The Kind One (10 page)

Betty had been this big happy friendly girl from Minnesota. I remembered how when she worked at the Peacock Club Dick had always been watching her and mooning over her but had hardly ever said a word to her because he was shy around girls. He’d been in love with her, for all I knew.

“Poor Betty,” I said. “I wonder who killed her.”

“Yeah, I fucking wonder,” said Dick bitterly.

“What do you mean?”

“Skip it. Shut up. Drive.”

I drove through Monrovia, Duarte, Glendora, La Verne. Just outside Upland, an old truck was on fire by the side of the road. Black smoke twisted up. A ragged family was standing around staring bleakly at the truck. A kid in overalls and no shirt was holding a birdcage with an agitated blue jay in it. The cage looked way too small for the bird.

Mountains in front of us got bigger and bigger. In San Bernardino we left Route 66 and took the Rim of the World Highway, and pretty soon we were up in the mountains and looking down at where we’d been. We’d been driving inland nearly three hours, but still we could see at the limits of our vision the dreamy glitter of the Pacific.

We were on our way to Lake Arrowhead, because a bunch of high muckypoos were meeting there: Bud Seitz and Max Schnitter and Loy Hanley, an old bootlegging partner of Bud’s, and Joe Shaw, the mayor’s bagman brother, and Lieutenant Otay of the L.A.P.D., and Police Commissioner Nuffer. Word was they were supposed to cook up some grand plan together for running the rackets in Los Angeles.

The road wound up and up through thicker and thicker stands of pine, and right on top of a mountain we found the jewel-like lake. On its shores were hotels, cabins, tourist camps, and lodges, and a little village with places to eat and shop and dance and drink.

A motorboat was cutting across the lake, throwing up white wings over the blue water, and a guy and a girl on water skis skimmed along in its wake. Even at a distance you could tell the skiers were young, tan, goodlooking. Rich, probably, too. Perfect people on a perfect lake.

We saw a sign that said Birkenhead Manor, with an arrow that pointed up a road that ran through the pine forest. A blonde was bouncing along the road on the back of a horse, and she smiled at us as we cruised by. Dick was positive it was Ginger Rogers, but I had my doubts.

After a quarter mile or so, the road ended at Birkenhead Manor. It was three stories, wood and stone, and like something you might see on a picture postcard from Switzerland. Two cheerful college-boy types met us as we pulled up; one drove my car away (“Quite a snazzy car, sir!”) and the other took care of our bags.

Under the name of the hotel, a stone lion was standing on its hind legs on top of a column; its front legs were holding on to another column, and it looked like it was trying to hump it. Then when we walked in the lobby there was a stuffed grizzly bear rearing up on its hind legs about ten feet in the air, teeth bared and long claws sticking out of its paws.

“I hate fucking animals,” said Dick. “I wanna see animals I’ll go to the fucking zoo.”

“But you liked Doc.”

He grimaced. “Doc was different. Doc was like a person. What did you have to bring him up for?”

A girl was standing at the front desk with her back to us chatting with the desk clerk. She was wearing gray slacks and a red blouse and a red beret-like hat with a black fluffy ball on top. She had dark hair under the hat and her bare arms were a creamy olive color. When she turned her head a little in our direction, my heart picked up its pace and even on my limping leg I seemed to skim over the polished wood floor like the golden skiers across the lake. I touched her shoulder, and said: “Gwynnie?”

Then she turned and looked at me. Nice brown eyes, but not
her
brown eyes.

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

She kind of looked me over and said: “Maybe I’m sorry too.”

“You gentlemen checking in?” said the desk clerk to Dick and me.

“Yeah,” I said, then someone touched me on the shoulder.

I turned around, and nearly bumped into a pair of big tits.

“Hi ya, Two Gun Danny,” said the redhead standing there.

It took me a moment to place her.

“Clover,” I said.

“
Violet.
Violet Gilbertson.”

“The Pork Queen.”

“It’s all coming back to you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here with Wendell. You know, Mr. Nuffer?”

“Yeah? Where
is
Wendell? Mr. Nuffer.”

“Up in his room, changing into his bathing suit.
I
got a new bathing suit. Wait’ll you see it.”

“I’d rather see
you
in a bathing suit than Nuffer,” said Dick. “That’s for fucking sure.”

Violet tittered. I looked around. Dick was signing the guest register. The girl that looked like Gwynnie was gone.

