Lone star

“Maybe.”

He shook his head. “Damn.”

I stared from one to the other. Polly, the deliberate harridan, angry, moving the conversation her way; Tommy, meek, Jimmy’s slavish lapdog. The two like discordant bookends-almost a vaudeville routine. What was going on here?

Suddenly, I heard Tansi’s voice from the entrance. “Edna.” She rushed over. “I heard you were here.”

“From whom?”

“Sal Mineo. He’s not happy.”

“He’s a sissy,” Tommy noted.

Tansi glared at him.

“What is it, Tansi?”

She drew in her breath. “Jimmy told Warner he wants to issue a statement to the press, professing his innocence, and Warner blew a gasket. It seems Sheila Graham called and said she’d heard that Jimmy had dated Carisa. Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons were dealt with, but Graham is another story. But that’s not the real news.” She stared at me. “Some reporter found out that Carisa had been picked up for prostitution when she first came to Hollywood, a couple years back. Cotton told Jake the police already knew of it. So Warner’s not happy. Some heads will roll.” She paused. “And that’s not all. Even though Jimmy is still Cotton’s prime subject, he told Warner that when they went to question Max Kohl, he ran from the cops. Can you imagine battling the cops?”

“Is he in jail?” From Tommy.

“Do you know Max Kohl?” I asked, surprised.

“Sort of. He rode bikes with Jimmy. In the hills. Jimmy said he’s a tough customer. A bully.”

“Jimmy doesn’t ride with him anymore?”

“No.”

Polly snickered. “One more person Jimmy abandoned.”

“Stop it, Polly.”

Polly turned to me, speaking in a mocking tone. “Tommy is afraid his time is coming. Fairmount loyalty only goes so far in this land of make-believe. Jimmy is a big star now. Three big pictures now. Interviews in Look and Life. Vogue says he’s ‘in’ now.” She faced her boyfriend. “It’s only a matter of time, Tommy. You’re history.”

“Stop it.” A whine.

“You better finish that goddamn screenplay. You can’t park cars all your life.”

Tommy stood up, tugged on the red jacket. It seemed too tight for his broad chest, and I thought, darkly, that perhaps it was Jimmy’s size, not his. A hand-me-down? Jimmy tossing off bit parts, pieces of clothing. Polly stood now, tucked her arm into his.

I touched Tommy’s sleeve. “Would you two like to be my guests for dinner tonight? Someplace nice?”

“No.” From Polly.

“Yes.” From Tommy.

A pause, uncomfortable. The two looked at each other. Tommy looked back at me.

“Indulge an old lady, please.” I smiled.

Polly nodded. “All right. I guess.” Her tongue licked her upper lip slowly.

“The Brown Derby at eight?” They nodded.

When they were gone, Mercy seemed tickled. “Dinner with those two?”

“Something bothers me. Is that an act or are they for real?”

“Of course it’s an act, Edna,” Tansi said, smiling. “You’re in Hollywood.”

Chapter 9

The phone was ringing but I didn’t pick up. I was weary of people. So I bathed, soaking in lilac bath salts, my eyes closed, and then relaxed with a martini and a forbidden cigarette. The phone rang again. “Edna, I’ve been calling.” Tansi sucked in her breath. “My mother, by the way, sends her regards, and says you should convince me to return to New York.” A harsh laugh. “Fat chance.” I started to say something, but Tansi interrupted. “But I have news, Edna.” Again the breathing in. I could tell she was smoking a cigarette. “The studio just learned from Detective Cotton that Carisa was pregnant. Pregnant! Can you believe it?”

Jimmy, you’re the father of my unborn baby. I’m gonna tell…

I put out my cigarette: a taste of burnt ash in my mouth.

Tansi repeated her story, but I told her I had to go. When I said goodbye, raising my voice, she was still talking.

I dressed slowly for dinner, my mind dwelling on Carisa and her unborn child. What a horrible ending! Sadness gripped me, and I found myself near tears.

I was still in a daze when the studio car dropped me off at the Brown Derby. Within seconds, Polly and Tommy pulled up in their sputtering, noisy car, a tired convertible, the top down, with Polly driving. Reluctantly, the parking valet assumed possession, receiving the keys from Polly with the attitude of someone acquiring a lethal virus. Polly stood there, looking after the sagging car as though losing a friend, a worried look on her face. Curious, this West Coast car culture. Automobiles attached to lives like love notes worn close to the heart. Did Tommy own a car? True, he parked cars for a living. Maybe, sadly, he couldn’t afford one. And, indeed, Polly seemed to be the dominant gene in that sociological construction called the modern couple. The car disappeared behind a bed of Bird-of-Paradise that I thought too garish, indeed-especially under the indigo-black sky, with a line of royal palms nearby, accented with spotlights. El Greco, I decided: a tourist postcard.

I wasn’t certain why I wanted to be alone with the couple, other than that earlier intuitive and impulsive moment. I expected a wearisome meal in the company of boors. But I was convinced that they had something to tell me, though I had no idea how it related to the murder and my helping Jimmy clear his name. Because that was exactly what I was doing-helping Jimmy. Yes, he’d pleaded for help that awful night at Mercy’s; but, later on, as I soaked in my bath, eyes closed, I’d had an epiphany: Jimmy was innocent. Jimmy, the spoiled brat, the caustic boy, the cooing charmer, the brilliant actor. These were the contradictions that sometimes accompanied genius-and, I liked to believe, similarly defined myself. Not that observers could spot them in me, maybe labeling me an aging novelist with a tendency to acerbic comment and a short fuse. No, as the bath salts soothed and swirled, I thought, there may be a lot of the unsavory in the lad but not the stuff of murder.

I was pleased to see that Tommy and Polly had altered their costume for the fancy eatery. Tommy wore a simple black turtleneck and creased trousers, and a somewhat rumpled wheat-colored linen jacket, a little too big and a little too thrift shop. Polly’s dress was a marked-down Woolworth’s rendering of June Allyson-flair and flourish, faded pink roses on a mauve velveteen cloth. Her face bore just a trace of pink lipstick, becoming on her, and in the shrill light of the restaurant marquee her auburn hair looked like burnt cinnamon.

They were nervous, which is what I wanted. Frankly, I was used to people being nervous around me. Inside, they sat stiffly at the table, waiting.

Polly took the offensive. “I don’t know why you wanted to take us to dinner.” She stared directly into my face, challenging. “Especially a place like this.” Tommy watched, with drowsy eyes.

“Why not? I’m a writer. Young people fascinate me.” It was a brazen lie. Young people, in the main, were callow, dimensionless; at best, they were static characters in a novel I was living. There were, of course, exceptions, and marvelous ones, but I knew, without a bit of doubt, that these two weren’t among them.

Tommy half-bowed. “Thank you.”

I stared. What had I said that warranted a thank you?

“You know,” I began, “when I saw you sitting by yourself in the Smoke House this afternoon, I thought you were Jimmy.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “It’s the red jacket.”

“Well, I like the look.” Idly, he fingered the sleeve of his sports jacket. “Other people besides Jimmy wear red jackets, you know.” Said emphatically, he sat back, fumbling for a cigarette.