Bells of Avalon (14 page)

“Danny—no,” she said pulling away from his kiss and resting her cheek against his. He paid no attention and ran his fingers through her hair, looking at her with dark, nowhere eyes.  He pulled her down to a sofa in the corner of her dressing room. She made protesting sounds against his mouth as his hands ran up the side of her thigh. She called out his name, pulling her lips away and shifting underneath him. He groaned at his fumbling hands and tore open the front of her robe, revealing her naked chest beneath him.  She screamed.  He pulled back, breathless and saw the plain wrath in her eyes. It was the last thing he saw before the blinding red pain. Two hits, unforgiving and precise against his right eye. The second jab whipped his head back. His balance in suspense, he felt a strong kick to his chest and fell to the floor. He rolled to one side, coughing and struggling to catch his breath against the tightness of his lungs, the throbbing pain in his eye.   

He heard her crying, and pulled himself up to the edge of the sofa.  Her shaking hands were pressed to her face. When she saw him looking, she raised one hand in a pathetic gesture of defense that made him want to die. He’d said something, a compulsory sort of apology. But the words were tardy and hopeless if Katie had even heard them.    

“Get away from me!” she screamed at him through her tears. He pulled back, but he didn’t leave. He sat on the floor for hours it seemed, his throbbing head in his hands.

They left the theater as the sun set behind the city skyline. He watched her slender arm shoot up and hail a cab. The movement had a bold mastery to it, and it reminded him of just how long she’d been in the city.  She asked if he was hungry. He studied the profile of her face, but she refused to look his way. The alcohol had left him with a dry mouth and an empty shell of hunger to compete with his aching head. 

“Sure,” he said softly. She spat out an uptown address to the driver. She took him to an ungodly expensive place. He thought that was the point—so the upper crust of Manhattan could see him for what he was: a washed-up brute with a black eye in a wrinkled suit. Her eyes stayed downcast and glued to the plate in front of her. She looked as bare and helpless as a blonde puppy. She hadn’t even let him pick up the check.

It was dark when they returned to her hotel suite. She disappeared into the bathroom and he fell asleep on the chaise lounge. In the middle of the night, he felt her crawl next to him. The room was black, but city lights still twinkled through the windowpane. Her white bathrobe looked fluorescent under his hand. She laid her head against his chest, her hair damp and fragrant. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and sighed against his neck.

“Me too,” he said, “for more than you’ll ever know.”

The next day, he left the key to the Fiske Street house on her bedside table. She was still asleep when he left. Moving swiftly through the lobby, he caught a glimpse of himself in one grand mirror. He looked like a scoundrel, unshaven and black-eyed.

That was how it ended. He hadn’t even had to mention Fae and the baby. What he’d done was enough. Back in Los Angeles, he quit everything but the Chesterfields. His agent got him a few guest spots before his finances completely dried up. He couldn’t say that he wanted to get married, but the idea was growing on him. He liked the idea that Fae would just be his wife and nothing else to the world. What he felt for her was easily contained. Added to that, she could be a doll—a real snow white type. After the wedding they could have a shot at a normal life. He thought of joining the army like his father. Maybe going to school when he got out. It would be enough just to get out of Hollywood.

But as the wedding got closer, he started to wake with night sweats and a thick feeling in his chest—just like before he’d gotten clean. The thickness grew into a constant ache that he tried to hide from everyone around him. By then, Fae had moved into his mother’s house. Sometimes he watched her at the kitchen table with his mother, Fae’s pretty round face where Katie’s should have been.

Max finally told him she was back in Los Angeles. Her show had closed. Now she had the bad luck of being loaned out on the same B-flick Max was working on. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from driving by her house at night. He found roundabout ways to mine Max for information, but he’d offered little beyond the simplest of anecdotes: small talk between takes, she had a new car, she looked good, in fact, better than ever—still same old Katie.  That was the limit before Max grew restless and changed the subject. Casual questions became lines of interrogation when he sensed Max was holding back. Katie wasn’t stupid. He knew she’d been able to figure out most of what happened. But as time went on, Danny began to realize that Max had connected some dots for Katie where Fae was concerned. Sooner rather than later, Max would shoot him a finite look that put an end to whatever had to do with Katie. When he did that, Danny realized whatever he was or wasn’t telling him was something he didn’t need to know…something he probably didn’t want to know.

