Final Curtain (7 page)

A
s the publicity campaign for
Mame
ramped into high gear, the streetlamp poles in Glendale were hung with banners depicting the famous Hirschfeld caricature of Polly from her infamous musical flop,
Erma La Douche
. That show never made it past the savage critics in Chicago. They had lambasted the star for her attempt to reinvent her goody-goody image in a Las Vegas extravaganza–style show about a blithe Parisian prostitute. Equally excoriated were the lascivious choreography and the mundane songs. (However, rap artist Vel-Vee-Ta recorded the show’s most memorable songs: “Romeo in Juliet” and “Tits a Wonderful Life.”) Under the headline
FOUL PLAY
, the
Sun Times
critic wrote of the musical, “The cacophony is as monotonous and incessant as the screeching of a baby on an airplane.” Polly’s sights on Broadway were diverted back to Bel Air.

The backers of the show lost their investments, and the producers lost any chance of seducing funds from their wealthy friends for future projects. All were ruined, except Polly of course, who survived the disaster because the John Q. Public had more pressing priorities in their lives than to ferret out theater reviews of a stage musical. Other than the audiences who squirmed in their seats through the half dozen performances of the show in the Windy City, few people even knew that Polly was on the road desperate to get to Broadway.

Remembering Chicago, Polly said, “God, that banner brings back memories of my recurring nightmare during the show’s short run. The one where I morph into Anita Bryant while singing ‘Oklahomo!’” Although Polly complained, she loved the attention. She hadn’t known this sensation since before the cancellation of her legendary musical variety television series in the 1980s. Although that show,
The Polly Pepper Playhouse
, had run for more than a decade, and earned her a dozen Emmy Awards as well as a worldwide legion of fans, none of Polly’s subsequent projects ever lived up to the freak success of that classic sketch comedy and music program.

When anxiety descended on Polly Pepper, there was only one thing to lift her spirits—besides a Xanax and champagne chaser. “Let’s have a party!” she said to Tim, as he parked the car in the theater lot. Throwing a big social soiree was Polly’s antidote for everything from low quarterly earnings in her stock portfolio to higher than believable White House approval polls.

Everyone who had ever been to a party at Pepper Plantation agreed that Polly was unrivaled as a hostess and that her son, Tim, was a champion in the art of creating high-end Hollywood shindigs. Just as an invitation to Elton John’s Oscar night party used to be
the
most sought-after social ticket in town, everyone wanted to receive a call to a Polly Pepper blowout. But after the success of his last big bash, Tim knew he’d have a tough time topping his
Immigration Reform
theme. For that affair, which was given in honor of the Mexican consulate who had written a gushy fan letter to Polly, Tim had outdone himself. The dress code mandated that guests wear (without first washing) the sweat-stained work clothes of their gardeners, maids, mechanics, handymen, or plumbers. On the other hand the valets and catering staff wore Dior evening gowns and Hugo Boss tuxedos.

The character reversal playacting probably didn’t change any political minds, but the guests whooped it up mimicking the various foreign accents of their “domestic engineers” and addressing each other with names and epithets that if used on their real employees would have them being sued for unlawful workplace harassment. Still, Polly felt she had performed a social service by reminding her friends that their so-called menials were an important part of the fabric of their cushy lives.

“The party that I have in mind is just for the cast and chorus kids,” Polly added, sensing Tim’s unspoken reluctance to tackle a big affair.

Tim sighed and shook his head. “You hardly know these people.”

“All the more reason for a party,” Polly declared. “Relax. Make it a simple theme.” She thought for a moment. “How about a cell phone swap? Everybody tosses their phone into a bowl, and then blindfolded they reach in as if they’re drawing a prize. Like the old car key games of the swinging sixties!”

“Ooh! Then everyone dials their own number and they go home with the person who answers their line!” Tim laughed with excitement. “But you’re not entertaining Charlie Sheen. Sophistication is clearly the guide for this event. These people all have you pigeonholed as a legend, and they’ll expect nothing less than high style. Waiters with crudités on silver trays. A champagne fountain. The usual. Trust me, business attire and a string quartet and a giant ice sculpture of your initials will make them remember the night forever.”

