The Ticket Out (31 page)

“I didn't kill her. I didn't steal nothing. I didn't do NOTHING!”

Smith said, “Lynnda wants the money back. She's called all the people you work for and told them what a fuckup you are.”

Denney thrashed in his chair. “That cunt—it's her fault!”

Lockwood said, “Watch your mouth.”

Smith said, “Watch it.”

Denney said,
“She's a—!”

He didn't finish. I saw Lockwood stiffen. I saw him exchange looks with Smith; I saw Smith give him permission and move aside. It only took a split second, then Lockwood stood up, stepped forward, and slapped Denney across the mouth. It was a nasty backhand swipe. Denney grunted—his head whipped sideways and fell on his chest.

I leaped up, holding my breath. Lockwood stepped back and stared straight at me through the two-way mirror.

I
BLEW OUT
of the station without saying good-bye. A mile down the road, I pulled in at the curb and parked. The streets were deserted.

I wished I had something to put between me and the damp seat. I'd washed off Denney's blood with car rags and bottled water. I was lucky he'd lain down; most of the mess was on the passenger side and the floor mats. I should've grabbed a towel to sit on when I stopped for clothes after Lynnda's.

I draped my arms around the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. I couldn't get the image of Lockwood and Denney out of my head.

I wanted to treat the thing like a political lesson. I'd never in my life considered the cops' side of the story. Police brutality was police brutality: the cops were always wrong. But here was a case where Denney purposely provoked them—and
I
had beaten him much worse. Knowing the contents of Lockwood's personnel file, I knew he didn't hit suspects as a matter of routine—

I whacked the dashboard.

I was lying to myself and I knew it. Political lesson, my ass. The honest fact was: Lockwood hit Dale Denney
for me.

I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. We'd gotten beyond political differences, the detective and I.

I started to blush. I wanted to laugh it off—and realized I couldn't. I didn't know what I felt.

***

T
HE DASHBOARD
clock said past midnight, but I had no desire to sleep.

I got my notebook and the car phone, and dialed Steve Lampley's number. He was awake and sounding upset. I asked him one question. Did Greta have proof that Jules Silverman killed Georgette Bauerdorf? Not old rumors or hearsay testimony from abandoned book projects—proof.

I didn't get an answer, I got a half-sobbed monologue. The controlled guy I'd seen that morning let it all hang out.

I had no compassion, he said. I didn't respect his suffering and pain. He'd taught Greta at Kansas, he was her oldest friend in L.A, he hadn't slept or eaten since he heard she was murdered. He'd worried and debated and finally called the cops, he felt so guilty, so guilty—what if the transcripts had killed her? I didn't care about Greta, I just wanted fuel for my career. He'd tried to organize a memorial service for her, but only Catherine Kerr would come, everyone else was covering their butt, no one wanted to associate with failure. Two people in all of L.A. cared that Greta was dead, then I call in the middle of the night with intrusive questions. He bet I wouldn't attend a service for her, nobody'd loved her like he did, I was a lousy friend, insensitive, shallow, opportunistic...

He finally ran out of steam. I asked my intrusive question again. Did Greta have proof that Jules Silverman killed Georgette Bauerdorf? Lampley said he didn't know and to leave him alone—and hung up.

I started the car and headed for Mount Washington. Catherine Kerr was expert at not answering questions, too. I hoped that a guilty conscience had kept her awake late.

The neighborhood was dark, but Kerr's front windows were lit up. A black BMW coupe was parked in her driveway: Neil John Phillips drove a black three-series BMW. I pulled in behind it and parked. I climbed Kerr's steps as quietly as I could, careful not to touch the railing that creaked. I heard a voice from inside:

“You're crazy, babycakes—it ain't worth it.”

Penny Proft.

I peeked through the screen door. Catherine Kerr and Penny Proft were sitting at one end of the computer table. Their end was a postmeal mess: coffee cups, cake plates, and, for Kerr, overflowing ashtrays. Proft had changed her baggy warm-ups for baggy overalls. The air was thick with tobacco smoke.

Proft smacked her forehead. “Dumb-kopf—you have tenure! Why give that up on a crapshoot?”

I opened the screen and walked in. Proft looked up. She said, “Uh-oh, Jill Webb! Hide the murder weapon!”