“Kom indenfor
!” He heard his mother’s voice snap at him from inside the house. He glanced up from his boot.

“Et øjeblik!” he yelled back.

He stood up from the porch swing and stretched his arms. He’d heard the familiar bellow of Max’s car out front. Max was wearing only half of his groomsman uniform when he got out of the car. His tuxedo pants were sleek and wrinkle free, but the top was all cotton undershirt.

“I'm late,” Max announced, an overdressed umpire calling himself out of the game. He bent over to pull a bag from his back seat.

“Not terribly,” Daniel said.

Danny caught the iron-silver flash of lightning against the dark clouds in the distance. He heard his mother’s wind chimes tinkle with the breeze. Max looked toward the sky, squinting as though looking at the naked face of the sun. 

“We had better get inside,” Max warned, slapping Daniel’s shoulder and moving past. Danny looked to the suburban rooftops where the twisted lighting had showed itself seconds before.

“Coming?” Max asked.

It was a simple question, but meant so many things as he looked at Max holding the door ajar for him. 

“Yeah—sure.”              

Max’s eyebrows lifted up. He gave Danny an ironic smile, “You ok?”

“Never better,” Danny lied.

The boyhood relics of his room held Max’s attention for only a few minutes. He’d since left him alone with his nerves. He stood quietly, half-listening to Max’s attempts to flirt with his mother downstairs. His hands were shaky as he struggled to secure the knot of his tie. Lastly, he put on his jacket and tugged at the sleeves until the material fell comfortably across his shoulders. The ensemble complete, he took a deep breath and looked in the mirror. For a second, he expected to see the same reflection as in the lobby of Katie’s hotel. Thankfully, a kinder reflection greeted him now. 

He looked at the wing-tip collar of his tuxedo shirt as it circled around his neck, giving way to a thin black tie. He studied the thick, knitted brows over his greenish eyes, the small upturn of his nose against the padded frown of his lips. It was same the barren expression in the slim framed portrait that sat always on his mother’s piano. His eyes avoided it whenever he entered the den. Still it teased him, beckoning him to look at the man who had been his father. He’d been young then, in full uniform.  He had the same rolling brown hair, the same wide shoulders under the canvas of a formal jacket.  But while his father’s chest had been wreathed with silver insignias, his own was plain and marked only by a dull, notched lapel. Danny felt his knees collapse under him. He braced his arms in front before falling face-first into the carpet. Staring at his splayed-out fingers, he broke into a cold sweat.

“Whatcha doin down there, Danny boy?” Max said from somewhere above. 

“Cuff link—lost the damn thing.”  He clamped his eyes shut until the strength of his knees returned. Danny pulled himself up from the floor, his eyes feigning search over the ground. Max nodded with a rare look of concern while Danny stood in place as though frozen. 

“We'll find them. We don't have to hop over to the church for another half hour. We'll find them.” Max repeated, his eyes darting over to the credenza.  “Oh look, they’re right here.” 

He gestured to the tiny silver orbs sitting next to one another on a tilted axis.

“See, I told you.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Max said and sat on the bed.

“You know we'll have to stagger out the wedding party with Albert gone,” Danny said.

“Not a problem. I’ll just take one girl on each arm—like the old days.” Max laughed.

“Thanks for doing this.”

“You kidding me?” Max smiled, eager to make light of the situation. “I wouldn't have missed it.”

Daniel went to the closet and began to sort through its insides. 

“What'd you lose now?”

Danny pulled out a thin, square package wrapped in blue paper. He handed it to Max.

“What's this?”

“Oh you know, groomsman gift.”

“You didn't have to.”

“No I wanted to, open it.”

Max tore the paper away until a Coleman Hawkins LP emerged from the wrapping. He smiled

“Hey, this isn’t the one we listened to the summer we rented the Malibu shack?”