“Boring,” Polly complained. “You know that I always hate to see my PP drip!”

Placenta nudged Tim. “We’ll have that cell phone party the next time your mother goes…”

As the trio approached the stage door entrance, Polly suddenly stopped. She sniffed the air, as if she were a deer sensing a nearby hunter. She looked around the parking lot. “Hmm. Notice anything unusual?”

Tim and Placenta followed her gaze. After a long moment Tim said, “Um, isn’t that Hiroaki Goldfarb over there? In the Honda Civic?”

“Bingo!” Polly said.

Placenta squinted. “You can’t tell it’s Hiroaki.”

“Don’t say ‘Because they all look alike,’” Polly demanded.

“I’m just saying I can’t identify who’s in the car from this distance,” Placenta insisted. “All I can see is that the car is black and it’s obviously been in an accident. Look at that front end. Anyway, he doesn’t drive. He doesn’t have a job here either. So it’s not him.”

Polly shrugged and quickly turned away. As she led the way through the theater entrance she said, “I read somewhere that criminals return to the scene of their crime. Hiroaki had a motive to kill Karen!”

“Arsonists return to the scene of their fires,” Placenta corrected.

Tim quickly pointed out that Hiroaki had taken the city bus to the theater the day of the murder and, in fact, had arrived just before the call time.

“Or so he says,” Placenta added. “Did the police ask to see his bus ticket?”

“No ticky,” Polly said. “I noticed that he carries a monthly pass. It’s in a plastic sleeve on a lariat that he wears around his neck. That doesn’t prove that he actually rides the bus, or that he didn’t take an early one as he did the day he was first fired,” she continued. “Hmm. I’m beginning to think we have to pay a visit to Mr. Hiroaki Goldfarb.”

“What the hell kind of name is that?” Placenta said. “I never heard of a Japanese Jew. And I’m not a racist! I’m an
observer
of cultural phenomena.”

Polly was exhausted when rehearsals ended for the day. But she proposed they drive to Reseda.

“Hiroaki will never believe that you were ‘in the neighborhood,’” Tim sassed his mother.

“I’ve always wanted to see how the Northridge Quake improved Reseda by flattening the place,” Polly said. “I can say that I’m researching a new role and need to find out why the hell anyone would purposely chose to live over a major fault line.”

Tim gave her a baleful look.

“Okay, so I’ll call him first. Speed-dial and hand me the phone.” Polly let out a deep sigh of dissatisfaction, accepted the phone, and after a brief exchange with Hiroaki, the car was gliding toward the Ventura Freeway.

When Tim finally saw the Sherman Way off-ramp he signaled a right-hand turn and rolled down to the surface street. Following directions from his Magellan, Tim passed dozens of gas stations and strip malls before being guided by the sultry voice in the GPS to Pacific Gardens Terrace. “We’re nowhere near the Pacific, I don’t see a single garden, and the only terraces are on those awful faux Spanish-style apartment buildings,” Tim said, cringing.

“It’s a darling little bedroom community,” Polly said facetiously. “I may be in the market for some cheap income property. But I have to wonder what people do here.”

“They plot their escape,” Placenta said. “Now, in which building do you suppose Hiroaki resides?”

“That one,” Tim said and pointed to the shabbiest three-story structure on the block. “He’s in unit 303.”

“The penthouse!” Polly trilled.

Tim found a parking spot not far from the apartment building and the trio stepped out of the car. “We’ll make the visit as brief as possible,” Polly promised.

When they were at the front entrance, Tim’s eyes scrolled down a list of residents behind a glass-encased directory. “Goldfarb, H.,” he said triumphantly. “Code 303.” He pressed the numbers on the keypad and in a moment, Hiroaki’s baritone voice was on the intercom.

“Sweetie, it’s Polly and company. Can we come up for a teensy while?”

