Come Hell or Highball (18 page)

“You bought Lem Fitzpatrick's chain of theaters,” Ralph said.

“That's right. At a real high price, it turns out.”

“Something to do with Sadie?” I asked.

“Yeah. The only way Fitzpatrick would agree to the sale of his theaters was if we took his little squeeze Sadie and made her into a star. I said, sure. The bird's just beautiful, and she can act okay, I guess. She's got that husky voice, and what with the talkies coming along, I thought maybe that could come in handy. All my other leading ladies have voices like mice, except for one, and
she
talks like an Italian truck driver.”

“What about the feud between Sadie and Bruno?” Ralph asked.

“Don't remind me. Those two have got me between a rock and a hard place, and they know it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I can't very well fire Bruno. He's Pantheon's top-banking star. And that little princess Sadie? I'd be head over heels with glee if we let her go. There are a million girls in America who could fill her shoes. Give me some nice, fresh-faced little miss from Ohio who'll take goddam direction!” He slammed his fist on the desk.

George suddenly seemed … violent. My spine prickled.

“But no,” he said. “I can't fire her, because if I do, her goddam boyfriend will have me whacked. It's a farce, is what it is.”

“Fitzpatrick threatened to whack you?” Ralph asked.

“Don't know if he means it or not, but with that kind of fella, I sure as hell don't wanna find out. Did you hear what happened to that forger who double-crossed Fitzpatrick? Nothing left but a pair of shoes.”

Ralph and I exchanged a glance. Berta's hand had made its way to her locket.

“But you've been pretending to be Sadie's beau,” I said.

“All for publicity, honey. Gotta play the rags-to-riches game. The public loves it. Look at me: I was just a runty kid from Jersey who everyone picked on, but I made something of myself. People eat my story up. Anyway, Sadie was sneaking off to Fitzpatrick's bedroom every night at the Arbuckles' place. Taking the opportunity for a little zig-zig, if you know what I mean. They aren't able to see each other much, what with her public image to worry about and the reporters hounding her day and night.”

“That's why it's so difficult to locate Sadie,” I said.

“Sure. Even she needs a little privacy. She's here now, though. Studio Five.”

Berta emitted a chirrup.

George glanced again at his wristwatch. “Anything else?”

Just then, I heard the door behind us click open. We turned.

Bruno Luciano posed in the doorway, liquid eyed and suntanned. He gave Cedric a blinding-white grin. “Hi there, little fella.”

Cedric growled.

“Bruno,” George said. He sounded choked.

“I needed to speak to you, George,” Bruno said. “About that … thing.” He elevated a dramatic eyebrow.

“Okay,” George said meekly.

What was going on between these two?

“Say, Zucker,” Ralph said, “could we go and say hello to Sadie Street?”

“Suit yourself,” George said, not taking his eyes off Bruno. “As long as you don't mention our little conversation here. Miss Dudley will take you.”

*   *   *

Miss Dudley guided us through a labyrinth of corridors, and along a wider hallway teeming with actors in costume and makeup. The walls were decorated with framed photographs.

“That was easy,” I whispered to Ralph and Berta. We slipped around two cigarette-smoking Revolutionary War Redcoats.

“Indeed,” Berta said. “Mr. Zucker sang like a canary.”

I poked Ralph in the arm. “Maybe
you
ought to take lessons from
us
on how to extract efficient confessions.”

“That's kinda the problem,” Ralph said. “It was a little too easy.”

“Hmph,” Berta said.

I said, “You're jealous.”

“In my experience,” Ralph said, “when someone's that forthcoming, they're hiding something.”

“Hiding what?” I asked. “He came clean about a shady deal with a gangster, for Pete's sake!”

“Shush,”
Berta whispered.

A gaunt fellow in face paint, top hat, and tails stared as we passed.

“I'm just saying,” Ralph said, “don't believe everything you hear.”

Miss Dudley left us in Studio Five. It was even bigger than Studio One, and lit up by skylights, tall windows, and electric lamps. Sets and props cluttered the perimeter.

In the middle of the studio, a motion picture camera sat on a low tripod. A man in baggy trousers, suspenders, and rolled-up shirtsleeves crouched behind it, cranking. A couple other fellows stood nearby.

