Make Believe (10 page)

“And Liz?” I asked.

“She loved him—the old Tony. She can’t understand what’s happened these past few years. So she makes him stay away when he’s—like
this
.” She pointed to Tony slouched in his booth.

“Watching Tony at Ava’s the other night—that drunken spiel—bothered me. He struck me as an overgrown child, but a beaten child—an innocuous lad given to pouting. The brother who always expected to be duped, to be hurt, so he tries to be cagey. He ends up—miserable.”

Alice was nodding at me. “Now, grownup, he hides behind a bottle.”

Lorena clicked her tongue. “Ethan doesn’t know what to do. He’s not good with sloppy emotion.”

“It’s a wonderful life,” I commented, wryly.

Ethan had taken a sheaf of papers from a portfolio and was circling numbers with a pencil, ignoring his restless brother. Tony, suddenly staring back at us, was calling out to the bartender. Ethan looked up and frowned.

“Absurd,” I said.

“The bartender,” Lorena informed us, “knows to bring a drink only when Ethan nods at him. That way…”

I surveyed the vaudeville duo. “There is something wrong with those two. They’re…clowns.”

“Of course there’s something wrong,” Lorena roared. She threw back her head. “And yet it took me three long years to realize it.”

I was disturbed by noise behind me. Turning, I watched a group of chattering women sit down at a table. They all seemed to be talking at once. Alice and Lorena glanced at each other. “Lord,” Lorena muttered.

Alice whispered to me. “Sophie Barnes.” She indicated the woman nearest to me.

Lorena spoke softly. “Ah, Max’s infatuated secretary. Ex-secretary, I should say. She’s seen Alice but is ignoring her.”

I shifted in my seat, watching.

Sophie Barnes and her three friends were celebrating one of their birthdays. Sixtyish, bosomy, showy in flowered summer dresses with enormous brooches, they seemed unhappy to see Alice, who avoided their stares. Poor Alice, I thought: Ethan and Tony, and now Sophie Barnes. The nondescript housewife, so roundly maligned. One woman carried a bunch of flowers and a balloon, a tableau that seemed incongruous in a place called PARA ISE BAR & GRILL. Loudly, she ordered a bottle of house champagne while another talked shrilly of her boss, a martinet worthy of slaughter; and they all roared. I noticed a white pastry box placed at the edge of the table. I was glad we’d be gone when the candles were lit and a shaky chorus of Happy Birthday depressed the already dismal room.

A buxom woman now fiddling with the contents of an enormous black patent-leather purse, Sophie was probably early sixties, with a long horse face containing small bird-like eyes, her graying wispy hair coifed into a helmet of Shirley Temple spit curls. A rhinestone-studded pair of eyeglasses were suspended from a chain around her neck. She dipped into her purse and took out a handkerchief. As she drew it to her nose, she glanced toward us.

Our eyes locked. A flash of naked cruelty covered her face, the lips curled as her eyes darkened. I swear she mouthed those tantalizing words:
Louella Parsons
.

Good for you, Sophie. Fight back.

But I’m not an enemy you should make.

By the time we left to take in a movie, Tony could be heard arguing with Ethan, who seemed resigned to Tony’s attempts to put himself into a drunken stupor. “Do what you want,” Ethan hissed, disgusted. “Drink yourself into an early death. Die for all I care. One more brother of mine dead…”

Tony was yelling something to the bartender.

Lorena leaned into my neck as I walked in front of her. “Did I tell you that Ethan has a histrionic streak? He’s good at playing martyr.”

“It’s a thankless pursuit,” I offered.

“Yes,” Lorena agreed, “but martyrdom has a way of enslaving everyone in its path.”

“Let me call Max first,” Alice said as we passed a pay phone at the entrance. We waited. Finally she replaced the receiver. “He’s not picking up. Good. He’s asleep.”

“Or not answering,” Lorena teased. “I imagine his friends are having a field day with this.”

