The Song Is You Page 16

That was the moment before he realized it wasn’t plaster but bone, skull.

  He didn’t want to touch. Didn’t dare touch. So he began crawling around.

  A circle of soot surrounded the hole neatly, like a tattoo. The hole at her temple, nestled in the delicate whorls of dark hair so artfully arranged there.

  He couldn’t stop himself from looking more closely. A few green bottle flies stuck in clumps to the hole.

  Her eyelids were swollen, and her berry-stained lips. Her eyelids were swollen but her eyes still looked open. He could see the glistening between her lashes, or thought he

  could. He thought maybe the buzzing sound would never leave his head.

  He thought maybe the smell would be with him forever.

  For a moment, he thought he might never leave this moment.

  The shine of the eye, the glitter of the silver bobby pin in her hair. The feeling of something undulating in his stomach, burning in him, making his face hot and sending a strange pulsing rhythm through his own temples. He could feel his collar hanging forward as he kneeled over her and a wetness on his neck as the heat clawed at him. The smell coming harder.

  He stood up, startled by the snap of his own knees as he rose from his crouch. He took several long breaths. He walked slowly to the bathroom and turned the water on. Holding on to the sink’s edge, he tried to forget about the grinding sensation of his breakfast moving around in his gut. But it was too late. Falling to his knees, he leaned over the toilet and—quickly and efficiently—threw up everything. He flushed the toilet and rinsed out his mouth with water.

  He walked out of the bathroom. Then he walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. He almost walked out the back door, but the sound of a neighbor’s dog barking stopped him.

  Then he got smart.

  He walked back into the bathroom and, with his handkerchief, picked up a washcloth and began wiping the sink handles, the toilet seat he’d clutched. The doorknob. He didn’t think he’d touched anything else.

  Then, he walked back into the bedroom, keeping his eyes straight ahead and holding the washcloth over his nose and mouth.

  He looked around. Using the handkerchief, he began opening drawers. They were all empty. Iolene wasn’t living here.

  It wasn’t until this second turn around that he saw the suitcase on the floor on the other side of the bed. It was open, with a few plain dresses streaming out. He looked more closely. A spare pair of shoes. A cosmetics bag. All packed so neatly it made Hop wince. She was on her way out of town. Stopped here to do something, get

  something, and skip.

  The photos.

  Where had the photos been, anyway? Had Iolene been killed for the photos? For what she knew about Jean? Both?

  He looked under the bed and saw nothing but a thin carpet of dust. He walked to the long sliding closet doors on the adjacent wall. The closet was nearly empty, too, but for a small metal file cabinet with two drawers.

  Not the subtlest of hiding places, Hop thought.

  He opened a drawer. Empty. He opened the other. Except for a stray paper clip, a few bent staples, empty again. Whoever followed

  her here found what they were looking for.

  Wait. Strike that.

  As he began to shut the drawer, something caught his eye, something white wedged in the far corner, just barely peeking through. He tugged it and pulled up an old file tab, along with its paper label still tucked in its sleeve.

  The label read:

  RX copies 1945

  He slid the tab out from the sleeve. Typed on the back were the following words:

  Dr. Stillman-1455 S. Hill Street, Los Angeles

  This was something. He knew this was something. He remembered:

  Kirk, can’t wait any longer, going to see Doctor Scott. It

  will work best this way while mother is away,

  Okay. Scott wasn’t Stillman, but it was something. Something was there. He could feel it. Why would Iolene have a doctor’s file folder in her apartment?

  If Jean Spangler was the victim of a botched abortion, the timing of which just coincidentally followed the night at the Red Lily, maybe Iolene was hiding the evidence. Protecting somebody. Or maybe Iolene had done some sleuthing of her own. For which she’d been given this hasty farewell.

  At last, in spite of his best efforts, Hop let himself really think about the fact that it was Iolene, sweet Iolene, on the floor. Slowly, he turned his head and looked back at the body.

  At her.

  They didn’t even bother to make it look like suicide, he thought.

  He shoved the tab in his pocket. He wiped the drawer handles with his handkerchief once more for good measure. The smell was beginning to rock his stomach again.

