Hollywood Boulevard (12 page)

    "A fire?"

    "Just now . . ." (I couldn't say, "that Teutonic matron you were just toying with" . . .) "the other guest," I said, pointing to the poolside room she'd walked toward before I'd lost sight of her.

    "Oh, the
hotel
fire. It's just a story. I mean, there
was
a fire, small, more smoke than flame, still . . . Every hotel has its little ghost stories. . . ." He showed a row of tiny teeth as he smiled.

    "A fire in one of the rooms?"

    "Yes, but not big."

    "What room? Here or above?"

    Sharif laughed, but I wasn't fooled. "I think it was 304. Yes, that was it, room 304." He tried to sound casual, but his foot was in his mouth up to his kneecap. He must be a liability to the management. Anyone that talkative inevitably becomes a loose cannon.

    "Up top? Wouldn't that be next to me, room 304?" That would be Sylvia Vernon's apartment, the full- timer next door with her ubiquitous teacup poodle, Mucho, and her wide- brimmed hats.

    "Come to think of it, that is next to you."

    "Who died?"

    Sharif 's eyes went big. He tried that phony laugh again. "No one died."

    "Of smoke inhalation, I'm guessing?"

    "Yes, that was it, smoke inhalation. An actress . . . your typical Hollywood tabloid news," he said, leaning back on his heels as he does when he's satisfactorily had his say. He just couldn't help himself. He looked at me and his eyes seemed to shrink. He probably remembered the little to- do with Harry and my shadowy involvement.

    "When did all this take place, Sharif ?" I had him now.

    "Oh, ancient history; not long after the hotel was built . . . The '50s, Hollywood in its prime, a great era . . . well, the '30s and '40s were the truly great eras of glamour."

    Sharif is ages too young to know old Hollywood. He's not even a native; English is his second language. But he knows the hotel inside out. I suspect there's not much going on with Sharif outside work. The way he greets guests with all he's got, hooks into their little habits, anticipates needs. A born lackey, though not resentful (as I would be) of comfortably- off guests or arty movie types— some with plenty of attitude. I sense no secret dark corner in Sharif harboring little social hatreds. I've only seen him once out of uniform. Embarrassing in his street clothes, a figureless man in loose jeans, lost out of the smart white oxford shirt and dark navy serge trousers and hotel blazer. It is as if Sharif— deskman extraordinaire, role player and implied bon vivant— isn't quite real outside of the hotel.

    "Tell me— the fire, Sharif; what do you know?"

    "I don't want to upset you."

    I smiled sweetly. "I don't upset that easy. What was the ac tress's name?"

    "You know, I don't remember, but you can go to the websites for Hollywood crime pages. I'm sure it's there." He pressed his hands to his chest, lowered his voice. "So many crimes! One actress jumped to her death from the H in the Hollywood sign. I always wondered how she got up there; did she have help?" He paused to consider. "Plenty of starlet suicides, one little actress murdered right here in the Hills by a handyman who tried to go too far. Bludgeoned . . ."

"Go on . . ."

    "This is long ago: first Prohibition, then the postwar boom; narcotics arrests, prostitution. As recently as the '90s too, right over in West Hollywood a high- class brothel at a la- di- da address." He moved in toward me. I was glad of the desk between us. "Did you know Gary Cooper was arrested for speeding? And there was the Errol Flynn scandal, with a fourteen- year- old if you can imagine . . ." He leaned back on his heels. "Excuse me." The hotel phone was ringing. Sharif answered in his well- greased voice, naming the hotel, then himself, and asking how he could be of assistance.

    I mouthed I'd be on my way, held up my room pass in a salute. Sharif smiled, all courtesy, happy in spite of himself for our private little tête- à- tête. I raced to the car, sped up the hill to the room, the bathroom, and blessed silence.

    There was barely a trace of sunset toward the east. No lights on in White Shirt's house. I turned on a lamp in the sitting room and one by the bed, and then the little lamp on the desk in the bedroom, where I kept my computer and where there was a printer that belonged to the film that Andre had given me to use. Seeing Dottie had cheered me some, but I didn't intend a repeat. I closed the glass doors to the bedroom and lay down on the couch. It was eight o'clock. Andre would be— I wanted to say
home
soon— but we're in a hotel.

T
he next morning it was Fits's turn to call. Old friends were crawling out of the woodwork now that Harry had walked out of the daylight and I'd found my way back into the Hollywood headlines. The house phone stirred. I stared at it, this time as if it were a rodent, unwanted, dirty, and full of bad luck. Hearing Fits on the other end of the line after all this time was both comforting and not. I got the sinking feeling I was being sucked back to where I was before I decided I didn't want to be there anymore. And, worse, what did I possibly have to say to Fits?

    "I hear you're up on a murder rap?" he said, jolliness warming his voice.

    "Dear Fits. How
are
you?"

    " Never mind me. What are you working on these days?"

    "You know I—"

    "Yeah, yeah, but that quitting thing was just a ploy, right?"

    I laughed by way of not answering.

    "You free later today? How about a hookup at Musso's?"

    " Musso and Frank's? On Hollywood? I thought you hated that place?"

    "I do, but it's easy. I moved up to Hidden Hills. My daughter's mother wouldn't let her visit the old Echo Park dive anymore, so it's convenient."

    "Isn't she grown up by now?"

    "Missy's sixteen; hard to believe."

    "You're gentry now, Fits."

    Fits, though his paychecks were big and regular, had lived like a bum on a back street in Echo Park with a parrot, a cat and a collection of silver buckles. I'd gone there twice, then told him he'd have to meet me at my bungalow or a neutral location. I got hiccups and sneezes if I went near his place. Dottie had given me the dirt on his recent move. I couldn't see him in Hidden Hills, though, even with its country feel for a place so close to Hollywood. He owned a little land with a million eucalyptus trees on it and the regulation swimming pool. It seemed Fits might be settling down.