Alice pursed her lips. “What friends? Sol Remnick? Everyone else has disappeared. Max is a man without a country.”

“I’m his friend,” I insisted.

“I know, I know. And folks like George Kaufman. S. J. Perelman called. But…out here among the natives…you know.”

I did know.

On the sidewalk, headed to Lorena’s car, I began, “So that’s the redoubtable Sophie Barnes.” I’d spoken to her on the phone over the years, and Max had often commented on her importance to his office. “She runs the place like a military base,” he once told me. But I’d never met her. She looked exactly as I’d imagined her.

Alice chimed in. “His one and only secretary, from day one of his agency. A bulldozer of a woman, efficient as all get out. A prickly spinster, that one, and wildly, madly, insanely in love with the oblivious little Max. They were a team, the two of them.”

“I remember her. So friendly on the phone. Not chatty…but kind. Max hasn’t mentioned her in years, and I never thought to ask about her.” I looked back at the Paradise. “What happened?”

“Well, simple story, Edna. Max married me. The earthquake that rocked California. It was a big surprise for everyone, including the woman who quietly adored him. Sophie collapsed, hysterical, took to her bed. Suddenly she quit her job and hasn’t spoken to Max since that day. That’s when Max closed his office on Melrose Avenue to work out of his home. He wasn’t taking on new clients, and he’d meet the old ones in the bungalow. A month later Sophie wrote him a weepy letter that talked of his betrayal. A befuddled and miserable Max tried to reach her but to no avail. It still breaks his heart. He talks of her with such…melancholy. Whenever they cross paths in town, she makes a grunting sound, heaves those determined shoulders and storms away.” She glanced back toward the bar. “Max still worries about her.”

“What can Max do?”

“Well, nothing. Since the blacklist troubles erupted, she sent a brief note, along the lines of—‘I warned you, Max. I would have stopped you from sending out that letter. You reap what you sow. The Bible warns you, too.’”

“Another soul who has abandoned Max,” I lamented.

“Friends disappearing.” Alice touched me on the wrist. “You know, Edna, the disappearing act is the most popular form of entertainment in Hollywood these days.”

***

The movie delighted the three of us. Jimmy Stewart in
Harvey
, a new showing at the Wiltern Theater down the street. Only Lorena had seen it when it was released by Universal back in October. I’d relished the stage version, and I had invited the delightful ingénue Josephine Hull to my apartment for a dinner with George Kaufman and playwright Mary Chase. Happily, Josephine reprised her Broadway role in the movie, garnered a Best Supporting Actress Oscar this past March, and I welcomed the chance to see the talented woman playing the sister of daffy Elwood P. Dowd, a man whose imaginary best friend is a pooka named Harvey.

Jimmy Stewart’s antics were a welcome tonic after the last couple of tense days, an antidote to the Hollywood wars I’d encountered. Weak from laughter, I realized how much I needed that diversion. I rarely went to the movies. Stage plays, yes, on the arm of George Kaufman or Noel Coward or Moss Hart. But Times Square movies held little attraction for me. I’d never seen the film version of my
Cimarron
, winner of an Oscar for Best Picture, though I’d told no one that. I didn’t want to go. Perhaps I was the mother who didn’t want to see her children leave home. And yet here I was, a frequent visitor to Hollywood, having lunch with the likes of Carl Lammaele or Louis B. Mayer, watching avariciously as they cut enormous checks with my name on them.

Strolling out of the Wiltern, we bumped into one another, silly and giggly, malt shop girls. It felt good, that feeling: getting old somehow meant that it was too easy to forget how to laugh. A rabbit everyone was hungry to see taught me a lesson.

Not wanting the evening to end, Lorena insisted we return to the Paradise for a nightcap, but Alice was anxious about Max and begged off, waving goodbye to us. “Please, Edna,” Lorena insisted. “Join me.” So…yes, why not? One drink. A little sherry. “It will help you sleep.”

