Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (10 page)

“Looks that way, he-he-he.” Norton's laughter was not gleeful; it was nervous tittering. “How did you know?”

“Why else would you be calling me? If she died of natural causes, or a simple accident, as unfortunate as that would be, it is not something you would take up my time with.”

“Her body was found in Alaska. Nome, Alaska of all places. In a snow drift.”

“That's a little bit more than strange.”

“That's what I thought.”

“I assume Mike is devastated.”

“Very. That's what prompted him to call me, he-he-he. He was reluctant, but he wants your help.”

“I assume it's in police hands?”

“Yes, but they won't communicate with him. He's not a family member, after all. Also, he's convinced they really won't investigate—and he's got information he won't give them.”

“Why?”

“You'll have to ask him that. He says he'll only give it to you. Now, I know this isn't really any of your business, and there is certainly no fee involved, but—”

“Is Mike available now?”

“Uh, yes. He's at the newsstand.”

“Tell him I'll meet him there in half an hour.”

“Okay, but are you—”

I hung up. “Roee, I'm going out.”

Roee had gotten the gist of things from my end of the conversation. “Do you want company?”

“No, but you can call the Captain and alert him that we may require information on the case.”

“Okay, I'll do that.”

~ * ~

I made the quick trip to Sherman Oaks wondering about Bea Cherbourg. What had gotten her killed? In Nome, Alaska, “of all places.” Nome, a small berg at the end of America whose city motto was, of course, “There's no place like Nome,” was not the sort of place one would expect a Bea Cherbourg to vacation. Even to run away to—and I had just seen her with Sara Hutton, happy, it seemed, problem solved, what was there to run away from? Was it research for her film, then, or location scouting? I didn't know what her script was about, but it was a good assumption that a woman who would describe herself as being somewhat Dorothy Parker-like was not going to tell a story that takes place in Alaska, rural Alaska at that.

Mike was waiting for me at the curb, reserving by his presence, the parking spot.

“I got a table set aside at Blues+Jazz,” was his greeting.

“Fine, “I said and followed him to the restaurant. We entered just as a Jazz trio was finishing up a set with a not half bad rendition of Carmichael's Stardust. (Ah, Hoagy, not completely forgotten, The Best Years of Our Lives, indeed, Mr. Bond.) We sat as applause showed appreciation and the players expressed their thanks. We ordered drinks. Mike was very specific in the kind of whisky he wanted.

“Mr. Macbeth told you?” Mike started.

“Bea Cherbourg is dead. Murdered. In Alaska.”

“Yeah,” He choked on the word.

“Mike, your grief will be as unrequited as your love, if you don't get control of your emotions and deal with this.”

Mike sucked in a long, moist breath through his nostrils and said, “You know, Fixxer, there's no god damn justice in the world.”

“Yes, I've noticed.”

He was angry. “Oh, you have, have you? You've noticed injustice? When did you ever notice injustice?”

I nodded towards the three musicians packing up to go home. “The day I realized that Rock was more popular than Jazz.”

Mike looked at me with a high level of hate. “You probably think I'm a silly little man, don't you? Silly little man in love with a beautiful young woman who would never—"

“I think nothing of the sort, and what I do think, you'll never be able to divine, so don't try. Look, I'm not here as a grief counselor. I'm not here to hold your hand and witness you beating your breast. I am here at your request to receive information regarding the murder of Bea Cherbourg, which, you, for some reason, are holding back from the proper authorities. I am also here to advise you that that is a criminal offense. Now why don't you just start telling me the story? Sequentially, please.”

“Bea—Bea was pretty depressed for a couple of days after you met with her. Then, suddenly, she was feeling better. She said she had decided that you were right and she was going to call Sara Hutton and apologize for being so uncooperative and beg her, if she had to, to let her back on the project. You know, she said it in such a way that....”

“That what?”

“I don't know. It was—chilling.”

“She got back in the good graces of Sara Hutton.”

“Yes, and she said Sara was cool about it. Took her back on the project, even took her to New York for a trip. She started spending a lot of time with Sara, I mean, you know, outside of the office, so to speak.”

“Do you think it was sexual?”

Mike looked deep into his drink. This was not comfortable for him. “I know it was.”

“Go on.”

“A little over a week ago she asked me if I would take care of her cat again.”

“Again?”

“I did it when she went to New York. I mean, I'm here close by.”

“I see.”

“Her cat's name is Mr. Woollcott. Stupid name for a cat.”

“Not so stupid if he is the friend of Dorothy Parker.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“This time she said she was going away on a retreat for a couple of days with Sara and some other Olympic executives and other people in the industry. She—she seemed quite excited about it.”

“Where was the retreat held?”

“She wouldn't tell me. She said she would only be gone two nights and could I feed Mr. Woollcott, take in the mail; water the plants. As she gave me the key to her apartment, she said—with this scary smile, Fixx, this really weird scary smile—‘I'm off to kiss the golden arse.' I didn't understand that.”

“You probably don't want to.”

“Well, anyway, when she didn't return when she said she was going to, I got worried, so I called Sara Hutton's office and asked if the retreat had been extended. They said no. So I asked if Sara Hutton was there and they said yes, but she couldn't speak to me. Of course, I was a nobody calling, so I couldn't have gotten through in any case. So I asked if Bea was around. They told me Bea no longer worked there. I said I knew that, but was she just, you know, physically there, did she come back there after the retreat? They said they hadn't seen her, and anyway, as far as they knew, she had not been invited to the retreat. It's very exclusive.”

“So she wasn't an official guest.”

