Lone star

“What was that all about?” Tansi asked Josh.

Josh was antsy now. “Somehow he heard that I, he says it was me, told the cops he supplied Carisa and Lydia with heroin. Everyone knows about the drugs. I wasn’t the only one who knew that. But he thinks Cotton will pin Carisa’s murder on him.”

“Did he threaten you?”

Josh blanched. “He told me to keep my mouth shut. About the drugs. Cotton’s looking to connect Jimmy to the murder, but I guess he’ll settle for Max. Max, well…Max never liked me.”

“Why?” From Tansi.

Josh arched his eyebrows, shook his head, snickered. He threw back his shoulders, asserting himself, but purposely creating a classic Hollywood gesture of the dandified character. Or an exaggerated Joan Crawford dismissal. “You figure it out, my dear,” he said, and walked away. Sal, smiling sheepishly, followed him.

Liz Taylor sent me roses, out of the blue, with a note that simply said thank you for everything. The everything was underlined. I wasn’t certain what I was being thanked for, though I suspect people generally and routinely thank rich and famous people. Out of habit. People think it’s one of the rules. But Liz was rich and famous, so I sought her out to thank her. Frankly, I had the feeling somehow her odd note-I did appreciate the crisp thick cream paper, with the monogram ET embossed in silver-related to Jimmy’s dilemma. But Tansi had told me that Liz avoided the topic, uncomfortable. I caught up with her in makeup. A quick touch up, she mumbled, nodding toward the young man working on her eyes. He hovered and bent and squinted and sighed, Leonardo dabbing a miniscule speck of burnt umber on the Mona Lisa. Next to her, reviewing a spiral notebook filled with notes, a young woman was mechanically listing obligations and meetings, photo shoots. Liz seemed to be paying her no mind, smiling at me. I walked near. I thanked her for the flowers.

“Thank you,” she said, grinning. “You flew all that way to be with us.”

I realized I rarely saw her alone-never, really. There was always someone pulling at her sleeve, whispering in her ear, or, in this case, making those violet eyes even more luminous. She turned to the young woman, who was prattling in a singsong tone. “Laura, enough. Later.” But Laura, momentarily intoxicated with her recital, kept talking. Liz lost the smile. “Enough, I said. Later.” Loud, sharp. Laura faltered, and stood back. Liz looked back at me, the face again wreathed in smiles. “I do hate yelling at people.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Oddly, it’s what I like doing best.”

But I could see her glance at Laura, who stood there, eyes unblinking, waiting to resume her catalogue of activity.

“You’re always surrounded by people,” I observed.

She shook her head. “I started in this business when I was a child. A danger, really. I learned that pouting got me attention.” She grinned. “The truth is that now I’m grown up, and I find it still works. It’s hard to let go of something that works.” She glanced at Laura. “I can say anything and people accept it. You know how pretty little schoolgirls are.” For a second she seemed unhappy with her own words, as if someone suddenly shoved her in front of a mirror and she didn’t like what she saw. She shut her eyes. When she opened them, the confusion was gone. “I’m being foolish.”

I was impatient. “Have you talked to Jimmy?”

She seemed surprised. “Why?”

I glanced at Laura and the makeup artist, and Liz followed my glance. Worry settled over her features. “Laura, Charles, darlings, a minute alone with Miss Ferber.” The two disappeared.

“Miss Ferber, I heard you’re working behind the scenes on that unfortunate business.”

“The murder?”

Liz squinted and checked her eyes in the mirror. “Of course, Jimmy had nothing to do with that. You really needn’t bother yourself.”

“How do you know?”

Her face became a canvas of little-girl smugness. “Really, now. Jimmy Dean? He’s so…sweet. A little madcap, insane, a little boy jumping up and down and saying look-at-me; but really, it’s all foolishness.”

“The police might think otherwise.”

“Of course, they won’t.”

“Miss Taylor…”

“Liz…”

“Miss Taylor, you seem sure of this.”

“Jack Warner assured me it’ll all be okay.”

“He did?”

“He takes care of everything. He called and told me not to speak of it with reporters. Well, I’ve been in this business forever. I wouldn’t dare. He talks to me like I’m a scattered child.” She dabbed at a hint of powder under her left eye. “Jack is sort of infatuated with me, I’m afraid. And men who are infatuated with me make the mistake of thinking I’m not very bright.”

“But you might be a little naive when it comes to Jimmy.”

She held up her hand. “Really, no. Jimmy will be just fine.” She stood up. “I have to run.” She touched me on the wrist. “Again, thank you.”

I still didn’t know what I was being thanked for.

I planned on sleeping early that night. Yet I dawdled, sitting by the window in my suite, still dressed in the outfit I’d worn to dinner with a couple of Broadway producers visiting L.A. for a week. They’d insisted on dining with me at La Rue’s, followed by a night of Symphonies under the Stars at the Hollywood Bowl. It hadn’t been unpleasant, but tiring. So now, dark L.A. beneath me, with streams of headlights on the boulevard, a slight night wind rustling the tops of the palms I looked down on, I resisted bed, because I knew I’d not be able to sleep. A glass of chilled wine, barely touched, and a desire for a cigarette. What was with me? Earlier I’d taken one of Tansi’s cigarettes, and then one of Mercy’s. I started feeling guilty about appropriating them, and that did not make me happy. I was used to having one rare cigarette, maybe at the end of a good day of writing. A cocktail and one cigarette. One, just one. Maybe once a week. That’s it. Now I was plundering Tansi’s and Mercy’s packs. How ridiculous!

The phone rang.

“It’s Jimmy.”

“Where are you?”

“In your lobby.”

“Why?”

“Come down. Please.”

“It’s late.”

“No, it isn’t.” A pause. “Come down.”

I protested, but emptily. I wanted to see him. I threw on a jacket over my dress, grabbed my clutch, and met him in the lobby. A cigarette in his mouth, the first thing I spotted. His image, which he’d never relinquish.

“What is it, Jimmy?”

Surprisingly, he drew his face close to mine, and I smelled the rich tang of tobacco, the trace of whiskey. Not heavy, but there. And something else: a raw, almost earthy smell; sweat, dirt. A farm boy’s smell. “Come on. Outside.”

“Jimmy,” I said, hurriedly, afraid he’d slip away. “I have to ask you something.” He looked at me. “Why didn’t you tell Detective Cotton you wrote that nasty letter to Carisa? Why did you hide that fact from him? Do you know how it makes you look?”

He didn’t answer, just shrugged.

Frustrated, I wanted to ask him again, more loudly this time, but I sensed he wouldn’t answer.

Outside he pointed to his fancy sports car. I didn’t know cars. What was it? An MG? A Porsche? Some slick little convertible, glistening under the overhead lights. Sitting there, poised, at the ready, a doorman admiring it. He opened the passenger door, bowed. “Please.” He motioned me into the car. “See how it feels.”

Reluctantly, I slid into the plush, deep seat, sunk in low, felt immediately foolish, and tremendously old. He