“The same. I've got another. I was going to give it to Albert but, well, it will be nice to have it for myself.”

“Huh, what do you know?” Max laughed. “Oh god, Katie hated this. I thought she’d murder us the night we played
Flight Eleven
over and over again.” Max turned the album over in his hands.

“Yeah well, Katie and jazz never mixed did they?” Danny smiled weakly.

The words hung in the air until Max broke the heavy silence.

“So what are your plans for Vegas, you and Fae?”

“Oh that. Nothing really. Probably just find some flophouse off the drag, whatever’s cheap.”

“Well, we can't have that. I have something for you also.” Max pulled a card from his pocket.

“My old man does business with the owner of a new joint on Fremont. It's not the biggest but it’s not shabby. Got you guys in the penthouse.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's all taken care of Dan. It's the least I could do.”

“Max, I—can’t.”

“It's your honeymoon, Dan—c’mon.”

Daniel took the card and placed it in the tiny pocket at his waist. They shook hands.

“Thank you, Max.”

Chapter Thirteen

New York City, New York

1966

Max’s office was large but dull. The closest thing it had to a window was the long, spanning mirror hanging on the wall. Max despised the overwhelmingly bulky desk that Albert had chosen for him. The gaudy red grain of the wood belonged in a mystery novel—not the office of a second-rate night club. Max sighed and sent his body in a spin on the swivel chair. He watched the muted colors of his office spin into one boring band of beige. His knee banged against the underside of the desk. He cursed at the sharp pain. His brother had pulled him from his regular duties that night and placed him on inventory. A punishment of sorts, Max thought—although he wasn’t entirely sure the reason. Albert was sore about something, in any case. Maybe he found out why he’d been talking to the press. Albert had watched with snake eyes as he’d escorted the young reporter out earlier that night. But lately Albert always looked like that. Lately, Albert would blow his top over the soup being too cold. Everyone at the club was keeping a low-profile. It’s why Max hadn’t argued when he was banished to a night in the supply closet. Max rose from his desk and pulled his jacket up from the back of the chair. He took a last dreary look over the office before switching off the light and shutting the door behind him.

Stale light still spilled out from Effie’s smaller but equally dull office.  He walked within earshot of the hum and cursory tappings of her adding machine. If she spotted him, he’d never get away without a last-minute chore. He took a breath, taking one large step to cover the small wedge of light that spilled from her partially open door. He thought he’d cleared it just before he heard his name called out. He sighed and turned back towards her office. Effie was inspecting a snippet of register tape with a peeved furrow to her thin eyebrows. Her reading glasses had fallen to the bridge of her nose, and she looked more kitty plays at ledgers and credits than fearless bookkeeper. She saw him watching from the doorway and took off her glasses.

“Hi, Max.”

“Hey, Ef,” he yawned, leaning against the door jamb.

“Tired?”

“I suppose. Counting cans and bottles of booze all night could lead a man to murder.”

“Killing anyone in particular tonight?” she asked.

“Only Albert.”

“Great. Do me a favor—make him sign the books before you blip him off.”  She handed him a crinkling mess of blue papers and smiled. He frowned and took them from her.

“I just can’t have my moment with you two, can I?” he asked.

“I think you’ve had more moments than you know what do with.”

“That’s the funny thing about moments—you don’t appreciate ‘em til they’re gone.”

“I don’t feel a bit sorry for you. I’m serious though, he has to sign them.”

“Do I really have to? What do you say we leave it? Grab a bottle of gin from the bar and sneak out the back with Al none the wiser.”

He leaned his face close to hers. She gave him a shy smile, “Nice try. Maybe another night.” She put on her glasses once more, pushing them up the bridge of her nose and returning her focus to the adding machine. The purr of her mathematics followed him down the stairwell like perfume. It didn’t take long before he found his brother at the bar, his jacket slung over the empty stool beside him. His only company was the last barman on shift finishing up some side work.

“Quittin’ time, ain’t it Marvin?” Max said, plopping down beside his brother.

