their own narcotic; it may be good or bad for them. For Lewis, it’s booze. He knew it was going to kill him some day, so he’s trying to beat it. For Emory Quinn, it used to be booze, but he’s replaced that with Jesus.”

  “How about you?”

  “Me?” She made an exaggerated gesture, hand to her bosom. “Fame, darling. What is it they call her? The bitch goddess. But what were you going to say about Emory?”

  “Rose made a kind of confession to him, told him she killed someone a long time ago. I think it was Tess Shockley, the girl who died after one of the parties. The police called it murder, and it was in the papers. I think someone came after Rose because of that.”

  “After all these years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord. And you’re looking for this person?”

  He nodded.

  “And what will you do—”

  “If I find him? I’ll be a good citizen and turn him over to the police, that’s what I’ll do. Maybe even call up that fat detective, our good friend Coby. He’s going to be disappointed if it doesn’t turn out to be me, though. He’s had his heart set on arresting somebody who’s been in the movies.”

  “Maybe he could try me,” she said, pretending to reflect on it. “I’ve never seen the inside of a jail. Think of it: just little Dolores and all those desperate, primitive, unshaven men.” She paused for effect. “And I’m just talking about the cops.”

  Laughing, he got up. “I should go. Thanks for lunch, and for talking to me.”

  There was no sign of Lewis De Loach outside. She walked out to the street with him.

  “Have you ever heard of Jay Lombard?”

  She hesitated. “I think so. A lawyer, right? He’s been in the paper. Why?”

  “Rose knew him. I’m trying to find out their connection.”

  “Will you let me know whatever you find out? I’m interested. And will you let me know if I can help?”

  “I sure will.”

  She looked at the battered old Ford. “Your trusty steed?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ve always had a thing about cowboys,” she said, leaning against his car. “Long time ago, I danced with Tom Mix. What a spectacular-looking man. I could feel muscles under his jacket, all along his back.”

  “Careful, there, ma’am. Lewis might hear you.”

  “Maybe I should explain something,” she said slowly, straightening up and taking a step closer. “Lewis and I aren’t married anymore. He’s a sweet man, but he’s an out-of-work screenwriter and probably always will be. He’s been having problems, and I gave him a place to live. That’s all.”

  “I see. Thanks for clearing that up.”

  She studied him. “I like you,” she said slowly. “I’m probably not very likable myself, and I don’t like many people. You could take this as a warning. Having me like you could be kind of a…burden.”

  “I guess I can handle it.”

  She grinned broadly. “Hey, maybe you’d like to come by the studio sometime, watch me work.”

  “Didn’t Mae West say that to somebody?”

  “Well, something like that. It was Cary Grant. And he took her up on it.”

  “I don’t think your studio would let me in the gate.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve got an invitation.” She tapped him lightly on the chest again. It was an affectionate and slightly proprietary gesture, and despite his earlier caution to himself, he decided that he liked it.

  “All right.” He turned to go. “Thanks for having us over.”

  “It was fun,” she said, facing him over the car. “I was a little surprised that Dexter took me up on it, but since we never touched on Rose while he was here, I suppose it was all right.”

  “What difference would that make?”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well,” she said, looking embarrassed. “Maybe I should have been more careful. It’s just that…. Back before Rose disappeared, she told me she was having an affair with one of her directors, the one who did the Italian movie—”

  “Hawk of Tramonti?”

  “That’s the one. Apparently it was very serious. She said he was even talking about leaving his wife. I assumed Dexter would have told you about that. But now that I think about it, why would he?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Horn drove toward downtown. He had to meet Coby, the police detective, and he wanted to make another stop first.

