Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  ‘Elvira.’

  ‘You have an accent? A twang of Brit, if I’m not mistaken.’

  He had a good ear. I gave the old story. ‘I lived in England, in London, before the war.’

  Troy went on. ‘A wonderful city. I was posted there as a reporter. Back in the day, before the world decided to go loony.’

  I grunted, not relishing the prospect of a late-night trip down memory lane, his or mine. Troy had an English look, thinking about it – wearing expensive tweeds, baggy and disheveled. I’d met his type before, on Fleet Street. Chatty and charming hacks, masters at getting the dirt out of you, and fast.

  ‘To London!’ He raised the flask, swigging hard. He wiped his lips with a spotty handkerchief.

  We began to slowly stroll, matching the pace of the meandering Veronica. I said, ‘You still write for the press?’

  ‘Not anymore. Nowadays, just the lower but remarkably more lucrative form of screenplays. I’ve got a big old coot of a block, not helped by churning out garbage under contract. Hence the evening stroll. I was hoping the ambience would shift something, shake a few cobwebs. No such luck.’ He raised the flask.

  ‘Lucrative – that’s got to help.’

  ‘You’d think. The more it pays, the bigger the pressure. Just can’t say no to those dirty dollars.’ He told me he’d had a couple of movies made, after one of his novels was a hit. Now he was in demand. ‘Make hay while the sun shines, etcetera, etcetera.’ The studio was so enamored of him, they’d equipped him with a swanky office and secretary. He’d had it furnished with floor cushions, Persian rugs and a reproduction statue of Venus but spent most of his time avoiding it and taking cabs to downbeat neighborhoods like this one. He lived with his wife in Mandeville Canyon but came into the city for inspiration.

  I asked about his movies. He groaned. ‘Well, A Close Call came out last year.’ I said I hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Where have you been? Jail?!’ He joked. I laughed. We caught eyes for a second and I looked away.

  ‘So, what brings you to the city of angels?’

  ‘Change of scene.’

  ‘Ah, a woman of mystery.’

  ‘Just a little man trouble,’ I glanced. If he wanted mystery, he’d get it.

  He chuckled. ‘A fine girl like you shouldn’t be jerked around by the inferior sex.’

  I liked the game so decided to take it up a notch. ‘The louse won’t jerk nobody around anymore. He’s dead.’

  ‘Ah. So you killed him?’

  I gave a twisted smile.

  ‘Ah, a femme fatale.’ Troy chuckled.

  I wondered if we were flirting. He had a certain sex appeal with his brainy cynic look. If we were, he’d be the oldest guy I’d ever flirted with. Maybe one night with an older man would be a good thing. He’d be happy never to see me again. He asked what work I was in. I told him I was between jobs but he wasn’t really listening. He didn’t want my reality, now that I’d inspired some kind of fantasy.

  Out of the blue, he said, ‘You know, you may have cured my block. May I treat you to a night on the tiles? There’s a new nightclub opening on Sunset. Swanky. First I have to deliver the mutt home to my better half.’

  Going to a nightclub, under Lauder’s watch? Actually dressing up and dancing and doing what I had meant to be doing in L.A.? I was more than tempted. Still, I’d feel like Cinderella, needing to be home before the clock struck Lauder. Surely he wouldn’t show up tonight? He’d made it plain he would wait to see if the girls got back the next day as instructed. Anything would be better than counting the roaches at the Astral. I’d just have to slip out without catching Malvin’s attention.

  I tried to sound relaxed about the whole thing. ‘Sure, why not? Just don’t write me into your next picture, okay?’

  ‘Your secrets are safe with me.’

  Troy hailed a taxi. It screeched to a halt. He offered it to me, but I said I had time to kill. He then picked up the dog and crawled in. Both their faces appeared at the window. ‘Seven Palms, on Sunset. I’ll be there from ten.’

  The light in the front office of the Astral was on when I got back. The lonely silhouette of Malvin reclining with his feet on the desk was visible through the blinds. He didn’t hear me come in, engrossed in a boxing match on the wireless.

  I pinged the bell on the desk. He spun around. ‘Miss Slate. Are you okay?’ He went to turn the radio down.

