The Ticket Out (35 page)

“He's lucky I came at all with his reputation.”

“He's lucky you wanted to meet Len Ziskind.”

Ashburn unlocked his car; he wasn't curious in the least. I said, “I have to talk to Phillips. You know where he is.”

“I'm going to meet him right now.”

“I want to come.”

Ashburn got in his car. “You go, then. You tell Neil they never saw his script, and tell him no more errands. I was humiliated in there.”

“Where is he?”

“8493 Fountain Avenue, corner of La Cienega.
Move.
"

I moved. Ashburn backed out and drove off up the alley. I watched him, recovering from the jolt. 8493 Fountain was Georgette Bauerdorf's old address in West Hollywood.

 

I
PAGED
D
OUG
from the car and prayed he was close to a telephone. He was; he hadn't finished with Lynnda-Ellen. I told him I was on my way to meet Neil John Phillips and told him the address. He recognized it with no help. He said to keep Phillips talking and he'd come as soon as he could. He said play the journalist, pretend you only know one-tenth of what you do. And please, he said, don't scare Phillips or try to muscle him. I hung up the phone laughing.

I pulled into a space in front of 8493. They were called the El Palacio Apartments. The building was two stories and wrapped around three sides of a wide lawn. It was vintage Spanish, preserved in its original condition down to the last molding and tile. It would have been swank in 1944; it was still swank in 2001.

I didn't see Neil Phillips as I walked up the stairs from the street. I also didn't see any apartment numbers and wanted to find Georgette's number six. I started with the near wing. The apartments were built in pairs with a shared ground-floor vestibule. I found number five and number six inside the third vestibule. The vestibules were stucco, and this one had a mural of the Spanish countryside. I looked up at the ceiling. The light fixture hung from a chain. I stood on my toes to try and reach it. My fingertips fell about eighteen inches short of the bulb. Anyone less than six feet tall would need a ladder to unscrew it. Jules Silverman was six one or two—

A whisper: “What are
you
doing here?”

Neil John Phillips's voice.

I jumped and turned. It had come from the shadows at the back of the vestibule. I squinted to see. There was an alcove under the staircase that led to the second floor.

I walked back to the voice. The alcove had a velour bench and Phillips was sitting on it. He whispered,
“What are you doing here?”

I said, ‘“OoOOoooo, the
movie critic.'”

It just popped out. We'd been chasing the guy for a week, but I couldn't help myself. He'd been so obnoxious the other time. Phillips didn't react badly, though. He smiled and spoke in his normal voice.

“I apologize for that, Ann—I wasn't thinking straight. You cats at the
Millennium
were the only ones who ever defended me, I should have been more grateful. I always meant to give Mark a call.”

He pointed at the bench for me to sit down. I stayed standing and looked him over. He wore jeans and a baseball cap, and relaxed against the wall like we were old friends. This wasn't the Neil John Phillips I'd built up in my mind. I'd built up the image of someone spoiled and arrogant; an embryonic filmland monster—obnoxious in success and obnoxious in failure.

I said, “Hamilton Ashburn sent me.”

Phillips jerked forward to look outside. I said, “No, I ran into him at PPA. He told me to tell you that Len Ziskind never saw GB
Dreams Big.”

Phillips frowned. “Fuck.”

He leaned back and pulled his legs and feet into the shadow. He wasn't obvious about it, but he was clearly hiding.

I said, “What happened to GB
Dreams Big?
I thought PPA handled the sale.”

Phillips shook his head, but not at me. He said, “Terrible title, too clunky. I couldn't convince Greta to change it.”

I checked outside. The vestibule didn't have a door; it had an open arch that faced across the lawn toward Fountain. I expected Doug any minute.

Phillips said, “Do you want to help me?”

I looked at him. “I was hoping
you
could help
me.
I want to read
GB Dreams Big.”

Phillips shushed me and pointed to the bench again. I sat down at an angle so I could watch out. I lowered my voice. “What's going on?”

Phillips hunched my direction. “How close are the cops to catching Greta's killer?”

