by Denise Dietz
Watching Jon race toward the stairs, Drew put his hands on Anissa’s shaking shoulders. He massaged gently, hoping to release her tension, hoping the repetitive motion might somehow release his own tension.
“I should have stayed with her today,” Anissa cried, pulling away. “I knew she was upset. And I was the one who mentioned suicide. She reminded me of Randy.”
“Bullshit! Randy was on a guilt trip. You can’t make me believe Delly felt guilty about leaving the show.”
“But she did, Drew. Delly honestly thought she’d let Pandora down.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re talking as if they’re two different people.”
“She was so damn vulnerable. I should have stayed with her, said something, done something.”
“Thank God you told me about playing Charl to her Pandora. That saved her life.”
“Let’s go. Hurry. The ambulance has already left for the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you home, then find Jon and bring him to the apartment.” Drew patted her belly. “You and Bugs need to get some rest.”
“Are you bonkers? I couldn’t rest.”
“Vacuum the carpet, put up a pot of coffee, clean Tramp’s litter box, cook some veggie soup.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?” he asked, startled by her capitulation.
“Samuel Goldwyn once said, ‘If you can’t give me your word of honor, will you give me your promise?’ ”
“I don’t give a shit what Goldwyn said! Anissa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. Delayed reaction. Please don’t cry.”
“I can’t help it, Drew. I’m partly to blame and nothing you say can change that.”
“Let’s all share the blame—there’s plenty to go around. Delly’s right, you know. We weren’t listening.”
Entr’ Acte
In the confusion he’d managed to steal a fireman’s uniform, just as Charl had once stole a nurse’s uniform. Then he’d sneaked up onto the studio roof.
But the actors had gone home and the moon’s spotlight shone down upon an empty stage.
Why hadn’t Charl run from the burning studio into his arms?
He was ready to offer comfort, then love. He had tried to save her, but the police pigs kept him away, behind the ropes. He heard one pig say there was a dead body—deader than a door nail.
Charl?
His stomach churned and his brain sizzled. Charl’s friend, Pandora, had tried to jump. Should he jump?
His gaze encompassed the roof until he focused on a forgotten rag doll whose button eyes stared up at the sky.
Swearing a blue streak, he grabbed the doll, thrust his arm back in a classic major league pitcher’s pose, and hurled the doll, hard as he could, over the side of the roof.
Later, he sat on the edge of his lumpy motel mattress and pressed a cold gun against his hot forehead.
Suicide leaps were for girls.
TV images flickered—a taped Rosebud commercial. Why couldn’t a VCR edit out commercials?
He had written a short note. In it he said he didn’t want to live without Charl.
They could have been so happy together. Now it was finished, over, door-nail dead.
He watched the whole show until the music sounded and the credits flashed, until he saw her name. Then he lowered his gun, walked to the VCR, and pressed rewind.
Raising the gun to his forehead again, he glanced at the screen. Shit! While the tape rewound, Charley Brown and Snoopy were celebrating Thanksgiving.
Charl was dead and they were giving fucking thanks!
His first finger applied trigger pressure.
Wait!
Should he play the tape one last time?
Coward! Do it now. Count to three. One. Two. Two and a half—
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Staggering into Drew’s apartment, Jon sat heavily on the beige corduroy couch. “She didn’t tell me about the baby,” he said. “The real baby, not her damn rag doll.”
“Your clothes are covered with soot and blood,” Anissa gasped.
“Couldn’t change clothes, had to wait for Delly’s emergency D and C. The doctor swears she’s fine, but she’s sedated and will probably sleep—oh, God, blood. I’m sorry. Your couch.”
“Forget the couch.” Drew sat next to his friend.
“I should be at the hospital.”
“No way.” Anissa’s hands spanned her hips. “I’ll run a hot bath and you can borrow a shirt and jeans from my husband. You’re almost the same size.”
“Drew’s taller.”
“Don’t argue with my wife.” Watching Anissa walk toward the kitchen, Drew placed his arm around Jon’s shoulders. “She’s incorrigible, stubborn as a mule. When all else fails, she’ll quote you into submission. I had to marry her to shut her up.”
