The Darkness Rolling (21 page)

“Mr. John,” I said, “that was a masterful performance.”

He grinned up at me. “Call me Jack.”

Fifteen

Linda plumped up her pillow, pulled the covers above her shoulders, and turned her back to me. After the two days we’d had—the long drive yesterday, her dazzler of a performance for the movie folks, my arrest, Jack to the rescue—she was worlds beyond exhausted and universes beyond tired. Me, too.

“I’m sorry, Yazzie, I’m not ready to be touched yet.”

“Linda, that is not what’s on my mind.”

She laughed a little bit. “Liar.”

“It’s sort of a lie, but Linda? I can like you for more than what we do in bed. Anyone could.”

“Oh. That’s … that’s sweet.”

We came from different worlds, all right, and I thought that she could use some of my world. Feeling good, nurtured, standing on your own two feet, feeling love from the earth and her cycles. I wished I could tie that up in a box with a ribbon and give it to her. That night I slept in Cathy Downs’s bed, doing what I was supposed to do. Protect Linda. Who might have been safer where Cathy was, in the tent.

*   *   *

Do I need to tell you that Tuckerman and Mize didn’t let me anywhere near the investigation? That they hired Harry Goulding to do their translating? Or that they came and went in the cabin as they damn well pleased?

One time they came in so fast, and without a knock or word, that they embarrassed Linda in the water closet using the chamber pot.

I got right in Tuckerman’s face. “You guys not only have the manners of goats,” I said, “you’re stupid. My job is—”

“We know how to investigate a felony,” said Tuckerman.

“Does that count with you?” barked Mize. He was holding a crate they’d brought to make getting in and out of the crawl space easier.

“My job is guarding Miss Darnell,” I said. “I’m armed, I’m trained, and anyone who comes in without knocking and asking permission is taking his chances.” Pause. “Fair warning.”

Mize shouldered me from the side.

I shoved him hard against the door facing. “I’d love to mix it up with you,” I said, my voice a growl. Shore patrolmen are used to brawls, and I was spoiling for one.

“You’re on the edge of assaulting a federal officer,” said Tuckerman in a sharp tone.

I backed off. “You started down this road,” I said, “and you’re both out of line. Enjoy reading about yourselves in the newspapers. Does Roy Pease have your first names?”

“The investigation comes first,” Tuckerman said.
“First.”

“I believe Commander Ford will want to know whether it comes ahead of common courtesy.” I nodded toward the water closet.

Silence.

Linda came out of the closet. Mize emptied the pee outside—trying to be polite or to embarrass her more?

Tuckerman glared at me. Then he stepped onto the crate and disappeared into the darkness above.

Fortunately, Linda slept most of that day. I got a gofer to drive up to Oljato and bring back an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel for me. If I couldn’t be rich, I could at least read about it.

From above I heard the word “prints” more than once. I gave thought to where fingerprints might be. On the rubber sheath of the electric cord going to the lightbulb? On the bulb itself? And I saw black fingerprint dust on the transparent fixture that kept the bulb from glaring at us naked.

As they left, I said, “Get any prints you can use?”

Mute shoulder blades, a door slowly closing.

I liked the idea of prints. Solid procedure. But if her attacker hadn’t been in the army or in prison, or if he was a very careful criminal, his prints probably wouldn’t be on file.

Whatever prints they got would be photographed meticulously, then sent to Flagstaff by car and to Albuquerque by train, be photographed again in a lab, and those photos sent to the Arizona and Utah state police and to Washington, D.C., while the originals were filed. It would take a couple of weeks to get word on the person. By then Linda would be back in Hollywood, the shoot would be over, everybody gone, and the whole thing out of my life, nothing to do with me. Which felt … odd. Cold.

I pulled a chair up by the bed and studied her face. The doctor in Flagstaff had told her that it would be fine, and it seemed to be true enough. She had a paint palette of bruises and some scratches, but no cuts that would leave scars. She had a mild concussion, according to the doc, and I could see signs of that. Back and forth from clearheaded, sometimes fuzzy, sometimes dizzy for a moment. Then back to piss and vinegar.