A few stragglers lounged at the bar, but all the dining tables were empty, some of the chairs upended on them. Ethan was packing away the ledgers, capping his fountain pen, but seemed glad to see us. He called out to the bartender, “Harry, tell them about Sophie.” He pushed an empty high-ball glass to the edge of the table.

Harry walked out from behind the bar, a broad smile covering his face. He placed tumblers of sherry before us. Yawning, stretching, Ethan yawned and nudged a snoring Tony, his body slumped back in the booth. Harry was a large pot-bellied man with a walrus-moustache and side-of-beef hands, and he seemed eager to share his tale. “By the time the birthday cake was lit, this woman—Sophie, Ethan told me she was—is in a huff with this other gray-haired lady, the two swearing back and forth like combat troops. And Sophie starts grunting and heaving and springs forward, and, you know, she takes her huge black pocket book and swings it over the table.” He shook his head as he demonstrated the move. “Like
this
. She knocked all those lit candles all over the room and a whole lot of frosting on the other lady’s puss. Then she made for the door, pushing chairs out of the way. This Sophie was steaming mad.” He bowed. “Like out of a movie.”

Ethan stood. “Close up, Harry. Lorena, take care of the safe, okay? I gotta get Tiny Sparks home to his lovely.”

Tony opened his eyes, a wistful smile on his lips. He let out a chuckle, and I wondered whether he’d heard Harry’s story about Sophie. Harry helped Ethan hoist him out of the booth, and Tony, spotting us sipping sherry, wanted to know if we’d read what Louella Parsons had written. Or at least that is what I believed he muttered at us—a mess of syllables strung together. Harry held onto his shoulders, while Ethan secured his ledgers behind the bar.

“Yes,” Ethan told him, “they’ve read it. I have. We have. All of L.A. has. Even, I gather, Sophie has.”

“Why?” I asked Tony, who ignored me.

Harry was grinning. “You should have seen it, ladies.”

“What got her so mad?” I asked Ethan.

He started pushing Tony toward the door, his fist in the small of his brother’s back. Harry balanced him. “From what I could hear, one of her friends made a catty remark about Max making a fool of her, stringing her along. Something real foolish. All it took was the mention of Louella’s name to start the fireworks.” He shoved his brother forward. “You can walk on your own, Tony. I’m not gonna carry you.” He pulled on his sleeve. “You’re not the first person to lose a job.”

I said good night, thanks for everything, lovely, lovely, and insisted I could walk the half-block back to my hotel. Outside, my sweater pulled tight against the night chill, my clutch held securely against my side, I heard a horn blare. Ethan passed by, Tony in the passenger seat, his head thrown back in blissful sleep. I watched as Ethan waved his hand in the darkness.

***

At 12:05 that night, roused from by bed at the Ambassador by a call from a sputtering Sol Remnick, I heard those awful words. “Max is dead.” Then: “He was murdered.”

Chapter Seven

I sat with Alice and Sol in the living room of the bungalow. Sol had let me in and told me that Alice had asked him to call me because she wanted me there. The dark room was darker now, the burgundy curtains closed. A table lamp was switched on. From where I sat, I could see the closed door of the workroom, a Do Not Enter notice sealing it off. I shuddered but couldn’t take my eyes off it.

“Max let the person in,” Sol was saying.

“What?” I roused myself.

“The door was locked, not smashed in. The windows were all locked. The police checked. Max was in his study, probably talking to someone.”

Alice mumbled, “He was supposed to be sleeping in bed.”

“Someone knocked on his door when Lorena was talking to him. He must have let that person in then.” A pause. “Someone he knew.”

Alice was frowning. “Maybe not. He could have opened the door, and the person forced him into the workroom. They had a gun.”

No, I thought. That was impossible. Max would not allow his own execution. He was too careful after receiving death threats. Alice was thinking like a Mafia bride.

I brewed tea in the kitchen, carried it in on a tray, and handed filled cups to Alice and Sol. Sol placed his on a small end table while Alice, wrapping her fingers around the cup, sipped hers slowly. She was waking up, her eyes looking at me, red-rimmed, blank.

