Fade to Black (20 page)

“Stop it, Marilyn,” he wept, “Stop . . . no . . . Ma . . . Marilyn . . . please, no . . . Aunt Stella, stop it . . . make her stop . . . bitch . . . to me! . . . Do it to me! . . .”

He clamped his hand against his mouth, falling back against the face of the building next to him and sagging down to the sidewalk. The pain was unbearable. He shook his head fiercely, closing his eyes. Tears leaked through as he cried, sitting like a broken doll on the concrete.

Minutes passed. Tourists walked by, muttering to one another. Someone kicked him in the shins, but he didn’t react. The pain was passing.

One voice came through the others, firm but gentle.

“Are you okay, son?”

Someone was shaking his shoulders. Eric stopped twitching and found himself staring up at a man in a uniform. He was old, kind-looking.

Eric panicked. Police, he thought.

“I work down at the Roosevelt,” the man said, extending a hand. “Come on, you can wait in the lobby until you feel better, okay?”

Eric nodded feebly and let himself be helped up to his feet. His head still throbbed, but the pain was dull. He felt weak. With his first step, Eric realized something was wrong. There was a dampness between his legs, warm and claggy. His pants were dark, so the wetness didn’t show. Eric was sure he could smell it, though. Rich, pungent. They crossed Highland together and continued down the next block to the Roosevelt Hotel.

Inside, Eric asked for directions to the men’s room. The old man, whose uniform was that of a porter, showed Eric the way and left him alone.

Eric went into one of the stalls and pulled his pants and shorts off. He flushed the toilet and then dipped the front of his pants into the clean water before putting them back on. He discarded the underwear in the waste bin for hand towels. He stepped back and observed himself in the mirror. The wet spot was barely visible. Still, Eric took off his jacket and replaced his shirt with the Cody Jarrett T-shirt, which came down lower, covering half the stain. Putting his coat back on, he left the men’s room.

The old man was standing by the registration desk.

“Feeling better, are you now?”

Eric nodded.

“The heat,” he explained. “Too much to take on an empty stomach.”

“Righto,” the porter said. “If the heat won’t get you, the smog will, I say. Feel free to wait here a moment.”

“Thanks,” Eric said.

There was a tiled fountain in the middle of the lobby, squirting thin geysers of water over white statuary. The walls were lined with large black-and-white portraits of movie greats. Eric could feel them looking at him, smiling knowingly at his accident. He was ashamed, humiliated before all those he held close.

Marilyn was over the doorway, poised between Presley and Gable. It was the Phillipe Halsman portrait that had earned her her first
Life
cover. Standing, her back against the wall, shoulders bared, dress clinging suggestively, her head tilted back so that she looked downward, smiling.

Feeling another outburst coming on, Eric fought back his tears and left the hotel. Back on Hollywood Boulevard, he stared across the street at the Chinese theatre. It looked more impressive from this distance, like a temple, radiant in the sun, lording magnificently over the throng of worshippers. Struck by the sight, Eric felt like a blasphemer. He looked away and walked down the sidewalk to the intersection of Highland and Hollywood. Richard Widmark’s star was there. Eric stared down at it, waiting for the light. He could hear Tommy Udo laughing, at him.

Eric crossed Highland, swallowing hard. He stopped in front of Pots and Pans, a family restaurant across the street from the Hollywood Wax Museum. He leaned against the storefront, weeping silently as he fondled the marking pen in his coat pocket. He waited there until the sidewalk was clear, then pulled out the pen and threw himself down before Marilyn’s star.

Before two startled bystanders could rush over and restrain him, Eric had written in the space around the gilt-edged star, “I’m sorry . . . Cody Jarrett.”

Sam was already on duty for the night when Eric came back to work. The day shift had gone home almost an hour ago.

Sam shook his head sadly as he unlocked the gate and let Eric in.

“I’m afraid you’re in hot water,” Sam said, following Eric over to the corner of the lot where he parked the Vespa. “Mr. Berger’s in there all by himself and he’s worked up a mean temper.”