All eyes were on Sadie Street.

Sadie was dressed, I figured, as Jane Eyre, in a long gown and a brown wig. The backdrop behind her was painted to look like the inside of a grand library. She pretended to read a letter. She crushed it to her bosom and drew an anguished forearm across her brow. Then she stared into the camera with coquettish, pursed lips and wide, vacant eyes.

Berta watched with stony disapproval. I thought Ralph was going to crack up. Cedric was growling again.

“Cut!” one of the film fellows yelled.

The camera man stopped cranking.

“Sadie, sweetheart,” the first man said. He must've been the director. “Do ya have to look like you need to swallow an
entire
bottle of Pepto-Bismol? We're running outa daylight here. One more take.”

“I'm tired of this!” Sadie shrieked. She threw the letter on the floor and stormed off to the edge of the studio, to a makeup counter. She flung herself into a chair and crossed her arms. Two makeup ladies rushed to her side.

“Let's go speak to her,” I said.

“I must find the powder room,” Berta said. “That lemonade has traveled right through me.”

“Would you take Cedric?” I asked. “He's being a pill, growling at everyone.”

Berta compressed her lips, but she took Cedric and trooped off.

“Maybe you'd better talk to Sadie without me,” Ralph said. “It'll be less threatening.”

“All right. But something tells me it's going to be no picnic.”

I went around the edges of the studio, passing an old-fashioned stagecoach, a cluster of fake trees, and a papier-mâché garden fountain on wheels. I came up behind Sadie. She was having her makeup refreshed.

One of the makeup ladies saw me first. She froze, her powder puff suspended in midair.

“Miss Street,” I said.

Sadie swung around and looked me up and down. “Who are you? Wait a minute. Where have I seen you before?”

“Cut the monkey business,” I said. “We met only a few days ago. Although you did spend much of the weekend hiding in your room.”

“I'm simply
unable
to take note of every last person I come across.” Sadie plucked a lipstick from the counter. “Have you any idea of the strain I'm under?”

“I know just the person for that. My brother-in-law is a nerve doctor.” I smiled sweetly. “At Babbling Brook Hospital.”

“I didn't say I'm a
nutcase,
for God's sake.” Sadie took up a hand mirror and lipsticked her carnelian Cupid's bow.

You can tell a lot about a lady by the way she wears down her lipsticks. Flat stub, round stub, pointy, or the ones that somehow look like they've never been used. It's an index of personality. My lipsticks always end up flat as pancakes—if I don't lose or accidentally melt them first. Sadie's lipstick was pointy.

“Could I ask you a question?” I said.

“No.” Sadie didn't take her eyes off her reflection.

“I'm going to ask anyway.”

“Jimmy!” Sadie yelled.

Jimmy?

Something hard and cold pressed between my shoulder blades. A gun barrel, I'd bet.

“Whatcha doing bugging Miz Street?” a man said.

I twisted my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fedora tipped down over a mashed-up-looking mug. “Oh. Hello there, Mr.—Was it Mr. Ant?”

“Cut the wise guy routine,” he said in his grinding-gears voice. “Never liked it, never will. Step away from Miz Street.” He nudged my spine with the gun.

“Um. Okay. Although I'd
hoped
to ask her about a film reel gone missing from Horace Arbuckle's safe.” I looked at Sadie and lifted my eyebrows.

The two makeup ladies' mouths were ajar.

“Are you accusing me of stealing?” Sadie said. “Jimmy, get rid of her—if, that is, you can squeeze those hips of hers out the door.”

“I'll have you know I'm wearing a top-drawer rubber girdle!” I should've kept my trap shut, but I'd had it up to my bangs with such remarks. Why is it that a girl's chassis is always up for public analysis?

“Your girdle may be top drawer, sweetie,” Sadie said, “but your
bottom
drawer is sure sticking out a long way.”

That was
it
. I forgot all about Jimmy. I stepped toward Sadie, hands on my much-discussed hips, ready to give her a nice big piece of my mind with extra icing.

“Hold it, dollface,” Jimmy said.

I ignored him. “Now, listen here, Miss Minsky—”

“
What
did you call me?” Sadie was on her feet. She leaned in so close, her nose was about three inches from mine. “Where did you dig up that name?”