“I guess not. Anyway, that's when I called the police.”

“What for?”

“To file a missing person's report.”

“Did you really think she was missing? Maybe she had just decided to stay on for an extra day of R&R.”

“No, I knew it, I knew something was wrong, but there was nothing I could do except this. At least this was doing something.”

“I see.”

“I even thought they wouldn't take a report from me ‘cause I'm not a relative, or anything. I thought I was going to have to fight with them, but — but they did.”

“Too many missing persons these days for them not to.”

 
“Yeah. So I gave them all the information, you know, who she was, height, hair and eye color, what she was wearing when I last saw her, all that. They said fine, they'd put it in the system. Every day she didn't return I called the police, but they said nothing had turned up. Finally, after about the fourth day they called me and wanted to know if I knew who her next of kin was. I asked why and they wouldn't tell me. They said they had to talk to a family member. I told them I knew she had parents back east somewhere and I would try to get their phone number. So I went into her apartment and looked all around, found the number and called them back and gave it to them. I also asked them to please give my name to her parents and ask them to call me at the apartment, that I was Bea's friend and I was taking care of things. Then I hung up—and cried.”

“You knew.”

“What else?”

“The parents called?”

“Her dad—about an hour and a half later—nice sounding guy. All he would tell me is that they had found Bea in Nome, Alaska, dead, and that in the opinion of the people up there, it looked like she had been murdered. I tried to get more out of him, but he said no, he didn't really know me, and—and he really didn't want to talk about it anymore. He said he was getting on a plane to come here to meet—the body—and close up the apartment, take the cat, you know. I met him at the newsstand the next day. He was pretty upset, of course. Thanked me for taking care of things. Tried to give me some money, but I wouldn't take it. I gave him the key. It was like Bea. It was like giving him back Bea.”

Mike stopped talking. He was staring at some insubstantial thing in front of him: the ghostly image of the key, most likely, a key in the shape of the shapely body of Bea Cherbourg.

“And what is it you found in the apartment when you were looking for the parent's phone number that you don't want to show the police?”

Mike was not surprised that I had figured this fact out. He just simply pulled out of his coat pocket a small bound notebook and handed it to me. “It's—it's something like a diary, I guess. Read the last couple of entries.”

I quickly scanned the last pages. Then I turned to Mike. “Why didn't you want to give this to the police?”

“If Sara Hutton had anything to do with it—even if, you know, she's arrested and put on trial—do you think she'll be convicted? What justice did Vic Morrow ever get, or Nicole Brown? The rich, the powerful—and in this town, the movies are the power—they can influence, buy themselves out of anything. I don't even want to give the police the opportunity. But you can take care of this, Fixx.”

“Well, these pages are hardly evidence that Sara Hutton had anything to do with the murder of Bea, but even if they are a good hint and I could track down the facts, what makes you think I wouldn't just turn them over to the police? I'm not an avenging angel, Mike”

“Because it's your responsibility.”

“My responsibility?”

“You should have taken her on as a—as a charity case and you should have fucked over Sara Hutton and then this all would have been over and she wouldn't be dead!”

“Interesting point of view. Considering it comes from the man who asked me to dissuade Bea from seeking to hurt Sara Hutton.”

“Well, you didn't do a very good job, did you? So, so it's still your responsibility. You're as guilty as anybody for murdering her!”

I don't believe in guilt. It's a lousy emotion that rarely leads to satisfactory action. If anything, it prays on the mind and leads to inaction while it gropes for a convenient excuse, like an addict gropes for a needle. I do, however, believe in responsibility and owning up to it. Did I share some responsibility for this outcome to a life of potential, now forever to be unfulfilled? I didn't know, but this “silly little man,” thought so, even if that thought was born of tortured grieving hormones. Still, I felt it did no harm to show respect for the man and his pain.

I pocketed the notebook. “Mike, if I find out anything that I think will satisfy you, I'll let you know. If I decide that there is action I can take that I think might satisfy you, I'll let you know.”

Mike looked again into his glass, now empty but for a drop or two. “Okay, Fixx. Th—thanks.”

I finished my drink and left.

~ * ~

This is what was written in Bea Cherbourg's notebook:

I have fucked Sara Hutton. Although I don't like that word, I never have. I have had carnal knowledge with Sara Hutton. Sounds too demure. Like I'm averting my eyes from the fact. Also sounds like an old movie. Was an old movie. Mike Nichols. With Nicholson and that guy who used to sing with Paul Simon. I have made love to/with Sara Hutton. There was no love. I have had sex with Sara Hutton. Dry and factual. I have had a lesbo relationship with Sara Hutton. That would have turned Sam on. Poor Sam. The master. What little you know, now compared to your student. It was not revolting/repulsive. The stimulation of the clitoris is the stimulation of the clitoris is the stimulation of the clitoris. A rose is a rose is a rose? Gertrude! Shame on you! It was—what it was. When I called her I was shocked by how quickly she took my call. She knew. People with/in power know. She knew I was coming with my tail between my legs. She liked my tail. I did good. Almost convinced myself. It was really comfortable being “liked” by her again. The corporate jet. The suite. God, it's easy to believe if you have access to these things—a right to these things—then you must be right.

SHE IS PUTRID!!!!!!!

I will get her. I will find out something. There is something. There is something—dark at her core. If I find it, there must be something there I can use. She wants me to meet Max. She's been starting to talk about this Max. I don't like what's in her eyes when she talks of him. Maybe he's her guru, or something. It's creepy. I will find it out. Then I will fuck her! Now I like the word.