Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  “His name is Barry Doon?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I reached out to my bro, Lewis, in LiUNA, the utility workers’ union for our favorite industry—Hollywood motion pictures. He was recently on a couple of productions at Ultimate. I described the guy, and Lewis thought it might be Doon. Are you still at the office? Bring up Google.”

  “I was just about to leave. I’ll look on my phone.” She put him on speaker and switched apps. “Okay, I’m typing in his name.”

  There were a few hits for Barry Doon—IMDb and a few mentions from trade sites.

  “Click on Images,” Marcello prompted.

  Sure enough, the bald man appeared in a handful of candid shots.

  “Oh my God, that’s him.”

  Doon was in a couple of pictures with Justin Hirsch, the eighty-year-old head of the studio, and with various stars in others. There weren’t many.

  “Now we know what we’re dealing with,” Marcello said.

  On the way home, Karissa stopped at her Chase bank drive-through ATM to get some cash. She slipped her debit card into the slot, punched in her PIN, and requested a hundred dollars. A message appeared on the screen—INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

  “What the hell?” she said aloud. Reached through the driver’s-side window once again, she punched in her request a second time. INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

  Now alarmed, she went back to the main menu and pressed the command to see her balance. Her heart pounded in her chest when she saw the result—$0.00.

  “No, no, no, that’s impossible!” she snapped. She retrieved her card and drove out of the lane. She was about to pull into the bank’s parking lot when she saw that the bank had closed for the day.

  “No!”

  She found a customer service number at the back of her debit card and, using the Bluetooth capability in her car, gave the voice command for her phone to dial it. Nothing happened. Karissa pulled her cell phone out of her purse and manually dialed the number. Again, it was as if the phone was dead. It was turned on, but the app didn’t work.

  “Oh my God …” Now, panic overtook anger.

  What to do? It was after hours. Should she go to a police station?

  No, the Stormglove office had a landline. She’d head back there.

  Shaking, Karissa drove out of the lot and merged onto the road back to La Brea. The entire way she cursed and hit her fist on the steering wheel, urging the traffic to move faster. It was maddening. The rush-hour chaos on the Hollywood streets bottlenecked and eventually the Murano came to a complete stop two blocks away from the office. Tears formed in her eyes as she prayed that she hadn’t been hacked. Perhaps it was just a freak computer glitch going on with her bank account and phone.

  Finally, traffic moved. She made it to the storefront and parked in her designated spot. Karissa got out, ran up the outer stairs to the door with the Stormglove logo on it, unlocked it, and went inside. She grabbed the handset off the phone on her desk and—there was no dial tone.

  “No!”

  She slammed the receiver down and collapsed in her chair.

  And then Marcello rushed in, his eyes wide, sweat pouring down his face. He had his cell phone in hand.

  “Karissa! My goddamned phone isn’t working. I came back to use—”

  “I know—mine, too, and our landline is dead.”

  “Wait, what? Yours, too?”

  “It’s worse than that, Marcello. My bank account has been emptied. I stopped by Chase on the way home, and there’s no money.” She slapped a hand on the desk. “Damn, I didn’t think to check the Stormglove account, I just looked at my personal one. Oh, Jesus, what the fuck, Marcello?”

  “What? Your bank account? What about mine?”

  They drove together to another Chase and discovered that the Stormglove account had been emptied and frozen, as well as Marcello’s personal checking account. Then they visited an AT&T outlet to inquire about their cell phones. They were told that both accounts had been closed a few hours earlier. They filed official reports of fraud. The representative worked on their accounts and, after nearly an hour, eventually got everything restored. Marcello immediately called his wife and asked her to check other personal financial accounts held in her name. Then he called Stormglove’s attorney, a man named Tony Davenport. Karissa phoned Chase customer service and reported what had happened.

  When all was said and done, the couple was reassured that everything would be fixed and that no funds would be permanently lost. However, it might take up to forty-eight hours for the “investigation” to be completed and the money returned.

  Deciding that they both needed a drink, Karissa and Marcello went to the Parlor on Melrose Avenue and ordered some stiff ones.

  As they collapsed in weariness from the adrenaline expenditure, Karissa asked, “So is this the work of Barry Doon and Justin Hirsch?”

  Marcello just looked at her. “Who else?”

  It was after sunset when Karissa reached her home in Sugar Hill. She pulled into the garage, got out of the car, and unlocked the garage door to the house. It still felt as if she was entering a palace much too large for a single person to occupy. It was too soon for Karissa to feel completely “at home” here, but she did love it. She couldn’t wait to throw a party in the house, but that would have to wait until she had something to celebrate. The start of production on a new film would be nice, but even that was the least of her worries after the day’s events.

  Karissa walked through the kitchen to the hallway that led to the entry foyer. Mail was on the floor, having fallen through the slot. She opened the front door and stepped out on the porch to scan the street, making sure no suspicious BMWs were in surveillance mode. Then she noticed a small package wrapped in brown paper at her feet. It was slightly too large to have fit through the mail slot. The package was addressed to her, but there was no postage on it. It had been hand-delivered by someone. Karissa took a quick look at the street again and returned inside, locking the door behind her.

