Lone Star (11 page)

“Is he in jail?” From Tommy.

“Do you know Max Kohl?” I asked, surprised.

“Sort of. He rode bikes with Jimmy. In the hills. Jimmy said he’s a tough customer. A bully.”

“Jimmy doesn’t ride with him anymore?”

“No.”

Polly snickered. “One more person Jimmy abandoned.”

“Stop it, Polly.”

Polly turned to me, speaking in a mocking tone. “Tommy is afraid his time is coming. Fairmount loyalty only goes so far in this land of make-believe. Jimmy is a big star now. Three big pictures now. Interviews in
Look
and
Life
.
Vogue
says he’s ‘in’ now.” She faced her boyfriend. “It’s only a matter of time, Tommy. You’re history.”

“Stop it.” A whine.

“You better finish that goddamn screenplay. You can’t park cars all your life.”

Tommy stood up, tugged on the red jacket. It seemed too tight for his broad chest, and I thought, darkly, that perhaps it was Jimmy’s size, not his. A hand-me-down? Jimmy tossing off bit parts, pieces of clothing. Polly stood now, tucked her arm into his.

I touched Tommy’s sleeve. “Would you two like to be my guests for dinner tonight? Someplace nice?”

“No.” From Polly.

“Yes.” From Tommy.

A pause, uncomfortable. The two looked at each other. Tommy looked back at me.

“Indulge an old lady, please.” I smiled.

Polly nodded. “All right. I guess.” Her tongue licked her upper lip slowly.

“The Brown Derby at eight?” They nodded.

When they were gone, Mercy seemed tickled. “Dinner with those two?”

“Something bothers me. Is that an act or are they for real?”

“Of course it’s an act, Edna,” Tansi said, smiling. “You’re in Hollywood.”

Chapter 9

The phone was ringing but I didn’t pick up. I was weary of people. So I bathed, soaking in lilac bath salts, my eyes closed, and then relaxed with a martini and a forbidden cigarette. The phone rang again. “Edna, I’ve been
calling
.” Tansi sucked in her breath. “My mother, by the way, sends her regards, and says you should convince me to return to New York.” A harsh laugh. “Fat chance.” I started to say something, but Tansi interrupted. “But I have news, Edna.” Again the breathing in. I could tell she was smoking a cigarette. “The studio just learned from Detective Cotton that Carisa was pregnant. Pregnant! Can you believe it?”

Jimmy, you’re the father of my unborn baby. I’m gonna tell
…

I put out my cigarette: a taste of burnt ash in my mouth.

Tansi repeated her story, but I told her I had to go. When I said goodbye, raising my voice, she was still talking.

I dressed slowly for dinner, my mind dwelling on Carisa and her unborn child. What a horrible ending! Sadness gripped me, and I found myself near tears.

I was still in a daze when the studio car dropped me off at the Brown Derby. Within seconds, Polly and Tommy pulled up in their sputtering, noisy car, a tired convertible, the top down, with Polly driving. Reluctantly, the parking valet assumed possession, receiving the keys from Polly with the attitude of someone acquiring a lethal virus. Polly stood there, looking after the sagging car as though losing a friend, a worried look on her face. Curious, this West Coast car culture. Automobiles attached to lives like love notes worn close to the heart. Did Tommy own a car? True, he parked cars for a living. Maybe, sadly, he couldn’t afford one. And, indeed, Polly seemed to be the dominant gene in that sociological construction called the modern couple. The car disappeared behind a bed of Bird-of-Paradise that I thought too garish, indeed—especially under the indigo-black sky, with a line of royal palms nearby, accented with spotlights. El Greco, I decided: a tourist postcard.

