14
They met at a little place called Philippe, a short
walk from the train yards near the Mex district on Aliso Street.
Sam finished up three cigarettes and two cups of coffee before Pete
showed up in a dark suit with a red tie. He’d switched out the
turban for a beaver hat he laid on a hook by the front door and
slid into a booth across from Sam, folding his hands together like
he was about to pray, with a devilish smile on his
lips.
“Thanks for losing the
getup.”
“You should see this
robe I got,” Pete said. “It’s made of Chinese silk and little
emeralds. They look like stars.”
“Nice.”
Pete was medium
height, medium weight, with brown hair and brown eyes. He could be
a million men, if judged by Bertillon. No scars, no marks. Even if
you’d never seen him, you’d think he was someone who used to date
your sister.
“You’ll like this
place,” Pete said. “They make roast beef sandwiches on thick rolls
like they do back east.”
“I just ordered some
hash and eggs.”
“You’re a hash-and-egg
kind of guy, Sam.”
“So tell me about
Lehrman.”
“Hey, aren’t you gonna
give me the stroke? Ask me about the boys in San Quentin or whores
we’ve known. Butter me up a bit before you stick it to me like
that.”
“You want
coffee?”
“Sure.”
“So tell me about
Lehrman.”
“I mean, he is what he
is. He’s a guy who needs a guy like Dr. Bagwa. I came up with the
idea when I was on the train from Chicago, I read up on this guy in
New York, some Oriental, who did these soul paintings. I didn’t
make it a night before I had these movie people lined up around the
block for me to smear some colors on the canvas. That’s the beauty,
Sam. I can’t even draw a fucking cat.”
Sam scratched his
face. He needed to find a cheap hotel and a shave. He hadn’t slept
the whole way on the train, thinking about Arbuckle and the
Vigilant women, and Jose about to burst and what he was going to do
with a kid without two nickels to rub together.
“Breakfast on
you?”
“I’ll expense
it.”
“How much for the
goods on Lehrman?”
Sam smiled and
scratched his face again. He drank some coffee. He looked at the
time on a big clock over the lunch counter where workers in
overalls had come in from the train yards. They carried lunch pails
and punched time clocks and worked with their hands in the same
place every day, getting a regular check from the
bossman.
“Go ahead and tell
Lehrman about me,” Pete said. “The son of a bitch is
broke.”
“Living in that ole
shack?”
“Place belongs to some
fella in Boston who backs his pictures. It’s his family’s place and
he lets Lehrman stay there. The guy is a big fucking
phony.”
“Coming from Pete the
Fink.”
“I know who I am, Sam.
I don’t confuse myself. Lehrman believes he’s some kind of artist
’cause he makes moving pictures. He calls himself an artist with a
capital A at least a hundred times a
day. Oh, and he’s a fucking psychic, too. The other day he tried
for half an hour to move a saltshaker across the table. Finally
when he’d closed his eyes, I moved the fucking thing and then
clapped for him. I thought he was going to cry while I started
telling him again about the eight principles of peace. That’s what
‘Bagwa means’—I read up on it at the library. You can find out all
kinds of things at a library. Books make you smarter. It’s
true.”
Pete the Fink fished
into his coat pocket for a matchbook. When he opened the cover, it
read BETTER YOURSELF IN TEN MINUTES A DAY.
“It’s no joke,” he
said.
The waitress brought
the hash and eggs. Pete ordered something called a French sandwich
and a seltzer.
“He mention Virginia
Rappe?”
“Are you putting me
on? That’s all he’s been talking about since the girl went and got
herself squished in Frisco. He’s called every newspaper in the
country, reversing the charges, making me send telegrams to William
Randolph Hearst himself.”
“About
what?”
“About the dead girl.
It’s all bullshit about these cuff links saying ‘To My Love, Henry’
and all that. He doesn’t even have cuff links. The bastard doesn’t
wear clothes except when he leaves the house. He’s a nut. I mean,
you get used to it, wandering around with your schlong waving
around. I think he likes the breezes down there or something
because I never seen him with a boner even when his girlfriend,
Miss Leigh, is naked. I got to sit down and kind of cross my legs,
think about things that aren’t sexy like baseball, or this one time
I walked into the crapper and saw my grandma in the tub. God, she
had tits like flapjacks.”
Pete winced with the
memory.
“He knows
Hearst?”
