Lone Star (12 page)
When Tommy excused himself to go to the rest room, I was waiting. “Polly, what’s your involvement with Jimmy?”
The question caught the young girl by surprise, for she actually jumped, then looked at Tommy’s disappearing back.
“What?”
“I thought I saw something in your eyes when we were discussing Jimmy’s less-than-decent relationships with women.”
She smiled. “I underestimated you.” She sighed. “I could lie to you, Miss Ferber, but I’m not going to. Jimmy and I had a moment—
one
moment, that’s all. A moment of weakness on my part, but a moment of sheer cruelty on his. Jimmy takes possession of other people’s property. I’m Tommy’s, and even though Tommy has
nothing
—no hope, no future, not even
me
some day—Jimmy had to be cock in the hen coop.”
“So,” I sympathized, “a moment. But you still seem to have a lot of emotion.”
“What?” She whispered the word.
“It was more than a moment for you, Polly.” The declarative sentence, I thought, more powerful than the interrogative.
Polly started to say something, but then, gulping, started to sob. “I thought I did it for revenge,” she mumbled. “You know, Tommy does whatever Jimmy does. Don’t get me wrong. I
care
for Tommy. I do. But something was said, an overheard remark, that led me to suspect that Tommy had a…a moment with Carisa Krausse.”
“Carisa!”
“She was Jimmy’s in Marfa. But Tommy has to have what Jimmy has. A rumor I never mentioned to Tommy. Carisa likes to sleep around with any…” She paused. “I’m not being very nice.” She dabbed her moist cheeks. “It’s probably something I just imagined.”
“But you thought you’d get back at her,” I said, focusing.
She ran her tongue over her upper lip. “I’m lying a little. You see, I’ve always had a sort of crush on Jimmy. Of course, you can’t tell him. I just can’t shake it. You see, when we first got here, I wanted Tommy to be Jimmy—ambitious, focused, and handsome.”
I smiled. “And since that moment with Jimmy, nothing.”
“I’m back to being wallpaper.”
“Is it possible Carisa’s baby was Tommy’s?”
Polly blanched. “Oh, my God!”
“And Tommy never…” I stopped. Tommy staggered back to the table. Polly, nervous, started munching on a roll, her tear-strained face turned away.
“Talking about me?” he asked, slurring his words.
“Yes,” I confessed. “I’ve gathered that Jimmy has yet another circle. I talked with this fellow Josh MacDowell today, a friend of Sal Mineo.”
Polly shot a quick glance at Tommy, who’d turned pale.
“What did I say?” I asked.
“Josh is very musical.” Tommy grinned.
“Stop it.” Polly glared at him.
“Musical?”
Polly, confidentially, “In Hollywood when you suspect any man likes, well, other men, you ask if he’s…musical. Like a code word for a touchy subject.”
Tommy bellowed loudly, “Jimmy doesn’t like swishy guys.”
“Yet Josh was a drinking buddy.”
“For a real short time. Now Josh has his sights on Sal Mineo, who’s sixteen and doesn’t realize he’s musical.” Tommy thought his line hilarious, and started laughing, but stopped and said with a sneer, “A bunch of freaks.”
Polly turned to me: “The one area Tommy will
not
imitate Jimmy.”
“Meaning?”
Tommy announced, “Jimmy’s an experimenter. He got all his breaks in California and New York through a sissy named Rogers Brackett, some queer radio producer with connections. Jimmy lived with him in New York. He met other men who got him parts on Broadway. Jimmy did what he had to do.”
“So you mean he sleeps with men?”
“Well, somebody hinted him and this Max Kohl had something going on, but maybe not. Because Jimmy likes to hang out with tough guys. He goes to parties in the Valley, homes of movie execs and hot shots who are that way, where there are guys who experiment.” Tommy was speaking too loudly, but sloppily, dragging the words out. “But I think Jimmy likes it too much.” He waved his hand in the air. “Who knows?” He hiccoughed.
I listened closely, realizing that Josh MacDowell had used the same word: experiment. Jimmy experimented with other worlds. The portrait of a young man in search of…of what?
Polly, glancing at her blotchy face in a compact mirror, left to repair the damage. Tommy stared at me. “So that’s our Jimmy,” he smirked. “You feed us and we give you his story, at least the part with the warts. Which is why, I guess, you fed us. But he’s the biggest star on the lot. Can you believe it?”
“You resent him, Tommy.” Another wonderful declarative sentence.
“No, I love him. He’s my buddy.”
“But I’m thinking maybe it should have been you who plays Jett Rink and Cal Trask and Jim Stark. All the rebels and sad boys.”
“I was the lead in
The Front Page
.”
Daggers drawn. “Don’t you get tired of being his shadow? Maybe, if James Dean wasn’t around, there’d be a Thomas Dwyer, in a red-nylon jacket. Girls asking for your autograph.”
