Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  He started the van and drove away, turned on Pecos, and stopped at the closest gas station. He got out of the vehicle and went to the pay phone that was on the side of the building. He dialed the number he knew by heart. When the line was answered, he said, “It’s Delbert. Tell Tonino I saw the woman again, third time. Fits the age and description. No, I wasn’t close enough to get the license plate. But she’ll be back.”

  Delbert hung up and returned to the van, ready to continue the surveillance. Tonino would get the word back to Franco.

  They wanted that woman dead.

  42

  KARISSA

  “Welcome,” Blair said slowly, with a hoarse, gravelly voice. “Come in, have a seat.”

  “Blair Kendrick?” was all Karissa could say. “We thought …”

  “That I was dead? That I’m buried in Westwood?” She just grinned and shook her head. “That’s some other bitch.”

  “Blair, you know smoking isn’t good for you!” Serena said. She went over to the bed and plucked the cigarette out of the woman’s fingers. “The doctor said you have to stop.”

  The woman merely winced a little. She seemed to be too weak to object, but she mumbled something under her breath when Serena stubbed the cigarette out in a plate on the tray table. Blair then looked at Karissa and said softly and with considerable effort, “I’m ninety-one goddamned years old. I’ve had … two strokes and I can barely walk. I could die tomorrow. Why does the doctor give a … damn about me smoking?” She coughed.

  Karissa thought the woman had chutzpah. “Sorry, I don’t know what to say. It’s a bit of a shock to find out you’re alive!”

  Gregory said, “Now you know why I don’t want to be found. Carol and I have been watching over Blair since she came back to the States from Costa Rica. She’s always been like family to us. I’ve known her since I was a little boy.” He looked at Karissa. “She lived in Costa Rica during the fifties and sixties, and then again from the late seventies to the nineties. My father, bless his heart, was in love with her. But he was Hank Marley’s best friend, so he never did anything about it. But my dad and Blair remained good friends, though, isn’t that right, Blair?”

  She nodded.

  “My dad helped to keep her out of harm’s way, which was what Hank wanted, and then I guess you could say Carol and I took over after Dad got too old to do it. He refused to leave LA. We figured the best place she could hide was here on the farm.”

  “A nut farm,” Blair said with sarcasm, but with humor in her eyes. “Please, sit down.”

  Karissa and Marcello took the two empty chairs. Carol left the room, while Gregory and Serena remained standing by the door.

  “Ms. Kendrick,” Karissa started, “we haven’t told you who we are. My name is—”

  “I … know.”

  Gregory continued, “She knows you are Karissa and Marcello. And that you want to make a movie about her.”

  “Well, yes,” Karissa said. “That’s right.”

  “And you call me Blair. None of this … ‘Ms. Kendrick’ stuff.” The woman raised her arm and pointed toward a bookcase beside the closet. A short stack of notebooks—the kind used as journals—sat on a shelf. “Take those. They tell … my story. And why it’s not my body in that grave in Hollywood.”

  Gregory added, “Over the last twenty years, she wrote it all down.”

  “It’s all the truth,” Blair said. “From my … viewpoint, anyway.”

  “Oh, my.” Karissa reached over and grabbed them. After a quick glance at the handwritten entries, she said, “Thank you. I can’t wait to read them, and thank you for trusting me with them.”

  Blair weakly lifted a hand and waved it at her. “They tell a sordid little soap opera.”

  “Did you—did you send me those rare coins?”

  The woman smiled. “Did they come in handy?”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  “I’m sorry it had to be so … mysterious.” Her breathing was becoming labored. “They came in handy … for me, too.”

  “For all of us,” Gregory said. “The money helped us buy this farm. Got our son William into Howard University in Washington, DC.”

  Blair coughed and gasped.

  “Are you all right, Blair?” Serena asked.

  The woman shut her eyes, swallowed, and nodded. Karissa could see, however, that something was wrong. “Is there anything I can do?”

