“But I—”
Carol Webster snapped, “Leave us with our grief. Go.”
Marcello quickly chimed in. “We’re very sorry. Come on, Karissa.”
Karissa felt terrible. “Yes, we’re sorry. Forgive me.”
But Gregory and his wife and son had already turned away from them and were greeting the next people in line.
Karissa and Marcello went down the steps outside to the pavement.
“Was that strange to you, or am I imagining things?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. He chased us away, but he was also acting like he had something to say to you.”
“I know, right?”
Then she stopped dead in her tracks.
“What?” Marcello asked.
“Over there. That black SUV.”
Across Mansfield Avenue and on the far side of La Brea, near a Popeye’s Chicken joint, sat a black BMW X5. A bald Caucasian man was in the passenger seat, watching them—with binoculars.
“That’s the guy from the World Stage!” Karissa spat. “Oh my God, it’s the car that was in front of my house the other night. That fucker is stalking us!”
Marcello immediately crossed Mansfield at a fast pace. He ran to the edge of La Brea, but traffic was too heavy for him to jaywalk into the street. When the BMW’s driver saw that he had been spotted, he put down the binoculars, pulled away from the curb, and sped into the throng of cars traveling north on La Brea. Marcello shook a fist in that direction and returned to Karissa.
“Did you get a good look at him?” she asked.
“Not really. All I could tell was he was a white guy who looked like Bruce Willis with hair on the sides of his bald head. I’d like get my hands on him.”
Karissa had no doubt that Marcello could probably take on the creep.
“What’s going on, Marcello?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”
She turned back to the entrance of the funeral parlor. “I wish we could talk to—”
The Websters were still greeting visitors, but they had been joined by the old woman with the white hair who had played the piano. Her hands were clasped with the couple’s in solidarity.
The four of them were looking straight in their direction.
19
THE MOVIE
The film cuts to a montage of pages slowly tearing away from a desktop calendar—February 1948, March, April, May …. In between are various clips of Blair Kendrick in the studio, attending premieres, and being photographed. Her voice-over continues.
“The months went by so fast I could barely stop for air. The Dark Lonely Night was released in early 1948 and was a massive hit for Ultimate Pictures. I then began work on The Love of a Killer, even though MGM asked Eldon Hirsch if I could be loaned out for something they were doing. Eldon refused. Although I had found success playing ‘bad girls’ in these crime pictures for Ultimate, I longed to do something different. Hell, I could sing and dance—I wanted to do a musical, but that wasn’t in the cards.”
Cut to an exterior daytime scene, somewhere in the desert outside of Los Angeles. Blair and Hank are together, and she is target shooting with bottles and cans. Holding Hank’s revolver, she holds the gun with an outstretched arm, takes a bead on a target, and shoots three rounds in succession, hitting all the bottles. Hank then sets up more targets on a rock and she does it again.
“But while my career was blooming, things weren’t so great in my personal life. Hank and I stopped seeing each other after he was beat up by Buddy Franco and his goons. We resolved to be friends, but of course, it didn’t work. Three months went by before both of us were going crazy without each other. By May, we were sneaking around to each other’s houses again. The only thing we didn’t do was go out in public together.”
Cut back to the desktop calendar—the pages for June, July, August, September, and October disappear. More movie posters and soundstage shots of Blair working …
“The Love of a Killer came out in the summer of ’48 and was again a big hit. The reviews of my performance were especially good. I was kind of surprised, for I felt the role didn’t challenge me; it was pretty much the same thing I’d been doing in previous pictures. But it was nice to be liked.
“And then toward the end of October, as I was beginning production on The Outlaw Lovers, I started to notice I wasn’t feeling too well.”
A little dizzy, Blair emerged from the women’s restroom of the studio soundstage and made her way back to the lounge where she sat, lit a cigarette, and put her head back.
Oh God, I just want to die … What is wrong with me?
The nausea had reached a tipping point and she had been forced to rush to the toilet and vomit. It was the third time this week. She had been in the middle of a take for The Outlaw Lovers when she suddenly bolted off the set and ran into the corridor. The director, a man named Richard Tanner, shouted “Cut!” in a none-too-pleasant tone. When she returned, he chewed her out.
“Blair, if you need to go, you have to hold it until the take is done. Don’t you ever ruin one of my takes again. I don’t care if you are Eldon Hirsch’s little princess. This is my set!”
It was as if he had slapped her. Little princess? What the hell did that mean?
She pointed a finger at him, squinted her eyes, and growled, “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again, Dick. I’m not feeling well.”
“Well see the nurse, for God’s sake. We have a picture to shoot.”
“I’m fine now. Let’s do the shot.”
Now it was the lunch break, but Blair had no appetite. The mere thought of food made her queasy. She never got sick. Was it a stomach bug of some kind? Had she caught it from somebody? Zelda had been out with the flu, but that was a month ago. No one she knew had anything serious.