Bud and the rest of the guys hadn’t arrived yet. I got my key and went up to my room. It was a great room, on the third floor, with a wide window looking out on the lake.

Above the bed was a painting of an Indian village on the banks of a river. An Indian boy was standing knee-deep in the water. He’d just speared a fish, and was holding it up, and it was shining in the sun. Two pretty Indian girls were standing at the edge of the river and looking at the kid like he was their hero. And an old man was sitting back in some green shade watching the youngsters and smoking a pipe.

Beneath the painting the bed looked broad and inviting. I took two aspirin, and lay down, and pondered the question: Who the hell is Gwynnie?, till I fell asleep.

   EVERYBODY HAD DINNER that night in the Big Boulder Dining Room, called that because at one end of the room was a little waterfall trickling down over a tall pile of big boulders with a pool that had live trout in it. I was sitting at a table with Nucky and Nello. Dick was standing over by the waterfall, smoking a cigarette and looking at the boulders. Then he got all excited and started pointing at something.

“Hey, lookit, lookit, lookit! Get over here! Look at this!”

So we went over and looked. Guests of the hotel who were famous were asked to write their names on the boulders, and I’d already seen the autographs of Cary Grant, Buster Keaton, Myrna Loy, and a lot of others. Now Dick was pointing at one of the names. “What’s that say?”

“‘Ginger Rogers,’” read Nello.

“See? I told you Danny and me seen her today on a fucking horse!”

“That don’t prove nothing,” said Nucky. “That don’t prove a goddamn thing.”

“Nucky’s right,” said Nello, who came over from Italy when he was a kid and still had a little bit of an accent. “She coulda wrote that years ago.”

“Like hell she could have. She ain’t been famous for years.”

“Ever place we go you say you see Ginger Rogers here or Ginger Rogers there,” said Nello. “But nobody else ever sees her.”

“Danny seen her.”

“Well, maybe it was her,” I said. “But maybe it wasn’t.”

“Oh fuck you, guys, I know she’s here someplace,” and he started looking around the room like he expected to see her sitting at one of the tables stuffing her angelic face with mashed potatoes.

I looked at one of the other names and said: “Who’s Laura La Plante?” But nobody answered me. Dick threw his cigarette in the water, and they all headed back to our table.

A trout glided over and took a look at the cigarette butt. Decided it wasn’t food, and finned away.

I looked over at the table where Bud was sitting with the other big cheeses, along with Violet and Darla. Darla was watching me, and now she smiled. Bud saw the smile, and looked at me, and smiled too.

I smiled back. Everybody was smiling.

   There was a fancy little club on the other side of the hotel called the Moonlight Room. At the entrance was a poster showing a blonde in a red glittering gown, standing there with her hands spread out and her mouth open; she was Sally Layne, “THE GIRL YOU WONT FORGET.”

She was onstage in a spotlight singing as we walked in. She appeared to be wearing the same gown as on the poster, it seemed to be made of a billion beads, each one catching the light. It all felt a little eerie, because she was singing that same song that I’d heard at Bud’s party:

“Suddenly I found myself in a dream,
One sweet kiss did it to me,
I got dizzy instantly…”

We took a table, and ordered drinks. At another table we saw the two Tommys, yakking it up with a couple of touristy-looking girls.

Dick was drunk, and he was getting drunker. He didn’t say a word for a while, just glared at Nucky and Nello. I thought he was still sore about Ginger Rogers, but that turned out not to be it.

“So which one of you monkeys did it?” he said.

“Did what?” said Nello.

“I’m talking about Betty. The cigarette girl.”

Nello and Nucky exchanged a look. Dick turned to me. “Nucky told me once how he strangled to death this broad in Jersey with his fucking tie. I’m thinking maybe that’s what he done to Betty.”

“But why would he want to kill Betty?” I said.

“That’s a good fucking question,” said Nucky. He was a plug-ugly little guy, with a mashed-in face and eyes with no more expression than a chicken’s. He leaned a little closer to Dick. “You got a problem with me, you skinny prick, maybe you oughta talk to Bud about it.”

Dick stared into the lightless eyes of Nucky, then muttered: “Fuck yourself,” and got up and headed for the exit.

Nello called after him: “If you run into Ginger, tell her I said hello!”

Nucky and Nello laughed. Now a girl came over, all giggly and blushing, and asked Nello to dance. Wherever we went, girls flocked around Nello, like they were pigeons and he was birdseed. He got up with a shrug and took her out on the dance floor.

