Shamus In The Green Room (2 page)

“Oh. Maybe you don’t know.” Rafe wrinkled his brow.

“I’m not a method actor. I know Hammett liked hash browns,

but Siri recommends avoiding potatoes.”

“Potatoes,” said Lael, scoffing. “Boring. Sweets are the

thing.” She handed Rafe a freshly baked snickerdoodle.

“Lael is my dearest friend and a master pastry chef,” I ex-

plained.

“Freelance,” she said, fingering her baby-fine blond hair.

“Available day or night.”

“Incorrigible girl,” I said. She had four kids by four differ-

ent fathers, no mean feat. “What time’s our plane again?”

“Noon,” said Rafe, checking his watch. “We should go.”

Gambino was at the end of the line. He swept me into his

arms and kissed me like he really meant it.

“I love you, too,” I said, amused.

“Don’t leave your heart in San Francisco,” Lois warned as

we ducked under the canopy of still-spurting water.

“Tony Bennett,” murmured her twin, a faraway look in her

eyes. “What a beautiful man.”

Looking directly at Gambino, Rafe called out, “Somebody

better call the Department of Water and Power.”

My fiancé gave the movie star a thin-lipped smile.

6

t

I a m t h i r t y - n i n e y e a r s o l d , l i v e i n W e s t Hollywood, California, and make my living, such as it is, writing biographies of dead mystery writers. How I segued from

being the tallest Miss Asbury Park, New Jersey, on record to

that particular line of work is a long and only sporadically up-

lifting story involving an unsophisticated girl with big hair and

the double-dealing preppie who preyed upon her, got her preg-

nant, married her, put her to work supporting his lackluster ac-

ademic career, and cheated on her until she wised up and left

him—but that’s for another day.

Today’s story is a happier one, about how that girl (who

would be me), a die-hard mystery fan since she discovered

Nancy Drew at the age of eleven, wound up confounding her

English professor ex by writing a book about the author

Dashiell Hammett. Not just any book, but a book that was still

in print ten years later (unlike a certain bloated tome about

James Fenimore Cooper, published by a third-tier university

press), a book that actually made money (ditto), a book that

had been optioned for the movies. Which is where Rafe Simic

comes in.

Eight years ago I received a generous check from his pro-

duction company, In the Green Room. They loved my book.

They had plans for it—big plans. They’d rechristened it Dash!

Rangy writer as tough-guy hero! It had prestige project written

all over it.

As it turned out, however, Dash! went straight into turn-

around while Rafe got rich and famous playing a succession of

skate punks, ski bums, spies, mystics, and stoners. Go figure.

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What I didn’t know then was that Hollywood has its own in-

scrutable logic, a calculus of inestimable precision. The planets

must be in alignment. The agents and development people,

too. It was never the right time. Not, that is, until last year,

when Rafe didn’t get so much as a Golden Globe nod for his

critically acclaimed role as a gay hustler on the run.

It was time to get serious.

And this was the role—the dual role—of a lifetime:

Dashiell Hammett and the iconic detective he created, Sam

Spade.

There was only one problem: Rafe didn’t like to read. Not

even the newspaper. Reading gave him a headache. He pre-

ferred to meditate. To climb tall mountains. To scuba dive. To

parasail. Maybe it was the attention-deficit hyperactivity disor-

der. Or growing up in Palos Verdes, where it was so pretty out-

doors. Which made the prospect of his playing a tubercular

autodidact whose only sport was drinking somewhat daunting.

Red Harvest, The Dain Curse, The Maltese Falcon, The Glass

Key, The Thin Man—nope, Rafe hadn’t tackled a single one

of the five novels. He did skim one of the Continental Op sto-

ries, “Zigzags of Treachery” (1924), mostly because the title

reminded him of his experiences surfing Waimea Bay. Once,

fleeing paparazzi, he hid in a video store and came out with

the DVD of John Huston’s The Maltese Falcon, but in the

end refused to watch it for fear of being influenced by Bogie’s

portrayal of Spade. He loved the Thin Man movies, like most

everybody except Hammett himself, who loathed them. I sup-

pose cable television was good for something: one rainy Sun-

day, his yoga class canceled, Rafe caught the second half of

Julia, the Jane Fonda movie about playwright Lillian Hellman,

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Hammett’s longtime girlfriend, who stood by him when he

was imprisoned as an uncooperative witness during the Mc-

Carthy era. And that, I’m afraid, was the sum total of this

would-be Golden Globe–winning actor’s research into his

character.

