Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

She arrived for her lunch date with Marcello at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, one of the oldest landmarks that was still in business. It had first opened in 1919 and was a favored eatery among Tinseltown’s elite for decades until it became more of a tourist attraction. Still, one never knew when a celebrity would pop in for a meal, as they often did. Karissa and Marcello liked the atmosphere of the place, the brown-and-maroon color scheme, and the first-class white tablecloth and red-jacket service.

  Besides, Marcello had learned that Justin Hirsch ate there at least once a week, often a Tuesday, and often alone.

  Today was Tuesday. Would they get lucky?

  They were shown to a booth, and Marcello immediately asked for a beer, while Karissa requested just water. Not one to waste any time, Marcello promptly ordered the daily special—corned beef and cabbage. Karissa went for the salmon fillet. When the waiter departed, she then told Marcello about the previous evening’s events on her porch—and how it was a fluke that she was still alive and now sitting across from him and telling him the story. In the middle of it, the beer arrived and Marcello took a long swig. When she was done, he let out a loud breath and said, “My God, Karissa, I’m sorry. Jesus. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep much. I’ll probably go home after lunch, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Hey, I’m not the boss. You can do whatever you want, my dear.”

  “Gee, thanks. Can I ask for a three-week vacation, too?”

  The waiter delivered the food and the couple began to eat, although Marcello slowly picked at his food.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Karissa said.

  “I was until you told me what happened. Jesus, Karissa, this is serious. Are we playing with our lives here?”

  Karissa snorted and said with sarcasm, “Hey, when we made the decision to come and work in Hollywood, our lives went out the window!”

  “I’m not joking! They better not come to my house and start shooting. I’ve got a wife and kids. I’ll go Jason Bourne on them if they try it.”

  “Yeah, well, they might go American Sniper on you before you even know they’re there. Try not to worry. To tell you the truth, the more I thought about it during my sleepless night, the more I’m sure the shooter missed me on purpose. I think he was just trying to scare me. It’s made me more determ—” She inhaled sharply, grabbed him by wrist, and whispered. “He’s here. He just walked in the door.”

  “Hirsch?”

  “Uh huh.”

  She knew the man who entered the restaurant was eighty years old, but he appeared to be younger. He was in excellent shape, obviously someone who remained physically active. His face was weathered and tan. He had white hair, was tall, and he carried himself with the distinguished air of someone important.

  “Is he alone?” Marcello asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Oh boy, here we go!”

  “Let’s wait until he’s seated and ordered.”

  Hirsch sat at a table for two near the back, in the corner, away from most of the other guests. No one would have recognized him except for hardcore Hollywood history buffs. He was the type of studio executive who shied away from publicity and broadcast award shows—unless, of course, he was certain he’d be winning something.

  He was now positioned behind Karissa, in Marcello’s line of sight.

  “Has he looked our way?” she asked.

  “Nope. He acts like he’s the only one in the joint.”

  They continued to eat in silence. When Karissa had had enough of her meal, she stood. “I’m going. Why don’t you pay the bill? I have a feeling we won’t be welcome in here after I’m finished with him.” She already had her cellphone in her hand. “I’m going to record our conversation.”

  “No. It’s illegal. Not without him consenting.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m going with you. I can back you up and solve the recording problem. I can be a witness to the conversation.”

  “All right. Let’s do it.”

  “Hey. I said earlier that I wasn’t the boss. That title belongs to you. Now go get him.”

  Karissa took a breath and they strode across the floor past other diners. She reached his table and Hirsch looked up.

  “Mr. Hirsch?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Karissa Glover. This is Marcello Storm. Stormglove Productions.”

  There was a slight pause. She thought she detected a little twitch in his right eye.

  “I know who you are,” he said.

  There was only one extra chair. “May I sit down?”

  “I’m having lunch.”

  “This will only take a second.”

  He glared at her but gestured to the opposite seat. She took it and studied him for a moment. Marcello remained standing.

  “Well?”

  “Why are you trying to stop me and my partner from making a film about Blair Kendrick and what happened in 1949?”

  Hirsch put down his fork and folded his arms across his chest. “What makes you think I’m trying to stop you?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Mr. Hirsch, in the past week, my partner and I have had our bank accounts hacked and money stolen. We have received verbal threats from your lapdog, Barry Doon. He does work for you, correct?”

  “Mr. Doon works for me, yes. If he’s done anything to—”

  “Someone tried to kill me last night at my home, Mr. Hirsch. He shot at me from the street. Was it Doon?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Karissa’s heart was pounding furiously, the adrenaline pumping hard. She paused and took a deep breath. The man was lying. She knew it. She felt it.

  “Look, Mr. Hirsch, I don’t know how Blair Kendrick figured into your father’s death, but by all accounts, she had nothing to do with it. Whatever happened is history. You can’t censor history.”

  The man’s face was gradually turning red. “Miss Glover, my father was murdered. A valuable fortune was also stolen from him that was to have been passed down to me and then to my own children. Blair Kendrick had something to do with it.”

  “She was a victim, too! She was killed by whoever murdered your father.”