Sitting mutely on the sofa, she was still dressed in the frilly summer dress she’d worn last night to the movies. She’d slept in it—or maybe she hadn’t slept at all. Now it was rumpled, one sleeve slipping off her shoulder so that the strap of her slip showed. A ravaged face, tear streaked, her evening makeup splotchy on her cheeks and under her tired eyes.

“Alice, I’m so sorry,” I mumbled again.

She held out her hand and I took it. I settled in next to her, cradling her body.

She trembled, her teeth chattering, but then, facing me, she said in a mechanical voice, “They didn’t have to kill him.”

Sol jerked his head up and down. “Alice, the police will take care of this.”

Sol’s face looked haggard, his eyes moist. Every so often a shiver passed through his body, his sighs deep and scary.

“They’?” I asked her.

She gripped my wrist. “He had too many enemies. How will they know who did it?”

Sol stood and paced the floor, finally stopping in front of us. We both looked up at him, this squat bulky man who started to tremble. Something was on his mind as he rubbed his chin with an index finger.

“Alice, why did you call Larry Calhoun last night?”

An untoward question, so far as I was concerned, and it struck Alice the same way. “What?”

“When you called me last night, you told me you had tried to reach Larry, but he wasn’t home. Then you called me. I told you to call the police.” His raspy voice was oddly petulant, questioning.

She shrugged and glanced at me. “Really, I don’t know, Sol. I saw Max lying there, I dropped the gun, and I…I thought first he was sleeping and then there was that hole in his head, the clot of blood on his hair, and…I got numb…I had to reach someone.”

“But Larry?”

Alice looked perplexed. “Suddenly I couldn’t remember your number, or Larry’s, or anyone’s. I wasn’t even thinking about the police—I don’t know why. I searched for an old address book that I never use and his was the first number…” Wide-eyed, bewildered. “I didn’t know what to do. I should have called the police. Does it matter?”

“He wasn’t home.” Sol bent down, staring into her face. “Did he call today?”

“The phone has been ringing but I won’t answer it. The police were here all morning and they answered it. So I don’t know…”

I rattled my teacup, annoyed. “Sol, what is the meaning of this?”

“No meaning.” He made a clicking sound, annoyed. “Max is my best friend and…” Again he trembled as he turned away. A fierce edge to his voice. “Larry stopped being a friend sometime ago.”

“Why bring it up now? Do you think Larry killed Max?” I was blunt.

A deep intake of breath. “No, God, no. No.” He closed his eyes a second, his face becoming a grid of deep wrinkles. “No. No. Well, I don’t think so.”

“Then what?”

“He was one of Max’s
enemies.
”

Alice sucked in her breath. “Sol, not now.”

Sol looked ready to sob. “Someone has to answer for this.”

***

Room service delivered dinner to my room at eight o’clock, but I barely touched the poached salmon. Parched, I downed glass after glass of water and pushed the plates away. I kept dropping ice cubes into my glass and refilling it, but the water was never icy enough.

I stared out the window, down at Wilshire Boulevard. Headlights were popping on, like fireflies appearing across a grassy field.

L.A. was empty for me now, a wasteland of wide boulevards and endless palm trees and redundant convertibles cruising up and down Wilshire Boulevard. Everyone in L.A. had to keep moving, driving, driving, afraid perhaps to stop. To stop was to realize that there really was nowhere to go. To escape you drove to the water’s edge or into the desert. Both landscapes dwarfed a soul. Endless palm trees. Endless turquoise cars and jade-green station wagons. Maddening.

New York had tunnels with rickety and smelly subways, a whole world underground. I’d never been on one, nor would I ever; but there must be a cold comfort in being buried down there. No sky to remind you that the sun would soon set. That night had fallen. That one more day of your life was gone. There was no time down there. You stopped counting the hours down there. Time in a vacuum.

