I stepped out; Lester stirred and gargled T-Bird. Confab: the camera boss and director.
“Come on, Sid, this time the head vampire plucks the guy’s eyes out.”
“But Mickey’s afraid I’m making things too gruesome. I... I don’t know.”
“Jesus Christ, you take the extra and pour some fake blood in his eyes.”
“Wylie, you come on. Let me have coffee before I start thinking gore at six-forty-nine in the morning.”
Lester weaved over—cut, bruised. “I always wanted to be a movie star. Maybe I stick aroun’ an extra day or so, play the Negro vampire.”
“No, Breuning and Carlisle will be looking for you. They didn’t pin Wardell Knox on you, but they’ll find something.”
“I don’t feel so much like runnin’.”
“You do it. I told you last night: call Meg and tell her I said she should stake you. You want to end up dead for resisting arrest some goddamn night when you think they’ve forgotten about it?”
“No, I don’t think I do. Say, Mr. Klein, I never thought I’d see the day Mr. Smith gave me a break.”
I winked a la Dudley. “He likes my style, lad.”
Lester strolled back to his bottle. The director fisheyed me—I strolled to the trailer, nonchalant.
Glenda was reading my note. “David, this could kill—I mean ruin me in the film business.”
“We have to give them something. If they believe it, they won’t press theft charges. And it diverts attention from the actress pads.”
“There’s been nothing on TV or in the papers.”
“The more time goes by, the better. Hughes might report him missing, and the body will be found sooner or later. Either way, we might or might not be questioned. I had words with him, so I’m more likely to be a pro forma suspect. I can handle it, and I know you can handle it. We’re…oh shit.”
“We’re professionals?”
“Don’t be so cruel, it’s too early.”
She took my hands. “When can we go public?”
“We may have already. I shouldn’t have stayed so late, and we should probably cool things for a while.”
“Until when?”
“Until we’re cleared on Miciak.”
“That’s the first time we’ve said his name.”
“We haven’t really talked about it at all.”
“No, we’ve been too busy sharing secrets. What about alibis?”
“For up to two weeks you were home alone. After two weeks you don’t remember—nobody remembers that long.”
“There’s something else bothering you. I could tell last night.”
Neck prickles—I blurted it. “It’s the Kafesjian job. I was questioning a girl who knows Tommy K., and she said Lucille did call jobs for Doug Ancelet.”
“I don’t think I knew her. The girls never used their real names, and if I knew someone similar to the way you described her, I would have told you. Are you going to question him?”
“Yeah, today.”
“When did she work for Doug?”
“Doug?”
Glenda laughed. “I worked for Doug briefly, after the Gilette thing, and you’re disturbed that I used to do what I did.”
“No—I just don’t want you connected to any of this.”
Lacing our fingers—”I’m not, except that I’m connected to you”—squeezing tighter—”So go. It’s Premier Escorts, 481 South Rodeo, next to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.”
I kissed her. “You make things worse, then you make them better.”
“No, it’s just that you like your trouble in smaller doses.”
“You’ve got me.”
“I’m not so sure. And be careful with Doug. He used to pay off the Beverly Hills Police.”
I walked—lightheaded. Lester serenaded winos by the spaceship—“Harbor Lights”—the gap-toothed version.
Phone news:
Woods spotted Junior in Darktown—then lost him running a red light. Jack—irked, going back out: “It looks like he’s living in his car. He had his badge pinned to his coat, like he’s a fucking Wild West sheriff, and I saw him buying gas with two big automatics shoved down his pants.”
Bad, but:
He hit box 5841-check under his doormat, grab the key, check his mail slot. “Four envelopes, Dave. Jesus, I thought you were sending me after jewels or something. And you owe me-”
I hung up and drove over. There: the key, the slot, four letters. Back to my car—Champ Dineen mail.
Two letters sealed, two slit. I opened the sealed ones—both from Transom to Champ—recent postmarks. Inside: fifty-dollar bills, notes: “Champ—Thanx mucho, Harris”; “Champ—Thanx, man!”
Two slit—left for safekeeping?—no return address, Christmas ‘57 postmarks. Eleven months P0 box stashed—why?
December 17, 1957
My Dear Son,
I am so sad to be apart from you this holiday season. Circumstances have not been kind in the keeping us together department for several years now. The others of course do not miss you the way I do, which makes me miss you more and makes me miss the pretend happy family that we once had years ago.
The strange life that you have chosen to live is a strange comfort to me, though. I don’t miss the housekeeping money I send you and it’s like a secret joke when your father reads my itemized household expense lists with large “miscellaneous” amounts that I refuse to explain. He, of course, considers you just someone in hiding from the real responsibilities of life. I know that the circumstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you. You cannot live the way other people do and I love you for not pretending to. Your musical interests must give you comfort and I always buy the records you tell me to buy even though the music is not normally the type of music I enjoy. Your father and sisters ignore the records and suspect that I buy them only to be in touch with you in this difficult absence of yours, but they don’t know that they are direct recommendations! I only listen to them when the others are out and with all the lights off in the house. Every day I intercept the mailman before he gets to our house so the others will not know that you are contacting me. This is our secret. We are new to living this way, you and me, but even if we have to live this way always like long lost pen pals living in the same city I will do it because I understand the terrible things this long history of insanity both our families has endured has done to you. I understand and I don’t judge you. That is my Christmas gift to you.
Love,
Neat handwriting, ridged paper—non-print-sustaining. No Richie confirmation; “Long history of insanity/both our families.” My peeper: mother/father/sisters. “Circumstances of our family life and theirs too has done something to you.”
December 24, 1957
Dear Son,
Merry Christmas even though I don’t feel the Christmas spirit and even though the jazz Christmas albums you told me to buy didn’t cheer me up, because the melodies were so out of kilter to my more traditional ear. I just feel tired. Maybe I have iron poor blood like on the Geritol TV commercials, but I think it is more like an accumulation that has left me physically exhausted on top of the other. I feel like I want it to be over. I feel more than anything else like I just don’t want to know any more. Three months ago I said I was close to doing it and it spurred you to do a rash thing. I don’t want to do that again. Sometimes when I play some of the prettier songs on the records you suggest to me I think that heaven will be like that and I get close. Your sisters are no comfort. Since your father gave me what that prostitute gave him I can only use him for his money, and if I had my druthers I would give you all the money anyway. Write to me. The mail gets bollixed up at Xmastime, but I’ll be watching for the postman at all different times.
Love,