I pointed at Kerr. “‘A real tombstone in Culture Studies'—who you've talked to ‘maybe twice' in your life?”

Proft smiled and shrugged. Kerr puffed on a cigarillo. She said, “Get out of my house.”

Proft said, “Now C. Margaret, don't sulk. What gives with the hand, Annsky?”

I flexed my fingers. The ice had kept the swelling down, but the blues and greens were starting to show. I might have broken a bone this time.

Kerr said, “She hurt herself thinking.”

Proft's eyes widened. “Did you just make a joke, C. Marg?”

Kerr wasn't her usual self; she didn't look like she wanted to beat the world in an argument. She puffed on her cigarillo and fiddled with a coffee cup.

Proft said, “She's the Hailey's Comet of comedians. Every eight decades she makes a joke.”

Kerr didn't react. Proft said, “C. Margaret is sulking at you, C. Ann, because—”

Kerr said, “Don't.”

“—because C. Greta chose you—”

“Don't!”

“—for her Hollywood running mate, and C. Margaret wanted the nomination.” Proft framed a movie screen with her hands. “It's an epic saga of two women against an unjust system! Never in motion picture history has the tragic plight of—”

Kerr cut in. “You little cow.”

Proft grinned: she seriously disliked Kerr. I said, “Does that have anything to do with the fight at Farmer's Market?”

Kerr mashed out her cigarillo and lit another one. Proft said, “It has
everything
to do with it. Grets had signed a deal to direct her own script. C. Marg wanted Grets to take her along, Grets wanted you. They saw me eating, I swear, a strict low-calorie breakfast, and called me over to referee the bout. I hadn't said word one to either of them since SC.”

I sat down across from Proft. I said, “Go on.”

Proft shrugged. “I didn't pick sides—I thought they were both mental. Greta had this idea that the moviegoing public was ready for ... How did she put it?”

I said, “The truth about the condition of women?”

Proft cupped one hand Italian-style. “Ecco—la condizione delle donne. And C. Marg wants on the Hollywood hayride. Gretissima was her ticket in.”

I looked at Kerr. “What happened to Michael Powell and the twilight of cinema? I thought the tide was going out.”

Kerr wouldn't look at me; she exhaled a cloud of smoke. Proft flapped it away with her napkin and pretended to cough.

She said, “I told the girls that if I had to do it over, I'd pick another line of work. I wish they'd warned us at film school. It takes a certain kind of woman to suck poison dick every hour of every day and still want to succeed in the business that makes her swallow.”

She caught the self-pity in the last sentence, and laughed. “Boohoohoo, poor Penny. Overpaid and underlaid.”

I said, “Did Greta mention Jules Silverman that morning?”

Kerr sat forward. “Greta knew
Jules Silverman
?”

Proft mimicked, “‘Greta knew
Jules Silverman?”'

Kerr frowned. Proft pointed a fork at her. “She wants to ditch academics for the movie biz, so she calls me over for an intimate din-din, then snores through my poils of wisdom until she hears the magic name of Silverman.”

I said, “Did his name come up or not?”

Proft went to a stage whisper.
“Greta mentioned Big Jules while C. Margaret was powdering her nose. Greta knew C. Marg would do a somersault up Julie's derriere if she had half a chance. Talk about a ticket in—”

Kerr said, “Get out, both of you!”

She grabbed two ashtrays and shoved them at us. They tipped off the table into our laps. I jumped up to brush the butts away; Proft just sat there laughing. Kerr stumped down the hall and we heard a door slam.

Proft reached for one of Kerr's computer keyboards. Standing up, she dumped cigarillo butts all over it. She shook the keyboard so that the tobacco flakes settled between the keys.

I said, “What did Greta say about Jules Silverman?”

Proft put the keyboard back and dusted herself off. “A lot of wacky shit, man, no kidding—that sister was fugued. Scott ‘The Puke' Dolgin, In-Casa Productions, the Casa de Amor, some mishigas about the Casa de A and making Silverman pay. World War Two was in the ratatouille, but then World War Two is everywhere since Sir Steven reshot D-Day to rave reviews. Rat-tat-tat, ‘Argh, ya got me, ya stinkin' Kraut bastids!”'

