The Ticket Out (19 page)

One key finally did it. The door opened, and the group of us walked into a narrow foyer. Smith called Pavich's name again. Lockwood hung back to give me a pair of latex gloves. I put them on. He told me to stick by him and not to disturb anything.

We fanned out through the apartment. The tameness of the place surprised me, given Pavich's personal style. Nothing was cute and the furniture was ordinary outlet-store stuff. D-girl for a small production company couldn't pay much. She probably spent her money on rent and making the scene.

Lockwood pointed to the tables at either end of the couch. They were covered with framed photographs of Scott Dolgin. Some were candid, some posed, some taken in crowds, some just Dolgin alone. Lockwood picked up one of the pictures. It was labeled and dated on the back. I checked a couple more: all of them were labeled and dated. The dates ran back to '95, and the pictures commemorated movie premieres, parties, and holidays.

Lockwood leaned forward to examine faces. I studied the faces over his shoulder. Pavich only appeared in some of the photographs. When she did, she was always clinging to Dolgin and he was always looking bored.

A glass étagère stood by the doors to the balcony. There were more Dolgin photographs there. On the middle shelf, in the place of honor, sat an engraved announcement. It was the invitation to Barry's party for In-Casa Productions. I touched Lockwood's arm and pointed. He lifted the card off its easel, read it, and turned it over. The reverse side was covered with handwriting:

 

Isabelle Dolgin. Isabelle Pavich Dolgin.
Isabelle P. Dolgin. I. P. Dolgin.
ISABELLE PAVICH-DOLGIN.

 

Pavich had drawn star bursts and comet trails around the names. Underneath she'd printed: HEAD OF DEVELOPMENT-IN-CASA PRODUCTIONS.

Lockwood tapped the card and set it back on the easel.

The kitchen was divided from the living room by a waist-high wall. Detective Smith had been searching the kitchen; I'd heard the cupboards and drawers open and shut. The noise stopped and Smith called out. Lockwood went to see what he'd found.

He'd found several things.

There was a doodle pad sitting next to the telephone. Pavich had practiced the possibilities of her married name there, too:

 

Isabelle Pavich-Dolgin. Isabelle P. Dolgin.
I. P. Dolgin.

 

And she'd created various designs for the initials “IPD.” Lockwood riffled through the pad. There were other IPD logos on other pages.

An answering machine sat next to the telephone. The red light was flashing and Lockwood hit
PLAY.

Pavich's boss had called twice—once on Saturday and once that morning. He wanted to know why she hadn't come to the office. His second message sounded anxious: “Isabelle, you
never
miss work. Where
are
you?”

Lockwood and Smith exchanged a look. Smith indicated one last item.

It was a movie-themed 2001 calendar, open and flat on the kitchen counter. Lockwood flipped back to January. Scott Dolgin's name appeared everywhere—but August was the real jackpot.

On Friday, August 24, Pavich had scribbled: “Fight!!!” On Monday, August 27, she wrote: “
8
P.M.
Barrv/Scott party
.”

The next day—the day after the party—Tuesday, August 28, Pavich drew a big round happy face.

She'd spent some time on the drawing. The face was a perfect circle, and the smiley mouth was a perfect half circle. She'd even colored the face with a fluorescent yellow marker.

Smith looked at Lockwood, put his finger on the happy face, and kept it there.

 

L
OCKWOOD DIDN'T
let me hang around for the Pavich discussion. I'd told him what I knew; there was nothing in her apartment he couldn't interpret himself. He also had a job for me:

Scott Dolgin was gone.

If they had a theory about Dolgin's nonpresence, Lockwood wasn't sharing it. But that's why he'd played that charade at the Casa de Amor. The landlady claimed that Dolgin had taken a short trip. He needed a rest, she said, from the police and the trauma of Greta Stenholm's death. She refused to say where Dolgin was, and she couldn't be moved.

Lockwood wanted me to break Mrs. May down. He asked me to go back to the Casa de Amor and see what I could get out of her. I should pretend to be pro-Dolgin, Lockwood said. He thought she might talk to a sympathetic woman.

So I left them in West Hollywood and drove back to Culver City as fast as I could.