He might've seen me around the Casa, but I decided to pretend all the way. I shrugged. “I don't even know who they suspect. What did the cops tell you?”

“I haven't talked to them and don't intend to.”

I played shocked. “But you and Greta were—!”

Phillips shook his head. “Why do you think I didn't identify myself that day at my place?”

“You were pissed that I searched your garage.”

Phillips shook his head. “I can't afford another scandal, Ann, I cannot. First there's
The Last Real Man.
Then Ted is murdered—you know about Ted Abadi.”

I nodded.

“Ted dies, then Greta dies, and I'm friends with them both. I can't afford to be involved. I'm almost fucked as it is—this Greta thing could fuck me for good. I have to keep my name out of it until the cops catch the killer. It's the only chance I have to save my career, the
only
chance.”

I said, “How can I help?”

There was a noise on the cement walk outside the vestibule. Phillips froze. I stuck my head out, thinking I'd see Doug. It was a mailman. I pulled my head back. The mailman came in and stuffed two mailboxes. Phillips and I waited until the noise stopped and the footsteps were gone.

I whispered, “How can I help?”

Phillips leaned forward to peek out the alcove. I saw sweat on his face. He wasn't as calm as he acted.

He leaned back. “A few days before Greta died, there was an argument. Scott Dolgin, Barry Melling, Greta, me. Scott and Barry wanted our script for their production company—Greta and I thought they were a farce. She'd already pitched the story to Len Ziskind. We wanted PPA to represent us.”

I said, “I heard you and Greta hadn't been writing partners for years. How did you get back together?”

I wanted to know. I also wanted to stretch the conversation. Something big must have broken at Lynnda-Ellen's, or else Doug would've come by now.

Phillips said, “We'd been in contact about a year. She'd read my ads about
Last Real Man
and called to support me. I was taking a lot of heat for the ads—Ted hated them—it was nice to have someone agree with me. I regret the ads now, I don't regret the impulse. Studio movies are bad—the Industry needs to be honest with itself and stand up for artistic quality.”

I said, “Ashburn says you care too much about movies.”

Phillips shrugged. “Fuck Ham—Ham's a company man. For him it's the Industry first—for Greta and me, movies are first. Is it so fucking radical to say that the star system is killing us? I know stars sell movies, stars have
always
sold movies. But someone has to say no to them. Did Joan Crawford or Clark Gable write the great Crawford and Gable pictures? That's what happens today. Movie stars and their agents want control, and studios kowtow because they're geared for the global market and your international audience pays for stars.
Last Real Man
made a profit, you know. It tanked here and grossed two hundred million worldwide.”

I smiled. “Will you see any of it?”

Phillips shook his head. “Fuck those dickheads—I spent my fee trying to stop production. My point is, since most of what we make is kiss-kiss-bang-bang for the global market, why not make
good
kiss-kiss-bang-bang instead of bad? The popcorn crowd in Slobovia doesn't know the difference.”

“You could always write non-Hollywood movies.”

Phillips just laughed.

I reached and patted the alcove wall. Apartment number six was on the other side. “Did you think the Georgette Bauerdorf story would make good kiss-kiss-bang-bang?”

Phillips nodded. “Not good—great. Six or so months ago I was desperate for work. Greta had a super subject and a first draft but her typical problems with structure. I beefed up the male role and rewrote the story into a straight homicide investigation.”

“Who kills Georgette Bauerdorf?”

Phillips laughed. “You should've heard the fights we had on that subject! It was the hairiest time in our entire collaboration. Greta thought she knew who'd actually done it. If I told you the name, you'd think she was insane.”

“How would Greta know who the killer was?”

“She didn't, she had no facts. Oh yes, sorry, she talked to one old lady who couldn't remember what happened yesterday much less in 1944. I kidded Greta about it—Gloria Steinem meets Sherlock Holmes. She wanted to solve an obscure woman-killing sixty years later. We might get a feature in Ms.”

Phillips twirled his finger like, whoopee. I sat stumped. Doug had said one-tenth: I couldn't introduce Jules Silverman or the Casa de Amor without revealing too much.
Where was Doug?