“So why isn’t he home resting?” Eric said. “Dumb shit has an operation to get ready for. Why do I have to deal with him tonight anyway?”

“He wants to make sure he’s caught up,” Sam said, “I gotta get back to my post, Eric. If he sees me talking with you I could get into a whole lot of trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eric said. “I can handle Mr. Berger.”

“Okay, Eric,” Sam said uncertainly. “Good luck.”

Sam slowly shuffled back to his post while Eric trudged up the ramp to the loading dock. He went over to the fire escape and jumped, grabbing the lower rung and lifting himself up. As he was bending his legs around the frame supporting the ladder, Mr. Berger charged out of the back door, taking ravenous bites from an egg salad sandwich. Eric hung upside down like a bat as Mr. Berger came up to him.

“What the hell is the matter with you, Binford! I could have you arrested for stealing company property.”

“I needed wheels,” Eric explained matter-of-factly. “I had something to do.”

“Oh, I see. That’s an answer. Why didn’t you buy a car with the insurance money your aunt—”

“That’s none of your business!” Eric cried, swinging back to his feet and stepping away from beneath the fire escape. He made a move to grab Berger by the lapels of his coat, but his boss slapped him away.

“You keep your goddamn hands off me!” Berger roared indignantly, spitting egg salad. “You know, I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about you lately, Binford.”

Eric walked away to the edge of the loading dock, as if it were a stage. He looked out at a non-existent crowd, smiling facetiously as he lit a cigarette.

“You mean about my wedding?” he asked lyrically.

“Now that is one I haven’t heard!” Berger admitted. “I can’t imagine the creature that would want to marry you. Tell me, who is this unlucky girl?”

Eric paused for effect, then announced, chest swelling with pride, “She’s a famous actress.”

“And who might this famous actress be?”

Eric allowed for another dramatic build-up.

“Marilyn Monroe,” he said, blowing smoke in Berger’s face.

“Oh, shit!” Berger said, disgusted. He tossed away the wrapper to his sandwich and held his palm out. “Hand over the keys, Binford!”

“The name’s Cody, got me?” Eric said, tilting his chin out and giving Berger a faceful of Cagney.

“Oh, snap out of it, punk! You name’s not Cody—”

“Cody Jarrett and don’t you ever forget it!” Eric snapped as he moved in to rough Berger up, ganster-style.

“You keep your goddamn hands off me!” Berger repeated, more violently. “Get the hell out of here! You’re fired!”

Eric smiled malevolently as he slipped back into a vague resemblance of his normal self.

“Too late,” he informed Berger. “I quit”

Eric headed for the opened rear door.

“Okay, so where the hell do you think you’re going?” Berger demanded, rushing over to block the doorway.

“Outta my way,” Eric said calmly.

“This is my place of business and you’re not going inside!”

“Mr. Berger,” Eric said patiently, yet dramatically, like a lawyer about to interrogate a star witness. “My posters . . . are valuable originals . . . and I want them.”

As he spoke, Eric wound his finger around the tip of Berger’s tie. He’d been waiting months for a time like this. Berger yanked his tie away and thrust his face upward into Eric’s.

“Well, you forget them, because anything that’s inside belongs to me. It might help to pay for some of your screw-ups!”

Eric quickly calculated his chances of getting by Berger to his booth and decided they weren’t good. He pushed at Berger lightly and then walked away. After three steps, he whirled about and gave Berger one last Cagney.

“Nobody pushes Cody around. You’ll be sorry, big Ed!” Berger wasn’t about to be intimidated any more. He took a step toward Eric and pointed past him to the rear gate, where Sam was watching the confrontation warily, torn between allegiances.

“You get off my property, you little jerk!” Berger bellowed. “Who needs you! This is the best thing that could have happened to me!”

Fuming, Eric went over to the Vespa and shoved it over on its side, then headed for the gate.

