Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  She located his number in her cell phone’s contacts and dialed it. She was surprised when he answered.

  “James Trundy.”

  “Oh, Mr. Trundy, this is Karissa Glover.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you this late in the evening.”

  “It’s all right. What can I do for you? Everything okay at the house?”

  “The house is wonderful. Listen—please, I need to know a little more about it. It’s research for my work. Who owns it? You once told me that the house is owned by an investment firm or a trust firm. Can you please give me the name of the company?”

  “Just a minute, please.” He put down the phone. Karissa waited a few moments and then he returned. “The name of the company is Azules Oscuros S.A.”

  “It’s Spanish?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  She had him spell it out for her, as she didn’t speak the language.

  “Where are they based?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “What doesn’t say?”

  “I’m looking at my pay stub. There is no address for Azules Oscuros S.A.”

  “And you get your paychecks in the mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever met anyone from the company? How did you get the job?”

  Trundy paused and said, “Miss Glover, I’d rather not talk about this anymore. Do you like living in the house?”

  “Oh, yes, I do!”

  “Then, please, let it alone.”

  She was never going to get anywhere with him, she could see that. “One more question, Mr. Trundy, and I’ll let you go. Why are all of Blair Kendrick’s things still here? How come they were never moved out?”

  “It’s by order of the company that owns the house. Everything stays.”

  “And you never rented it out before?”

  “Miss Glover, like I told you before, you’re the first person to rent the house since Miss Kendrick died in 1949.”

  “You mean no one wanted to?”

  “No, the company only recently opened it up for rental. You were the first person who was interested.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Trundy.”

  “Goodbye.” He disconnected the call. Karissa swallowed hard, struggling with the mystery before her as a chill slithered down her spine.

  25

  THE MOVIE

  “I reported to the set the next two days,” the voice-over resumes as we see Blair driving her Oldsmobile to the lot. “The filming became more of a disaster. Everyone knew the picture was going to be a turkey. My costar expressed grave doubts to the director. As far as I know, he didn’t put any of the blame on me.”

  Cut to the interior of Eldon Hirsch’s office. Buddy Franco leans over the desk, nodding at the boss’s instructions.

  “As for the directive that Buddy Franco had given me, I ignored it. I had made up my mind that I was having the baby and giving up being a Hollywood star. Unfortunately, the studio brass had other ideas.”

  Blair sat in the dressing room after the day’s work, smoking her sixth cigarette. She had removed her makeup and costume and was ready to go home. However, she had been hit with a wave of depression and couldn’t get herself to move. The rumors were flying that the production was going to be canceled. After the assistant director had called a wrap for the day, Cagney had leaned in to her and said, “I’m sorry about this; I think it might be all my fault.” Blair shook her head and said, “No, Jimmy, it’s mine.” He shrugged as if to say, It is what it is, and then added, “Whatever happens, it’s been a pleasure.”

  Now it was after dark. Most of the crew had left and Blair felt completely alone in the building. What are you going to do? she asked herself. Sleep here overnight? Concluding that this was not a good idea, she stubbed out the butt and stood. She opened the jewelry box where she kept her treasured pearl necklace when she was working. She held it in her hands and thought briefly about her time in Chicago as a younger person. Her sixteenth birthday. A kind grandmother she barely knew. It was ironic that the necklace had become part of the “Blair Kendrick” persona in movieland publicity. She fastened it around her neck, grabbed her coat out of the closet, and prepared to depart.

  When she opened the dressing room door, Buddy Franco stood in the hallway, as if waiting for her to come out.

  “Buddy!”

  “Blair.”

  “What are you doing here? I was … I was just about to go home.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  She turned out the lights and shut the door, and then she walked with him through the corridor and out the talent entrance to the parking lot. Blair’s Oldsmobile sat where she’d left it that morning. A recent model black Cadillac sat next to hers. She had spotted vehicles like it at the studio and figured they were owned by Ultimate Pictures. In fact, she’d seen Franco driving one, or rather, riding in one with a studio employee at the wheel. There was a man in the driver’s seat now. A couple of other cars were in the lot, dark and empty.