I said, “I want to read the script.”

Phillips leaned toward me. “Then
you
have to find it. I can't look myself right now, I'm out of circulation.”

“You must have another copy.”

Phillips shook his head. “Greta and I were too broke to pay for extra xeroxing.”

“What about the disk?”

“There's no disk, nothing on hard drive, no copies anywhere except that one.” Phillips clenched a fist.

“Something happened to it, and I think I know what. Greta was supposed to take the script to PPA the week she died. If Len hasn't seen it, it means it never arrived. Scott must have stolen it somehow, it and the disk. That's what our argument was about. Scott and Barry wanted the script for In-Casa Productions, Greta and I wanted PPA to legitimize us with the Industry.”

I said, “But Dolgin called PPA last week looking for it.”

Phillips frowned. “Then it's Barry. If it isn't Scott, it's Barry. My name's not officially on the script, now Barry's trying to fuck me out of credit and a fee. He has his own producing ambitions—I wouldn't be surprised if he fucked Scott, too.”

Phillips stood up. “You have to talk to Barry.”

I thought of Barry and Dolgin's mutual alibi. I whispered, “Do you think they could have murdered Greta for it?”

Phillips did a weird thing with his head. He turned it away, then turned it back as if his neck was stiff. He sat down on the bench closer to me.

He whispered, “Listen, Ann, you have to understand—and this is going to sound callous and fucked up—but I
can't
care who murdered Greta. Ted Abadi and Greta Stenholm were my best friends in the world—
real friends,
in a town where you have working relationships at most. But I can't get involved in the murders at
any
level for
any
reason. I try not to even think about them. I want the cops to catch whoever did it, but
I want my fucking career back!.
I have to save it and get it back on track—I fucking
have
to!”

He stood up. “Talk to Barry, find my script. I'll call you later.”

He walked out of the vestibule. He adjusted his baseball cap, checking right and left before he crossed the lawn. I jumped up and followed him. “Can I buy you lunch?”

Phillips shook his head and kept going. There was no way to stop him without muscle.

I ran to my car, grabbed the phone, and dialed Doug's pager. I hung up and watched Phillips drive off down Fountain. I gave Doug three minutes to call back. When he didn't, I tried Northeast Station because I didn't know Lynnda-Ellen's last name. The cop at the switchboard put me through to Smith. Smith said that Doug was in conference with two DA's Bureau cops. They'd showed up without warning; it was about Doug's grand-jury appearance. I told Smith what had just happened with Neil John Phillips. Smith agreed it was important. He couldn't get away, but he'd have Doug call me the minute he was free.

I walked back to apartment number six and knocked on the door. It was late morning—no one answered. I walked outside and tried the front window but the curtains were closed against the sun. I couldn't find a cut-through, so I walked around the building to the alley. The hill in back was steep; it had been dug out for access to a half basement. The caretaker's apartment under number six was boarded up. I climbed the fire escape to the landing outside Georgette's kitchen.

I pressed my face to the window.

The kitchen had been remodeled since the '40s. I imagined what it would've looked like with old appliances and cupboards. I pictured Georgette. She was exhausted after a long day entertaining the troops—a tea party at Pickfair and five hours at the Hollywood Canteen. I pictured her in pink satin pajamas and running the kitchen tap. I saw her drop a tray because she was tired, or nervous about the phone call from her fiance in El Paso. Or maybe she dropped the tray when the doorbell rang after midnight.

Georgette had known her killer. A stranger couldn't have forced his way into the apartment. The neighbors would have heard something; the caretakers would have heard something. Jules Silverman talked his way in. He pleaded homesickness, or the war, or love. He appealed to Georgette's sympathy. But what he wanted was sex—

A man yelled from the foot of the fire escape. I looked over the railing. He identified himself as the manager. He ordered me off the premises immediately or else he'd call the Sheriff's. I climbed down the fire escape and left the premises.

B
ARRY WAS
in his office reading the
Wall Street Journal.
He had the front section spread out flat on his desk. He glanced up to see who'd shut his door. He turned a page.