Tony’s voice became a plaintive howl. “She married a goddamn Commie, Ethan.” He swayed, nearly fell. “We’re sitting in a room with a Commie.” He pointed a finger at Max. “You ain’t loyal to America, Max. Ain’t it enough that you ruined all-yeah,
I stood, ready to leave, tired of this maddened scene. Outside Frank’s bodyguard/driver was sitting patiently in a town car-not, I hasten to add, the monosyllabic gorilla I’d anticipated, but, rather, a gentle giant who fussed and salaamed before me, the perfect gentleman. I only saw the gun in his inside pocket when he bent to pick up some dropped car keys. He was out there now, patient, this Sir Galahad, my chariot ride back to my cocoon at the Ambassador.
“Good night.” I raised my voice.
Ava pleaded. “Edna, I’m sorry.”
“Delightful evening.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Now!” Frank thundered again. I was the one who jumped and grabbed my throat.
“Commie,” Tony repeated.
Alice had started to sob as Max maneuvered her from the sofa, headed to a side door. As he passed Ava, she reached out and touched his cheek, a quick, reverential gesture that reminded me suddenly of Julie, exiled from the showboat, leaving in darkness and gently touching the swarthy cheek of Joe as he mourned her expulsion. I expected strains of “Ol’ Man River” to swell now, a cliched Hollywood crescendo. But no: silence in the room. Little Rags leapt around, rattled by the tension, his noisy panting and yelping a soundtrack to the evening’s ragged coda.
And then, almost as though a chapter was skipped in a book, the room emptied, everyone gone. Alice and Max left by the kitchen door, quietly. Lorena hastily shooed Ethan, Tony, and Liz into her car, taking them away. I had intended to be the first to leave, so I had no idea why I was still there, standing in the center of the room, the referee announcing the next battle between Ava and Frank. Adam and Ava in paradise my foot!
Outside my charioteer was most likely standing next to the passenger door, fingering the tattoo of MOM he doubtless had on a concealed bicep. He was probably checking his pistol in case I got feisty on the ride back.
“Good night,” I said again.
Ava breathed in. “Edna, Tony isn’t always like he was tonight. He’s a…quiet man. Lately he’s been getting worse-drunk and…” She sighed. “He has bad nights. If you meet him another time…”
“I’d rather not,” I interrupted.
Frank snickered. “His life is going nowhere.”
Ava readied another apology, but Frank looked at me as if I were the tidal wave that had caused such havoc in the room. I sensed he didn’t like me, the old biddy come a-calling. He was looking from me to Ava, a gaze that was both dismissive and furious.
“Good ni-” I stopped. Those were the only two words left in my lexicon, starved as it now seemed to be.
Frank bit his lip and watched Ava through half-shut eyes. “Hedda Hopper called me a Hoboken has-been. On the way out of this miserable town.” He swiveled around to face me. “You’re a savvy old broad, Edna. Tell me, do you think I’m a Hoboken has-been?”
I waited, steamed. He shouldn’t rile this admittedly savvy old broad. “Frank, I didn’t know you were from Hoboken.”
The line hung in the air, bloody, cruel.
Ava burst out laughing. “Edna, I love you.”
“Well, I don’t.” Frank pulled at the goofy red bow tie and backed away. “Good night, Edna.” He sneered my name, drawing it out.
“Francis,” Ava started in. “This is all your fault. You drag these sorry failures to my house.”
“Maybe I’m one, too.”
“Maybe you
Frank turned his baleful eye on her. It was preparatory, I sensed, to an evening of battlers’ rage, broken cocktail glasses, upturned tables, shoving, tears, perhaps even a Degas print smashed to the floor.
“Christ Almighty,” he hissed with a sickening grimace, “You gotta have enemies, Ava. You know that. How the hell else do you know you’re alive?”
Chapter Five
Frank Sinatra was not in a good mood. I knew that because, though I’d not seen his face yet, the back of his neck was crimson, his shoulders were hunched, and he was tapping his right foot nervously on the floor. Ava faced him, unsmiling. As the maitre d’ escorted me to their table, she looked past him toward me and attempted a welcoming smile. The tapping of the right foot stopped suddenly.
The taxi had just dropped me off at Don the Beachcomber on North McCadden Place, and I imagined myself deposited, reluctantly, onto a movie set for some Busby Berkeley pineapple-and-luau extravaganza. Garish spotlights, some revolving from the rooftop, illuminated massive palm trees silhouetted against an ocean-blue backdrop touted as the “island of Mahuukona.” Worse, the maitre d’ who grasped my elbow, an obsequious gentleman who was obviously expecting me, was dressed in a flowing Hawaiian shirt so ostentatiously decorated with blood-red hibiscus blooms that it brought to mind ancient blood-letting and savage sacrifice. Maidens hurled willy-nilly into the mouth of a seething volcano, lava steaming. Yet he spoke in a flat Brooklyn accent and smelled of cheap cigars.
Ava rushed to embrace me but held on too long, whispering something in my ear I didn’t catch. Frank stood, turned, that enormous toothy grin switched on; he extended his hand, performed a half-bow. He pulled a chair out for me.
“Edna, I was worried you’d abandon us,” Ava said.
“Not a chance. I’m certain to be featured in some gossip sheet by morning.”
Only Ava laughed. “And Alice and Max are late. After all, it’s
They’d been drinking, I could tell, and two ashtrays already held snubbed-out cigarette butts, though a passing waiter seamlessly made both disappear, each replaced with a sparkling clean one. Frank immediately started talking of an encounter earlier with a pesky photographer as they’d pulled up in his Cadillac convertible. “You see, Miss Ferber, he was hiding behind that trellis of bougainvillea, like a night prowler, and jumped out, scaring us to death.” Still seething, he sputtered to a stop.
Ava added, “Francis yelled, ‘Beat it, you crumbs,’ and knocked the camera out of his hand, and they…tussled. Francis scraped a knuckle.” Frank held out his hand to prove she wasn’t lying. Ava glanced at him. “I don’t know why you have to grapple with them. It only makes it worse, you know.”
Spitfire words, furious. “They’re bums. All of them.”
“Still…”
“Ava, not now, doll.”
She shrugged. “Quite the place, no, Edna?”
My eyes swept the cavernous room. Plastic palm trees, a virtual forest of green disaster. Bizarrely, there were stuffed pudgy monkeys hidden among the lacy fronds. “Beautiful.”
“They have the best rum zombies here,” Ava told me.
“Zombies? Like the living dead? Why am I not surprised? That’s all of Hollywood, no?”
Frank shot me a look as though I’d lapsed into dialectical Farsi. He downed his drink and brusquely signaled the waiter for another. When the waiter neared, Frank stuck a cigarette between his lips and demanded, “Match me.” The waiter hurriedly lit the cigarette.
He was rubbing his bruised knuckle. I saw a trace of blood there, broken skin.