Perhaps she just needed rest. She and Hank had been rather lively in the bedroom as of late. After their “time off” from each other in the spring, they now coveted whatever precious hours they could spend together. They saw each other only at night—either in her bedroom or his …
Richard Tanner walked by with a tray of food from the commissary. He didn’t even look at her or ask how she was feeling. Where did the studio find him, anyway? Who does he think he is? She had had enough experience in her two short years in Hollywood to recognize the difference between a good director and a talentless hack. Tanner had supposedly come up through the ranks, although she had never heard of him. The Outlaw Lovers was his first picture at the helm. Instead of working with his actors, he treated them like slaves.
Little princess, am I? I’ll show him.
Blair forced herself to stub out the cigarette and stand. She marched to the administrative building, breezed past the security guard, and approached Camille, the main bastion of defense for the studio head. The woman was an old-timer, about sixty years old, and hard as nails. She protected her boss as if he were the president of the United States.
“Is Eldon in?” Blair asked.
“Hello, Blair,” the woman said, looking her up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I need an appointment?”
Camille shrugged. “I suppose not. You are Blair Kendrick, after all.” She picked up a phone and pressed an intercom button. “Sir, Blair Kendrick is out here, wants to see you. Fine.” She hung up and jerked her head at the door behind her. “Go on in.”
Blair walked down the long corridor and entered the inner sanctum. Normally she was loath to even be within ten feet of the studio boss. He had never given up his lecherous advances, but he seemed to have taken her rejections in stride.
The man kept the spacious office dimly lit, creating an ominous atmosphere of intimidation for anyone who came to meet with him. The desk, on the other side of the room, was bathed in a pool of light from the lamps around it. It was almost as if it were nighttime. The golden glow of the room didn’t help her equilibrium one bit.
“Eldon?” she called.
“Bl
air, my dear! Come forward! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She strode across the carpet. He had one of his coin collection binders open in front of him. There were three loose coins on the desk, and she must have interrupted him in the act of securing them on a page. Was that all he did every day?
It was then that she realized she was wearing a bathrobe that covered only a nightie, and she had slippers on her feet. It was her costume for the picture, and she hadn’t bothered to change out of it for lunch. No wonder Camille had given her the stink eye.
“It’s that director, Dick Tanner,” she said. “He acts like he’s Cecil B. DeMille or William Wyler, and he treats me like I’m a chorus girl.”
Hirsch made a face. “What happened?”
She told him the story. As she did so, she began to feel woozy again. She wavered on her feet, and Hirsch stood. “Blair, sit down. No, come over here and lie down. You’re awfully pale.”
She put her hands on his desk to hold herself up. “I’m sorry, Eldon. You’re right, I don’t feel so good.”
“Come on, honey.” He came around and led her to the couch.
She plopped down and stretched out. The room was spinning.
What the heck is wrong with me?
“I’ll get you some water,” he said. He poured a glass from a pitcher at the bar and returned, sitting by her and helping to prop her up so she could take a few sips. He then placed the glass on the coffee table and held her hand. “Maybe we’re working you too hard.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I like working hard.”
“Well, I must say it’s paying off. The Love of a Killer has made the most money of all your pictures so far. The public loves you.”
She kept her eyes shut, willing away the nausea. “That’s nice to hear, but it’s not my best movie. I must say I didn’t like it much.”
Hirsch shrugged. “Who cares? The audience did. There’s even some buzz around town that you might be considered for an Oscar nomination.”
“What? Really?”
“Just rumors, but that’s how these things start, you know.”
“I think The Jazz Club is the best thing I’ve done. I keep doing the same thing, Eldon. I’d like to branch out. Try something different. I play the same character in every picture.”
“Maybe so. But you know what, Blair? I wasn’t going to tell you until Outlaw Lovers wrapped, but we’re giving you a raise.”
“You are?”
“Yes, my dear. You’ll be getting another ten thousand a picture, plus a little share of the profits … if you’re a good girl!”
She had never heard of a star receiving a share of the profits. She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Are you pulling my leg, Eldon?”
“As much as I’d like to pull on your leg, sweetheart, I’m not. You know Jimmy Stewart just negotiated a profit-sharing deal for his next two pictures. Harvey and some western. The writing’s on the wall. All the major stars are going to want points. It’s a changing business.” He leaned in closer to her. “And I’ve got the integrity and foresight to embrace it. I’m willing to go along with the trend. Perhaps.” He put a hand on her forehead and then lightly ran it through her blond hair. “So … if you’re good, maybe you can share a little in the profits, too.”
She was suddenly aware of his breath, his weight, his oily hair, and his thick lips that so desperately wanted to kiss her. It repulsed her even more, practically turning her stomach. She rolled to the side and nearly gagged.
“Oh, poor dear,” he said. “I’d better call the studio nurse.”
Blair waved at him. “No … don’t …” She managed to control the urge to throw up. Instead, she sat upright, reached for the glass of water, and took another swig.
“Well, I’m going to tell Tanner to call off shooting for the day,” Hirsch said. “You need some rest.”
“No, no, I’m feeling better.” He moved in even closer. Why in the devil would he want to get all mushy with me when he knows I’m about to retch?
It had been a mistake to come. A moment of uncontrollable ego on her part. She should go back to the director, apologize, and get on with the work. She waved him away.