“Fucking Nello,” said Nucky. “He needs two dicks he gets so much pussy,” and then he said: “I’m getting a whore tonight, kid. Want me to get you one while I’m at it?”

“No thanks.”

“You know, I never see you with a broad. You ain’t queer or nothing?”

“Nah.”

“Saving it for your wedding night? At Niagara fucking Falls?”

I pretended to laugh. “Yeah, maybe something like that.”

“Or maybe you’re saving it for Darla? Or maybe you
ain’t
saving it for Darla. If you know what I’m saying.” And he laughed.

It was smoky as hell in the Moonlight Room, so I decided to get some fresh air. I went through French doors out onto a wide terrace and into actual moonlight.

A well-dressed elderly couple was strolling along arm in arm. Their hair was so white it seemed luminous. They nodded at me in a familiar fashion as if this was a regular walk they took and they were used to encountering me at this point on
my
regular walk.

A guy and a girl were sitting on a bench feverishly necking. The girl’s eyes opened for a moment and saw me in an unseeing way then her face disappeared behind his shoulder like she was a swimmer and he an overwhelming wave.

I walked across the flat stones of the terrace to the stone balustrade. I faced the forest. Sipped my whiskey. Looked up at the shaggy silhouettes of the pine trees against the moon-drenched sky.

I heard someone walking up behind me.

I turned and saw an uncertain smile and a glass of champagne, then one of the girl’s high heels caught in one of the stones and she tripped and pitched forward. I grabbed her arms and she splashed champagne on me.

“Dear Lord,” she laughed, “what an entrance! I’m always spilling things on people.”

“And I’m always getting spilled on.”

“That could make us a swell team. So do I still look like her? In moonlight?”

It was the girl that looked like Gwynnie, and: “Yes,” I said.

“My name’s Janet Van der Eb,” and she held her hand out and I shook it. “I’m also known as the Girl You Won’t Forget, though my won’t has an apostrophe in it, unlike
that
little ninnie’s,” and she jerked her thumb back toward the Moonlight Room, where through the French doors I could see Sally Layne still singing. “I think the illiteracy rampant in America these days is simply shocking, don’t you?”

“I’m Danny Landon.”

“Yes, I know. I asked around. You’re one of
them.
”

“Who?”

“The gangsters.”

“The gangsters?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent. Everyone’s talking about it. It’s extremely exciting. The rumor is that Lucky Luciano is here, or was here, or will be here soon. Is that true?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How disappointing. As you can probably tell, I like gangsters. I respect them. In the United States of Hypocrisy, they are our only genuine citizens. I predict that at the end point of capitalism, we shall
all
be gangsters.
All
be carrying submachine guns in violin cases, and taking people we don’t like on one-way rides. Oh dear. I am blabbering a bit, aren’t I? It’s the champagne. Mother told me to stop, but I just wouldn’t listen.”

I asked her where she was from.

“Philadelphia. You’ve heard of Philadelphia cream cheese, haven’t you? Well, the Van der Ebs practically invented it. I don’t say that in a boastful way. I think cream cheese is a ghastly stuff, don’t you? The Van der Ebs have unleashed a horror upon the earth, and we must certainly pay for it, if not here then in the Hereafter. Amen.”

“You’re here with your mother?”

“
And
father. They’re inside, listening to the Girl You Wont Forget. You know, Sally what’s-her-name.” She finished off the last few drops of champagne, then set the glass down on the balustrade. It immediately tipped over, and I caught it, as she reached in her purse and pulled out a silver cigarette case. I was sorry I didn’t have matches because I would have liked to have lit her cigarette because however drunk and sort of loony she was she was disturbingly beautiful.

“This is my graduation present, you see,” she said as smoke drifted out of her lightly lipsticked mouth. “This here trip. To Sunny California. I’m a Rumson girl, I was voted ‘Best All-Around Woman’ in the Class of ’34, but now I have to decide what to do with the rest of my life. I’m considering writing an obscure and unpublishable book. Applying Freudian methods of analysis to the masterpieces of American literature.
Moby-Dick
speaks for itself naturally, but what of that sunny innocent boys’ book
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
? It’s not what it seems. Think, for instance, about Tom getting lost with Becky Thatcher in the cave. The entrance to the cave is the vagina. The cave itself represents the dark, unplumbed mysteries of sex. Injun Joe, of course, is Tom Sawyer’s id. The episode is about repression. Injun Joe must die so that Becky Thatcher may remain a virgin.”