Proft clutched her stomach, faking a beachhead death. “Grets wasn't talking jobs, though, or Oscar-winning movies. I don't think she'd ever met Jules the Large.”

Kerr yelled,
“Get out of my housel”
It was muffled by a door.

I said, “Is there a romantic angle I should know about? Did Kerr have a thing for Greta?”

Proft hooted. She grabbed a pen and paper from Kerr's workstation. I said, “What are you doing?”

“It's a note to C. Margaret. I'm suggesting lesbianism as a career move—Industry dykes are powerful like you would
not
believe.”

Proft laughed to herself as she wrote. “I heard Hannah Silverman goes for girrrlz. C. Marg could deploy some strategic poontang and meet C. Jules that way.”

I said, “Greta slept with everyone and no one, Hannah Silverman is straight and gay. You think your rumors are reliable?”

Proft shrugged and kept writing. A door opened down the hall. I didn't wait around; I ran.

 

E
VERYBODY WAS
in bed at the Casa de Amor. The pink outside lights were on, Mrs. May's TV set was still on, but the rest of the bungalows were dark and quiet.

It was 2:20
A.M.

I'd talked to the surveillance guys across Washington. They were more conspicuous without traffic going by. They'd said there'd been no sight of Scott Dolgin, Neil Phillips, or Mrs. May. They'd said Mrs. May's bungalow hadn't been searched. And they were sick of the smell of roses.

I walked up the central path and sat down on the edge of the fountain. I looked around the courtyard. The harem of the living dead. But I'd only seen two of the female tenants up close: Mrs. May, and Mrs. May's muumuu neighbor who loved candy bars and small-batch bourbon. Either of them could be old enough for my purposes. The woman, or women, I needed would have been at least eighteen years old in 1944. Eighteen, I
hoped.
They'd be seventy-six, minimum, today.

I got up and walked to the nearest bungalow. I rang the doorbell; I leaned on it hard and long. I went around the courtyard, ringing bells where I knew someone was home. I leaned on the bells hard and long. I wanted the harem wide awake and glued to their front windows.

Nothing moved, so I did a second circuit of the courtyard. I gave every doorbell ten seconds. I walked up and down until there were signs of stirring. I didn't expect them to open their doors for me. But lights went on, and Venetian blinds spread apart. I saw the pale blob of unrouged faces and the glow of cigarettes.

I climbed up on the fountain and raised my voice:

“There was a wild sex party at the Casa de Amor on October 11, 1944. I know that's almost sixty years ago, but I also know one or more of you were there. I want the details. I want to know which of you was there, who the guests were, and what happened at the party.”

The door to my right opened. The muumuu neighbor screeched, “Leave us alone!” and slammed the door with force. There was a feeble “Go away, go away” and knuckles rapped on glass.

I made a megaphone with my hands. “I am
not
going away!
Someone here
was at that party!
Someone here
told Greta Stenholm about it!
Someone here
knows why the party's important!”

The muumuu neighbor banged her front window. “Go
awayl”

“I'm not leaving until—!”

I stopped because I heard footsteps on the path. A uniformed cop appeared in the archway; he was Culver City PD.

He crooked his finger at me. I jumped down off the fountain. He took my arm and escorted me out to a patrol car.

I
T WAS TURNING
into the longest day of my life.

I lay in the holding cell and counted how many consecutive hours I'd been awake. From 7:30
A.M.
Monday to 3:15
A.M.
Wednesday: almost forty-four hours in a row, minus the nap Tuesday morning after I swam. The nap probably broke the streak. But it was still a lot of hours with nothing like real rest.

I'd had drug-assisted marathons before. I remembered plenty of times when I'd staggered around Paris, fried from having sex all night instead of sleeping. But I'd never stayed up this long with no help from chemicals or men. I'd never stayed up this long
doing things.
I'd been running flat out since Monday.

I sat up, took off my jacket, folded it for a pillow, and lay back down. I was alone on the women's side of the jail. The place was ugly and overlit. My bunk was a steel slab bolted to a wall; the walls and bars were glazed an institutional green; the cell stunk of old vomit. I could hear snoring sounds from the men's side. Two different guys were snoring.