  When Blair opened her eyes, they were full of tears. She sniffed, and then her face became distressed. “My story … you will see … I’m really … a terrible person …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A … murderer.” She coughed again, and it was more of an effort for her to catch her breath. Finally, she continued. “Your movie … my life isn’t important. I want … I want you to do it … for Hank Marley. He’s the real … victim here.” A tear ran down her cheek, but she tried to keep smiling at her visitors. Then, the next cough was worse, and she winced in pain.

  Marcello approached the other side of the bed and took Blair’s other hand. “You don’t have to talk about it now.” He looked at Gregory. “I think she needs to go to the hospital.”

  “No!” Blair whispered forcefully and then struggled to say, “I want … to tell you … I do have regrets … so many regrets … but not for what I did … to those two men.”

  Karissa urged, “Hush, Blair, save your strength.”

  “No … listen …”

  43

  THE MOVIE

  The movie picks up with a daytime interior shot of Blair’s apartment kitchen. She sits at the table, reading the newspaper. The music evokes an ominous mood and begins to build as Blair turns the pages and then stops to read a small article.

  She speaks in voice-over. “Then, one morning, I opened the Las Vegas Review-Journal and saw it.”

  Her face registers shock and horror. She gasps, puts a hand to her mouth.

  Cut to a close-up of the newspaper article:

  N LAS VEGAS HOMICIDES

  Police are investigating what appears to be a double homicide at a residence on Reynolds Avenue. Maxwell and Jane Bradford were found shot to death in their home, apparently victims of a break-in. Sergeant Sean Wallis indicates the crime could be drug-related. Particularly troubling is that the couple’s two-year-old daughter is missing and believed to be dead. The Bradfords were both employees of the Golden Nugget Casino.

  Cut back to Blair, in shock, tears streaming down her face.

  “My world came crashing down. Everything I had ever loved had been taken from me. First Hank, and then my daughter, and finally my granddaughter.”

  Blair runs to the bedroom, throws herself on the bed, and beats the covers with her fist. She screams, thrashes, and sobs in extreme distress. A lifetime of loss, as well as murder and guilt, comes crashing down.

  “I knew what had happened, of course. It was Buddy Franco and his goon who had done it. They had probably gone to Jane and Maxwell, thinking the couple knew where I was hiding. At first the fate of my granddaughter was unknown, but I later learned that her bloodstained pajamas were uncovered in a trash dumpster near the house. And it was most likely all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid in going to the house to give my granddaughter a birthday present …!”

  Blair sits up and wipes the tears from her cheeks.

  “It had been done to draw me out … they figured I couldn’t help going to my daughter’s funeral.”

  She opens a nightstand drawer. The camera cuts to a close-up of its contents—a handgun.

  “There was only one thing left for me to do. Fortunately, I knew where Buddy Franco liked to have breakfast.”

  At nine in the morning on the day prior to the Bradfords’ funeral, Blair parked the Ford down the street from the Sunshine Diner, facing away from it, and waited. She wore a red wig, sunglasses and a scarf, blue jeans, a plaid blouse, and tennis shoes. Her appearance was altered enough that any witnesses wouldn’t be able to identify her as Blair Kendrick. She
did, however, ironically resemble an older Malena Mengarelli.

  She sat backward in the seat and watched the building with her binoculars, but Franco was not inside. It was still early, though. When she had seen him there, it was usually around eleven. He liked his breakfast for lunch.

  She had purchased the Smith & Wesson in Las Vegas at a gun show. It was identical to the one she had used on Eldon Hirsch and Buddy Franco in Hollywood.

  The past few days had been dark as she drowned in the depths of despair. There were moments when Blair didn’t think she could go on living. However, when the idea of revenge had taken shape in her mind—once again—then she had a purpose. History was repeating itself. She was all too aware of this dark parallel of inescapable fate she had inherited, a common trait of a femme fatale in a film noir. The irony was not lost on her. Blair was convinced she was insane—a madwoman, a killer—but she also believed she would be ridding the world of an evil.