Suddenly he looked at me, and his eyes got wet. “When is it
my
turn, Miss Ferber? When?”
I sighed, touched the back of his hand. “He seems to have all the luck.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks. “That’s it, exactly. Luck. Damn luck, really. That’s all it is in this God-awful town. And who you sleep with. Jimmy’ll sleep with trolls for a part. He
has
, and look where he is. Ugly old men with potbellies. Women who wear sable coats with nothing on underneath. He
told
me. Christ. Now he’s king of the world. Wherever we go, people scrape and bow. In Googie’s they sit behind the glass partition and stare. They mob him. One movie. One! And I’m there carrying his coat. Me.” He looked at me through sloppy tears. “He’s a dirty man, Miss Ferber. Not only that unshaven look, the sticky unwashed hair, Christ, even the dandruff, but inside. Inside.” He paused. “But I can’t stop loving him…” He trailed off.
Polly returned to the table. She looked at Tommy, whose face was wet with tears.
She looked at me, wonder in her eyes. I sat there nodding.
My God, I thought. I’ve had them both weeping. She metamorphoses from the witch of the west into a weeping soda-fountain shop girl; he, the meek of the earth, metamorphoses into a barroom drunk, filled with ill-defined anger at his meal ticket.
A successful dinner.
“Are you having dessert?” I asked, cheerily. “I hear the crème brulee is the best in California.”
The next morning I phoned Mercy. “I need an accomplice.”
“Aiding and abetting is a part I’ve played in many movies.”
I was thinking out loud. “Carisa pushed someone too far. Despite her madness and her drug use, if that’s to be believed, Carisa seemed to draw people in. What we do know is that different roads led to her—and to Jimmy. Josh a high-school pal of hers. Josh introducing Jimmy to her. Jimmy dating her. Jimmy leaving her for Lydia. Lydia her old roommate and on-again off-again friend. Max Kohl seeing her before and after Jimmy. Max Kohl a biker buddy of Jimmy.” I was also thinking about Tommy Dwyer, maybe stepping out on Polly with Carisa. And Polly suspecting their tryst.
Mercy clicked her tongue. “There’s too much Jimmy in the picture.”
“Mercy, our aim is not to solve the murder, really. That’s Detective Cotton’s bailiwick, troglodyte though he strikes me. No, I think we have to prove Jimmy’s
not
guilty. He’s our worst enemy here, of course, hostile to everyone, especially the police.”
I could almost hear the smile. “And you need me as an accomplice for what?”
“You can start by being the driver. I don’t think Warner wants the studio car idling in questionable neighborhoods.”
“We’re cruising Rodeo Drive?”
I chuckled. “I vowed never to return to Carisa’s apartment after that night, but I’m afraid we have no choice.”
“I’ll gas up the getaway car.”
***
By noon Mercy’s Ford sedan pulled up in front of Carisa’s apartment house, and we surveyed the building in daylight. Still Skid Row. Broad daylight revealed grime and decay and utter disregard. Defeat in the tired buildings; defeat in the struggling, shuffling souls. A man dressed in a winter coat, huddled in a doorway, stared into the street. A rickety car pulled up in front of a pawnshop, and an obese woman in a flowered muumuu and loose sandals started to drag what I thought was a brass coat rack across the sidewalk. I stared, mesmerized. A little girl in shocking pink pedal pushers trailed the large woman. A soiled, used-up street. A hint of naughtiness in the jaunty walk of a couple of spangled girls. It reminded me of Pigalle, touring France one hot, hot summer with Noel Coward and Louis Bromfield. They always insisted on cultivating Parisian life in the grimier, suspect avenues, those wags, dragging me along for shock value. As I stepped out of the car, a young woman, so rail-thin and pale she seemed not even to be there, floated by, smiling, smiling. A haunted, parched face; the hunger of reaching zero.
Rapping on the door of the first-floor apartment, I recalled the superintendent’s name from that awful night when I sat in his meticulous kitchen, light-headed from the sickening sight of a dead woman’s body. Manuel Vega seemed happy to see us, ushering us in with a cavalier bow. An old-school gentleman, Vega was in his seventies, a tall willowy man with a shock of absolute white hair and, these days at least, a fuzzy white beard stubble. Skin the color of hazy mahogany, he seemed youthful, robust, though he moved carefully and employed a lion’s-head cane. He spoke a deep, resonant English, no accent, though I had expected one. He looked a casting department stereotype of the old hidalgo of the hacienda. Instead, he spoke with the spacious, lazy drone of the typical Angelino—a stereotype of another persuasion.
He insisted we drink lemonade, his own creation, a liquid so transparent I thought it water. It had tartness undercut by a surprising sweetness that satisfied. Superb, I told him.
