Shamus In The Green Room (7 page)

security and streamed in over the original gate.

Rafe got out of the car and stuck his cap on his head. “Did

you know Charles Bronson took his new name from this gate?”

“Alfred A. Knopf wanted Hammett to change his name.

He thought it was too hard for people to pronounce.”

“They wanted me to change my name, too. Robert Simon

was their idea of a good name.”

“Sounds like a lawyer.”

“Lee Majors, the star of The Six Million Dollar Man, was

born Harvey Lee Yeary. I met him a long time ago in the green

room, waiting to go on with Jay Leno. Man, I’d have changed

that name, too.”

“Jay Leno?”

“Harvey Lee Yeary.”

We sat on the hood of his car, looking north. There were

billboards as far as the eye could see. Spearmint Rhino, an up-

scale gentlemen’s club. Citibank. A horror movie featuring a

girl in a towel wielding a knife. California avocados. In the dis-

tance were the snowcapped San Gabriel Mountains. I won-

dered how different it’d looked here in 1930. That was the year

Hammett had arrived in Hollywood, fresh from writing four

best-selling novels. David O. Selznick decided Hammett would

class up the joint—write screenplays, doctor scripts, finesse

57

dialogue. What neither of them knew, of course, was that

Hammett’s best work was already behind him.

“While he was at Paramount,” I said out loud, “Hammett

finished The Thin Man. That was the last book he’d ever

write.”

It was the part of his life most people couldn’t fathom.

Hammett lived for almost thirty years after The Thin Man

without ever finishing another book. Just before he died, he

was visited by a reporter who asked him why he kept three Un-

derwood typewriters. Still in his pajamas at noon, the tall,

gaunt, by then toothless man answered by saying he wanted to

remind himself that he used to be a writer.

“What went wrong?” asked Rafe.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “He lived fast. He spent money

like it was water. He liked women and alcohol, and he went

through a lot of both.”

“Did Hollywood ruin him?” Interesting question coming

from an actor.

“He was sick. He was a drunk. He felt like a hack and

wanted to be taken seriously.” I paused. “Maybe he was already

ruined.”

“I get it,” said Rafe, in a way that made me wonder.

t

L a

t e r t h a

t n i g h t I b r

o u g h t t h e s c r a p -

book into bed with me.

“Look at this,” I said to Gambino.

“Do I have to? I saw the guy in person and wasn’t very im-

pressed. And I’m busy here.” Ever the optimist, he was scraping

58

up the crystallized remains of a quart of Häagen-Dazs coffee

ice cream.

“Oh, c’mon. You liked his car at least.”

“ ‘I’m an idiot with money to burn.’ That’s what that car

says.”

“So what would you have bought?” I took the carton out of

his hand, lifted up his arm, and draped it across my shoulders.

Gambino pulled me in close. He was so big he made me feel

tiny. I am 5 feet 11 and 144 pounds. I like to feel tiny. Jayne

Mansfield, with whom I am obsessed, said it best: “I’m a big

girl and I have to have a big guy.”

“So, what kind of car?” I repeated.

“I’m thinking here.” He peeled off his wire-rimmed glasses

and shut his eyes for a moment. “Well, I would’ve said a 1971

Hemi Cuda convertible, which is the greatest muscle car De-

troit ever built.”

“But?”

“Nash Bridges already took it.”

“He’s a TV cop,” I murmured consolingly, “but you’re the

real thing.”

“What did Annie say when you dug up this thing?” he

asked, changing the subject.

“She was mortified.”

“Lusting after total strangers. You can’t lust after people you

actually know when you’re a kid. It’s too scary.”

“Don’t tell me you had a crush on some movie star.” He

didn’t seem like the type. He was solid as a rock, salt of the

earth. A little defensive, sometimes, but who isn’t?

“I had the poster of Farrah Fawcett in the red one-piece

bathing suit,” he admitted.

“You remember what color bathing suit she was wearing?”