  He took Sunset east, keeping the Hollywood Hills to his left. As he approached downtown, he could see clouds and bright haze layered over the City Hall tower, the sun making a futile effort to punch through. The Andrews Sisters were jiving their way through Rum and Coca-Cola on the car radio. Everyone had gotten to know the song’s goofy lyrics during the war. The tune seemed curiously old and silly now. It was as if the war, even with its blood and loss and despair, had also been the last manifestation of a kind of innocence that the country had now left behind, along with “Kilroy Was Here” and Rosie the Riveter and movies about patriotic Americans pulling together for a common cause.

  He parked in front of the Follies, across the street from the Anchor mission. The figure of Ruby Renfrew, the Detroit Firecracker, loomed overhead. Up close, her red gape of a smile seemed no longer good-natured but depraved. Her eyes stared right down at him. Do you want to know how all this is going to turn out, cowboy? they asked him.

  Yes, he said silently. Tell me, Ruby.

  Not ’til the end of the movie, the eyes said. But if you’re looking for a happy ending, you wandered into the wrong theater. Then she went back to being just a big, garishly painted thing atop a marquee.

  Inside the Anchor, he asked for Emory Quinn. The beaten-down man sitting behind the desk, only a few steps removed from the sidewalk himself, told him he hadn’t seen the pastor for a while but thought he might be in his office. Horn made the now-familiar journey down the corridor. This time the door to the office at the far end of the chapel was closed. Horn knocked and, when he heard nothing, opened the door.

  Quinn lay on the sofa, mouth open and hanging slightly askew. Horn was alarmed at first, but then he saw the empty half-pint bottle lying on the floor and caught the sour smell of alcohol permeating the room. As he stepped closer, he heard soft snoring and saw spit glistening on the man’s chin.

  “Quinn.” He leaned over and nudged him, but got no response. He tried again, none too gently this time. “Wake up, Quinn.”

  The other man opened his eyes and looked at Horn, but there was no recognition in them. His hands were clasped loosely over his chest, and Horn noted that the knuckles were taped like a fighter’s and the tape was stained with patches of dark red.

  Horn got up and looked around the room, as if searching for a reason for Quinn’s stupor. Noticing a light in the storeroom, he looked in there. A heavy body bag, worn by years of punching, hung suspended from the low ceiling. Its midsection was wrapped in layers of adhesive tape to preserve the life of the bag. On the tape, Horn saw a few smears of blood.

  He went back out to the office, pulled a chair over to the sofa, and sat d
own. Quinn’s eyes were now focused on him.

  “I came to tell you about what happened with Lombard the other night, but you don’t look like you’re in shape to hear about it,” Horn said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Oh…just taking a nap.” Quinn’s voice was shaky, and his breath was foul. His eyes looked watery.

  “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  Quinn giggled. “Drink whenever I need to,” he mumbled. “Don’t need to, usually. But drink always…always there when I need it. Like a good friend.”

  “You’re really something,” Horn said in disgust. He noticed that Quinn’s folded hands covered what looked like a piece of paper. Reaching over, Horn extracted it and saw that it was a photograph. It had been taken in front of the mission, and it showed Quinn and his volunteer staff of a dozen or so lined up on the sidewalk. Turning it over, Horn saw written in pencil the words Thanksgiving for the needy, 1947. Returning to the photo, he studied the faces of the men and women, some of them looking relatively well-fed and prosperous, others looking very much in need themselves. He had a feeling he’d find Rose, and there she was, smiling next to Quinn, wearing the same shapeless wool hat.

  He handed the photo back. “Is this what did it to you?” he asked. “You miss Rose, and you decide to get soused and go punish the bag, because that’s the only way you can handle her being dead? I thought you were tough. You know, she was something special to me too, and you don’t see me sliding into the bottle. I think it’s time you were straight about what there was between the two of you. Are you afraid? Talk to me, goddammit.”

  Quinn’s mouth twisted into a knowing, drunken smile. “Kind of late for talk.”

  “It’s not too late for you to help me find out who killed her.”

  “You had your chance,” Quinn said, squinting at Horn’s bandage. “One round. Overmatched, though.” He nodded his head knowingly. “Mistake. You missed your target.”