Restless, I decided to walk outside the hotel, though I avoided the manicured grounds and the robin’s-egg blue pool. And, of course, I didn’t venture too far away on the boulevard lest Detective Tilden, idly dreaming of Malibu surf, send a squad car to rescue me from the noxious yellow smog and careening bumper-to-bumper traffic.

I needed to set something in motion—if only my body. I needed answers. Let me retrace the steps I’d taken this past week. Someone, I knew, had something to tell me. But what?

I stopped by the door of the Paradise Bar & Grill and noticed that the flickering “i” had abandoned its struggle to illuminate. Perhaps during my remaining week in L.A., I’d witness the complete disappearing act of the eatery—why not? Everything disappeared in L.A.

Yesterday I sat in this restaurant with Alice and Lorena. A wonderful evening filled with laughter and silliness. While I enjoyed their company, someone was murdering Max.

I shivered.

I needed to think about the people out here. I needed a plan of action. A glass of red wine, I thought. Quiet, alone.

The dingy room was nearly empty, a few drinkers hunched over the bar, the same portly bartender Harry polishing a glass as he took my order. He sat me at a table by the door, recognizing me. “Lorena’s taking this hard,” he murmured in a kind voice. “Real hard. She won’t get out of bed, Ethan told me. She can’t believe it.”

“Well, no one can.”

One of the bar patrons, a shriveled old man with hair tied into a careless ponytail, weathered sandals on his bare feet, sauntered to the juke box. Nat King Cole’s “Mona Lisa” came on, staticky but lovely, and the barfly swayed back and forth, humming along.

In a booth by the kitchen, Tony huddled with Liz Grable, Tony in the same seat he occupied last night with Ethan, who was nowhere in sight. Though they sat in shadows, I could see Liz leaning across the table, her hand resting on top of Tony’s, a comforting gesture. Gazing around the room, he spotted me. For a second he looked confused, squinting, and he whispered something to Liz. She watched me surreptitiously, her hand shielding her face; but the gesture was transparent, a child playing hide-and-seek. Then they both gave up and simply gaped at me, brazenly.

I finished my wine, laid a five-dollar bill on the table, and stood; but Harry, coming from behind the bar, refilled my glass, tapped the rim, and mumbled, “On the house.” He grinned. “Slow night in town and you’re my favorite customer.” I slid back into my seat.

“I doubt that, sir. But thank you.”

“It’s been a rough day, right?”

I took a couple sips, decided I’d had enough, and pushed the glass aside. At that moment, Ethan Pannis strolled out of the back room, a wad of cash in his fist. He handed it to Harry, and I heard the
ping ping
of a cash register drawer popping open. Ethan spotted me, a puzzled grin on his face, and he walked over.

“A woman of surprises, Miss Ferber.”

“I like this place.”

He gazed around the nearly empty room. “You seem to be the only one.” He nodded toward Harry. “He take good care of you?”

“The best,” I answered.

Uninvited, he sat down opposite me. “Lord, Miss Ferber, Lorena woke me before dawn. Alice called her at five or so. At first I couldn’t understand what she was telling me. She’s fallen apart. I’ve never seen her…like that. She’s always so composed. I didn’t know what to think.”

“I’ll have to call her.”

“She’s got us all rattled here. She keeps calling me but then she has nothing to say. You know, Metro is reeling from the news. That’s all everyone was talking about at work today. But it’s sort of sad…”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re all afraid news accounts will mention Metro. You know,
Show Boat
. The blacklist.”

I made my voice chilly. “Murder has a way of getting in the way of things.”

He ignored that but pointed at Tony. “He’s out of a job, you know. A new cross for me to bear. The only person surprised was Tony.”

My mind was elsewhere, but I said, “Well, I suppose Frank will pull a few strings.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No more. Frankie’s sick of him. He’s told me, Frankie has. No more. ‘Let the bastard screw up.’
I’m
sick of him. Maybe a few years ago when he had some talent, when he was skinny and goofy and spouted Jack Benny jokes with a world-weary sarcastic edge, he could get away with it. Now he’s just a fool.”