  Hirsch pointed a finger at Karissa. “We at Ultimate Pictures don’t want her name to become known again. We’ve taken all her pictures out of circulation. A film about her will give her unwarranted attention, and that will put a spotlight on my father’s murder. We don’t want that. It’s a promise I made to my late mother, and it’s an oath I took when I became the head of my father’s studio when I was eighteen. Eighteen! And if you and your partner continue to go down this road, you will be playing with fire. Do you understand me, miss?”

  “Is that another threat? You’ll have us killed? Is that what you’re saying?”

  The restaurant manager was suddenly at the side of the table. “Mr. Hirsch, is there a problem?”

  Hirsch growled, “This woman and this man accosted me while I was having lunch. Please get them out of here.”

  “Better come with me, madam,” the man said, gently touching her arm.

  Karissa violently pulled herself away from the manager and stood. “Is this really about Hank Marley, Mr. Hirsch?”

  “Madam, please,” the manager continued, “I don’t want to have to call the police.”

  “Let’s go, Karissa,” Marcello said softly.

  “Huh, Mr. Hirsch?” she continued. “Did your father do something to Hank Marley?”

  Hirsch exploded. “Get her out!”

  Karissa held up her hands. “I’m going.” She started to walk away, but then turned and delivered a parting shot. “This isn’t over!” Then, ignoring the stares of the other patrons, she and Marcello marched across the length of the restaurant. She went out the front door while Marcello paused to pull out his wallet and count out several bills to the maître ’d.

  Outside, she told him as the
y walked to their cars, “I’m not sure he revealed anything useful, but I recorded it anyway so we can transcribe exactly what he said in there. Then we can erase the recording.”

  He laughed. “Good plan. By the way, you were great in there. Boss.”

  31

  THE MOVIE

  An exterior daytime shot of the house on the beach cross-fades to the interior, where we find Blair sitting at a table in the kitchen, having breakfast. Leni watches over her.

  Voice-over: “Two weeks after the baby was born, I felt stronger, although my grief took a terrible toll on my emotional stability. I was moving around better, but I was harboring a darkness that was struggling to be released. There had been no word from Buddy Franco, though. I had no idea when they were going to let me leave, or if they even were. It was now July 1949.”

  Blair took a final bite of the scrambled eggs and washed it down with the rest of the coffee. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat back in her chair. One thing she could say about Leni was that she was a decent cook.

  “All done?” the woman asked. Without waiting for an answer, she took the plate and utensils to the sink and began to wash them by hand.

  Blair eyed the iron skillet that was still on the stove.

  “When do I get to leave, Leni?” she asked. “I’m feeling well. I could go back to work.”

  Leni turned to look at her. “Your breasts are still sore, ja?”

  Blair frowned. “A little. But that’s normal, right?”

  Leni had told her that by simply not stimulating the breasts after the birth of a child, the production of milk would cease after a few days. Some women experienced pain from engorgement, and that was true for Blair. From the third day to the tenth, she was very uncomfortable. Leni had provided ice bags and aspirin, which helped. The aches were now subsiding.

  “Still producing milk?”

  “Not much. A few drops.”

  Leni shook her head. “Better not go until breasts are better.” She moved to the table and suddenly reached out to fondle the pearl necklace around Blair’s neck, but Blair jerked her upper body away.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  Leni held up her hands. “Sorry. It is nice necklace.” She took the coffee mug and went back to washing.

  Blair gazed at the skillet.

  “I think I’m fine, really. Can’t you contact Buddy? Please. I’ve been here for months.”

  “Mr. Franco will decide when is best for you to leave.”

  Blair slowly rose from the table and feigned stretching. “Ohhhhh. I’ve been lazy and have gained weight.”

  “We will go walk on the beach this morning,” the woman said, her back still to her.

  She’s gotten careless, Blair thought.

  She took a few steps toward the stove, reached out, and took the skillet by the handle. It had cooled enough to grasp. As it was made of iron, it was heavier than she expected. She then approached Leni from behind and said, “Don’t you want me to help you with the dishes, Leni?”

  “No, no, you go and rest.”

  Blair raised the skillet and brought it down with force on the back of the woman’s head. Leni jerked and wobbled on her feet for a couple of seconds, tried to turn, and then collapsed like a ton of blubber. The heavy woman was out cold on the floor. Blood began to pool on the linoleum from the back of her grayish hair.

  Oh my God, is she dead?

  Blair stooped to examine her. She wasn’t sure how to check for a pulse, but then she remembered that once in a picture her character had to do just that to an actor. She took Leni’s wrist and felt around.

  There.

  A slow beating in the vein.

  Blair exhaled loudly, relieved that she hadn’t murdered her, although the monster probably deserved it. It was possible the skull was fractured and she would die anyway.

  In shock at what she had done, Blair crumpled into one of the kitchen chairs and sat there for several minutes as the rage slowly subsided and she came to her senses. She had just struck down another human being. What had become of the warm, sunny actress known as Blair Kendrick? She was not surprised that she felt no remorse. It was as if she was completely detached from the violence she had just enacted.