“He’s fishing for
money. I took the telegram to Western Union for him and thought,
Good luck. But it wasn’t two hours
later that he got a goddamn telegram back from Hearst himself. Can
you believe that? William Randolph Fucking Hearst. He answered back with two hundred
dollars.”
“I had a run-in with
some of Hearst’s people once.”
“What were you
doing?”
“Strike
busting.”
“And they call me the
fink.”
“So Lehrman lied about
knowing the girl?”
“He talks about her
too plain to make it all up in his head. Because he ain’t that kind
of crazy to make up things that never happened and repeat them back
like they really did. I think, at the heart of it, he knows he’s a
phony bird. That’s halfway between crazy and a con man, and that’s
the middle of the road, brother.”
“Tell me about the
girl.”
“She lived with him at
the mansion for maybe a year or more. He was punching her ticket
but wasn’t trying to make her a star. Lehrman’s a doper and so I
guess she probably was a doper, too. I heard from the help that
she’d become a real mess and finally he threw her out. She kept on
coming back, yelling at him from over the fence like some kind of
cat in heat about how much she loved him. But he was done with her,
moved on to Miss Leigh, and that was that.”
“She ever in his
pictures?”
“How should I know?”
Pete asked. “I don’t go see pictures. It’s a fad.
People will come to
their senses and realize they’re just looking at a big flip-book.
Remember when the Jew street peddlers used to hustle those in New
York? I had one with a silhouette ice-skating. The world has gone
nuts. Women wanting to marry that Valentino fella after seeing his
picture. Folks chasing down Charlie Chaplin in London, ripping off
pieces of his clothes and trying to sell them. I mean, these people
are just making pictures of what I’ve been doing all my life, and
that makes their shit not stink. They ain’t princesses or sheiks or
little tramps or any of that. I remember when they used to bring
actors to town in stages, like circus animals.”
“What happened to the
girl? After Lehrman?”
Pete looked down the
counter at a waitress carrying his French sandwich. He tucked a
napkin into his shirt collar over the red tie and thanked the
woman, calling her sweetheart.
“I don’t
know.”
“Can you find out for
me?”
“For a
price.”
“I’m buying that
goddamn sandwich.”
“You’re a smooth
talker, Sam.”
“Hey, Pete, I went and
got myself married.”
“Come
on.”
“It’s
true.”
“Well,
congratulations.”
“A baby on the
way.”
“Well, there’s hope
for all of us.”
“Amen,” Sam
said.
“Amen,” Pete
said.
“I THOUGHT I told you
never to come here.”
“You told me not to
come to your house,” the Dark Man said. “This isn’t your
house.”
They were on the
beach, and the Dark Man and Hearst followed the shoreline, salt
water retreating and then breaking over Hearst’s bare feet. His
trousers were rolled to his knees and he carried his shoes and
socks in his hands, a little dachshund trying its best to keep up
with its little legs.
“What if someone saw
you?” Hearst asked.
“No one saw me besides
your driver.”
“That’s George. He’s
not my driver.”
“Quite a
spread.”
“It belongs to a quite
talented and beautiful lady.”
“Your
mistress.”
Hearst stopped
walking. The surf came up high above his ankles as he stared at the
man. “I was told you’re good at your job.”
“That’s
true.”
“Then please do not
speak unless spoken to. Do not arrive anywhere unannounced. Am I
understood?”
“Yes, sir, Mr.
Hearst.”
“I note a tone of
sarcasm.”
“No,
sir.”
“I suppose here is as
good as anywhere.”
“You wanna know if
Fatty killed her?”
“Well, did
he?”
The Dark Man shrugged.
He still had on his dress shoes but had removed his hat and his
black hair whipped down across the ragged half ear. His wool suit
and jacket were too warm for the climate, but the man didn’t seem
to notice or to perspire.
“That’s a question I
can’t answer,” the Dark Man said. “It seems Miss Rappe and Mr.
Arbuckle are the only two who know. The door was
closed.”
“What about your man?”
Hearst said. “The one who arranged the party?”
“What about
him?”
“Does he
know?”
“No.”
“This whole affair has
been quite troubling,” Hearst said, picking up the little brown
dachshund and rubbing the dog’s ears. He smelled the dog’s fur and
the scent reminded him of Bavaria and the wonderful food and
people. How he loved Germany.
“I didn’t come for
money,” the Dark Man said.
“I would hope
not.”