I wasn’t certain why I wanted to be alone with the couple, other than that earlier intuitive and impulsive moment. I expected a wearisome meal in the company of boors. But I was convinced that they had something to tell me, though I had no idea how it related to the murder and my helping Jimmy clear his name. Because that was exactly what I was doing—helping Jimmy. Yes, he’d pleaded for help that awful night at Mercy’s; but, later on, as I soaked in my bath, eyes closed, I’d had an epiphany: Jimmy was innocent. Jimmy, the spoiled brat, the caustic boy, the cooing charmer, the brilliant actor. These were the contradictions that sometimes accompanied genius—and, I liked to believe, similarly defined
myself
. Not that observers could spot them in me, maybe labeling me an aging novelist with a tendency to acerbic comment and a short fuse. No, as the bath salts soothed and swirled, I thought, there may be a lot of the unsavory in the lad but not the stuff of murder.

I was pleased to see that Tommy and Polly had altered their costume for the fancy eatery. Tommy wore a simple black turtleneck and creased trousers, and a somewhat rumpled wheat-colored linen jacket, a little too big and a little too thrift shop. Polly’s dress was a marked-down Woolworth’s rendering of June Allyson—flair and flourish, faded pink roses on a mauve velveteen cloth. Her face bore just a trace of pink lipstick, becoming on her, and in the shrill light of the restaurant marquee her auburn hair looked like burnt cinnamon.

They were nervous, which is what I wanted. Frankly, I was used to people being nervous around me. Inside, they sat stiffly at the table, waiting.

Polly took the offensive. “I don’t know why you wanted to take
us
to dinner.” She stared directly into my face, challenging. “Especially a place like this.” Tommy watched, with drowsy eyes.

“Why not? I’m a writer. Young people fascinate me.” It was a brazen lie. Young people, in the main, were callow, dimensionless; at best, they were static characters in a novel I was living. There were, of course, exceptions, and marvelous ones, but I knew, without a bit of doubt, that these two weren’t among them.

Tommy half-bowed. “Thank you.”

I stared. What had I said that warranted a thank you?

“You know,” I began, “when I saw you sitting by yourself in the Smoke House this afternoon, I thought you were Jimmy.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “It’s the red jacket.”

“Well, I like the look.” Idly, he fingered the sleeve of his sports jacket. “Other people besides Jimmy wear red jackets, you know.” Said emphatically, he sat back, fumbling for a cigarette.

“What you like is having people think you’re Jimmy.” Polly glared at him. She turned to me. “Since Jimmy started wearing that red jacket, people associate it with him. It’s from
Rebel Without a Cause
, and that’s not even
released
yet. There were some photos in fan magazines, and that’s all it took. Suddenly, his fans are clamoring for the jacket.” Polly went on, her voice weary. “It’s the way Jimmy dresses off camera. But now and then. Not every
day
,” she emphasized. “Tommy rarely takes his off.”

Tommy grunted.

Polly stared into my face. “Jimmy has a powerful hold on Tommy.” She looked around the room, then glared at the waiter placing menus before them. She waited until the man left. “Tommy can’t get away from Jimmy’s influence.”

“You’re talking like I’m not even in the room,” Tommy whined.

Polly spat out the words. “It’s hard enough living your own life without copying another person’s.”

“Actually,” I volunteered, “I suppose, it’s easier to copy someone else’s life. Making your own up is hard work.”

“You hear that, Tommy? You’ve taken the easy way out.”

Tommy, sheepish, “I just think that Jimmy is—cool.”

My Lord, I thought. We begin with such anger, without even a pleasant preamble to dinner. “Has anything happened today?” I asked them. “You both seem out of sorts.”

Polly and Tommy looked at each other, and Polly ran her fingers through her hair. “Of course something happened,” she admitted. “It’s Jimmy who always sets us off.”

So I learned that Jimmy had rebuffed Tommy that afternoon, a phone call that left him hurt and angry. Jimmy hung up on him. He’d done that before, but today it particularly rankled. So they’d been arguing about Jimmy since the insult. I was pleased. Keep arguing, please. I sat back and watched.