  Her escape route was all set. If she was able and the timing was right, she would drive directly to the Las Vegas airport. She had a bag packed, a change of clothes, and her “Penny Miller” passport. Blair had already studied the various departures and the cities to which they flew. She would make her way back to Costa Rica and remain there indefinitely. If the timing didn’t work out, she knew of a lot near the airport where she could park and wait, hidden from view, until it was nearer a suitable departure time.

  Buddy Franco arrived at the diner at 11:20, parked his car in the back of the diner, and walked around the building with a cane. He was alone, which made Blair’s job easier. She had no idea where his cohort was, but she didn’t care. He was probably off running an errand for his masters. The diner wasn’t crowded—only one other booth was occupied by three people, and there were two others sitting at the counter.

  She started the Ford, pulled it out into traffic, made a U-turn, and drove back toward the diner. Double-parking parallel to the front door, Blair left the car running and got out. The pistol was in her hand.

  Franco was sipping coffee. He smoked a cigarette while reading the newspaper in a booth by the window. He hadn’t noticed her. The man was slipping in his older age.

  Blair entered the diner and walked determinedly to the booth. She raised the gun when she stopped in front of him.

  “You killed my lover, my daughter, and my granddaughter,” she said softly. “My granddaughter was only two.”

  Franco’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “Wait—!” he snapped.

  She squeezed the trigger. The round struck his chest. The man spasmed in his seat and grunted loudly. A waitress screamed.

  Franco clutched the wound. He struggled to breathe as he gasped, “No … she’s alive …”

  Blair’s heart was pounding, but his words caused another surge of adrenaline. “Where is she? Where?”

  But the man couldn’t answer. His eyes bulged as he tried to speak.

  “Tell me!” she barked.

  It was no use. Franco slumped over toward the window, his eyes staring blankly at the coffee cup on the table.

  She lowered the gun. The waitress was still screaming. Most everyone else in the diner was cowering under the tables.

  One man frozen at the counter said, “I think you killed him, lady.”

  Blair took a deep breath, turned, and walked out of the diner, her head held high and not looking at any of the witnesses. Once outside, she got in the driver’s seat of her car and drove away before anyone in the joint could call the police.

  44

  KARISSA AND THE MOVIE

  The film reaches the final scenes as Blair Kendrick’s story moves into the present day. The setting is a quiet almond farm in Wasco, California, where the former actress has come to live in her twilight years. In a montage of short vignettes, we see the Webster family conspiring with Blair to attract the attention of a film producer in Hollywood—a woman named Karissa Glover.

  In a voice-over, the Blair character declares, “After doing a lot of research about producers in Hollywood, I knew Karissa was the one who could tell the truth about what had happened. If we could get her into my house on South Harvard Boulevard, I believed that she would become interested in it. Our hints could not be overt, but I knew she was smart enough to eventually figure out the path she needed to take. Then, when we were finally face-to-face, I could give her my journals and tell her the whole thing. The absolutely wonderful truth about this story.”

  Actors portraying Karissa Glover and Marcello Storm are standing next to Blair’s bed in her room at the farm, holding her hands.

  “But, unfortunately, she had to learn all the nasty parts first.”

  Blair had not shifted her position under the sheet that covered her raised knees and chest, although relating the tale of how she had killed Buddy Franco had taken a lot out of her. The woman continued to wheeze as she spoke to Karissa. “I’ve been waiting … for you. I’ve wanted to meet you … for so long. There is so much … I have to say to you.”

  “And I look forward to it. But maybe you should rest now, Blair.”

  Blair shook her head. “Franco … he … wasn’t the only one …”

  “You don’t have to talk,” Karissa insisted. “I’ll read the journals. You need to—”

  “I also killed … Eldon Hirsch …” She squeezed both of their hands tightly.

  Karissa had figured that was so, but the revelation was still startling. “Hush now. Save your strength.”