  Finally, she rose, searched Leni’s apron pockets, and found the ring of keys. She hurried to her room to dress in the clothes she’d been wearing when she was first brought to the house. Then, she returned to the kitchen. Once again, Blair stooped to feel Leni’s pulse.

  Stillness. Just like the cold, distant silence in Blair’s heart.

  She stood, now a real-life femme fatale, and walked away with only a single thought.

  To hell with her.

  Feeling as if she was operating in another reality, Blair drove the Oldsmobile away from the house on the beach. It had taken a few tries to get the car started after it was immobile for so long, but eventually the engine kicked over. She had no idea where she was, but she followed the unpaved road until it came to a real highway. Following her instincts, she turned to the south and followed the coastline to a gas station. There, she stopped, went inside and asked to use a phone. The young man working there said they didn’t have one, which she knew was a lie. She then asked how to get back to Los Angeles, and he looked at her as if she were mad. He finally told her to keep following the road and that soon she would see signs pointing the way.

  It took over an hour for her to get to Hollywood and then to the area of Los Angeles she recognized as West Adams Heights. Sugar Hill. Instead of driving to her house, she went straight to Hank’s home on Hobart. She parked at the curb and, not caring if anyone saw her, hurried up the walk to the front door. Knocking repeatedly, she called out, “Hank! Hank, it’s me! Open up!”

  The door swung open, but it wasn’t Hank who answered. It was a young boy, about six years old.

  “Wha—is Hank here? Who are you?” she stammered.

  “I’m Gregory.”

  Then she remembered. Gregory Webster. Ray and Loretta’s son, the little boy she often caught sight of when she visited Hank’s place.

  “Oh! Gregory. Hello. Do you remember me? I’m Blair Kendrick.”

  He nodded but eyed her suspiciously as if he wasn’t sure.

  “Is Hank Marley here?” The boy shook his head. “What about your daddy? Is he here?” Again, the head shake. “Your momma? Is she home?” No. “You—you’re by yourself?” Gregory nodded. “Well, where are they? Where’s Hank? Where’s your daddy or momma?”

  “Momma’s at work. I don’t know where Daddy is. We haven’t seen Mr. Marley in a long time.”

  “What?” Gregory just stood there. “How long has Hank been gone?” The boy shrugged.

  The panic that consumed her was overwhelming. Maybe Sheridan and Georgeann would have some answers. If they were still at her house.

  “Tell your daddy that Blair was here. Will you do that? Tell him I need to speak to him right away!”

  Gregory nodded.

  She turned and started to go back to the car, but then she stopped. Returning to the open door and the boy who was still standing there, she said, “Will you let me come inside for a minute?”

  The boy seemed to trust her. Perhaps he had remembered who she was—a friend of the family. He stepped back so she could enter.

  “I’m going upstairs to Hank’s room. There’s something I need to find in there. Is that all right with you?”

  He didn’t say anything, so she went ahead and climbed the stairs. Hank’s old bedroom looked untouched. The same bed and furniture occupied the space, but there were also obvious signs of other people living there—mainly women’s things that belonged to Loretta Webster. Ray and his family had expanded their territory in the house.

  Blair went to the nightstand and opened the drawer.

  It was as if she’d found buried treasure.

  She picked up Hank’s Smith & Wesson and examined it. It was unloaded. A box of cartridges was also in the drawer, so she took that as well.

&nbs
p; Blair turned and hurried down the stairs, past little Gregory who had remained in place, watching the frenetic white woman run around his family’s house.

  “Bye, Gregory,” she said. “Remember—tell your daddy I need to talk to him.”

  She ran back to her car, started it, and drove around the block to her own house on Harvard Boulevard. The grass had grown long in the yard. What plants that had bloomed in the flower beds and pots on the porch were now long dead. The tears began to flow freely as she pulled in to the drive and got out. She went into the garage and tried to go in through the door there, but it was locked. She didn’t have her own house keys. They had somehow gone missing at the house on the beach.

  Blair ran around to the porch. The front door was locked, too. No one was inside.

  “No! Oh, God.”

  She looked out into the street. How long would it be before Buddy Franco and his hoodlums discovered she had escaped? This would be the first place they’d search for her. She had to get in and out quickly.

  Blair went down the steps and into the yard again, back around to the garage, and to the door inside. Surely if she applied enough force?

  She raised her leg and stomped on the door with the sole of her shoe. Again. A third time, harder. Then another kick.

  The lock broke.

  Blair pushed on the door and she was inside.

  Except for the amount of dust that had accumulated, everything appeared the way she had left it. The furniture was still in place. After a quick look around downstairs, she went up to the second floor. Her bedroom was intact. Her belongings and clothes were still in the dresser and closet.

  She took the only suitcase she owned and opened it on her bed. She started stuffing it with clothes and other belongings until it was full.

  “Blair?”

  The voice was coming from downstairs.

  “Blair, you up there? It’s Ray!”

  She ran out of the bedroom and called from the top of the stairs. “I’m here, Ray!” She flitted down to the first floor and ran into his arms.

  “Oh, Ray, I’m so happy to see you!”

  “Where you been, Blair? We been awfully worried!”

  “Forget about that—where’s Hank?”