59

“What planet do you live on, Cece? That poster united a

generation of teenage boys.”

I sat straight up.

“What?”

“I just realized we’ve never gone swimming together.” Late

at night, this sort of thing could easily assume massive propor-

tions. Gambino knew me well enough to nip it in the bud. He

took my chin in his hand.

“We’ve also never taken a plane together. We’ve never

packed a suitcase together. We’ve never purchased a major ap-

pliance together. It’s okay. It really is.”

“We should buy a refrigerator. I have a terrible refrigerator.”

“First thing in the morning.” He pulled me under the covers.

“Wait a second.” I got out of bed, wriggled out of my

sweats, and opened my chest of drawers.

Farrah Fawcett was not the only woman to ever make good

use of a red one-piece bathing suit.

One hour later Gambino was in dreamland, but I was wide

awake, with something on my mind. I looked at the clock:

11:34 p.m. I picked up the phone and called Annie.

“Did I wake you?” I whispered. “Oh, how unfortunate,” I

said, leaning down to pick up the ice-cream carton. “The ants

are back.”

“I told you to try the organic stuff. It works better. It

doesn’t kill them. It relocates them.” Annie loved animals

(bugs included) and was committed to deluding herself on

such matters. “So what’s going on?”

“Where’d you put the picture of the prom queen?”

“The who?”

“In the Rafe Simic scrapbook. You cut out her face and

stuck yours in instead.”

60

“Check the pocket in the back. Sweet dreams, Mom.”

I shoved a couple of pillows behind my neck, flipped to the

back of the scrapbook, slid my hand into the pocket, and felt

around.

There it was.

You could count on Annie to never throw anything away.

I pulled out the tiny scrap and peered at it.

The girl in the picture was beautiful, but not in an obvious

sort of way. She had wide-spaced eyes, a broad, slightly cock-

eyed smile, small, pointy teeth, and a nose that looked like

maybe it had been broken once or twice. Dimples. A dark tan.

And no resemblance whatsoever to the dead woman

wrapped up in sheets at 1104 North Mission Road.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Icalled Rafe at nine the next morning. He picked up on the

first ring, which caught me off guard since I’d been pretty

much planning to hang up.

“It’s Cece.”

“Hey, Cece. I’m a little crazed right now.”

He didn’t sound crazed. Nor surprised when I asked if I

could attend the scattering of Maren’s ashes.

“Do you need directions,” he asked, “or do you want to

come with me and Will?”

I lied and said I had something to do in the area afterward,

so I’d take my own car. But what exactly do you do in Palos

Verdes after you’ve watched the wrong person’s ashes being

flung out to sea?

I went over to the dryer, furiously yanked out the tangle of

towels, and started to fold them. End over frayed end. The pile

62

grew tall, then taller, then so tall it toppled over, which was

perfect.

It was time for coffee. The ritual had a calming effect on

me. It’s like smokers with their cigarettes. Or hyperactive chil-

dren with their Ritalin. Like Rafe.

I poured the remains of yesterday’s pot into the sink. I

rinsed out the carafe. The gold filter was caked with saturated

grounds. I shook them out, then measured out ten cups’ worth

of freshly ground beans, dumped them into the freshly washed

filter, and hit the On switch. Immediately, the water started to

hiss and gurgle. I sat down at the kitchen table. The sound was

hypnotic. By the time I was on my third cup, I was able to see

the situation more clearly.

In the immortal words of Detective Smarinsky, what I had

was bupkes. Nothing to indicate the dead woman wasn’t

Maren. People who’ve been floating belly-up for twenty-four

hours do not maintain their Coppertone tans. What’s more,

the picture I’d seen of Maren had been reprinted from a year-

book. It was tiny. You couldn’t really see a thing. Not to men-

tion, Maren was a teenager then. People changed. They got

wrinkles. They dyed their hair. They gained weight. They lost

weight. I’d changed. Maren had, too. Nobody’s a prom queen

forever.