  Along the way Franco had not said a word.

  Blair approached the Oldsmobile and said, “Well, thank you for escorting me out, Buddy, I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

  He let her open the door and get inside. Then he leaned in, placed his right hand behind her neck, and, with his left hand, covered her mouth and nose with a cloth that smelled of strong chemicals. He pressed it hard into her face. Blair struggled and kicked and beat him with her fists. Her screams were muffled. The man was strong; she couldn’t break free, and his grip on her head was so tight that she was afraid she’d snap her neck if she fought too hard. Then, she began to feel light-headed. The smell of the chemicals was overpowering. The sweet odor permeated her sinuses and she felt it in the back of her throat. Within seconds, it was as if the smell itself had become a living thing and was enveloping her brain, her eyesight, and her hearing. The world was fading away, and she could no longer raise her arms. She felt her body going limp, and darkness flooded her consciousness like black oil pouring into and clouding up a tank of water. Blair gasped for breath but there was no air to cling to. She was aware of her falling to the side on the car seat and then …

  She wasn’t sure if it was a dream or something that had really happened.

  Her eyes were open, attempting to focus on what appeared to be a stuffed teddy bear that sat at a right angle to the horizon, the top of its head pointing to her right. She quickly realized that the left side of her face was flush against a pillow. She was lying on a bed, facing a wall, and the bear was sitting next to her.

  What the hell?

  She immediately attempted to sit up but was hit with a wave of nausea. The room spun like a crazy carnival ride. She groaned loudly and then turned over to face the rest of the room. Blair started to retch, and she fell the few feet down off the bed and onto the hard surface.

  When she opened her eyes again, the teddy bear was still staring at her. It had a goofy smile, almost as if it were saying, Ha ha, look at you, you fell off the bed!

  Blair groaned again as her vision focused a little sharper than before. She moved and lay on her back. The ceiling had a water stain that spread across the area to a crack that ran half the length of the room. She turned her head and saw the rest of the space. It was a bedroom—a child’s bedroom, for there were other signs that a little boy had once occupied it. There was a map of the United States on the far wall. Next to it was a black and red pennant with the words, “Los Angeles Angels,” a minor league team that Blair vaguely knew about. A small bookshelf contained children’s books and a few volumes of encyclopedias. Next to it was a door to a closet. The foot of the bed pointed to a wall with a window that was covered by drapes decorated in baseballs and bats.

  She was in someone’s home.

  It all came crashing back to her. Buddy Franco. The parking lot outside the soundstage. The cloth at her mouth. Blair swore she could still taste the chemicals.
Chloroform? Whatever it was, it had knocked her right out.

  The head of the bed butted against a wall. A few feet beyond the bed to her right was the door to the room. Blair summoned the strength to sit up, place her feet on the floor, and take a few deep breaths. She was barefoot but still wearing the clothes she’d had on at the studio—a pair of slacks and a blouse. Her brassiere was still intact underneath.

  A nightstand next to the bed held an empty glass, a plastic pitcher of water, an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. A small alarm clock indicated that the time was 2:14. The afternoon, obviously, as sunlight filtered in from the window.

  Oh God …

  She grabbed the pitcher and poured the glass full. Her mouth and throat were as dry as the desert and scratchy as hell. She gulped the delicious liquid, finished it, and poured another. She then reached for the cigarettes—and hesitated. Her craving could wait. She was desperate to use the toilet.

  Blair managed to stand. She saw her flats sitting neatly on the floor next to the bookcase. Ignoring them for the moment, she took a few steps to the door and tried the knob. To her surprise and relief, it opened.

  A hallway stretched to the left. Her room was at the end of the corridor. She spied an open door a little farther down, and her instincts told her it was the lavatory. She bolted to it, went inside, and shut the door.