“How may I help you?” he asked, bowing again.
I explained that Mercy and I—I called her Mercedes, and the man nodded—were looking into the death of Carisa, strictly as a favor to a friend who stood accused, a young man in danger of being falsely charged of a murder he didn’t commit, a man who…
“James Dean?” He cut me off.
I started. “You know him?”
“My granddaughter is a huge fan. Sitting through
East of Eden
a dozen times. She took me to see it, in fact. She insisted. A marvelous movie.”
“Why did his name come to mind?” I asked.
He smiled. “He’s famous, and you are here now.”
I sipped the lemonade. “Interesting.”
“Well, I like the movies now and then, though I’m getting old, ma’am. You see, I was in the movies when I was young, the silents of course, once in a scene with Valentino himself. And in one of Mae Murray’s wonderful comedies. With the little money I made, I bought this house of six apartments for a song, and here I am, years later, as the streets get sadder and sadder.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“But you know James Dean?” Mercy asked.
“I don’t know him. It’s my granddaughter who told me he comes here to visit. I didn’t pay attention to the comings and goings. In this neighborhood if I get the rent, I’m a happy man.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
“Never.” He paused. “Or at least I don’t think so. So many young boys and girls come and go, visiting the Krausse girl, that I didn’t pay attention, you know. So long as everything was proper. Proper, you know. But Connie, my granddaughter, is here on weekends. She tells me—you know who I saw leaving the second floor apartment? James Dean, she says. I say who? And she shows me his picture in a movie magazine. She wants to ask for his autograph, but doesn’t have the courage. And so she takes me to see
East of Eden
, and I say—yes, that’s the lad. Looks different, though. That red jacket he wears.”
I held my breath. “What can you tell us about him?”
He looked around his small kitchen, seemed to frown at a cobweb he spotted above the sink. “Nothing. He comes and goes.”
“Often?”
“Not a lot. I can’t say. My granddaughter
watched
for him on weekends. I don’t know. I’m old. I nap in the afternoons and go to bed early. I’m up at four, and the apartment building is sleeping. You know, for a long time Carisa’s not even here, filming in Texas. She’d only been here a short time before she left for Texas. Then she’s back, crazy-like. She said they fired her.”
“She have a lot of visitors?” Mercy asked.
“Young people, drinkers, partiers. But so long as everything is quiet and the police stay away, I’m happy.”
“The police ever come to her place?” I asked.
“Not till she was dead.”
“Did you ever see Jimmy—James and Carisa together? I mean, go out or walk together?”
“No. But I heard them once. Yelling. I knocked on her door. It’s late, and then there’s quiet. I don’t know it’s him but Connie says she saw him leave.”
“He left then?”
“The next morning.” He frowned. “I spoke to her about that. This is a Catholic household, ma’am, a decent place, and I frown on that. She said he fell asleep on the floor, that he was drunk, as if that’s supposed to make me happy. But after that, nothing. Silence. Except that she wanders up and down the stairs, by herself, out to the bodega, back with cigarettes, whiskey, and God knows what else. Across the street to the bar and grill where she eats a lot of times. I see her in there, night after night, enchiladas and a beer. A quarter for a meal. A poor man’s restaurant.”
“Were you surprised she was murdered?” I asked.
He sighed. “You know, I talked about this with Detective Cotton. The same story.”
“About James Dean?”
“Of course. It’s the police. I’m not looking for trouble.”
“What did you tell Cotton?”
“He asked if I was surprised at the murder. Well, yes, it’s not an everyday event. Even around here. Only in the movies. I was murdered in a William S. Hart movie. I took a long time to die.” He smiled. “I wanted to be on the screen for a long time. But, as I told Cotton, I was going to evict her. She stopped paying the rent. She wasn’t working, she said, since they fired her, but I just didn’t like some of the crowd that started coming around. Late-at-night crowd. I found a syringe—a needle—in the hallway last week. She said it had nothing to do with her, but I knew.”
“So you asked her to leave?” Mercy wondered.
He shook his head. “Not yet. She hid away in the apartment, wouldn’t answer the door sometimes. If I saw her on the street, she just nodded at me. There was this creepy guy around for a while—tough, muscles, and a look that could stop you dead. When I found out he’d been staying over nights, I said something to her. He disappeared. On weekends my granddaughter is here. I gotta watch out. I had one daughter and she married a crazy so I know crazies. Drugs, beatings, tough guy stuff, trouble. He’s in jail, and my daughter works in a hotel weekends, so Connie stays here with me. Fourteen years old, a beauty, who wants to be in the movies. Big surprise! That’s the trouble with living here. Other places your child wants to go into business or, I don’t know, school. But here, it’s Hollywood all the time, covering you like a cotton-candy dream. I talk to her, but you know how babies are…”
Mercy interrupted. “What about the others who visited her?”
