answer. “Help me find his porter, will you?” she said to Ben, blowing Lasner a kiss.
In the corridor her face was serious.
“What did the doctor really say?” When Ben hesitated, she brushed past it. “I know, you can’t- He thinks nobody knows. Fay would kill me if anything happened and I was right here.” She looked up at him. “What’s the connection again?”
“We’re going to make a picture together. For the Army.”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to explain that to me sometime. Right now, he’s taken a shine to you, so help me keep him in bed.”
“How?”
“He can’t resist a game. They’re all like that.”
Ben thought of Cohn in his Paris suite, throwing chips on the pile.
“Get a deck from the club car. I’ll order lunch. I know what he likes.”
She was right about the cards. Lasner only picked at his chicken sandwich but brightened when the trays were cleared and she brought out the cards and score pad, kicking off her espadrilles and sitting cross-legged on the bed, Indian style, to make a circle.
Outside there was nothing but fields, and Ben lost track of where they must be, cut off even from the rest of the train in their private party. A million miles from Europe, playing cards with a movie star.
The first shadows made him look up. They were finally leaving the steady glare of the flat landscape for the real West, mountains and stretches of old conifers, dirt the color of bright rust. Lasner checked his watch.
“We hit Albuquerque in ten minutes. Four thirty-five.”
“My god, the hairdresser,” Paulette said, getting up. “Why don’t you get some beauty sleep. I’ll check in later. I do not want to see you in the dining car. Use room service-you can afford it.”
“Now I’m an invalid,” Lasner said, a mock pout.
She picked up the cards. “No more of these, either. Come on, Ben, let’s take a hike. You rest.”
“You deserve Milland,” Lasner said, then turned to Ben. “See if they got papers on the platform. Anything. Even local.”
Ben nodded, already one of the suits on the red carpet, a Lasner man.
The Los Angeles paper was yesterday’s but he bought it anyway. While he was waiting for change, he noticed a bundle of old papers, tied up to be sent back. His eye stopped. Not even a big headline, just a story near the bottom, easy to miss. He slipped the paper out from under the twine.
DIRECTOR IN FREAK FALL
Daniel Kohler, director and head writer of the Partners in Crime series, was rushed to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital after an accidental fall at the Cherokee Arms Hotel in Hollywood. Kohler, who was alone at the time of the accident, had a long history of dizzy spells, according to his wife. Kohler used the hotel room as a writing office. Neighbors in the building summoned police after hearing sounds of the fall in the adjacent alley. Kohler, son of the late silent film director Otto Kohler, had been a Second Unit director at Metro before originating the detective series at Republic Pictures. Herbert Yates, President of Republic, said the studio intended to continue production while Kohler recovers. Partners in Crime features Larry Burke and Bruce Hudson.
Ben looked up at the metal sides of the Chief, shining like coins. Not even about him, really. An industry item. Was anyone fooled? Not the reporter, his skepticism poking out between the lines. Why rent a hotel room to write? Didn’t he have an office on the lot? Not really about him at all.
He got back on the train just as it was leaving, his mood seesawing back down to where it had been when the first telegram had arrived, a quiet panic. But Lasner was too busy dressing to see it, his attention focused on the mirror.
“Don’t start,” he said, nodding down to the clothes. “Two nights and they notice. Get the paper?”
“Take the pills with you. Just in case,” Ben said, putting the paper on the bed. “You know Partners in Crime? The series?”
“Over at Republic? If Herb had any brains, he’d fold it. I heard the last one did so-so. Oh,” he said, stopping, embarrassed. “That’s your-?”
“I mean, what’s it like?”
“ Boston Blackie, except two brothers. One chases girls, gets into trouble, you know. The other one solves the crime. The good one’s Bruce Hudson.”
No, it’s me, Ben thought, suddenly light-headed. The way they’d been as boys.
“You never saw it?”
Ben shook his head. “They never sent it overseas.” He tucked the other paper under his arm and turned to leave. “Don’t forget the pills.”
Lasner looked at Ben in the mirror. “I don’t forget things.” A kind of thank-you.
Back in his roomette, relieved to be alone, Ben opened the paper again. A piece with everything between the lines. Except why. Because a B series was failing?
Outside, they were heading up through cactus and sage into the wild high desert. At this time of day even the rocks glowed, golden with trapped heat, the shadows around them streaked with violet and terra cotta, as if the Chief had planned it all for dramatic effect, a show before dinner. He imagined Lasner on that other train forty years ago, the dry goods store behind him. No air-cooled compartment then, just hot gritty air and something new at the end. Maybe that’s what all of them had wanted, not just sunlight for film, a new place. What Danny wanted, too, and didn’t find.
Ben looked down at the paper, disturbed. Everything about it was wrong, not just between the lines, but in the lines themselves. He thought of the high railing along the Embankment, Danny perched on it like on a balance beam, arms outstretched and fearless, a boy who had never been dizzy in his life.
Ben saw Lasner once more before they arrived, this time by accident. He’d been up since dawn, watching the last of the desert slip by, the brick sand turning white in the Mojave. They passed Barstow, houses without shade, then over the ridge to San Bernardino and the miles of orange groves, planted straight to the San Gabriels, at this hour still smelling of the night perfume the guidebooks promised. Ben had lowered the window, leaning out in the morning air. In Europe there had been no oranges at all, not for years. Here the land was bursting with them, an almost supernatural abundance. Royal palms began to appear in front yards, rows of peeling eucalyptus along the tracks.
On the rest of the train, he knew, suitcases were being snapped shut, lipstick dabbed on for the last half hour to Union Station, but the morning held him at the window, head stuck out like a child’s. It was still there as they pulled into Pasadena, sliding by tubs of bright flowers, so Lasner saw him when he stepped onto the platform. He came over to the window, his face troubled, oddly hesitant.
“That was your brother that fell? You didn’t say anything? All this time.”
Ben looked for a response, feeling caught, but said, “How did you hear?”
“Katz said it was in the trades.”
Ben imagined the news spreading through presses, across wires, all the way to tables on the Chief, Katz bending forward to gossip, a montage of rumor. But at least Danny hadn’t been ignored, forgotten. News for five minutes.
“It wasn’t your trouble,” he said finally. “I figured you had enough of your own.”
“A shame,” Lasner said, shaking his head. “I never heard he was a drinker. They must have had some party. Him and the skirt. It’s a hell of a thing. He gonna be all right?”
So now he drank, the rumor swelling, branching. A drunken party, something Lasner could understand. Where did the woman come from? His own invention, an inside tip from Katz? But before Ben could say anything else, Paulette Goddard got off the train with a group of porters and a cartload of suitcases. Her hair was brushed out, shiny, every inch of her in place.
“She doesn’t trust me to find my own car,” he said as she came up, putting her hand on his arm.
“I’m just cadging a lift,” she said.