The clock over the stove read 10:07 a.m. I had to get going

if I didn’t want to be late, not that I wanted to go anymore, but

now I was obligated. Why was I always so quick to jump the

gun? Obviously, I craved drama. This was not a good character

trait. I dropped my terry-cloth robe into the hamper and went

into the bathroom to turn on the shower, which took precisely

three and a half minutes to warm up. Just enough time to pon-

der my wardrobe.

63

I have to admit I was stumped when it came to appropriate

attire. My salt-and-pepper tweed suit with the peplum would

provide excellent camouflage in case a sudden gust of wind blew

the remains my way, but the thought was too morbid, even for

me. My Halston black jersey disco dress with the fluttery

sleeves would certainly do, but black was probably hyperbolic,

considering I’d never even met the deceased. I settled on some-

thing in between, an antique black-and-cream lace wrapper over

a pair of high-waisted gray trousers. I blotted my red lips on a

tissue, threw on my red crystal beads, and ran out to the office

to get my MapQuest directions. Good thing, because Buster

was trapped in there. I must’ve shut the door with him inside

earlier in the morning.

“Bad boy,” I said, smelling pee. Buster trained his wet

brown eyes upon me, convincingly woebegone. Oh, I suppose

it wasn’t his fault. I’d pamper him tonight with a long meander

around the neighborhood.

West Hollywood was doggie nirvana. As per local ordi-

nance, you can’t “own” a dog in this town; you can only be a

“guardian.” Literally thousands of them (dogs, not guardians)

were concentrated in the four-block radius around my house:

fat ones, skinny ones, ones that looked like rodents or minia-

ture lions. Between the hours of five and seven p.m., they were

out in full force. You really had to watch where you stepped.

I studied my directions. I’d requested multiple options.

Zoom Out showed the Palos Verdes Peninsula as a bump

along the coastline somewhere southwest of L.A. and north of

Long Beach. That much I already knew.

Zoom In was somewhat more informative, though it did

leave out the choice details—the fact that the area boasted

one of the highest per capita incomes in the United States, for

64

example, and that if you lived there, you didn’t have to lock

your door at night, because you were so isolated from the rest

of the city.

One road in, one road out.

It looked like I’d be taking the 405, which was always bad

news. Fifty-one minutes was the estimate, but I’d allotted two

hours, and it was a good thing, too. Traffic was backed to the air-

port, and didn’t ease up until I exited at Hawthorne Boulevard,

which is not coterminous with the city of Hawthorne (ditto

Artesia Boulevard and Artesia).

L.A. geography is notoriously tricky. It can take years to

master. That is why the Thomas Guide exists. The Thomas

Guide is a thick map book you purchase when you move to

L.A. You buy it at the gas station and you must get a new one

every few years because inevitably the page you need has gone

missing. You keep it in your car at all times. It is especially

useful when your MapQuest directions are counterintuitive.

For instance, who would believe that Palos Verdes Drive

North segues directly into Palos Verdes Drive West, no turns

required?

You live, you learn.

One road in, one road out.

The hills, dotted with red-roofed Spanish-style houses, rose

behind me as I wound my way down to Paseo del Mar, which

offered dazzling views of the blue-green water of the Pacific.

Times like these called for a convertible. The back window on

my Camry’s passenger side was stuck halfway, so I rolled down

the other windows. It basically counted.

The air smelled nice. Briny. All you could hear was the

screeching of the gulls and the low-pitched hum of multiple

pool heaters, trilling in unison. A gang of little girls in helmets

65

and pastel-colored Lacoste shirts whooshed past on their bikes.

Then their brothers, tan and handsome. A million bucks in or-

thodontia. I felt like I was in another world. Big houses. Big

smiles. No punks with devil horns.

Rafe had said they’d be where Paseo del Mar meets Via Ar-

royo. I found the parking area beyond a secluded church. It

was empty except for a few cars, which made sense since it