She had nothing more to do here than those still shots for publicity. With Raphael’s magic, and the right lighting, the bruises wouldn’t show. Every now and then, she slipped into a haunted look, like putting on a gray silk gown. If the camera caught that in its lens, the photos would be more art than publicity.

A few more days and my life would slow down again. Having been arrested and cuffed and then going through that drill all over again wasn’t a particular highlight. But it was the flip side of being in the heat of this amazing woman. She was living large. Terrible and extraordinary things happen in a large life. I understood that. I still wanted a big life, but a life that depends upon the admiration of others? No. That’s dangerous to the body and the spirit. All I had to do was look at the F. Scott Fitzgerald books we had on our shelves at home to understand that.

Sixteen

Linda was excited, fidgety, almost dithery. She’d prettied up in one of her Mexican dance dresses this morning, for no reason I could figure. Yesterday she’d finished her stills, and we were set to leave by town car for La Posada and the Super Chief tomorrow, driven by Julius. She had no work to do today.

She hung around the entrance to the food tent and made silly conversation with people she’d hardly spoken to during the entire shoot. She was absolutely delighted to see everyone, very impressed by whatever they were wearing, and thought that anything anyone said was either brilliant or hilarious.

While the cast and crew got into the food line and found seats, she stayed outside and paced, looking at the sky.

“Linda, you ready to go up?”

“Pardon?”

“To your cabin.”

“Not now, Seaman.”

“Seaman,” no less. That didn’t sit well.

I stood by, my job now. My mind was very much on private time together. Though we hadn’t touched each other since the attack, we still spent her lunch breaks and every night together in her cabin. I think her mind was on nothing but safety. I knew our time together had a limit, and we had less than forty-eight hours left. I wanted it to end memorably, peacefully, happily. Margaritas in the garden at La Posada. A fine meal. We knew each other well—no awkwardness. Conversations and laughter. Good time together before saying good-bye.

She was antsy about something, and I was completely in the dark about what.

“Linda, what’s going on?”

“Seaman, I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

She gave me a look over her shoulder, distant, but friendly and smiley. Maybe her concussion was still acting up.

“Get the keys to the town car from Julius,” she said.

I ducked into the tent and obeyed orders.

“Let’s drive down to the main road and back,” she said. “I’ll show you where.”

Her giving me directions around Navajoland? That was odd, but we motored along the Oljato Road past the fake street of Tombstone to the wide dirt road, the one that led to Flagstaff. I turned the car around and stopped where she asked me to.

She leaned over and eyeballed the odometer. “Point two,” she said. “All right, now drive to that place where the road curves for the first time. You know where.”

Of course I knew where. Oh, what the hell. I did it.

She studied the odometer again. “Point six,” she said. “Four tenths of a mile. How many thousand feet is that?”

Points. Who cared? “About two thousand,” I said.

She got out of the car and stared east again. “Straight as a string,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“Oh…” She waved a hand in the air, dismissing me.

I was starting to get annoyed. I was not her Julius Roth. I stepped out and joined her next to the car.

Mike Goulding trotted down to us. I hadn’t seen her coming. “He’s in radio contact,” she said, “and he’s got us visually.”

What on earth?

“There he is!” Linda exclaimed. Her heels bounced up and down.

I followed her eyes and saw the approaching mystery. It was a speck in the sky, maybe an airplane. Yes, definitely an airplane. It made a wide circle to the east, arced back west, and headed straight toward us.

“Go get Mr. Ford,” she said to me. “Quick.”

I ran, as she asked, back to the food tent, and was more puzzled by the moment.

Jack (but I still thought of him as Mr. John) hurried along with me, followed by the regulars at his table. Even he looked excited. He must have given permission for an outsider to visit the set. Now I was getting more interested and less ticked off.

All eyes focused east, and Linda took the director’s hand as if he was her boyfriend. Jack looked a little uncomfortable, gave her hand a squeeze, and let it go. “I told him that this strip was long enough,” he said, appraising the road.

The airplane was coming in for a landing, and damn if it wasn’t going to use Oljato Road for a runway. I studied it out. “Well,” I said, “if he goes off track, he won’t do anything but give the greasewood a wing-shave.”