“And yet you indulge him.”

He squirmed. “You know, I have no choice. I made a promise to my brother Lenny who told me to take care of Tony because he’d never be able to take care of himself. Tony’s always been a little too…slow.”

“So you feed him money and drink. Lots of drink.”

“What choice do I have?” He didn’t look happy with my words. “But not drinks. Don’t you believe that. That…well, I let him drink
here
, purposely, and Harry and I do our best…I mean, yeah, he gets…plastered. Of course, last night I had trouble saying no, given his moaning over the last stand-up job he’ll ever have.”

“Well, you can’t be a babysitter forever.”

He watched me, silent, then turned to gaze toward Tony and Liz, Liz still holding her hand over Tony’s. “He’ll drink himself to death.”

“What a horrible thing to say!”

“I’m pragmatic, Miss Ferber. You know what kind of man I am. I’m being realistic. That’s all I can be.” He smiled. “But I’m only half serious. I’m hoping he’ll marry the lovely Liz Grable, cosmetician to the starry-eyed. I’m hoping he’ll straighten out. And the two of them will hole up in her studio apartment and…”

Liz and Tony stirred. Probably sensing they were the subject of our talk, they ambled over to my table. Suddenly it was a party. They pulled up chairs and we sat in a circle. Tony wore a hangdog look of a soul battling a fierce hangover. He said nothing, just nodded at me, a sliver of a smile on his face for a second. Liz glanced at the bartender who shuffled over and poured seltzer into a glass, placing it before Tony. He sipped it slowly, then touched his right temple, as if he had a headache. Which he probably did—and deserved.

“How are you, Miss Ferber?” he asked out of the blue, and I almost missed his words because his voice was so soft, breathy.

I said nothing.

Liz said something about leaving, and Tony looked at her. I found myself staring at him—there was something simple and boyish about the face, bloated through it was. Out of that carnival sequined sports jacket and wearing a simple blue dress shirt and khaki slacks, he looked like an average Joe, the man who pumped your gas. He’d been a handsome man, I could tell, a face that probably charmed and sometimes even dazzled. Dissipated now, florid, spent. A dreaming boy who became a failed man. Listening to Liz, he cocked his head, glanced at me, and I saw wariness there, hesitation. Through slatted eyes, he betrayed a sly regard for the world that made him a figure of fun.

He finished the seltzer.

“Well,” I began, stretching out the word.

Tony spoke over my one word. “You know, I’m afraid what’s gonna happen to him.”

“What?” From me, stupefied. “Who?”

“Frankie. You’ve heard the rumors. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“I don’t follow you, Tony.”

He leaned forward in his seat. “You know that dumb thing Frankie said the other night—that nonsense about killing Max.
Murdering
him in a heartbeat. That bitch Parsons picked up on it and now it’s all over town. He
threatened
to kill Max. That can’t be good. He’s, like, wanted to kill others.”

Ethan frowned. “No one takes that stuff seriously, Tony.”

Liz grunted. “The police do.”

“It seems to me…” I began.

Again, Tony stepped all over my words. “Frankie ain’t popular with the cops.”

“The police will investigate. He must have an alibi…” My words trailed off. I really didn’t care for this conversation. A mistake, my traipsing into this dive.

Tony looked puzzled. “A man like Frankie don’t need alibis. His word is his word, Miss Ferber.” A child’s avowal of faith.

Frustrated, Ethan spoke evenly, looking into my face. “He says he had a fight with Ava and drove out into the desert. Just drove around by himself. All night long. He does that, you know. It cools him down. The emptiness…”

Tony’s voice rose. “People are saying he didn’t shoot Max himself but, you know, he had someone else do it. I heard that on the radio.”

I sipped my wine while planning my words. A few seconds passed. “I find it disturbing,” I said in an acrimonious voice, “that we’re talking about Frank’s sullied reputation and Tony’s last job and no one here is talking about Max, a dear man, now murdered. You all knew him for a long time.”