I closed the distance between our noses to one inch.

“Hold it,” Jimmy said to me again.

Again, I ignored him. “Guess I've got a big brain to go with my big hips. Listen, Sadie. Where's the film reel? The butler saw it in your bag.”

“I don't know what you're—”

Bang!
Short and sharp, right behind me. Something shattered up in the ceiling. I jumped. Sadie screamed. So did the makeup ladies. Glass tinkled on the floor a few paces away.

I spun around.

Yep. Jimmy sure as heck had a pistol. Big and shiny. And aimed straight at me.

I turned tail and sprinted across the studio. Past the old-time coach and the fake trees, past the camera on its tripod, the fellows with their suspenders and slack jaws.

“Hey!” Jimmy yelled after me.

 

20

Ralph was waiting for me by the door of Studio Five. He grabbed my hand and yanked me out into the hallway, where the loitering actors did not appear to have been fazed. They probably thought it had been a theatrical gunshot.

We hurried down the crowded hallway.

“What the hell were you egging Jimmy on for?” Ralph said. “He's a gangster, Lola. You know—kills people for a living?”

“What's he
doing
here?”

“Sadie is Fitzpatrick's girl. Jimmy works for Fitzpatrick. Guess Jimmy's been drafted into bodyguard duty.”

“Wait!” I skidded to a stop. “What about Berta? And Cedric?” I looked up and down the hallway. I saw Ancient Greeks drinking coffee, a man wearing the rear end of a horse costume, a girl dudded up like a ballerina. Oh yes, and Jimmy, shouldering through the crowd, bandy and glowering. The pistol dangled at his side.

“Holy mackerel,” Ralph muttered. He still had my hand, and he dragged me behind a garment rack stuffed with costumes. We had about two feet of elbow room between the costumes and the wall, which was covered with framed photographs.

A moment later, Jimmy strode by. He hadn't seen us.

“We'll just sit tight back here and wait till we see Berta,” Ralph said. “Then we'll vamoose.”

“Okay.” The fright of the gunshot had belatedly sunk in. I felt Jell-O kneed and weepy. I sniffled.

Ralph glanced down. “Hey,” he said. He placed a hand on my arm.

I longed to lay my cheek on his shoulder, for him to fold his arms around me. His baggy brown suit looked soft and comforting. He reminded me of a teddy bear. Well, a teddy bear with muscle-rounded arms and a scarred temple. I pulled away.

“What's the matter?” Ralph asked.

“What's the
matter
?” I whispered. “To begin with, I'm a widow of not even two weeks. You're a private detective who's investigating me. I don't know you from Adam. You keep notes about me in a notebook—which is stored next to your
gun,
by the way. And if I don't figure out how to pay my rent, I'm—”

“Hey, hey. Calm down.”

“Why is everyone always
saying
that to me?”

My gaze fell on the framed photographs on the wall. At first, the images didn't register. Gradually, it dawned on me that they were ensemble shots of actors in costume. Casts of various motion pictures that had been shot in the studio, I guessed. One of them looked like
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. Another looked like some kind of Wild West to-do, with a bunch of cowboys and even a cowgirl in a fringed leather skirt, tall boots, and a rifle slung over her shoulder. Too bad the cowgirl had such a sour expression on her face.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Isn't that…?” I poked the glass. “Did you ever see the Arbuckles' nurserymaid? Because I swear that cowgirl looks exactly like her.”

Ralph examined the picture. “I saw her in passing, up at the Arbuckles' place. Nanny Potter, right? That does look like her. Same schoolmarm face and everything.”

“The likeness is uncanny.” My stomach felt all twisty. “She was eavesdropping on Horace and me the night he was murdered, you know. Inspector Digton told me.”

Ralph frowned.

“Maybe she's simply a busybody,” I said.

“A busybody who, by the looks of this picture, isn't just a nurserymaid, but also an actress?” Ralph's eyes were thoughtful. “Arbuckle was killed by a crack shot, the cops said. With a gun kinda like the one she's got in this photograph here.”

“Oh gee whiz,” I whispered. “It was
her
. She killed Horace.”