“He never goes off track,” Linda said.

Sure enough, whoever was piloting didn’t. He set down on the main road within ten feet of the greasewood on the far side of the Flagstaff Road, bumped her steady along Oljato Road, reversed his engines to slow down, used his brakes, and came to a stop well before his runway curved.

The pilot’s door opened and down climbed God.

Linda ran to him, jumped into his arms, and he swung her like a child.

I followed close, my stomach aching.

Dapper mustache, neatly trimmed hair, wiry figure. A handsome man—the world knew his face. This was Mr. H., Howard Hughes, holder of a dozen world airspeed records, including several circumnavigations of the earth, designer of airplanes, a man of fabulous daring and fabulous wealth. And the owner of her next studio, RKO.

He was also one of the most eligible bachelors in America. He liked to date movie stars, starting with Katharine Hepburn and on to Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, and now, apparently, Linda Darnell.

A hulking young man climbed down from the passenger side and took a position a couple of steps behind Hughes. His suit hung open to make his sidearm visible. The rich man liked security. Needed security.

Linda turned to Jack and his cronies. “Howard, this is John Ford, our director. John, Howard Hughes.” They shook hands.

“Six Oscars,” said Hughes. “Very impressive.”

Jack was trying to look nonchalant, but he couldn’t quite pull it off.

“America’s best director,” Hughes went on, “in my opinion. Even more impressive.”

Linda introduced Hughes to Fonda, Mature, and the others, getting to me last. “This is Seaman Yazzie Goldman, the man you’ve been paying to take care of me. He’s become a good friend.”

“Very glad to meet you,” he said.

The lunch crowd was gathering. Linda paused, stepped away, lifted a hand high, like a circus barker, and announced, “Hello, friends. Howard Hughes!”

Everyone already knew who he was and why he was there. Probably only one of them was boiling like hot oil ready to cook fry bread. Me.

We went in to lunch, Hughes on one side of Linda and me on the other. He didn’t introduce his security guy, but he addressed him as Rulon.

“Howard,” said Linda, “before you start in—I know you, please don’t interrupt—what happened to me was not Seaman Goldman’s fault. His performance has been impeccable. He’ll show you how it was done. Very clever, very dastardly. I owe him everything.”

Hughes eyed me. I suspected he didn’t tolerate mistakes and did not accept explanations.

I wasn’t going to give him a damn thing.

Then I remembered that he already had everything, including Linda.

I wobbled behind them toward Jack’s table. I felt like I’d been head-conked with my own baton.

*   *   *

It was satisfying that Hughes acted like a smart, well-mannered, considerate, steel-rod-up-the-spine, first-class ass.

Jack had another table pushed up to his usual one so that Hughes, Rulon, and others could join his crowd. As we ate, it got even easier to dislike Hughes. He poked at his food daintily, said very little, listened well, and was impeccably polite. Every one of the movie folk around him was a little different than normal, putting on a show in some way. There was not one of them who might not want to work for him sooner or later, and actors were always afraid they’d never get another job. Even Jack had recently formed his own production company. He intended
My Darling Clementine
to be his last picture for the intrusive Darryl Zanuck at Fox. RKO could be among his future employers.

The only thing I liked about Hughes was that he kept his hands off Linda. She couldn’t keep hers off him.

As Jack led us out of the food tent, Hughes asked me to show him what I’d discovered at the cabin.

I nodded.

Linda said, “Yazzie” in a low tone that I understood. I was to give no hints about our relationship. No problem.

The three of us walked up the hill, my mind popping with pictures of the two of them romping around the bed I knew so well, Hughes enjoying the body I knew so well. But he spoke to me courteously, followed me up the access hole without hesitation, and wasn’t afraid to get his pants dusty as I showed him what had happened. He caught on quickly.

I took a last look down past the light to the bed. First my head had played and replayed pictures of a brutal rapist having his way with her. Soon it would be pictures of the fabulous Howard Hughes topping her. Living large wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be.

When we got back down through the water closet, he said, “Good work, Seaman Goldman.” Linda gave me a big smile and a nod. I embarrassed myself by feeling flattered.