“I wanted to marry Delly.”
Anissa returned and set a bowl of steaming vegetable soup on the coffee table. “Get down, Tramp, you naughty puss. That’s for Jon.”
“Thanks, Anissa, but I’m not hungry.”
“ ‘Food is one of the first steps toward overcoming suffering.’ Quote, unquote.”
“Jesus! Now she’s quoting me,” Drew said.
Jon tried to mirror Drew’s grin, but his mouth quivered and his face fell forward.
“Okay, okay.” Drew held his friend tightly. “That’s good. Tears are good. Cry, Jon. Cry for Delly. Cry for all of us.”
Anissa knelt on the prayer rug. When Jon’s outburst had subsided, she handed him a wad of tissues. “Does Delly still think she’s Pandora?”
“No. She was groggy, doped up. She didn’t remember the fire or the roof. She kept mumbling, something about how Humpty Dumpty wanted her dead and she couldn’t be put back together again. She said she fell asleep and dreamed about Maxine and Buddy Holly. Buddy Holly, for Christ’s sake! If only I had stayed home this afternoon, driven her to the studio—”
“Stop it, Jon! I just went through that same bit, and I know better than anyone else in this room what guilt can do to a person.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” He blew his nose.
“How did Delly take the miscarriage?”
“Nothing. Blank. I’m not sure she understood.”
“Poor Delly.” Anissa clasped her hands over her stomach.
“All right, that’s enough,” Drew said. “We don’t have time for this. We’ve got to be practical.”
“Delly just lost her baby.” Anissa stared at Drew as if he’d sprouted wings. “What if it had been Bugs? What do you mean, practical?”
“Before we left the studio, I heard the cops talking. They’re saying the fire was the result of arson. Who do you think will be blamed for Maxine’s death?”
“Delly? You can’t be serious.”
“Who else was there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Delly had opportunity and motive.”
“What motive?”
“Anissa, forget she’s your friend. Delly was released from Morning Star. When she talked to Maxine, she discovered that Max planned to cast her sister Samantha in a brand new part. Delly’s mind could have snapped.”
“Obviously, it did. But when I saw her she was unhappy, not vindictive.”
“You don’t know what was going on inside her head.”
“Neither do you!”
“Anissa, please.” Jon’s hands formed a time-out-T, his palm pressed against his fingertips. “Arguing won’t get us anywhere, and Drew’s probably right.”
“Are you telling me that you believe Delly could have set the fire?”
He shrugged. “This morning she seemed resigned, almost relieved, but she gets so weird over Samantha. I think Delly destroyed Samantha’s piano, hacked it to pieces. That takes angry strength. She might have tried to kill Samantha’s parrot. If Delly, as Pandora, did start the fire, I’m sure she never meant to harm Maxine, but I’ll have to call an attorney, just in case.”
“Eat your soup, take a bath, and
get some sleep.” Anissa’s voice was now calm, steady. “You can’t help Delly unless you do.”
“First I have to call—”
“I know a great law firm, Jon. Trust me.” Anissa’s fingers moved toward her breasts, where a small angel charm swung from the end of a gold chain.
* * * * *
The framed sign above a floppy-cushioned sofa read:
The law doth punish man or woman
That steals the goose from off the common,
But lets the greater felon loose,
That steals the common from the goose.
Anissa glanced around the cozy Weiss and Wong-Weiss conference room. Behind an oak table were bookcases, filled with law volumes and mystery novels. Fragmented sunshine sliced through two windows and formed puddles on a plum-colored carpet. Another wall held several framed posters, including Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade, Raymond Burr as Perry Mason, and Charlie Chan.
“Good old Charlie,” Anissa said. “ ‘Bad alibi like dead fish.’ Did your wife choose that poster?”
“No. Kathy thinks Chan’s too stereotypical. Bogie is hers, and she’s been shopping for the quintessential Spencer Tracy, Inherit The Wind poster.”
“Who wrote that bit about the goose?” Anissa pointed to the sign.