  The place was clean and usable. A mirror reflected a woman who had seen better days. She had no makeup on her face, exactly as she’d left it at the studio, and her blond hair was tangled in a mess. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her blouse was stained with what was probably her own vomit.

  Strangely, her pearl necklace was still around her neck. They hadn’t bothered to remove it.

  First things first. She used the toilet and washed her face and hands with the soap and washcloth that were sitting on the counter along with a larger bath towel. There was also a bathtub with a shower, covered by a flimsy curtain on a rod.

  She opened the door and moved farther down the hall to an open space, a den of sorts that contained a sofa, chairs, a coffee table, a radio console, and racks of magazines and books. A large picture window on one side revealed a beachscape, the ocean stretching far into the distance. Some steps on the far side of the room appeared to lead to a kitchen area. An archway to the left went off to the front of the house and a hall to another bedroom.

  A large woman sat on the sofa with a newspaper in her hands. She wore a simple housedress and an apron. She might have been a maid, but somehow Blair didn’t think so. The woman’s face resembled a squashed apple. It was square, and she had tiny eyes buried in folds of flesh that were positioned above chubby cheeks and a small, puckered mouth. She looked to be in her forties.

  The woman turned to address her. “Oh. I see you are awake. How do you feel?”

  She spoke with a thick accent—German or Polish or Hungarian—something like that.

  “Where am I? Who are you?” Blair’s malevolence was potent in her tone.

  The woman stood. While she was shorter than Blair, she was built like a wrestler.

  “You must sit and relax. You can call me Leni.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are safe. We are by the sea. You will be cared for.”

  Blair entered the room. “What the hell are you talking about? I want to go home.”

  Leni shook her head. “That is impossible. You are our guest for a while.” She nodded at Blair’s stomach. “I am midwife. You will have your baby here.”

  “The hell I will!” Blair stormed to the archway and saw the front door at the end of the foyer. She ran to it and tried the knob, but it was locked. Blair turned back to see Leni standing behind her. “Let me out of here. Now.”

  “I am sorry, but you cannot leave. Sit down and relax, or I will be forced to make you do so.”

  Blair approached the woman, prepared to strike her if necessary. “Let me out of here!” She grabbed the woman by the shoulders and—

  WHAM!

  Leni had slugged her in the nose. Blair fell backward onto the tiled flooring. The stars spun in her vision and the pain was intense. Blood poured from her nostrils. She cried and choked and spat, writhing uncontrollably.

  The woman left her there. Blair was too stunned to get up. After a moment, Leni returned with a wet cloth. She squatted next to her and placed the rag on Blair’s face.

  “Hold this and press.”

  Had the woman broken her nose? It felt as though she had.

  “Now listen to me,” Leni said as tears ran down Blair’s face. “This is your home for the next few months. You cannot leave. Your car is parked in the garage and I have the keys. You are miles from Los Angeles. You will be cared for. You will be fed and you will have many books and magazines to read, and we have a radio to hear the programs to keep you entertained. In time, if you show me that you can be trusted, we can go outside and walk on the beach for a short distance. Do not try to escape. I have orders to kill you if you do. During the war I worked in Germany in a place where pain and suffering was the order of the day. If you think the police will be looking for you, you are mistaken. The studio has put out a statement that you suffered a nervous breakdown and you are recuperating at a health facility away from the public eye. No one will miss you. Make the best of it and I will not have to hurt you again.”

  Oh God, oh God …

  The wheels in Blair’s head turned. What had happened in the parking lot? After he’d knocked her out, Buddy Franco must have driven her in her car to this place. She guessed that the driver of that Cadillac had followed along to bring him back to the studio, leaving Blair’s car here along with her—out of sight. No one would miss her except, of course, for Hank. And Georgeann and Sheridan. Would they contact the police? If the studio had truly issued that statement, then the police would ignore them. Hank wouldn’t believe it, though. He would know something was wrong. He would look for her. He would find her.