  But the floodgates were open. “And there … were … others … I—”

  A muffled scream and scuffling in the stairwell interrupted her.

  Gregory started. “What the—?”

  Karissa and Marcello turned to see Barry Doon burst into the room holding Carol Webster, one hand over her mouth, and the other holding a semiautomatic pistol that was pointing at her head.

  “Hey, mister,” Gregory began, “Please don’t—”

  “Shut up!” Doon shoved Carol into the room and into her husband’s arms. “Get in there with them.” He remained in the doorway, his bald head soaked in sweat, his gun trained on everyone and no one. Karissa and Marcello remained frozen by the bed. Gregory held Carol, and with Serena they moved so that their backs were against the wall. Blair kept silent, her eyes boring holes through the intruder.

  “You!” Karissa snapped with venom.

  “So, this is where she’s been hiding all this time,” Doon said. “Tonino and I knew that if we kept tabs on missy there”—he indicated Karissa—“that she’d lead us to her eventually.” He addressed Karissa. “You sure don’t know how to lose a tail.” Then, to both her and Marcello, he barked, “Let me see your hands.”

  Together they raised their arms.

  “Stand over there with them, your backs against the wall.”

  The couple joined Gregory, Carol, and Serena.

  “This all ends here.” He laughed and addressed Karissa. “You just don’t take a hint as easily as we thought you would, even when I shot at you on your front porch and missed on purpose.”

  He shook his head, and then his free hand dipped into a pocket. He pulled out a colorful, wrinkled business card and threw it on the floor, where it landed faceup. Karissa was horrified to see that it was from the gold and rare coin collector shop, with Seymour’s cartoon caricature.

  “Once we knew you had some of the coins, my orders changed from scaring you away from making your stupid movie to keeping tabs on you to maybe lead us to this woman. Your talk with the Trundys clinched it,” the man snarled. “I’d sure hate to be the police detective whose job it is to figure this one out! Six bodies in an upstairs bedroom, nothing stolen. Two Hollywood film producers, a couple of nut farmers, some dame, and an old bag who everyone thought was dead for decades.”

  “Mr. Doon—” Karissa started.

  “Shut up!” He glared at her. “There’s nothing you can say that’s going to change anything. When I’m done with you, I’ll go back and take care of the Trundys.”
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  “Wait.”

  Blair had spoken in a quiet, tentative voice.

  Doon was surprised to hear her speak. “Did you say something?”

  “Wait,” she repeated. “Come … here …”

  “What?”

  “I want … to … tell you … a secret …”

  “I don’t care to know one.”

  “About … coins?”

  Doon’s eyes narrowed. “You still have them? Where are they?”

  “Come … closer …”

  He kept the gun trained on the other five people standing against the wall. “You people don’t move. Keep your hands up. If any one of you so much as flinches, I’ll shoot. I can’t guarantee which one of you I’ll hit, but someone will go down. Do you understand?”

  No one said a word.

  “Do you understand?”

  They all nodded and spoke together. “Yes.” “Yes, sir.” “Uh huh.”

  Doon walked further into the room, still aiming the pistol at them. Slowly, he moved sideways toward the bed. When he reached it, he kept his eyes on the quintet as he spoke to Blair. “Okay, talk, lady. I’m here.”

  “Please … come … closer,” Blair whispered, barely able to speak.

  Doon awkwardly leaned over so that his ear was nearer her face. “Okay, tell me.”

  Blair’s arm, which had been hidden beneath the sheet, moved and emerged into view. Her shaking hand held a Smith & Wesson revolver—but her age and weak condition slowed her timing, spoiling the surprise.

  Doon snapped his left hand around Blair’s wrist and thrust her arm away from him. “What the—?”

  Her finger squeezed the trigger and the deafening retort elicited cries of fright from the captives standing against the wall. The round perforated the ceiling, causing bits of plaster to sprinkle over Doon and Blair. She attempted to force her arm toward him, but his strength was too much for her. The gun fell away from her hand, slid over the bed, and dropped to the floor.