“Just about Mr. Kittredge.” The barman slung a rag over his shoulder and relaxed a bit, “Anything for the road while I’m here?”

Max leaned over the bar, inspecting his choices. He glanced at the half-empty whiskey sour next to his brother’s meaty hand. He lit a cigarette.

“Give me the big brother special over here, will ya?” He flicked a thumb towards Albert’s unimpressed face. Albert finished his drink and took Effie’s papers from his hand. He read over them carefully before signing off on the margins. Marvin slid a fresh whiskey sour across the bar and Max bid him goodnight.

Albert could dish out the silent treatment almost better than any woman, and Max lost the standoff by the time his cigarette had burned half-down.

“Well, what is it, Al? You didn’t stick me in the holding house counting liquor all night for nothing.”

“It’s the least of my worries, but you’d know that if you stuck your head in around here.”

“Oh,
christ
, this again? I’m here every night. What more do you want from me?”

“You can’t just do A&R anymore. You get good acts—but you can’t pick and choose what you want to do and leave me twisting in the wind to cover everything else.”

“Al, we’ve talked about this. You know I’m better at the other stuff. I talk to the butter and egg men. I get the people in the door. If you ain’t got customers, you ain’t got a club.”

Albert eased back and rested his hands over his chest. Max braced for another verbal lashing, but his brother’s demeanor calmed.

“You don’t understand, Max. You can’t just make it by chinning around the club any longer. I need you to make a hand. I barely see my wife and kids as it is. We’re heading into the hectic season and I need you to jump in where it’s warm.”

“Awe, c’mon, Albert. Here’s what we’ll do—we’ll bring in some extra help. Right? We’ve gotta be able to do that.”

“We can’t afford to bring in anyone else for a while, Max. Even if we could, I wouldn’t want to.  It’s not too much for both of us to cover if you help me out. If you can’t I’m going to have to—” Albert’s dark eyes pitched up and he paused.

Max sighed, “What? You’re gonna have to what?”

“I’m going to have to buy you out and bring in someone who can.”

Max swallowed and ran his hand through his hair.

“Jeez Al, if things were this bad why didn’t you just say something?”

“I have. You don’t listen. Look, you don’t want to be at the club anymore—fine don’t. But you’re going to have to do something sooner or later.”

“Jesus, Albert. You sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave already.”

“I just don’t want you should eat your heart is all.” Albert said, his sharp words echoing through the vacant club. Max nodded. He looked around the place: the glossy bar, the black matte floor, how the tables were spaced and stripped of their cream-colored linens. 

“A reporter came by today,” Max said softly.

“What?”

“The press guy. The one Effie was going on about.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten.”

Albert shrugged and walked behind the bar. He pulled a bottle of bourbon from the belly of the bar and refilled his glass straight—without bothering for lemons or sugar. 

“He was from one of the fan rags. He was asking about Danny,” Max said.

“About Dan? What for?”

“I don’t know. I guess they’re trying to pull together a piece on a film he did a hundred years ago. They can’t find him to talk.”

“Just goons and pederasts trying to sell our old lobby cards for a dime. I hope you told him to dust off.”

“They said Dan might be missing or something.”

Albert glanced up and smiled. When his brother smiled, it didn’t do any of the things a smile was supposed to do for a person. His face went tart, and he looked like a damned old oyster or clam.

“Aw, hell he’s not missing. I talked with him a few months ago. The guy’s just trying to run a bunco on you for some information.”

“What do you mean you talked to him?”

“He called a while back is all.”

“You never told me that.”

“What is this? I have to tell you everything now?”

“Well no, I just thought that.”

“Thought that
what
?” Albert snapped, his voice bellowing over his fresh whiskey drink. Max sighed and raised his hands in defeat. Albert’s eyes calmed.

“I just don’t want reporters around is all. Talk to them so long as they can do something for the club then give them the shaft, ok?” Albert said softly. He walked out from behind the bar and sat heavily back in his seat. 

Max nodded and gave his brother a strong pat to the back. He stood and put on his jacket.

“I’ve got a feeling this guy’s gonna nose around and try to talk to Katie. She’s still got those club dates in Atlantic city, right?”