  He knew he should leave, but he was looking at her. He was thinking about her dancing. He was remembering that once, before everything, when he was still shilling for Cinestar, he’d run into her at Fox, where she was shooting a Betty Grable picture. She was a chorus girl in an ole plantation number, wearing a topknot and, inexplicably, a sequined merry widow with fishnet tights. She was tapping her feet and looking bored, waiting for the crew to relight the set. The musicians, also bored, began improvising a ragtime number. Hop, who’d just interviewed Grable about her new baby girl, had spotted Iolene from fifty feet away, and as he got closer, he kept saying things like, “When I get there, Iolene, you’re going to dance with me. This is it, you’ve got to give me a tumble. You know it’s time. You’re going to dance with me.” And finally she laughed and she let him twirl her around for a few minutes, his face pressed against the white netting on her headpiece, the crunch of the sequin and taffeta against his chest, her voice curling warmly in his ear. The smell of… of… he thought it must have been gardenia, radiating from her body. She always smelled like flowers. And his hand on her back actually met some of her skin and it was like stretched satin, it was like … the music was… she was…

  And now this.

  He took one last look around. That was when he noticed the front door had been unlocked all along. Must have been how they left, Hop thought. They … they … What did this have to do with Jean Spangler or Sutton and Merrel? Someone knew about the pictures and wanted them or wanted them to disappear. He remembered what Jimmy Love, Iolene’s pal, had told him at the King Cole:

  Those boys have been closing in. Boys you don’t want to make unfriendly with, Hoppity.

  Connected?

  Hell, ain’t we all? You can’t live in this town without it sticking to you like tar paper. But no, these fellas were up some notches.

  Sutton and Merrel, back against the wall, could make something happen. It would be no surprise if they had old mob connections from their nightclub days. Could be any number of thugs. Somehow, it no longer seemed to matter. The story of the savaged girl and her frightened friend was turning now, bit by bit, into just another girlson-the-make-pay-the-price yarn.

  Couldn’t anyone give him a new scenario? He’d seen this one more times than he could count.

  Without even thinking, he found himself outside the house and walking to his car. Without even thinking, he started it and began driving away from the house, lurching along with any number of sick

  tastes in his mouth.

  As he got back on Sunset, his head played nasty games.

  How did I get here? Six years ago, working at the Examiner, caught by the assignment editor sleeping off a drunk in the display-ad office, he expected the usual punishment, obit duty, and the thought of it made him want to write his own. But the Hollywood-beat reporter picked that night to elope with a San Francisco tie salesman and Hop ended up at Grauman’s Chinese covering the premiere of some swooning bedroom melodrama with Joan Crawford and a cast of also-rans. It was afterward, at the premiere party, that he met the gray-haired, tired-eyed senior editor from the East Coast office of Cinestar. Nice fella, liked his jokes, ended up buying three rounds of sidecars, told Hop that he reminded him of himself a quarter century ago.<
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  During their second round at Mocambo, the editor had asked him, “If you were covering this party for Cinestar, what would be your lead?” Hop had placed his fingertips on his chin in thoughtful repose and said, “Mocambo, where the stars mingle and make hay, was aglow last night. Revelers swarmed there following the thrilling premiere of Lover for a Day. Star for a century Joan Crawford drew all eyes as she entered the exotic nightclub on the arm of a dashing young man. Ms. Crawford demurred when asked the name of her mustachioed date, but she did offer the sweetest of smiles when queried about her recent divorce from actor Phil Terry. ‘He was a wonderful man, but we’d grown apart. I wish him well.’ And we wish you well, Joan, our forever-bright star, our flapper of yore, now Hollywood’s grandest of grand dames.”

  “Not bad,” the editor said thoughtfully. “Toss the reference to how long Crawford’s been in the biz, but other than that, honey, you’ve got more sweet corn in you than between my uncle Joe’s teeth back in Iowa.”

  Hop had grinned. He had a knack. What could he say? He was going places.