  ‘Malvin, about the roach situation. It’s out of hand.’

  ‘Gee. Sorry, Miss Slate. We had the pest guys in a while back.’

  ‘I can’t sleep with the lights on all night, which is the only thing that makes them hide away.’

  Malvin looked apologetic. ‘I could go to the store tomorrow, see if they have anything.’

  I got to the point. ‘Who owns the joint, anyway?’

  ‘Mrs. Thurlow.’

  ‘When does Mrs. Thurlow show her face?’

  ‘If I have a problem, I call her secretary, April. She’s nice.’

  I made a mental note of the names Mrs. Thurlow and April. The fact that I had no rent to pay on the room either meant Lauder or Clarence was in cahoots with Mrs. T. for their own reasons, or she was doing one of them a favor.

  Mrs. Thurlow. Mrs. T. How about that? Could it be Mrs. Reba T.? That would fit. For keeping quiet, Lauder could get a free room at the motel if he needed it. And she could launder her ill-gotten gains through an outfit like this. I wanted to ask Malvin if Mrs. Thurlow had other businesses, but didn’t. As easygoing as he was, I couldn’t trust him.

  Mrs. Thurlow’s identity was another lost piece of the jigsaw. If I found it, a lot else could fall into place.

  I shifted my features into something that could pass as a motherly smile. ‘Please tell April the fumigators should come back.’

  He wiped his brow. It was hot in the office, and Mrs. T. hadn’t thought to give him a fan.

  ‘Sure. I’ll make sure the maid cleans your room extra good.’ Malvin offered me a candy and I took one. It was banana flavored, and delicious. ‘Gee, I can see why you like this stuff!’

  He grinned. ‘Yeah. They’re real good.’

  I hesitated. I had a few hours to kill. I pulled up a stool. ‘Can I join you?’

  Malvin thought about it then nodded. We listened to the rest of the boxing match, sucking on candy in silence.

  32

  In the gloomy reflection of the bathroom mirror, I troweled on foundation and red lipstick. With little time and no patience to redo my chipped nail polish, I touched it up with a darker shade. I sprayed hair lacquer on my pin curls, then slid out the grips to liberate the curls.

  I wore the long black gown, the Manhattan indulgence. The fabric was silk with a full long skirt cut on the bias so it hung down in soft gathers, reminding me of an elongated black tulip turned upside down. The sleeves were puffed; their fine tulle net, also black, extended over the top of my chest. Edging the cuffs, the neckline and the darts to the waist were rows of tiny brilliants, with the occasional loop shape breaking the straight flow.

  I jazzed it up with faux diamond earrings and matching bracelet.

  Was it too much? No. Make hay while the sun shines. When would I get another chance to feel like a society girl?

  I threw the white stole over my shoulders and donned a tilt hat in white satin with black feathers.

  I slipped my feet into black satin peep-toe sandals with diamante buckles and bent down to cover the tips of the toenails in red. A lazy do-over, but the overall effect worked. I was excited. I would enjoy my own company, looking like this, tonight. Screw Lauder.

  My new life was like an open prison with large sunny grounds. I just shouldn’t go too near the fence.

  I stood back and examined as much of myself as I could in the mirror.

  Not bad, Elvira Slate. Whoever you goddamned are.

  I blew myself a kiss for good luck.

  The Seven Palms was a stylish and sophisticated palace, with a vast cream and gold canopy gracing the side
walk. A string of flashy soft-top cars rolled up outside, depositing a never-ending flow of the rich, the powerful, the beautiful and the pampered onto the gold and pink carpet.

  The wail of the big band pulled me in like a siren. Beyond, a vast arena, where tables topped with low red lamps edged a ballroom. On stage, a dazzling female crooner sang about mischief, wearing a cream and gold frilly off-the-shoulder dress. A chunky gold necklace set off her skin. Her full skirt cascaded to the ground in huge tiers like a wedding cake. The central panel of the skirt was cut open, revealing her swaying legs, covered in some kind of gold sparkly net stockings. Her high sandals were also gold, delicately stepping in rhythm. The male members of the big band wore gold blazers and gold bow ties.