  Blair opened her eyes, holding the wet cloth to her face. Leni stood over her, rubbing her fist.

  “Get up,” the woman commanded.

  When Blair didn’t move, Leni bent down and roughly pulled her up by the arm. Blair managed to stand on wobbly legs.

  “I will take you to the bathroom to clean up. You might want to take a bath. You smell. I’ve already cleaned up after your vomit twice. Now come on.”

  26

  KARISSA

  Karissa and Marcello sat with their attorney in the Stormglove office conference room. Tony Davenport, an African American man in his fifties, listened to the journey they had undertaken thus far in attempting to bring Blair Kendrick’s story to the screen. They outlined the alleged efforts by Ultimate Pictures to stop them, including being dropped from the festival, the threats from studio fixer Barry Doon, and the hacking and financial crimes against them.

  “But you don’t know for certain that it’s Justin Hirsch who’s behind it all,” he said.

  “Well, no,” Karissa answered, “but, come on. Barry Doon works for Hirsch. That’s a fact.”

  Davenport gave her a nod. “I’m willing to accept that. Before I tell you my thoughts, please explain why you think making a movie about this white woman from the forties is so important to you.”

  Marcello looked at Karissa and tilted his head, as if to say, The ball’s in your court.

  “Tony, as you know, I’m renting a house in West Adams Heights, the old area they called Sugar Hill.” Davenport nodded again. “The home belonged to Blair Kendrick. I’ve provided you copies of the lease and other documents about the owners, a company called Azules Oscuros S.A. It would be helpful to know who they are and where they’re located. My landlord, James Trundy, either doesn’t know anything or he’s not talking.”

  “Spanish?” Davenport asked. “Azules Oscuros S.A.?”

  “Yes.”

  “I speak Spanish. It means ‘dark blues,’ and the S.A. part stands for Sociedad Anonima, or an ‘anonymous partnership.’”

&nbs
p; “Dark blue, as in the color?”

  “Literally, yes, only plural. Like a bunch of dark blues.”

  Karissa looked at Marcello, and he shrugged. “Not sure that makes much sense,” she said. “Anyway, the more Marcello and I have uncovered about this woman’s story, the more I see parallels with the racism and sexism in Hollywood today.”

  “So?” Davenport asked. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I see Blair as an antihero. She’s played femmes fatales, which are typically ‘bad girl’ characters, but look at the position she was in. She was in love with a black man, had a relationship with him that was public, and maybe they had a baby together. He disappears, is maybe murdered. Eldon Hirsch is killed, and allegedly Blair was there when it happened. She ends up burned to death up in the hills on Mulholland Drive. Throw in the mystery of the rare coins that supposedly belonged to Hirsch and the involvement of the mob, and it gets more complicated. If these are facts, then the movie could be a powerful statement. Even if what I just described isn’t the truth, the story has drama and mystery. It’s a modern film noir. It could be a fascinating crime drama.”

  “But who’s the hero? If Blair dies, who saves the day in the end?”

  Karissa held out her hands. “I don’t know yet!”

  Davenport looked at Marcello. “You agree this is a viable project?”

  Marcello grudgingly nodded. “At first, I was skeptical, but I’ve come around. I’m more concerned about why we’re being targeted, and whether you can do something about it. Can you, I don’t know, send a ‘cease and desist’ letter to Justin Hirsch and his bulldog? We’re not trampling on anyone’s rights here. This pattern of intimidation needs to stop.”

  Karissa added, “I want to hire a screenwriter and get started on this. But if Ultimate Pictures continues to harass us, that’s going to be difficult. I’ve already started a rough draft, just something that defines the structure of the thing. But I still think we need a top-notch screenwriter.”

  Davenport leaned back in his chair. “Well, I hate to break this to you, but I’ve learned that Ultimate Pictures is developing their own story about Blair Kendrick and Eldon Hirsch.”