“Why, you rotten sonofabitch!” Berger roared, “I’ll have your ass for this! Your ass, you hear me? You little bastard! Where do you get your nerve! Where do you get your goddamn nerve!”

Eric’s rage was just as intense, but he kept it to himself.

CHAPTER •
24

Roy, Franco’s parole officer, lived in a funky house in Ocean Park. Originally a small, one-story affair like the other homes in the neighborhood, the officer had added on a second story and extended the ground floor to include a large den. Roy, Franco, and Moriarty sat together in the paneled room, surrounded by a menagerie of musical instruments. Beer cans rested on almost every available flat space, a testament to the parole officer’s favorite way of beating the heat. The sun had just gone down and a breeze rustled through the house’s opened windows.

“Okay, Franco, let’s try it one more time,” Roy said. He was short and swarthy, a naturalized Algerian wearing cutoff Levis and a fishnet jersey that bulged outward around his belly. He spoke flawless English. After taking a long, last draw from his Budweiser, he wound up the metronome and set it in front of Franco’s drum kit. It began to tick in rhythmic sweeps of its bamboo hand. Franco kept his eyes on the metronome and matched its beat on the drums.

Roy picked up his guitar and laid down a bass line. Twelve bar blues, Chicago-style. Moriarty joined in on the harmonica and they played out a ten-minute jam. Nothing adventurous, but sophisticated enough to test Franco’s progress and give him a chance to toss in a few frills on the cymbals and snare.

When they finished, Roy leaned over and pulled another beer out of the cooler in front of him, passing it over to Franco, who was sweating heavily.

“You’re doing fine, Franco,” Roy said. “I think you’ll be able to hold your own. As for you, Jerry . . .”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Moriarty said. “I need more practice.”

“Not much, though,” Roy said. “Spend as much time kissing that harmonica as you do women and you’ll be back to form in no time.”

Franco wiped his forehead with a towel and took a drink of beer. He was growing a beard over his tattooed jaw, and his hair was longer, too.

“Can we practice to some of those records I brought over?” Franco asked. “That’s the kind of stuff they’ll want to hear at the audition.”

Roy picked up a thin stack of 45s off his amplifier and sorted through them. They were mostly by local bands, recording on obscure labels.

“Sure, Franco,” Roy said, grinning. “Only I can’t charge you for lessons on these. I’ll be spending all my time trying to learn this music myself.”

Roy got up and made his way through the other instruments to the stereo.

“I’d like to stay and give it a go myself,” Moriarty said, “but I still have another visit to make tonight.”

He finished his beer and rose to leave.

“Wish me luck,” Franco said.

“Good luck, Franco,” Moriarty told him. “I’m betting on you to get the job, but if you don’t, make sure you leave the paring knives at home, all right?”

Franco grinned.

Excusing himself, Moriarty left the house and stuck a piece of gum into his mouth as he hopped on his bike and started wheeling his way to Rose Avenue.

He felt odd, caught up in a sense of déjà vu that had come over him while they were playing. Berkeley memories came back to him, unfettered by the incident with his brother. Part of it was Venice, too. The environment here was the closest to the ferment of the late sixties that he had come across since turning his back on that period. He wondered if he should look for a place to live here. It was so different from Pacific Palisades. Here life seemed less superficial, more charged with a special vitality and uniqueness. For all its drawbacks, it seemed like home.

When he came to Marilyn’s, he walked his bike up to the porch, then climbed up the steps and knocked.

Marilyn answered the door, buttoning the top of her blouse.

“Marilyn?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

David came up behind her, barechested, staring over her shoulder at Moriarty.

“Marilyn, I’m with the Venice Police Department, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about the vampire as—”

“Let’s see a badge,” David interrupted.

“Beg pardon?” Moriarty asked.

“If you’re a police officer, you’ve got a badge, right?”

Moriarty sighed, then remembered that he’d kept his letter of introduction to Gallagher in his wallet. He took it out along with his driver’s license and handed it to David.

David skimmed over the letter and shook his head.