“I’ll meet you at the elevator,” Hiroaki said before pressing the buzzer to let his visitors in.

Tim pulled the handle and held the door open for his mother and Placenta and immediately wanted to wash his hands. When they were in the so-called lobby, which was a musty-scented tiled room with gold-veined smoked mirror squares on the walls, the threesome looked at each other as if they’d stepped into a condemned tenement. “The lobby is usually the nicest part of a building,” Tim said. Then he pushed the cracked button for the elevator.

When the car arrived, Tim stepped in first to make sure it was suitable for his mother. It wasn’t. The walls were covered in plywood that had been scarred and defaced with graffiti. “All clear,” he said and ushered Polly and Placenta into the wooden box. “Don’t touch anything or you’re liable to catch Ebola,” he cautioned as he pushed the button for the third floor. After an inordinately slow ride, the car came to an abrupt halt and the door slid open. As promised, Hiroaki was waiting to greet them.

“Follow me,” Hiroaki said without further salutation. Polly and her troupe accompanied the actor down a long corridor. They passed a warren of doors leading to other apartments, all of which, Polly suspected, were cookie cutouts of the others. After several right turns, they arrived at number 303. Hiroaki unlocked the door and his guests followed him inside.

Polly’s heart sank. She couldn’t imagine anyone living in such a small and dingy apartment. Not only was it poorly lighted and cluttered, but the place reeked of cat urine and mildew. As if reading Polly’s thoughts, Hiroaki explained that the pipes had burst last month and the landlord hadn’t replaced the carpeting. “Meet Miss Lana Turner,” he said, picking up an old gray cat from the sofa. “I’ll put her in the bedroom so you’ll have a place to sit.”

The moment Hiroaki turned his back and walked down the short hallway to his bedroom, Polly, Tim, and Placenta gave each other the same look of despair. They quickly surveyed the place and saw an entire wall of autographed eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of celebrities staring back at them from within cheap drugstore frames. “Just like Charlotte’s collection,” Polly said.

Several movie posters were taped to cinder block walls, and a small television occupied a corner. The kitchen, which was part of the room, as it had been at Charlotte’s apartment, was a repository for newspapers, magazines, books, and a sink full of unwashed dishes. The trio stood in the center of the room, awaiting the return of their host.

Presently, Hiroaki was back and leaned into Polly for a hug. He then shook hands with Tim and Placenta and suggested that they take a seat on the sofa, which was covered with an afghan blanket and enough cat hair to weave into a rug. “How about a glass of water?” Hiroaki said.

After seeing the state of the kitchen, the three guests simultaneously replied, “No!” Polly added that they only planned to stay a moment; that they just wanted to check up on Hiroaki to make sure he wasn’t too upset about losing his role in
Mame
.

“Of course I’m upset,” Hiroaki spat. “No employment, no insurance! I’m screwed unless I can get eighty hours of work between now and October thirty-first. Karen understood how important this gig was to me, financially. But that son of a bitch Gerold Goss cares nothing about my situation. I’m surprised someone didn’t kill
him
instead!”

Polly blanched. “Speaking of death and killing and murder, and all that fun stuff, who do you suppose opened dear Karen’s head? Everyone in the company seemed to adore her.”

Hiroaki was silent for a long moment. Then he stood up and moved over to the kitchen counter. He picked up a glass tumbler out of the sink, turned on the tap, and rinsed it out. Then he opened the freezer and withdrew a bottle of gin. “Would you like one?” he asked, holding the half-full bottle for Polly and her family to see.

Again there was a simultaneous burst of “No, thanks!” from the trio.

Hiroaki poured three fingers into the tumbler and took a small sip. “Who opened Karen’s head?” he repeated Polly’s question. “I think that the police are right to be looking at the cast for the killer. However, I doubt that it’s the soap opera girl. She was quiet and reserved. Of course, isn’t that what they usually say about ax murderers and psychopaths with a basement full of dismembered bodies?”

“So you don’t think that Sharon is guilty?” Polly asked.

Hiroaki shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. But there are others who should be considered.”