“The police know about
Mrs. Delmont,” he said. “They know about the cons. They probably
know about her string of husbands, too. I don’t expect the district
attorney in San Francisco to keep the same level of
interest.”
Hearst nodded and
looked down at the much shorter man. He kissed the little brown dog
on her head and smelled the sweet scent. He just simply smiled at
the dark, very troubling man. The man was compact and muscular,
giving the impression of a loaded spring about to
snap.
“The case may fall
apart,” said the Dark Man, adding, “Mr. Hearst.”
“That’s where you’re
wrong.”
“How’s
that?”
“Mr. Arbuckle’s trial
is already over.”
Hearst whistled for
the dog and walked briskly away from the man, leaving him to chew
on the idea.
“HOW ’BOUT A
RIDE?”
“No thanks,” Sam
said.
“It’s me, Daisy.
Remember the Old Poodle Dog? I was the girl with the
shotgun.”
“I
remember.”
The Hupmobile trailed
Sam along Aliso Street, the engine clicking and whirring, some
faceless dry agent at the wheel. The girl rested her head across
her forearm on the open window, trying to play it blue and
lonesome. Sam kept walking and checking his watch.
“Where you headed?”
she asked.
“I’m gonna hop a
streetcar over to Echo Park.”
“What’s in Echo
Park?”
“Mabel
Normand.”
“Mabel and Fatty,” she
said. “What a team.”
“You’ve been following
me since I stepped off the Owl.”
“You
bet.”
“Why?”
“Looking for a
bootlegger.”
“I’m
not.”
“Does the name Hibbard
mean anything to you?” she asked.
The Hupmobile drifted
on at about five miles per hour. A machine behind them honked its
horn twice before speeding by.
“What about Jack
Lawrence?”
“Nope.”
“You without a machine
and us without a lead,” she said.
“What’s in it for
me?”
“A rest for your
feet.”
“I like your hat,” Sam
said.
Still resting her head
across her forearm, she rolled her eyes upward at the little velvet
hat cocked just so.
“Nice
angle.”
“Yeah? I thought so,
too.”
Sam stopped walking.
He checked the time. He steadied his breath. “Get in,” said Daisy
Simpkins, famous female dry agent.
THEY DROVE BACK into
the downtown, to a building called the Bradbury, a big, old hulking
brick structure built before the turn of the century. The roof was
made of glass and the inside had been designed like the exposed
guts of a machine. Scrolled iron balconies boxed the open atrium,
with two caged elevators zipping up and down, large iron wheels
turning whirring cables. The light inside seemed almost to be
magnified, more real than it was on the street, and Sam followed
the girl and the other agent across the big, wide lobby and to a
staircase they mounted and followed, and Sam looked at the
elevators zipping up and down and stopped to rest on the second
floor, his hand on an iron banister as he caught his
breath.
“You okay?” Daisy
asked.
“Dandy.”
They followed the
balcony ledge on the third floor to an office advertising U.S.
GOVERNMENT on the frosted glass. Inside, it bustled with the
activity of a dozen or so men working in their shirtsleeves and
ties, talking into telephones and typing out reports. One woman
waited at a front desk and led them to a back office, where Sam was
introduced to a delicate young man named Earl Lynn and a toadlike
older man who didn’t get out of his chair to shake
hands.
He grunted at
Daisy.
He was Lynn’s
father.
Earl Lynn was in his
early twenties and handsome in a girlish way, with perfect slick
hair, a flawless shave, and long thick eyelashes that seemed to
flutter nervously. He took a seat by an open window and crossed his
legs at the knee. He wore silk socks with small gold designs and a
vest that matched his pin-striped suit. He had a rose on his lapel
and smelled of flowers.
The flower smell was
soon covered by the scent of Old Dad’s wet stogie that he relit
with fat-thumbed flourish. His son tried to get a cigarette in an
ivory holder going but failed at least three times.
“Mr. Lynn is an
actor,” Daisy said. “He contacted us yesterday about the Arbuckle
party.”
“You were
there?”
“My God, no,” Earl
Lynn said. He pulled the cigarette from the holder and broke it in
two as if somehow it was the cigarette’s fault for failing to catch
fire.
“Mr. Lynn had a run-in
with one of the party guests,” Daisy said. She found a spot on the
end of the desk, sat down, and crossed her thin arms across her
bosom. They were nice bosoms, high and tight, and Sam had to
redirect his attention back to the young man.