  Yesterday she would have thought she was being paranoid. There hadn’t been a real reason to fear Barry Doon or any other studio henchmen that Ultimate Pictures sent out to intimidate her. Hollywood could be a rough town, but there usually wasn’t a need to be overly dramatic.

  But after what had happened that day, the game had changed.

  Justin Hirsch had accomplished what he had set out to do—kick Stormglove off the festival project and scare them with financial terrorism—but there wasn’t a legal foot for him to stand on when it came to stopping an independent production of their film. She was reminded of how William Randolph Hearst had done everything in his power to halt the making of Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane. RKO Pictures refused to buckle under Hearst’s pressure, and the picture got made anyway. Unfortunately, none of Hearst’s newspapers would advertise the movie, and Kane tanked at the box office during its initial run. It was nearly two decades later that the film was dusted off, reevaluated, and declared one of the greatest motion pictures ever made.

  Not that she and Marcello could produce anything of that caliber. But still …

  Karissa took the mail into the kitchen. She disposed of the junk in the recycling bin and then opened the small package with a pair of scissors. The box contained a jewelry bag made of black velvet, tied with a golden drawstring.

  What?

  Karissa undid the easy knot and pulled the thing open.

  The bag held three old coins. Karissa poured them out into her palm. She didn’t recognize them as anything in circulation today, and she wasn’t completely sure they were from the United States until she examined them. One was about the size of a quarter, a very dull and faded silver, with a man’s head in profile wearing a wreath of leaves in his hair, like a Roman orator. The year on the coin was 1901 and the words “In God We Trust” arced above the head. Another was a discolored gold or bronze with an Indian head on it, dated 1911. The back featured an eagle, with the word
s “United States of America” above it and “Ten Dollars” beneath the bird.

  A ten-dollar coin? What would it be worth now?

  The third coin was also a dull silver color. It had a woman in profile wearing a headband with the word “Liberty” written on it. The year marked it to be from 1817.

  “Oh, my Lord,” Karissa muttered. “That’s old.”

  What is this all about? Who put this box on my porch?

  Then she recalled—when Eldon Hirsch was killed, his safe had been opened and robbed of a rare coin collection.

  “Oh, shit.”

  21

  THE MOVIE

  The flickering image on the silver screen reveals iconic views of Hollywood streets and soundstages, and then it cross-fades to the desk calendar again, the pages of months ripping away—October and November 1948, leaving December in place.

  “I finally went to the doctor,” the actress’s voice-over continues. “He confirmed my worst fears. At the same time, The Outlaw Lovers was rushed through postproduction so that it could be released in time for the Christmas holidays. The Love of a Killer was starting to appear on some critics’ Top Ten lists of ’48. Right after the New Year, I was supposed to start shooting another picture, The Boss and the Blonde, with none other than James Cagney as my costar. But I was frightened. It could all come crashing down.”

  The camera slowly pulls in to a nighttime exterior shot of Blair’s house in Sugar Hill, focusing on the illuminated bedroom window … and we, ever the voyeurs, penetrate the glass and invade a couple’s privacy in a way that can only happen in a motion picture.

  “You’re being awfully quiet tonight,” Hank said as they lay on their backs, cigarettes in their hands. When she didn’t answer, he spoke again. “Is anything wrong?”

  Blair sighed. “Oh, Hank. I have something to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  She raised herself up on her side, supported by her elbow. The mattress’s box springs creaked loudly. She had been meaning to buy a new one for some time.

  “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Hank blinked in succession a couple of times, his eyes on her. Then he smiled. “Really?”

  “Yes. You remember when I kept getting nauseous a month or a month and a half ago? Well, it wasn’t the flu; it was morning sickness. Morning sickness that lasted until noon. When it went away, I forgot about it and ignored it. But then, well, I’m a woman, you know, and we know when things start happening to our bodies. I was afraid, Hank. Is it terrible that I didn’t want it to be true?”

  “Blair, honey—”

  “No, don’t answer that. Anyway, I waited until last week to go to the doctor. That’s when I finally got it confirmed. I’m pregnant, Hank. Two and a half months, maybe three.”

  Hank took a drag off his cigarette and then said, “Sweetheart, I think I’m smart enough to know that it could be upsetting to you no matter how I respond. Inside, truthfully, I’m jumping for joy. My heart is jivin’ and dancing and singing. I want to break out the champagne and celebrate. But then, I look at you now, and I see how you feel about it. I can tell that this doesn’t make you very happy. And I understand. I know why. And I’m fully aware of what this means for us. So that’s why I’m not acting like a fool and running around crying, ‘Hallelujah’ and ‘Praise the Lord.’ Because that would upset you even more, wouldn’t it?”

  She chuckled a little. “Yes, it would. Although it might also make me laugh.”

  His eyes twinkled at the easing of her tension. “I do hope I can say that you make me proud, and that I love you more than anything else God put on this earth.”

  “Yes, you can say that, and I love you, too.” She sat up and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray on the nightstand. “But we have to face facts. This is not a good thing for us, Hank.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  She looked off, away from him. “Should I … should I get rid of it?”