  Suspended above the dance floor, huge pink chandeliers illuminated the couples. Beyond tall arched doors at the end of the dance floor, a roof terrace overlooked the twinkling lights of the city. A fountain spewed frothy pink bubbles into a shallow pool lined with seven palms illuminated by pink lights. This joint reeked of exclusivity. Even the overfed pink flamingos waddling around the terrace probably kept a social diary.

  Going home to the Astral after this would be a serious downer.

  Cinderella could wait.

  ‘Attagirl! Expected a no-show.’ I turned to see Troy bouncing up with a fat grin on his face. ‘Well, doesn’t the lady of mystery look the part?’ His breath stank, his white tuxedo was stained, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  Romance was off the table. He was a soak, if an amiable one. But drunks could be unpredictable and hard work. I had enough on my plate.

  Unsteady on his feet, Troy led me over to a corner of the club where a group of men lolled around. Troy explained they were all screenwriters, rolling off names like Gill, Hermann, Dare, Milton, Eugene and Drew, ‘hack writers at the Mercer Studio and the other graveyards’. Some of them waved, some looked me over, surprised. Some of their expressions implied ‘Troy’s latest?’ It was clear he was top dog, as they all treated him with some kind of reverence. Troy joined in their banter, but I clammed up. I couldn’t talk movies, clubs, stars or other gossip. The guys took no notice, liking their own jokes and banter better anyway. I turned away from them, focusing instead on the band.

  Troy ordered me a drink and escorted me to a corner booth. One drink and I’d push off. I didn’t belong here after all.

  ‘You’re leader of the pack,’ I pulled a cigarette from a box on the table. It looked pink, but maybe it was the light.

  Troy waved his hand dismissively. He fumbled for his lighter and lit my cigarette. ‘Movie business. Everybody loves everybody till we’re stealing each other’s ideas. I jest, of course. They’re my brothers-in-arms, us against the bloodsucking machine.’

  The waitress soon returned with the Seven Palms bright pink cocktail. I took a sip. Heaven in a glass and dangerously divine.

  ‘Hello, old boy. Why aren’t you at home finishing my screenplay?’

  We looked up. A pair of warm brown eyes was laughing at us. The kind of eyes that laughed through life, set in a handsome face. The dreamboat was around thirty-five, his dark brown hair flopping over his brow.

  Troy gave a sarcastic smile. ‘Checking in with my muse, can’t you see? Now run along.’

  The dish didn’t move. His skin was peachy; the vital, outdoor type. In comparison, Lauder was a sickly creature of the night. I caught myself. Why was I even comparing them?

  Then he turned to me, undeterred. ‘Muse, huh? I sure need one of those. Lyle Vadnay.’ He thrust out his hand to me, so I shook it. His grasp was warm, inviting and went on rather too long. The name rang a vague bell. Had I read about him in one of June’s gossip magazines?

  ‘Elvira Slate,’ I said.

  Lyle Vadnay turned to Troy, with another fake apologetic smile. ‘Mercer’s looking for you. Can’t bite another hand that feeds you, old boy. I’ll take care of Miss Slate.’

  Troy was clearly snookered. He looked a little preoccupied. ‘My dear, I’ll leave you in the hands of this bounder for five minutes, tops. Don’t fall for any of his guff.’

  I smiled. ‘I’m immune to guff.’

  Troy shuffled off. Lyle slid into the booth, like a shark sliding into a lagoon. But I was no unsuspecting bather. I gave him a sweet smile, circling back.

  ‘So Miss Slate, what brings you to L.A.?’

  ‘Sunshine, cars, good times, Mr. Vadnay.’

  Escaping the law.

  ‘And what’s your big dream, sweetheart?’

  I cringed, inwardly. The tone was patronizing. Did he take me for some kind of dumb blonde?

  ‘My dream? Right now, another house cocktail.’

  He snorted with a hearty laugh. ‘All right.’

  His eyes landed on an observant waitress in a pink feathery outfit that seemed to be inspired by the flamingos. ‘The lady would like another of these. And a Rusty Nail.’ She nodded and flounced off, her tray held high above her curls in which was stuffed a swaying pink ostrich feather.