  And now, after the nightclubs, round tables at Romanoffs, dog races with movie stars, fluffy beds at the Beverly Hills Hotel, fast rides on pretty costume girls and hairstylists, hat models and manicurists—now this. A separate track he’d careered onto and now there seemed no crossing back over. The other track was gone, its simplicity, the pinwheels and soft lights and perfumed whispers and we two against the world—all gone. No chance of return.

  He was driving for a long time, trying to shake the smell from his throat, clothes. A few miles away, he threw his handkerchief out the window.

  Iolene, Iolene. Playing far too close to the line and now look. He knew he should be thinking about how he might have helped her. He wanted to be that kind of guy. But how could you stop something like this? These fellows know what they’re doing. They’d have found her anywhere.

  So that’s it, right? I’m done, Hop thought. The last possible squeaking wheel got greased. No one else had any incentive to talk about that night. No one else was talking at all. It was done, deader than Tin Pan Alley.

  Who was he kidding? He was going to Dr. Stillman’s. After all, the squeaking wheel may be gone, but why not set your foot in that last visible footprint and run your foot over it and be done?

  He tried again to think about Iolene and what might have happened to her. But instead, all he could think about was the way these women concealed themselves. Some kind of fan dance. Victim, wave of fan, perpetrator. Angel, whore. They all played it so straight, as if they were just girls, girls with gentle smiles and simple needs. But the truth was they all lived in a gasp of tension. You could feel it like a physical thing around them.

  When he met Midge he thought, Here she is. Finally, one of those women like Jerry always has half off his arm. The ones with their own jobs and nice apartments with soft lighting and softer sheets. Women with other boyfriends he never saw but who still liked him best and would break a date if he called but without ever raising a voice, smooth as the martinis they’d pour, as their taut silk dresses and shiny stockings. Women who were ageless, young without a scary eagerness in their eyes, mature without a hint of lines in the face or desperation in the voice. It had been a terrible trick, hadn’t it? How she’d made him think it would be so easy.

  Driving to the Hill Street address brought him directly past the Examiner building on South Broadway and Hop couldn’t help but look for Frannie’s car, which wasn’t there. Jerry’s gray sedan was there, though, and before he could stop himself, he’d pulled over. Seeing his friend now, the one solid, fixed thing in his life—that might help him pull it together, get him through the last stretch. But he didn’t want to go upstairs, didn’t want to risk Frannie showing up, didn’t want to do another dance with her. He walked to the fraying coffee shop across the street and found the phone booth. When Jerry got on the line, Hop was embarrassed to hear his own voice shaking.

  “Christ, Gil, you sound as lousy as I ever heard you. Stay there and I’ll come by and slap some sense into you.”

  Sitting at the empty counter, Hop ordered a coffee while he waited, his hand wobbly as he lifted the cup. The counterman kept a close eye on him, wiping glasses with a rag, one after the other, like a barkeep in an old Western.

  Ten minutes later, Jerry arrived and took a seat beside him.

  “You never looked this bad when we were in North Africa,” Jerry

  said, lighting a cigarette and snapping his Zippo shut.

  “The salad days.”

  “You usually play hard to get. Now I see you, what, three times in two days? People’ll start to talk,” he teased, but there was concern in his eyes and it made Hop worry about himself. Christ, how bad did he look?

  “And Midge was up all night,” Jerry said, nodding to the counterman as he set down a cup of coffee for him. “Gil, you’ve got to … Gil, she’s a wreck.”

  Hop looked at him, remembering Midge’s visit the night before. Frannie’s fishing around, trying to get something from Midge. Had that just been the night before? “Because of the call?”

  “What call?” “Frannie—Miss Adair.” “Frannie Adair called Midge?” Hop tried to conceal his surprise. Midge hadn’t told him? Her

  knight in shining gabardine? He decided he’d better follow suit. “No, no. Frannie was trying to find me and got Midge instead.”

  “How—”

  “Never mind. Never mind. And, listen, about all this … I’m sorry I keep flying off. I’m sorry. I don’t know why.” His head pounded.

  “Frannie’s got something on you?”