I’d learned all this just a few days ago, after receiving a call

from Will Levander, Rafe’s longtime manager and business

partner. Will was in a panic. Principal shooting for Dash! was

to commence in exactly three weeks. The script was ambitious.

The director, young and cocky. The prosthetic nose for Lillian

Hellman, a marvel. And then there was Rafe, who seemed to

think looking good in a snap-brim hat and trench coat was all

that was required of him.

He thought Pinkertons were a breed of dog.

When all seemed lost, however, Will had had an inspira-

tion: I was his inspiration. I could spend two weeks with Rafe.

I could be his own personal talking cure.

“I’m not a therapist!” I protested.

“I’ll compensate you as if you were,” Will replied.

That shut me right up.

“Rafe’s therapist gets a hundred and fifty an hour, and she’s

full of shit. How about I pay you ten thousand for two weeks’

work?”

I gasped at that point.

“You’re a tough negotiator. Twenty thousand.”

No wonder it costs ten bucks to go to the movies these

days. I thought it was the unions.

“Look,” he went on, “all you need to do is talk to Rafe

about the books, about Hammett, his shattered health, writer’s

block, the whole creative thing. The twenties and speakeasies.

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McCarthyism, the fifties. It’s no biggie. Just let him soak up

your knowledge. Pick your brain.”

Nice metaphors. No wonder I felt violated. But I guess that

was Hollywood. Which is how I found myself cruising down

the 405 toward LAX with a man who’d set box-office records

on three continents.

I gave him a sidelong glance.

He was dressed down in an army jacket, faded T-shirt, and

grubby sandals, but god had blessed him in ways no Birken-

stock could conceal. I pretended to be adjusting my midnight-

blue suede pumps and looked again. He caught my eye but

didn’t so much as flinch. I suppose he was used to gawkers. I

wondered how long it’d been since he’d gone out to dinner and

not had the person at the next table watch him eat. I hated it

when people watched me eat. But nobody really wanted to

watch me eat.

“Cece.”

“Rafe.”

“Talk to me. I’m getting bored here,” he said.

“Do you know what a speakeasy is?”

“A what? I can’t hear you with all this wind.”

The key would be taking it slow.

A brunette in a Porsche convertible put on some speed and

veered alarmingly close.

“Oh, no,” he muttered.

“Rafe Simic!” she screamed, grabbing on to her pink cow-

boy hat, which was about to blow off her head. “I love you!”

“I love you, too,” shouted a guy with a cancerous tan com-

ing up on our other side. He drove a black Jeep, which had a li-

cense plate that read “RDY2RCK.”

10

Rafe smiled, then merged into the diamond lane.

“Rough life,” I said loudly.

“I can’t complain,” he shouted back.

“Do you have that effect on everyone?”

He said something I couldn’t hear. “What?” I bellowed.

“YOU SHOULD TALK!”

Gambino had told me to change. But I loved the way the

ivory skirt looked with my black sweater with the bat-wing

sleeves. The effect was very Anouk Aimée (Bridget’s idea, by

the way; she owned On the Bias, L.A.’s top vintage-clothing

shop, and counseled me on all my purchases). Still, this was

business, like I kept telling people who didn’t believe me.

We exited at La Tijera.

“Listen.” I straightened up in my seat. “There’ll be none of

that nonsense.” I sounded like my mother.

“Sorry,” he said, not looking very. Probably didn’t get

much practice. “A pattern set in childhood.”

“What, flirting?” He must get away with murder, this guy.

“Falling in love with my teachers. Miss Horton, seventh

grade. She was older but wiser.”