  ‘I’m a film producer,’ he announced, proudly.

  ‘Swell,’ I said. I still got a buzz out of saying swell. It was about as un-English as you could get.

  Lyle told me he’d commissioned Troy to write a thriller, something slick and dangerous. Troy was proving troublesome. Drunk too often, and late in delivering. I felt bad for Troy that Lyle was so blatantly trashing his reputation. Lyle leant forward. I could smell his eau de cologne, expensive and probably French. ‘It’s about a femme fatale.’ He delivered this with some gravity.

  ‘Hate to disappoint you, but they don’t exist,’ I said.

  Lyle laughed as if I was clueless. ‘Sure they do.’

  ‘You mean girls making hay while the sun shines? You never hear about old femmes fatales. Do they just vaporize?’

  ‘Oh, you’re one of those.’ He looked disappointed, as if he’d been sold a dud.

  I was warming up to my theme. ‘Yeah, the really dangerous type. A woman who speaks her mind. You better watch out, sitting so close.’

  Whatever was in the pink drink, I was suddenly enjoying not giving a damn.

  Lyle crossed his legs, put his arm over his stomach, and sipped. He looked around the room. Now he was trapped with a snarky female.

  ‘You don’t have to wait until Troy gets back. Feel free to go,’ I blurted.

  Lyle thought about this. ‘You’re too pretty to be so cynical.’

  ‘Oh, pretty girls shouldn’t have opinions? That makes them cynical?’

  ‘Jeez! What is your problem?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem. Maybe you do? With any female with a brain,’ I sneered.

  Well, this was going well.

  Our drinks arrived. Lyle gave the waitress an intense smile as he tipped her. She beamed at him. Lyle puffed up a little more, his faith in cute women restored.

  ‘Poor girl,’ I said.

  Lyle shot me an irritated ‘what now’ look.

  ‘She doesn’t stand a chance with a guy like you. You’d label her a wannabe.’

  ‘That’s called harmless flirting. You should try it. It’s fun.’

  I jerked my finger at a few glamorous gazelles, hanging around, shooting Lyle admiring glances. ‘And those raving beauties don’t stand a chance, either.’

  Lyle laughed. ‘Oh, don’t worry about them. They know how to play it. You all do. Like you’re playing with me now. I bet your sourpuss act is just that. One big smokescreen. Hey, don’t tell me. You are an actress, just playing hard to get!’ Lyle took a slug of his Rusty Nail. ‘Secret’s safe with me, sugar. You’d make a great femme fatale. Anyone ever told you that?’

  Lyle Vadnay’s opinions of women were set in stone and one sloshed girl wasn’t going to change anything. Enough women probably threw themselves at him and hung on his every word. He never had to question himself. Still, I didn’t need a foot in his door. It was just annoying that he was so physically desirable.

  I yawned. ‘Troy said something like that. He suffers from the s
ame delusion as you.’

  I looked around. No sign of Troy. A heavy fog of smoke hung low over the tables, illuminated by the pink lamps. It veiled the secret deals, trysts, intrigues and strategies. Bored, I pulled another pink cigarette out of the pink marble tray on the table. Lyle lit it for me, and our fingers touched, our faces closer.

  The band took the music up a notch, the saxes and trombones wailing like tuneful alley cats. A glow descended on the place. Everywhere, the beautiful people smiled, danced and talked. On stage, the singer now purred a romantic number in harmony with a quartet of male singers, a queen bee with two crooning drones on each side. The harmonies were seductive. Her gold skirt swayed in the dark to the rhythm.

  It had to be the booze, but a pink and cozy bubble where nothing had any consequence was enclosing me.

  ‘Want a dance?’ Lyle whispered.

  I hadn’t danced in five years. Would I remember how? Would gossip columnists observe me, this stranger with the up-and-coming producer? Surely breaking the long, dark curse of my life with Lyle Vadnay was worth the risk.

  Live in the present.

  Seconds later, Lyle Vadnay, Hollywood hotshot, led his femme fatale out onto the dance floor. He was confident and held me close. I relaxed. They could all stare and gossip. I wouldn’t be back. I didn’t care. I leant my head on his shoulder, my eyes half closing.