I found Mrs. May sitting in a wicker chair on Scott Dolgin's porch. The police had left, and she recognized me as I came through the archway. I didn't have to invent a pretext to stop. She patted the chair beside her and said, “Your name is Ann—come and sit. You may call me Flo.”

She smiled. I saw from the steps how youthful she was. She had white hair and a dancer's body, and she could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. She looked like she'd made skin preservation her raison d'etre; skin preservation, and roses. Her gardening clothes had rips all over them.

She said, “I just spoke to Scottie on the telephone. He apologizes for missing your appointment, but he said he'll be home tomorrow. He'd like to reschedule if he might.”

I sat down, set my bag down, and smiled back at her. What an actress; she had a trained voice and impeccable delivery. I hoped I could keep up with her.

I said, “And screw the cops, right?”

Mrs. May blushed. “Your
language,
dear.”

“But you did tell Scott they were here today.”

She nodded, patting my knee. “Of course I did—he's aware of it. For whom do you write, my dear?”

“The L.A.
Millennium.
You might know Barry Melling—he's a friend of Scott's.”

“Friend and mentor—he's been very helpful to Scotties career. If you don't mind my saying, you're awfully darling for a reporter.”

I smiled. “Where was Scott when he called? We could reschedule right now.”

She went vague suddenly. She said, “Where was he?”

“I mean, where can I reach him?” I pulled out my pen to write down a phone number.

She smiled and patted my pen hand. “Oh, no, no—not
now,
dear. Call him tomorrow. He said you should ask me about the Casa. It's an important inspiration for him.”

I knew that Lockwood would want me to humor her, to see where it led. I leaned down and pulled out my notebook. “Scott must have named his company after the Casa de Amor.”

Her smile got beatific. “The Casa de Amor is my whole life.” She lingered over the
Is
in “whole” and “life.” Wholllle llllife.

I said, “I've always been curious about this place. I'm over at the Thalberg a lot.”

“We're going to be declared a historic landmark.”

“Really? What's historic about it?”

She smiled. “The Casa is a Temple of Love.”

Too wild, I thought. I wrote down “TEMPLE OF LOVE.” Mrs. May liked that; she waited until I finished to go on.

“It was built in thirty-seven by people from Metro—as a lark, I think, because it is a bit much, honestly, all the hearts and whatnot. Even I'll admit that.”

“Nineteen thirty-seven. So it's the same age as the Thalberg Building.”

She nodded. “Metro owned this land and the bungalows were built as a trysting spot for studio executives. They kept their lady friends here, or rendezvoused in the units that were empty. It was a wonderful, magical retreat from the world.”

Or a cross between a casting couch and an extramarital romper room. I said, “How did the men get here without being seen?”

“...How?...Oh, yes, how? Well ... in those days, you're right, there was no wall and you could see the Thalberg plainly from here. The men drove, yes ... and they parked behind.... We had open carports in back that led to the courtyard. They were closed years ago, when we closed off the rear for security reasons.”

I was watching Mrs. May; something was bothering her. As she answered my question, she looked away and lost focus. I said, “What's the matter?''

“No, no, nothing, dear.” She looked back, smiling. “One's memory goes at my age. Heavens, I'd forgotten all about those old carports.”

I said, “How did you come to be here?”

“I? Do you mean the Casa, or Hollywood?”

“Both.”

“Oh, you've heard my little story many times. Little ballerina from the sticks wins a beauty contest and goes to Hollywood with big dreams. I was lucky, though. I met a producer, an adorable but very married man, rest his soul. He found me a place at the Casa.”

“And now you own it.”

“I do, dear. Harry passed away and left me comfortably off, and I bought the Casa in '69 when it was put up for sale. It's sad, don't you feel, that the greatest studio of all has come to the worst end? Metro hardly makes pictures anymore. When you think of their glory days, it's very sad.”