“Maude Delmont claimed
she got the high hard one from my son and carried his seed,” said
the father.
“Father,” Earl Lynn
said.
“Six months ago, I
paid that woman five thousand dollars to peddle that story
somewhere else.”
“You and Maude?” Sam
asked.
Earl Lynn tucked his
tongue into a cheek and rolled his eyes. “No. Absolutely
not.”
“But you did know
her?” Sam asked.
“We went to the same
parties. Knew the same people.”
“What
people?”
Lynn named some and
they meant nothing to Sam, Hollywood people, but he wrote them down
anyway.
“But you two weren’t .
. . ?”
“My Lord, she’s an
older woman!”
“So you got
roped.”
He
nodded.
“Why’d your old man
pay if the baby wasn’t yours?”
“There was no baby,”
Lynn said. “But I have an image, characters known to women in the
world, and to think that I had impregnated a married woman . . .
Well, it’s that simple.”
Sam took a seat beside
Daisy. Even from the back office, you could hear the giant iron
wheels turning and moving and groaning and stopping the elevators.
An elevator stopped near the floor and he could hear the gate slide
open and then slam shut, the wheels turning again. Sam felt like he
was on the inside of a clock.
“What do you do, Mr.
Lynn?”
“Me?” the old man
grunted. His head looked to be the size of a melon, with a nice
slab of fat hanging from his insignificant chin. He resembled a
contented hog.
“Oil.”
Sam
nodded.
“Why’d you call the
dry agents?”
Earl Lynn tried with a
second cigarette in the ivory holder and finally got the smoke
going and watched it trail up to the ceiling and then stared back
at Daisy and Sam. “I thought the government should know what kind
of people were at this party. Mrs. Delmont surely had something to
do with that liquor. She’s a lush. A hophead, too.”
“You think she conned
Mr. Arbuckle?”
Earl Lynn sucked on
the ivory and held the holder loose in his long fingers. “I would
not be surprised by the depths of her evil. She once got me drunk
and tried to unbuckle my trousers.”
“The horror,” Sam
said.
“Can we go?” the old
man barked. “This man is a tiresome smart aleck.”
“Did you recognize the
others?” Daisy asked. “At the party?”
“I know Lowell
Sherman, of course. We play tennis. But he’d never be mixed up with
a woman like Mrs. Delmont. That was my own error in
judgment.”
“The other women?” Sam
asked.
“I met Virginia Rappe
once. She didn’t impress me. A little tart. A leech.”
“Fishback?
Semnacher?”
“Al Semnacher is the
one who introduced me to Mrs. Delmont,” Earl
Lynn said. The tip of
his cigarette had grown long and fell off with a plop in his lap.
He brushed off the ash with lots of busied annoyance.
“How did you know
him?” Sam asked.
“He’s in the business.
Haven’t you read the papers? He books acts for Mr. Grauman at the
Million Dollar.”
Sam smiled at Earl
Lynn and then back at the fat father, who’d rested his thick hands
across the top of his stomach. The old fat man looked like he might
doze off in the thick leather chair, the cigar smoldering in the
corner of his mouth.
Sam tucked a
Pinkerton’s card in the man’s stubby fingers. He jostled awake with
a snort.
“We’d like to see you
at the trial,” Sam said.
Earl Lynn said it
would be his pleasure.
“Does the name Jack
Lawrence mean anything to you?” Daisy asked.
“Should it?” Lynn
asked.
“He supplied the
liquor, and maybe the girls, too,” Daisy said. “Mr. Lawrence may be
the source of the biggest bootlegging ring in
California.”
Lynn repeated again
that he didn’t know the fella. His father seemed to grow awake very
quickly, fast enough to stand and relight the cigar before walking
out. “Okay? All right? Are we done here?”
Sam took the fat man’s
seat. He could still smell Earl Lynn’s perfume. “He’s a pretty
one,” Daisy said as the door closed.
She sat behind the
desk that displayed a brass marker reading DIRECTOR and lit a
cigarette. She placed her feet up on the desk, and finally said,
“Why won’t Arbuckle name the man who brought the
liquor?”
A small fan on the
table whirred and spun.
“Besides the
confession leading to a federal indictment?”
“Besides
that.”
“Maybe he’s a standup
guy,” Sam said. “That’s what I’d call a fella who doesn’t rat on
his friends.”
“You know what I’d
call a fella who buttons up with his ass in a sling?”
“Please tell
me.”
“A fool.”