“Are you sure? We can’t have our biggest star getting sick,” he said.
“I’m fine.” She took another sip, finishing the glass. “Thanks for the water. That helped a lot.”
“Good. Now remember what I said about being a good girl, and maybe that raise will materialize.”
She looked him square in the eyes. “I thought you said I already have the raise.”
“Oh, you do, but you still have to, uh, earn it, you know.”
How was she supposed to take that? The guy didn’t give up.
“Oh, and, uh, Blair,” he continued, “I hope you’re not, uh, seeing a certain individual anymore.”
This brought on a stab of anxiety. “What?”
“Just remember what your contract says. If it got out that you and … and … a Negro are having relations, I’d have to cancel that contract. You’d be out of a job, you’d never get an Oscar nomination, and you’d never be able to work in this town again.”
She stood on wobbly legs. “Is that a threat, Eldon?”
He stared at her. “Are you seeing him, Blair?”
“I’m going back to the set, Eldon. I’m not even going to indulge you this conversation. Thank you for the water and for the raise and for everything you do, but you’re being a silly little boy to think that about me!”
She turned and started to cross the carpet to the exit, but he got up, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her back to him. His arms went around her and he pressed her body into his. His big belly took up most of their body contact. “Oh, Blair, my beautiful Blair,” he moaned, “how can I convince you other than just tell you straight out? I love you. I think you’re the most wonderful girl on the planet. I would leave Beatrice and get a divorce if you just gave me the word that you’d be mine. I would shower you with flowers and diamonds and money, lots of money. I am dying for you!”
“Eldon, stop!” She struggled against him, feeling terribly ill again. “Let me go, I’m going to be sick!”
“What can I do to convince you? Oh my God, that mouth of yours. I must have it!”
He leaned in to kiss her … and she heaved—all over him and the gold-colored carpet.
20
KARISSA
On the morning after the funeral, Karissa drove to the far west side of Hollywood and parked in the free lot by the Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park and Mortuary. She was surprised by its deceptive size. Located on Glendon Avenue, the cemetery was tucked away between tall buildings and not visible to the street. Karissa had read up on the site before coming and learned that it originally opened in 1905, but it had been a burial ground since the late 1800s. Many of Hollywood’s elite were buried there, but the graveyard also contained many people who were not famous at all. Besides traditional graves in the ground with markers and tombstones, crypts in walls surrounded the property.
It was a fresh, clear morning, and already tourists were wandering around the grounds searching for their favorite stars’ resting places. Even Karissa was impressed by the roster. She’d known about some of them like Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood, but she also saw crypts and markers for Burt Lancaster, Don Knotts, Ray Bradbury, Hugh Hefner, Fanny Brice, Truman Capote, Dean Martin, and so many more that it was overwhelming. Karissa had to smile at the humor exhibited on some of the stones. Jack Lemmon’s read simply, “Jack Lemmon in,” as if it were a movie poster. Billy Wilder’s epitaph was “I’m a Writer but then Nobody’s Perfect.”
Karissa finally found what she was looking for. It was a simple marker flat on the ground, not far from where Eva Gabor was interred.
BLAIR KENDRICK 1928–1949
That was it. Nothing to indicate who she was. No one had placed any flowers on the grave.
Karissa wished she had thought to bring a bouquet or an arran
gement. She sighed, not particularly understanding why she had felt the need to visit the cemetery. Looking at her watch, she realized she had to get to the Stormglove office. It was going to be a busy day.
Late afternoon. Karissa shut down her computer and prepared to head home. Marcello had left earlier, as he had some personal errands and also wanted to check out something. It had been a long day of reaching out to contacts at various studios. Both she and Marcello had gone through their address books in attempts to find a producer or company executive who might be willing to listen to their pitch to make the Blair Kendrick movie. Karissa had also written a long, passionate letter to Barbara at the festival, hoping that she would listen to reason. Perhaps she would realize that whatever pressure Ultimate Pictures was putting on her to drop Stormglove from the endeavor was steeped in the personal history of the Hirsch family. That alone should not be criteria for canceling Stormglove’s involvement.
Karissa was also intrigued about the older woman they had seen at Ray Webster’s funeral—the one with the white hair who had played the piano. It was entirely possible that she had been a contemporary of Ray—and, in turn, Hank Marley. How could they find her again? Gregory Webster and his wife Carol had also piqued Karissa’s interest with their surprising reaction to her approach. More important, they had seemed genuinely unsettled by her presence.
And then there was the man in the car across the street, watching them with binoculars. Could it be possible that the Websters knew he was out there? Who was that guy?
Her cell phone rang before she stood to leave her desk. Marcello.
“Yes, sir?” she answered.
“Barry Doon.”
“What?”
“I believe that’s his name. The guy who was watching us at the funeral. In the BMW.”
“Oh my God, Marcello, are you a goddamned mind reader? I was just thinking about him!”
“Well, I think I found out who he is; that’s what I went to check out. He’s an executive vice president at Ultimate Pictures, but he’s really a modern studio fixer. He makes the studio’s problems go away.”
Blues in the Dark Page 13