“She’s back,” Albert said staring at the mirror above the bar.

“What? I thought she was singing out at the 500?”

“She was. She’s back now—called the club last week.”

“Now you can’t even tell me when my own wife calls?”

“She’s not your wife anymore. Anyways she wanted to talk to me.”

“About what?”

Albert’s dark, blood-shot eyes looked up at him.

“She was looking for Dan.”

The words echoed through the space like an embarrassing memory.  Max leered at his brother’s detached, drunken face.

“She’s still my wife, Albert—in the eyes of the state of New York if nothing else,” Max said and dropped his glass hard on the bar. He turned and walked toward the front entrance. Before he pushed the door open to the night, he turned again to his brother.

“And in case you hadn’t realized, anyone coming around to talk to us is hard-up for news. If there happen to be any others, you can deal with them yourself, big guy.”

Max couldn’t go home.  He walked down Lexington Avenue until his headache went away. The cold helped clear his mind and on a night like this—the city seemed peaceful. Tiny snowflakes fell as he hailed a taxi. Instead of heading home, he gave the cabbie the address to Bemelmans Bar. He had an hour or two before things started closing down and he needed another drink. 

The lobby bar was filled with golden light that would have been inviting if it hadn’t been so pretentious. For the sake of continuity, he ordered another whisky sour with a splash of egg white for good measure. This barman, however, was as pompous as the customers: the anti-Marvin.  He thanked the anti-Marvin and moved from the bar to a corner booth. He’d come here with Katie a few times, mainly for press parties, but he’d never noticed the child’s scenes of picnicking rabbits and balloons painted in calligraphic strokes along the walls.  He looked around, seeing that every wall was painted in a similar way. Katie couldn’t have realized this either. If she had, she’d never have come a second time or even stayed through the first. When Colin was born, he learned quickly of her hatred for anything storybook. That struck him as odd. When they were kids, Katie always looked like she’d come straight out of an English nursery book. There was something whimsical about everything she did.

His mother once sent a book of nursery rhymes for the baby. Katie went crazy mad. She and his mother had never gotten along, but he quickly realized it was more than that. Katie demanded the book be removed from the apartment as though it was a book of the dead.  She wasn’t calm again until he returned from the garbage shoot empty-handed. But that hadn’t been the end of it. She was spooked and irritable for days afterwards, staring out the window with vacant eyes, her slender fingers rolling over the spread of her growing stomach. When he called her name, she simply looked at him as though he was a stranger. When the decorator came a few weeks later to palm-off wallpaper samples dotted with dancing animals, he’d actually felt his chest tighten. But Katie only skimmed over the fairy-tale creatures and chose instead the solid blue border that came to line Colin’s room.

The whole thing with her and him had just sort of happened. In a careless way, he’d wanted something to happen for a long time. There had been a lot of other men who had wanted the same—and of course there was Danny. In some way she’d always been his. But even that wasn’t real. They were a studio creation, a cutesy angle to sell magazines. Have a fling with your co-star? Sure, but what Katie and Danny had was strange—forced. Max smiled at his drink. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad—maybe he’d just been too jealous to see what was good about them together. It wasn’t all bad until the accident.

None of them had liked that the phone stopped ringing. They all had their own ways of dealing with it. Dan’s way had been the ugliest—but that wasn’t entirely his fault either. He’d been the most famous, had the highest height from which to fall. Dan didn’t see the big picture. What they had done was over. Hollywood had changed. The cornball nostalgia of the studio system was dead. America was safe for democracy and things were going
au natural
. They wanted the hepcats bumming out of the actors studio. Danny Gallagher and The Kingly Kittredge brothers were square, the non-truth-seekers. They’d been aced-out by the Arthur Kennedys and Richard Beymers. Their goose was cooked. But he and Albert had never carried the burden of Dan’s success. They worked steady without painting too big a target on their backs. When it was over for them, they were able to fade away privately enough. When he and Albert stumbled out of bars, no one much noticed. Danny’s delinquencies had a far bigger audience.