Tommy defended himself. “Back in Fairmount, he was real together, you know—acting, basketball, motorcycle racing through the farm fields on the cycle he built himself. Everyone
talked
about him. They
knew
him. He liked that. I wasn’t following him to New York City, you know. I just wanted to be an actor. But I—we,” he pointed to Polly, “bumped into him one night. He remembered me. He hung out with us. We…”

“Tommy became one more sparkle illuminating Jimmy’s star.”

“So what? He said I got talent.”

“Jimmy tells everyone he has talent. Until he changes his mind.”

“Jimmy said I’d go right to the top.”

“But Jimmy works at it, day and night, despite what he says. You park cars and wait for someone to tap you on the shoulder.”

“Jimmy says…”

“Jimmy says. Jimmy says.” Polly imitated his crackling, flat voice. She stopped, looked at me, red-faced. “My God, I’m sorry, ma’am. This is the conversation—the fight—we always end up having lately, and this time were doing it in front of you.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

We ordered. Tommy said he wanted red wine. For once, I was indifferent to the menu, quickly ordering the first chicken dish I’d spotted, and recommending sirloin steak, rare, when they hesitated. Tommy’s finger, I noted, had been tapping the steak listing, the priciest item on the menu. He gulped the first glass of wine so quickly the wine steward, taken off guard, had to rush to refill the goblet. Polly eyed Tommy. A warning.

“You’re in
Giant
and
Rebel
?” I asked Tommy.

“Not so’s you’d notice me.” He pointed at Polly. “Both of us.” She nodded. He paused. “You know I had the lead in the Fairmount High School production of
The Front Page
. Got a review in the local paper. I showed Jimmy a copy.”

“Yellowed and worn at the edges,” Polly mocked, cruelly.

“How does it feel to be a part of Jimmy’s world?” I asked, knowing it was an explosive line.

Polly spoke and was furious. I noted a trace of lipstick on her front tooth, a spot of pink that looked like a stain. “If Jimmy has a ‘crowd’ we’re
not
part of it.”

“Not true, Polly,” Tommy bristled. “We do hang out with him.”

Polly looked at me, breathed in deeply. “We’re on the fringe. Tommy’s the snapshot in the high-school yearbook Jimmy keeps opening to by accident. He’s looking for other people and Tommy’s in the way.”

Tommy shook his head. “For Christ’s sake, Polly.”

“So just who are his friends then?” I asked.

For a moment Polly debated her answer. “Jimmy has circles of friends, some overlapping. Some secret and hidden. Some obvious.

“Meaning?”

“The girls he hangs out with. Dates, maybe. Maybe sleeps with.”

Tommy spoke up. “You see, Jimmy can’t really settle on a girl. I mean, he seemed serious about Pier Angeli, but her mother stopped that. He wanted to marry her.”

Polly smirked. “That was just talk, Miss Ferber. Look, Jimmy’s career is what drives him—not marriage. I think ninety per cent of that was PR. Jimmy the lover of the Italian beauty. Great photo shoot stuff. On the set, at clubs, dancing at Trocadero, late night snacks at Barney’s Beanery.”

Tommy glared at her. “He
did
care for her.”

“Jimmy doesn’t care for people,” Polly said. “Women—girls—are fodder.”

“What about Carisa’s claims?” I interrupted. “The letters?”

That seemed to stop Polly cold. She looked at Tommy. “Carisa is unstable—
was
unstable, I mean. Sorry. Jimmy said she was—in his cruel phrase—available for lonely nights in Texas. Frivolous. Nothing more. Marfa was boring, over a hundred degrees in the shade. At night you could play Canasta and drink Canada Dry with Jane Withers. Whoop-di-do. So he’d go off. And waiting there was Carisa, smiling and opening her shirt.”

“And Lydia? How does she fit into all this?”

“You know, just another actress mooning over Jimmy.”

Tommy lowered his voice. “Did you know that Lydia and Carisa were roommates once, a year back, before Carisa had to rent in Skid Row. Lydia moved into the Studio Club to get away from Carisa.”