She looked to me for agreement so I nodded. Since the late 1960s MGM had been raided and sacked, mismanaged and chopped into pieces. Kirk Kerkorian sold the back lot to developers, auctioned the movable property, and co-opted the lion logo for hotels and airlines. United Artists was added, subtracted, and added again. Ted Turner took the film library. MGM the company moved, and rented out the lot. The last renter, Lorimar Telepictures, bought the lot, then sold it to Sony. A shifty Italian moneyman owned MGM for awhile in the early '90s. He was foreclosed by his French bank, who sold the company to I forgot who, and now Kerkorian owned it again. MGM hadn't shown a profit in thirty years.

Mrs. May said, “I've tried to keep the Casa just as it always was, and I only rent to fallen women with pasts as spotted as mine.” She smiled.

“Scott Dolgin isn't a fallen woman.”

She stopped smiling and her eyes misted. “I think of Scott as the son Harry and I could never have. Scotties my special boy.”

She folded her hands and stared into space. I didn't think she was acting: Dolgin
was
her special boy.

I said, “Are you sure I can't call Scott now? I really have to nail down an interview.”

She wasn't listening. I said, “Mrs. May, can't I call—?”

“Flo, dear.”

“Flo, can't I—?”

She turned to me. “What did the police say about Scottie this morning?”

“They wanted to know if I knew where he was.”

“You were with them a long time.”

I shrugged. “Scott's a friend, and I think their suspicions are stupid. Just because he was working with Greta Stenholm.”

Mrs. May patted my knee. “That's what I think, too.”

She reached for her bucket of garden tools and stood up. I said, “Did Scott go alone?”

She patted me again. “It was nice to meet you, dear. Don't worry, everything's fine.”

She walked across to her bungalow and went inside. I waited a minute to see if she'd come back.

When I decided it was safe, I got up, walked down the path, and started ringing doorbells. I rang and waited, moved on to the next bungalow, rang, and waited. I'd been sent there to debunk the landlady's story, and I was determined to do it. Some other tenant might have seen Scott Dolgin, or Isabelle Pavich, or the two of them together.

I worked my way around the courtyard and rang all the bells. Not one single person opened up.

I stood beside the fountain, scanning front doors. There were people inside the bungalows; there had to be. The signs came slowly. Venetian blinds separated, and old women peered out. I walked up to the nearest window. The blinds snapped shut, but I caught a glimpse of glassy eyes and a gray Medusa head. I crossed to another window. Another glimpse: sloppy dye job and flowered housecoat. I took off running. I ran up to the end of the courtyard and ran back. Blinds snapped shut as fast as I could arrive.

But I'd seen enough.

Mrs. May only rented to women with pasts? This looked like the harem of the living dead.

 

I'
D LEFT
my car in front of the Casa de Amor. I walked out to use the car phone, and glanced across the street toward the Sony lot. I tried to picture the view before Sony put up the high wall and even higher trees. The Thalberg Building was invisible from the bungalows.

I followed the line of the wall. There were two men standing together on the far corner of Washington. I stared:
I knew them.
One was Jack Nevenson. The other was Neil John Phillips's neighbor—the obnoxious guy who caught me in Phillips's garage and wouldn't tell me where Phillips was.

Nevenson and the neighbor turned down Madison and headed for the lot entrance. Without thinking, I started across Washington. Brakes squealed and people leaned on their horns. I jumped back on the curb, took a look at traffic, and ran up to the corner. I punched and punched the crosswalk button, but the light was long. When it finally changed, I sprinted across the intersection, ran down Madison, and stopped at the lot entrance. I craned for a look inside.

I couldn't see them.

The street entrance was guarded by a kiosk and a gate. Access was easier for pedestrians. A car pulled up and distracted the guard. I slipped behind the kiosk, ducked into the trees, and ran to the front of the Thalberg. Nevenson and the neighbor weren't around. I kept running, past buildings with false fronts and up the road between the soundstages. I checked the side alleys off the road. They were nowhere—damn.

I ran back and tried the gift store. I tried the commissary across from it. The cafe and restaurant were empty after lunch hour. I searched both rooms, and even tried the emergency doors. They weren't there either.

I ran back to the Thalberg. It said
COLUMBIA PICTURES
over the entrance, and the lobby was lined with Oscars won by Columbia movies. I walked up to the reception desk and asked the guard if two guys had just come in. The guard shook his head.