  Hank reached over to his nightstand and put out the remains of his own cigarette. He then sat up behind her and took her in his arms. “Honey, I would never tell you what you should do about this. Just know that I will stand by you. I will give you my opinion, for whatever that’s worth, and I will give you my advice, which ain’t worth nothin’, and I will give you my support, which I hope might be of some value to you.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how to go about it. I mean, there are other actresses who have … I’d have to ask someone …”

  Hank cleared his throat. “I know a doctor. He’s … he’s a Negro doctor. He’s a good man; he knows what he’s doing.”

  Tears formed in her eyes and slowly trickled down her cheeks. They were silent for a few moments, and then she slowly shook her head. “I don’t think I can. I can’t do it, Hank. I can’t get rid of our baby.” She turned to face him. “The law is changed in California. We can get married. We can have our child.”

  “But honey, what about your career? Legal or not, the studio won’t stand for their star actress to marry a Negro.”

  “Well … I’ll just have to give up acting, then.”

  “Give it up?”

  “Hank, they’re not letting me do the kinds of roles I really want. I’m sick of playing these bad girl parts. I’ve asked over and over if I could be in a comedy, or a musical … anything but a crime picture. Eldon Hirsch won’t loan me out to other studios—they’ve asked and he’s always refused. It’s like he’s punishing me for not going to bed with him.”

  “You don’t really want to give up being in movies, Blair. I know you. This is your life.”

  She stood and started to pace. “But I would if it means keeping you and the baby. Other interracial couples are getting married since the law changed.”

  “We couldn’t travel out of state as a man and wife. We’d have to always stay in California.”

  “So? Where else are we going to go? We could move out of Los Angeles and go somewhere else in the state. San Francisco’s a nice place.”

  “How will we live? My work is here, honey. I have a pretty good thing going with my band and all. It’s hard to start all over again as a musician in a new town.”

  “I know. I’d get a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know! Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

  “I’m not trying to do anything, honey. I’m just showing you all the angles.”

  “Well, are you willing to do this with me? Do you want to get married?”

  Hank got out of bed and came to her. Once again, he took her in his arms. “Sugar, I want to marry you. I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t want to see you turn your back on a successful career.”

  “To hell with it, Hank. For all the fame and money and glamour and glitz, there’s something rotten to the core about it all. I’ve been thinking about this for days. I do want out.”

  “Well, then, I guess that settles it.” He got down on one knee with her hands in his. “Will you live with me so we can make our own blues in the dark? Will you marry me, Blair Kendrick?”

  She laughed and got down on the carpet with him. “Of course, I will.” They kissed and toppled over on their sides, laughing. After a moment, she said, “How about this? I make The Boss and the Blonde—I mean, how many times does a girl get to do a movie with Jimmy Cagney? That should be finished by February, and then we’ll do it. I don’t care if I’m showing. Then we’ll see what happens. Maybe nobody will say a damned thing and we can continue as we were. They can’t fight the law. On the other hand, if we get run out of town, so be it.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said.

  After the rather quiet New Year, Blair reported to the set for the first day of shooting of The Boss and the Blonde. She had been studying lines the previous evening and was having difficulty memorizing them. Her mind was elsewhere. Nevertheless, she was ready to get started. She knew the lines would come; they always did. Her meeting with costar James Cagney the day before had gone ve
ry well. He seemed to be enthusiastic about the picture and said that he looked forward to working with her.

  She sat in front of the mirrors in the dressing room, the bulbs brightly lit around her. Zelda came in with her makeup box. “Here we are again!” she chirped. “How are you this morning, Blair?”

  “Fine, Zelda, and you?”

  “Oh, just peachy.” She squealed a little. “I just met Jimmy Cagney! Oh, my heart’s all a-flutter. That was sure exciting.”

  “He’s very nice, isn’t he?”

  Blair sat in the high chair while Zelda applied the pancake base. As she did, Blair held the script in her lap, going over the dialogue again.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Blair said.

  Buddy Franco, dressed in his trademark suit, appeared in the doorway. Blair thought that the temperature in the room might have dropped ten degrees. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “Zelda, can I talk to Blair alone for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Zelda put down her brush, wiped her hands on a towel, and left the room. Franco shut the door and stood in front of Blair.

  “What is it, Buddy?” she asked.

  “You ready to start shooting?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, good. This is a big one. Eldon’s very excited about it. Jimmy Cagney and all.”

  “I am, too. What do you want, Buddy? I need to concentrate on these lines.”

  “Well, I hate to bring this up again, but it seems that a certain Negro was seen coming out the back door of your house the other morning.”

  Blair stiffened.

  “You’ve been warned about this before. This is the last time I’m going to say it.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned in so close that she couldn’t have squirmed out if she’d wanted. “Blair, you have to stop seeing the—uh, I can’t be responsible for what happens to him … or to you … if you don’t. I’ve been instructed to take the matter into my hands again, and I will. So, tell me now. I want to hear it from you. Is it over?”

  Blair’s heart pounded in her chest.