He stopped, waited, reached for cigarettes. He offered them to us, and surprising myself, I was tempted. I shook my head. Thank you, no.
“She got the most visitors, that girl. For a while, before I learned she was an actress, I thought she was a whore. Pardon me. Hard to tell. Lots of young girls look like it. Now and then I get one here, got to boot them out. But she was more…what?…crazy than anything. I don’t mean crazy like oddball or, you know, wacky funny. Like Carole Lombard. No, this one was certifiable. All that walking at night, all the wandering in the hallways, unable to sleep, a woman with demons pursuing her. Still, I had to tell her to leave, but I never got around to doing it. Maybe I wouldn’t have. I felt sorry for her. A pretty girl and so crazy. Still, people like James Dean came to see her. What does that tell you? She told my granddaughter she was gonna marry James Dean, and my Connie started crying. But I told her that James Dean is not marrying Carisa. Not on this good green earth. Him, up there in the movies. Big time. All la-di-dah in his sunglasses. No way he’s marrying her. You know what she was? A failed actress. And let me tell you, there’s nothing more pathetic in this town than a failed actress. Pity and
tsk tsk
from everyone.
You
didn’t make it. Of course, they think
they
will. This town’s bottom heavy with sad lives.”
“Mr. Vega.” I cut into the monologue. “Someone killed her.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t believe it is James Dean.”
He nodded.
“Can you help us?”
He looked into my eyes. “I don’t think so. You see, Connie told me—and I told Cotton—that she saw Dean in the apartment the night Carisa died. She was watching for him. I believe what she’s told me.” He paused. “Connie said she heard yelling and screaming, the two of them. Probably just before she was killed.”
“And she told all this to Detective Cotton?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you recognize anyone else who came lately, a day or so before she died? Anyone who stood out?” Mercy asked.
He paused. “I told you I didn’t pay much attention.” He took a sip of lemonade. “But one day or so before she died, I was coming back home and Carisa was on the sidewalk talking to a man. Yelling and arguing.”
I sat up. “A man?”
“An older man, dressed up like he was going to a play. Tie, jacket. Man in his fifties, say. Very pompous.”
Mercy turned to me: “Jake?”
“Probably. Did you hear what they were arguing about?” I asked Vega.
“A little. The man was asking her to do something, and she was saying no. Kept turning away, but then coming back, baiting him. Cat-and-mouse game. He looked angry, I’ll tell you. Face all purple.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I went inside and seconds later I heard her running up the stairs.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Anyone else?”
“Lots of people. One guy a lot, back when she first moved in, before Texas. Very effeminate, don’t like his kind, to tell you the truth. He came a lot. Lately he stopped in again. One time with a pretty young boy. Maybe Mexican. I don’t like that stuff in my building. I say live and let live, but swishy is swishy, you know.”
“You talk to him?”
“Of course not.”
“Anyone else?”
He shook his head. “Lots. What can I tell you? I can’t help you. I hear footsteps up and down. Men, women. I don’t know. There was this other girl, an actress, I can tell, laughing too loud. But Carisa was okay until she got back from Texas. The first couple months here she was quiet. After Texas, she started to fall apart.” He bit his lip. “You know, one night, I couldn’t sleep and heard someone going up to her apartment, around three or four in the morning. A knock, real loud, and then someone running back down the stairs. I don’t like that.”
“Why?”
“I just felt he was delivering her some drugs. What else could it be at that hour? Not even there long enough, you know, for a—pardon me, ma’am—quickie.”
There was a gentle rapping on the door, and an old woman in a sagging housedress, her hair tied up in a kerchief, mumbled something in Spanish. While Mercy and I watched from the kitchen, Vega went into the living room and dialed the phone, speaking with his back to us. When he returned, he looked confused. “I’ve just called the police. Mrs. Sanchez tells me someone has slipped into Carisa’s apartment, past the crime tape that’s there.” Immediately I stood up and started to move. He waved me down. “No, sit tight,” he said. But I had to see. “Please. Would you get yourself hurt?”
Mercy touched my arm. “Let’s wait.”
But I stood in the outer doorway, door open, facing upstairs, waiting. The hallway was empty now, and I heard nothing from upstairs. All right, I wouldn’t tackle the stairs, not with an intruder there, but should anyone leave, I wanted a good view. Interesting, this intrusion; in broad daylight. Someone brazen and most likely desperate; after all, crime scene tape would deter most souls. I waited, impatient. Within minutes, the same two balding, beefy cops who’d come the night Carisa was murdered showed up, and, minutes later, surprisingly, Detective Cotton, out of breath, flew into the hallway. Without pretence I trailed Cotton up the stairs.
The door to Carisa’s apartment was wide open, the POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape dangling off the jamb, most of it bunched on the floor.