  “Maybe. Turns out I’ve left a lot of fingerprints, footprints, all kinds of prints in my day.”

  “What’s it all about, Gil? The Spangler thing? Is someone shaking you down?”

  “Jerry, I’ve half lost track. Frannie Adair’s poking around. She thinks there’s something there. It’s my own fault for getting her hot on it. And, Jerry, that girl I told you about, the one who came to see me? She’s dead.”

  “Jean Spangler’s friend? How?”

  “I’m guessing the pistol blast to the head did it.”

  “Well I’ll be. How’d you find out?”

  “Up close and personal-like,” he said, wanting to tell Jerry all of it.

  But he couldn’t do it. “I was worried about her. I went to her place. The door was open. And she was lying there.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  “No.”

  “Did you leave any prints?”

  “I don’t know. No. Maybe. I tried to be careful.”

  “Better get yourself a story, boy. You were with me whenever it was.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’ve got too much else to worry about. Believe me.” Hop finished his coffee and grabbed his hat. He knew Jerry wanted to talk, but he had to go. He had to go before Jerry saw something. Saw something Hop didn’t want him to see. Saw Hop fall to pieces right there.

  “Why’d you do it, Hop,” Jerry said suddenly, as Hop was almost to the front door.

  “Do what?”

  Jerry walked toward Hop. “To Midge.”

  “You’re going to have to be more specific,” Hop said wearily.

  “You know what I mean,” he said in a tone too grave for Hop to brush off.

  There were a lot of things Hop wanted to say, things that were gathering in him, knocking around, tangling his nerves, rising up under his skin, beneath his eyes. But he couldn’t do anything with them. He wasn’t sure why. Instead, he just shook his head.

  Jerry looked at him for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he said, “She tells me she was never mad a minute in her life until she met you.”

  “I’m just lucky, I guess.” Hop managed a grin and wondered if he’d be able to keep upright long enough to make it to Dr. Stillman’s. “See you later, sweetheart.”

  “Gil…” Jerry’s eyes were heavy. His mouth was slightly open as if he were going to say more. This was a classic Jerry ges
ture. Hop knew it meant Jerry was saying everything all at once. Then, finally: “Gil, a thing about Frannie Adair. She got a reputation early on for being willing to roll with some hard boys for a story. Hasn’t been able to shake it since. Maybe you can use that. If you need to.”

  “Thanks, pal,” Hop said, head swirling. “I just might.”

  Dr. Stillman—1455 South Hill Street, Los Angeles.

  The address was on a slightly shabby block of cavernous office buildings with worn facades, a small hotel with a barbershop in the lobby, a high-ceilinged Irish bar with wide-open doors spilling mournful tenor lyrics and the smell of balmy beer onto the sidewalk out front.

  Hop walked the half block from his car to 1455, a smaller building with a shuttered dental clinic on the ground floor. Opening the heavy, soot-rimmed front door, he entered a dark lobby inhabited only by a newspaper stand. A lone man in suspenders stood behind its counter, dining noisily on a strong-smelling container of what

  looked like pickled beets and cabbage.

  Hop eyed a building directory in a musty glass case.

  STILLMAN, DR. MITCHEL……..443.

  “Pack of Pall Malls,” Hop said.

  The man reluctantly set down the container and reached under the

  counter for a pack, which he laid down with a match-book.

  “Quiet today, huh?”

  The man shrugged. “Only a few offices open on Sunday,” he said.

  “Hardly worth my time. You here for the locksmith? The dentist closed at two.”

  “I’m actually looking for Dr. Stillman.”

  “You’re a little late, pal.” The man sloshed his container around and the briny smell kicked Hop in the face.

  “Gone for the day?”

  “Gone for the year. Or close to it. Ain’t seen him in a blue moon. He must be paid through the year because the management ain’t cleaned out his office or rented it to someone else.”

  “Where’d he go?” Hop said, trying to sound casual, despite his mounting frustration. To come this far and not know, what could be worse? That file tab, a last faraway whisper.

  He raised a brisdy eyebrow. “Just a guess but probably someplace cooler, buddy. Get it?”