“That famous philosopher, Anonymous. It’s from the eighteenth century. Sit down, angel.”
“Have you seen Delly yet?”
“Kathy is chatting with her right now.”
“Are you going to take the case?”
“Of course. But at the moment there is no case. The police are investigating, searching through the rubble. Your friend Delly seems to be a victim, not a perpetrator.”
“Our security guard, Henry, insists that nobody was inside the studio except Maxine and Delly. Drew thinks Delly’s mind could have snapped. Jon says she gets weird over her sister, Samantha. Delly tried to kill a parrot that belonged to Samantha and she bought lighter fluid on her way to the studio. She told me so, even though she lit her cigarette with matches. She even mentioned something about Pandora working with Mr. Ratings.”
“Who the hell is Mr. Ratings?”
“A backstage ph-phantom. Echo . . . one of the actresses . . . it’s a long st-story.”
Joe handed her a tissue box, cleverly disguised as Oliver Wendel Holmes. Joe waited until her tears had become sniffles. Then he said, “Anissa, do you believe Delly set the fire?”
“Drew said she had opportunity and motive.”
“Forget opportunity and motive. Do you believe she set the fire?”
“No, Joey. But maybe, just maybe Pandora did. Which brings me to my next question. If Pandora torched the studio, does that mean Delly’s guilty?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
District Attorney Russell Benton snapped his red suspenders.
With a wince and a flinch, Susannah Benton curled into a naked body ball on their king-size bed. Then she pulled the blanket up around her chin. Rusty’s suspenders sounded like a bullwhip. Glancing toward her husband, she surreptitiously slipped a peppermint Lifesaver between her pouty lips.
“Don’t bother,” he said.
“Don’t bother what?” She sat up and tossed her brown hair, styled in the blunt cut popularized by figure skater Dorothy Hamil.
“The candy, Suze. You’ve already doused yourself with Bombay perfume.”
“I drank one double martoonie, that’s all.” Her bare toes touched an empty Bombay gin bottle, hidden beneath the sheets. “Leave me alone, Rusty. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
Susannah squeezed her eyes shut and wondered for the umpteenth time how she had ended up as the wife of a district attorney.
Directly beneath her high school yearbook picture they’d printed: THE NEXT DORIS DAY. But Doris, singing “It’s Magic,” had risen to major stardom with her first movie. Until 1953, life for Susannah had been magical. Then everything turned shitty.
After winning a local beauty contest, she’d fled Alabama to find fame and fortune in Hollywood. To hell with Doris Day. Susannah had breasts. She’d be the next Jayne Mansfield.
Instead, she became a beauty operator, then part owner of an exclusive beauty salon, and her one claim to fame was a bit part in East of Eden. Well, not a bit part exactly, more like an extra. But she had met James Dean, which left all other men out in the cold. Dead or alive, Dean was the quintessential stud.
Russell Benton’s wife, Grace, had been that California rarity, a native who didn’t drive a car. Susannah drove to the Benton’s Beverly Hills estate to wash, cut, and set the woman’s iron-gray hair. Grace Benton was flat-chested. When Susannah—age forty and aging rather well—met Rusty, she displayed her enormous assets like two inflated rubber buoys tossed to a drowning man.
“Lawyer Benton, sir,” she’d purr, batting her eyelashes. “I bought this bra because the ad promised cross-your-heart support. Put your hand here. Now here. Does that feel like support to you? Isn’t there a law against false advertising? Can I sue the brassiere company?”
Grace Benton died of heart failure while Susannah was tweezing her bushy gray eyebrows. Rusty came running, felt his wife’s neck pulse, and turned to comfort an hysterical Susannah. Comfort led to sex.
Twenty years older than her husband and disgustingly wealthy, Grace had no children. Rusty inherited. He gave a few bucks to charity and started thinking: politics.
After the funeral, with the scent of flowers clogging her sinuses, Susannah comforted Rusty. He wasn’t James Dean, not by a long shot, but he did have one enormous asset, and it wasn’t the size of his penis.