    I said okay to Musso and Frank's, and we closed the call. The idea of seeing Fits later gave some shape to my day. I put the do- not- disturb sleeping- moon tag over the door so I could do a little research while the time passed. I was stuck on Sharif 's tale of fire and mayhem next door. I wanted to find out about the actress who'd died. Andre had made a fuss and hotel management found a way to bring Internet service up the hill to our suite and to Carola's room, a few of the others in his crew. It was an improvement that came with higher rates, but Andre didn't care. I kind of missed the poolside down below in the mornings, especially if I got there early enough to grab one of the fresh- delivered croissants. Anyhow, I sat down and started Googling old Hollywood crime sites. At least my mind was off Harry.

    Andre, on days, was up at dawn and would be in at a civilized hour tonight if he didn't go to dailies. Last night after seeing Dottie, I'd cooked a red snapper in butter, garlic, sun- dried tomatoes, and red wine, sautéed some bok choi, tossed a salad, and we'd managed to sit down to a nearly normal meal in between his getting one phone call after another. I hadn't gone to Harry's funeral. Some family had been dug up somewhere in New Jersey, and a rabbi showed up and they put him in the ground as soon as the medical examiner declared the death natural causes. I didn't hear anything further about Lundy and her crazy accusations. Detective Collins hadn't called, so I assumed I was free of suspicion and clean— even if I did feel dirtied by the death. Dottie had asked if Lundy might not press a civil wrongful- death suit, but I said I thought, based on gut feeling, that the estate had settled her and she'd gone quietly back to wherever she'd crawled out of when Harry found her. They'd seemed okay together, so my guess was Harry had taken care of her in his will.

    I told Andre I had no choice but to steer clear of the funeral. The event was a who's who of Hollywood fame, for all the clients Harry had shaped over the years. Andre agreed with me and for once didn't give me the song and dance about me hiding out on life. I'd enjoyed throwing the meal together and sitting down with him. I even lit a couple of candles, and there was nighttime L.A. outside, and what was not to like, but we seemed to be two people searching for a conversation more than anything intimate, and anyway his phone kept on right up to the last mouthful. He thanked me and said the meal was excellent, which it wasn't, but I think he meant it was a break from the hectic eating on set, but not much of one with the phone going every two minutes. We were becoming as formal as a count and countess; I said he was welcome and cleared the table. He was almost asleep by the time I washed up.

    I changed my clothes to meet Fits at Musso's. Before I left the hotel I called Andre to let him know I'd be having a drink with Fits. He didn't pick up, so I left a message.

    Fits looked pretty much the same, grayer but no heavier and no more serious- seeming than he'd ever been. That was my first impression. He was seated in the once- upon- a- time coveted corner leather booth in the back room, with a commanding view of whoever came and went and the bar that always had a handful of drinkers hanging on. There wasn't much coming and going these days. Musso's felt like yesteryear, but in a good way; the era of cocktail gowns and sizzling affairs spoken of in whispers just loud enough to hear— in other words, old Hollywood glamour. I slid into the booth next to him, and Fits leaned in to give me a kiss and pass a hand down my back, glancing off my derriere.

    "You're looking better than ever," he said appreciatively, just shy of a leer. "And you always looked good."

    I smiled. The waiter came over, and I pointed to Fits's wide lake of a glass and little extras pitcher next to it and said I'd have the same, only vodka, in case Fits was having a gin martini.

"So?" he said. "What'd you do to Harry?"

I shrugged. "We had lunch."

    Fits shook his head slowly. The gesture was about as solemn as I'd ever seen in him. I expected his high- wattage grin to break out but it didn't. "This town is all about relationships— pure bullshit the majority— but it was Harry's town and relationships were his lifeline and you broke it."

    "I'm a coldhearted killer," I said, trying for coy, but Fits wasn't buying any.

    My drink came. I lifted the glass in salutation, hoping to change the subject. I wanted to know what he was doing in Hidden Hills.

    He ignored my query. "Why'd the hausfrau tell the cops you did it?"

    "You sound like a B movie, Fits."

    "I
am
a B movie. So come clean."

    "I guess is it's like you said; I broke a life thread." I took a sip of my martini. Musso and Frank's didn't cheat the first drink; they'd probably lasted as long as they had by not cheating, and Musso's was Hollywood's oldest joint, dating back to 1919. Of course the drinks were fourteen bucks apiece. Back when Musso's was
the
place, the bar was famous, or infamous, depending on who was saddled up there. Once you entered Musso and Frank's it was perpetual nighttime. The bow- tied bartenders looked more like they belonged in a sleeper- train club car than on the Boulevard of Fame, and they
never
saw daylight. "I didn't get it that Harry was such a passionate guy, but I guess he was," I said, starting to feel bad all over again.

    Fits looked me over. "Why'd you quit?"

    "That's what Harry wanted to know just before he keeled over."

    Fits looked briefly as if a spider had been thrown down his shirt front. He reached into the beat- up leather shoulder bag he still dragged around with him, holding scripts and who knew what else, and pulled out an equally beat- up paperback novel that he slapped down on the table. It was a dog- eared copy of
Franny and Zooey.

    "Salinger?" I said, eyebrows up. "They're making a movie of it?" I asked, pointing to the book between us, next to the condiment shakers and a bottle of Texas Pete Hot Sauce.

    Fits shook his head. He opened the book to a page he'd marked, and put his finger on the text to hold his place.

    I wanted to laugh. Was Fits going to give me a sermon now? "What?"