A Graveyard for Lunatics

The accident of the year, I thought. Arbuthnot dead, and the studio gun-shot and dropping like a herd of elephants.

?It was no accident,? whispered Constance

Constance gathered a private darkness behind her pale face.

?Murder,? she said. ?Suicide.?

The pulse jumped in my hand. She held it, tight.

?Yeah,? she nodded, ?suicide and murder. We never found out how, why, or what. You saw the papers. Two cars at Gower and Santa Monica, late, and no one to see. All the masked people ran off in their masks. The studio alleys were like those Venetian canals at dawn, all the gondolas empty, and the docks littered with earrings and underwear. I ran, too. The rumors later said Sloane found Arbuthnot with Sloane?s wife out back or over the wall. Or maybe Arbuthnot found Sloane with his own wife. My God, if you love another man?s wife and she makes love to her own husband at a lunatic party, wouldn?t that drive you mad?! So one car tailgates another at top speed. Arbuthnot after the Sloanes at eighty miles an hour. Rear-ended them at Gower, rammed them into a pole. The news hit the party! Doc Phillips, Manny, and Groc rushed out. They carried the victims into the Catholic church nearby. Arbuthnot?s church. Where he put money as his fire escape, his escape from hell, he said. But it was too late. They died and were taken across the street to the mortuary. I was long since gone. At the studio the next day Doc and Groc looked like pallbearers at their own funerals. I finished the last scene of the last film I ever made by noon. The studio shut down for a week. They hung crepe on every sound stage and sprayed fake clouds of fog and mist in every street, or is that true? The headlines said the three of them were all happy drunk, going home. No. It was vengeance running to kill love. The poor male bastards and the poor lovesick bitch were buried across the wall where the hooch once ran, two days later. The graveyard tunnel was bricked up and?hell,? she sighed, ?I thought it was all over. But tonight, with the tunnel open, and Arbuthnot?s fake body on that wall, and that terrible man with the sad, mad eyes in your film, it?s started again. What?s it all mean??

Her clock ran down, her voice faded, she was going to sleep. Her mouth twitched. Ghosts of words came out, in bits and pieces.

?Poor holy man. Sap??

?What holy man sap?? I asked.

Crumley leaned forward in the doorway.

Constance, deep under, drowning, gave answer:

?? priest. Poor crock. Dumped on. Studio barging in. Blood in the baptistry. Bodies, my God, bodies everywhere. Poor sap??

?St. Sebastian?s? That poor sap??

?Sure, sure. Poor him. Poor everyone, ?murmured Constance. ?Poor Arby, that sad stupid genius. Poor Sloane. Poor wife. Emily Sloane. What was it she said that night? Going to live forever. Boy! What a surprise to wake up nowhere. Poor Emily. Poor Hollyhock House. Poor me.?

?Poor what was that again??

?Hoi?? Constance?s voice slurred? ?ly? ock? House??

And she slept.

?Hollyhock House? No film by that name,? I murmured.

?No,? said Crumley, moving into the room. ?Not a film. Here.?

He reached under the night table and pulled the telephone directory out and turned the pages. He ran his finger down and read aloud:

?Hollyhock House Sanitarium. That?s half a block over and hah⁰ a block north of St. Sebastian?s Catholic church, yes??

Crumley leaned close to her ear.

?Constance,? he said. ?Hollyhock House. Who?s there??

Constance moaned, covered her eyes, and turned away. To the wall she addressed some few final words about a night a long time ago.

?? going to live forever? little did she know? poor everyone? poor Arby? poor priest? poor sap??

Crumley arose, muttering. ?Hell. Damn. Sure. Hollyhock House. A stone?s throw from??

?St. Sebastian?s,? I finished. ?Why,? I added, ?do I have this feeling you?ll be taking me there??

59

?You,? Crumley said to me at breakfast, ?look like death warmed over. You,? he pointed his buttered toast at Constance, ?look like Justice without Mercy.?

?What do I look like?? asked Henry.

?Can?t see you.?

?Figures,? said the blind man.

?Clothes off,? said Constance, dazed, like someone reading from an idiot board. ?Time for a swim. My place!?

We drove to Constance?s place.

Fritz telephoned.

?Have you got the middle for my film,? he cried, ?or was it the beginning? Now we need a redo of the Sermon on the Mount!?