“Can you buy me a movie part?” she’d ask, placing his hands on her buoys. “Then I could sign autographs at political rallies.”
Benton needed a new wife. Susannah was available, built like a brick you-know-what, and last but not least, the district attorney believed his public would respond favorably to a woman who was neither too old nor too young. So they wed, a big mistake, kind of like signing up for the Titanic’s maiden voyage because the ship’s façade wasn’t marred by all those ugly lifeboats.
Now, five years later, Susannah opened her eyes and watched her husband button his yellow pajama top.
Rusty looks like a lemon, she thought, wishing she could peel him into twists to garnish her martoonies.
Her gaze followed as, weaving a ring-studded hand through his profusion of silver hair, he paced back and forth, pounding the carpet with his bare feet.
Rusty was a war hero.
True.
He had established a reputation as a stern taskmaster who gloried in putting criminals behind bars “where they belonged.”
True.
A dynamic public speaker, he threw his opponents off balance with an aw-shucks demeanor, and he hinted that he’d been born and raised on a farm in West Virginia, where he milked cows, churned butter, and toppled outhouses on Halloween.
False.
Susannah knew that he had been raised in Trenton, New Jersey, and had graduated from Princeton University.
Presently, he was being backed by big business interests who needed their own personal politician. The other party’s incumbent was due for reelection and Rusty wanted to be California’s next State Senator.
“What an opportunity,” he hollered, halting in front of their wall-to-wall closet. “Only in Hollywood, America.”
“Only in Hollywood, what?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Or is your brain too saturated with gin?”
“You, um, said something about Delly Diamond, the actress who set fire—”
“Not just any actress, Suze. A soap opera star. Think of all that delicious publicity.”
“Publicity?” Once I shook James Dean’s hand and he kissed me on the forehead.
“You’re not usually so dense this early in the evening.”
“Leave me alone, Rusty.”
“Not tonight. Tonight we’re celebrating. Soap operas, Suze, you watch them often enough. Look, I’m p
rominent in Southern California, but I have to become as well known in Fresno, San Francisco, Sacramento—never mind. All I need is one big court case with newspaper headlines.”
“Headlines,” she echoed.
“If you ever read anything except movie magazines, you’d know that your husband made the front page of the Times today. ‘In Hollywood, America, fame is no excuse for the perpetration of a heinous felony,’ announced Russell Benton during an impromptu press conference.”
Picking up the newspaper, Rusty threw it against the wall.
Susannah winced, flinched, and chewed her bottom lip until a drop of bright red blood appeared. “Congrats, darling,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”
Grinning, he sauntered toward the bed. Susannah wanted another martoonie. Badly. Rusty looked like the shark in Jaws.
He retrieved his suspenders and tied Susannah’s wrists to the headboard. Then he snapped the elastic while she pictured sharks. Sharks lived in water, right? Wrong. They lived on Hollywood sound stages, had toothy Jaws, and were nicknamed Bruce. Who thought up the name Bruce? Steven Spielberg? Richard Dreyfus?
Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to douche.
God, her throat and vagina were so dreyfus, so dry.
Didn’t Richard Dreyfus kill Bruce the Shark in Jaws? Where was Richard when you really needed him? Or Steven Spielberg? Or James Dean?
“Help,” Susannah whispered.
Oh Susannah, oh don’t you cry for me, for I’ve come from Alabama.
Poor Delly Diamond. Wait until Rusty displayed his toothy Jaws inside the courtroom. Poor Pandora.
Poor Susannah, oh don’t you cry for me.
After all, she had fortune if not fame.
Picturing James Dean and Richard Dreyfus, she dug in her heels and arched her hips. “Congrats, Bruce,” she moaned.
But Rusty, busy inserting his erection between Susannah’s pouty lips, didn’t hear her slip of the tongue.
* * * * *
Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino Wiggins waddled across Anissa’s kitchen. Setting a frying pan on top of the stove, she beat three eggs into an earthenware bowl. Then, thumbing the toaster’s knob down, she turned toward Anissa. “What are you scowling at? The newspaper?”