Polly smirked. “Each one blames—blamed—the other for drug use, Miss Ferber.”

“Lydia is a sad wreck of a girl,” Tommy added.

“And yet Jimmy dated her.”

Another shrug of the shoulders. “Well, again, dating,” Tommy said. “He rebounded from Carisa and Pier. He finds Lydia waiting in the wings. Calling him. They go out, he gets sick of her, he ignores her. She cries. He sees her again. He leaves. He had to. She’s so…clutching. Jimmy doesn’t want to be around drug users, you know. He likes to be the only person acting weird in a crowd. Lydia is too much trouble. He dumped her.”

Polly added, “She had a falling out with Carisa, real nasty, but I know she’d been to Carisa’s apartment lately.”

“How do you know that?” Tommy asked, surprised.

“She mumbled it to me one night.”

“Where was I?”

“Worshipping at Jimmy’s shrine.”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue.

“You both are not painting a pretty picture of Jimmy and women here.”

“Because there’s none to be painted,” Polly said. “Jimmy doesn’t want anyone to say no to him. He’s that insecure. And when anyone
likes
him—truly likes him—he then has to make them hate him.”

“Do you hate him, Polly?” I asked, bluntly.

A hesitation, a flicker of the eye. “No, I don’t hate him. I’m someone he doesn’t even see. ‘Tommy’s dating a telephone pole with a nest on her head.’ That’s how he once referred to me.”

“I told him that wasn’t nice,” Tommy mumbled.

“Thanks for the support, lover.”

But in that brief moment, staring at Polly’s face, I saw something: melancholy, sadness, some regret. Polly, sensing my probing eyes on her, became self-conscious, broke a piece of bread into pieces and scattered the pieces on the tablecloth.

“What about his other circles?” I asked, sitting back. Amazing, I thought, how easy it is to let people talk when you just tap into their anger.

“The bikers,” Polly said. “Sometimes Jimmy rides the night away with his motorcycle buddies.”

“Like Max Kohl, Carisa’s friend?”

“I’ve only seen him a couple times. A scary guy, built like a longshoreman,” stammered Tommy.

“But they had a fight,” Polly said. “So I heard from Jimmy. I don’t know why.”

“He’s into race cars. Fast bikes. Like Jimmy.”

“I heard that Max Kohl has been calling on Lydia.”

Polly spoke up. “Yeah, Lydia told me. She’s none too happy.”

“But you don’t know him?”

Both shook their heads.

“I think he did bit parts for a while, but I’m not sure,” said Polly.

“Why am I not surprised?” I smiled. “Hollywood is the land of bit parts.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “You make it seem like a crime.”

“Only if it leads to murder,” I said.

Tommy and Polly looked at each other, then back at the tablecloth, suddenly fascinated with the fine linen.

For a while they talked of Jimmy’s movie-lot friends, the crew members he associated with, carpenters, best boys, and not so good boys and girls, usually drawn into Jimmy’s temporary kingdom by a shared interest in race-car driving, late-night revelry, interest in jazz music or oriental philosophy or bullfighting. Like a shuffled deck of cards, Polly noted. “Each time a new hand is on the table, there are different face cards.” She smirked. “And older women. Geraldine Fitzgerald. Mercy McCambridge, and his agent—his ‘Moms,’ he calls them. The only women that
really
matter to him.”

“Why?” I asked, seeing myself in that unwelcome covey.

They both shrugged.

While they talked, Tommy drank. Occasionally Polly glanced at him, tried to get his attention, and, once, nodded at the wine bottle. I ordered a second bottle of my nefarious prop for this one-act play. I barely sipped my drink and scarcely touched my food. But Tommy and Polly ravished theirs. At another time I would have been pleased, for I value souls who understand the delights of the kitchen. I would have routinely condemned Tommy, had I not seen the beneficial results of getting him drunk.