“I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but I’m not older.”

“You are wiser.”

This was true.

There was a scar running down Rafe’s right cheek. I’d never

noticed it onscreen. Nobody ever noticed Joan Crawford’s

freckles either. It’s amazing what they can do with makeup.

Not that Rafe needed any, trust me. The scar only heightened

his beauty. It was like when Native American basket weavers

put in a mistake on purpose.

Oh, I was a fine one for self-righteousness.

We turned left on Airport, at the See’s Candies sign, which

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proclaimed that one-pound boxes were now available at every

terminal. God bless America. There were plenty of spaces in the

short-term lot. We parked the car and walked across the tun-

nel, straight down to the United Airlines first class check-in,

where they were waiting for us. There were effusive greetings

all around. After a delightful exchange with a Mr. Hess, we

were whisked up to the second floor by a Mrs. Price, who tried

in vain to maintain her poise. Interesting how nobody minded

when she instructed us to cut to the front of the security line.

This town loves its celebrities.

Ensconced in the Red Carpet Club adjacent to gate 71B,

we ordered champagne—well, he did and I followed suit,

though what I probably needed was a cold shower.

“To the Golden Gate Bridge,” said Rafe, knocking back

half the glass.

“To Alcatraz,” I said, feeling giddy against my will.

“To Fisherman’s Wharf,” he said.

“To City Lights bookstore.”

“To . . .”

No, not everyone loves a challenge.

“Crusty sourdough!” he finally blurted out.

A phalanx of small, quiet men suddenly materialized, bear-

ing a complimentary fruit-and-cheese plate. “We’re warming

the bread right now, sir,” said the boldest.

“Whatever you want, whenever you want it,” I said, shaking

my head. “Is that really the way you live?”

They were calling our flight now.

He grabbed both our bags and grinned at me. “Don’t say

you wouldn’t if you could.”

Either I was transparent or he was one smart dumb blond.

CHAPTER

TWO

The cabbie driving us into the city had a buzz cut and lines

on the back of his neck that resembled a tic-tac-toe board.

I knew what had generated the vertical axes. That would be

chatting up his captives.

“Lots of conventions this weekend,” he said, turning his head

sharply to the right. “Gourmet foods, action figures, skiwear.”

Rafe was unzipping his duffel bag.

The cabbie turned his head again. He had an unusual pro-

file. “Hotels are pretty much booked up. Even in the Tender-

loin, folks, and that ain’t pretty.”

“I hope I didn’t forget my lucky cap,” muttered Rafe, going

through his things. “I think I left it at Siri’s.”

“Who?” I asked.

“My nutritionist. Remember?”

“You got your hookers, your druggies, your homeless popu-

lation,” the cabbie informed us.

14

“Found it.” Rafe put on the lucky cap.

The guy jerked his head sideways. It was the juxtaposition

of flat nose and prominent chin that was so unlikely. “That a

Dodgers cap? This is Barry Bonds’s town, buddy. Better be

careful.”

“Nasty dude,” said Rafe. “I played golf with him once.

Charity tournament.”

We rode for a while in silence. The cabbie put on light jazz

just before the off-ramp.

“You two are awfully quiet.” This time, when he turned

around, he bumped the cab directly in front of us.

“Watch it there, pal!” Rafe grabbed on to me so I wouldn’t

go flying into the plastic barrier designed to protect the cabbie

from us, and how ironic that was.

“I know the guy,” the cabbie said, nodding. “We got the

same insurance provider.”

“Oh, good,” I said.

“So where you folks from?”

“Los Angeles,” Rafe said.

“Honeymooners, right?”

“Right,” Rafe answered, sliding close.

“Wrong.” The vinyl squeaked as I pushed him away. Must

be the new perfume. Too much musk.

“Trouble in paradise? You’ll patch things up this weekend.

San Francisco”—the cabbie kissed his fingers to his lips—“is

all about romance.”

A saxophone wailed on KKSF, its notes as sinuous as the

fog blanketing the Golden Gate Bridge. I had to admit it was