Horror Show (20 page)

When the phone rang he tried to ignore it; when it persisted, he picked it up.

“Yeah?” he growled, his voice slurred and deep.

“Chet?”

“Who the fuck is this? I'm sleepin'!”

“It's Landis.”

After a moment's hesitation, a cough, and a few deep breaths, Chet responded.

“What's the problem?”

“Something's come up, something important. Can you come over right away?”

Chet coughed some more. “What the hell for? I'm sleepin', I got a big day tomorrow. You know that, for Christ sake. Why are you bothering me?”

“I need you to film something. It's a private affair, just you and me and … a third party. Look, I know this is a pain in the ass, but I'll pay you.”

“How much?” It was the question of the day.

“How about a hundred bucks?”

“Hmm, I don't know. Shit, I gotta get out of bed, drive across town, that's a lot of work …”

Landis said, “One-fifty.”

“I don't want to get up. Call someone else.”

“Two hundred.”

Chet sighed. He'd do it now, but he didn't want to. Money was money. “I'll be there in forty minutes,” he said.

He slammed the phone down, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat up. Reaching for his pack of cigarettes by the side of the bed, he fished one out and lit it. The strong smoke of the unfiltered Chesterfield King sent shock waves through his body from the lungs out.

The first drag made him dizzy, the second made him cough, and the third got him out of bed.

What the hell was going on? Landis never called in the middle of the night like this. It must be something really special for him to shell out two hundred smackers. For a tightwad like Woodley, that bordered on unbelievable. Must be some porn, Chet thought, something kinky or weird.

Chet knew the cameras were ready and the set was lit over at Landis's house. He knew that it would be a piece of cake for him to roll film. Figuring he could probably sleep the remaining few hours of the night over there, he packed his overnight bag.

Outside, the wind picked up. The smell of rain freshened the air. There was no traffic to speak of as Chet guided his Ford down Sunset Boulevard toward Beachwood Canyon.

14

Thora Beaumond panicked when she found the front door open and her father gone.

She called Dr. Segwick at home, her fingers clumsy and numb on the heavy rotary dialer. It took several tries before she successfully made the connection. He suggested she call the police.

She contacted the night desk sergeant on duty at the North Hollywood Police Station, who transferred her over to Lt. Garth Prease in the department of missing persons.

After listening to her story, Prease explained that an adult couldn't be declared legally missing until he'd been gone for forty-eight hours. Lieutenant Prease promised to keep an unofficial eye out for her father, should anyone report a man wandering around, but there was really nothing he could do for the time being. She pleaded, insisting that her father was ill and feverish and quite likely to be disoriented. Prease took down a detailed description.

Thora found her father's address book and called everyone she thought might be helpful, each conversation more rushed and desperate than the last. In return, she received a carload of advice. Everyone did agree on one thing; Thora should not, under any circumstances, go out looking for Albert alone.

She put the address book in her pocket. What was everybody so damned afraid of?

She drove to Devila's apartment.

She knocked on the door and, after a few minutes of silence, pounded on it.

“There's no one home, dearie,” a rough female voice croaked behind her. The sound made her jump.

“You scared me!” Thora said, clutching her chest.

“Sorry, my voice does that sometimes,” the old lady barked hoarsely. Her gin-soaked, cigarette-rough vocal cords put out a strange combination of sounds that seemed to be indigenous to sixty-year-old Hollywood matrons. It was a smoky, sensual sound that only time and tobacco could create. Her hair in curlers and her housecoat buttoned high, she looked like a dried apple doll that Thora had made in summer camp once many years ago.

“I'm looking for Miss Devila. Have you seen her?”

“She hasn't been home since yesterday,” the voice answered. “I'm Myrna; I live across the hall.” She lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Are you a friend of Devila's?”

“Yes. Well, actually, my father is,” Thora answered. “I'm looking for him.”

Myrna squinted at Thora's face, saw the lines of consternation there, and smiled. “What's the problem, sweetie?”

Thora's forehead wrinkled, and her eyes cast down. The panic of the night's searching had now turned to resigned worry and sadness.

“It's nothing,” she said.

“You've been crying. What's wrong, hon?”

Thora could feel the tears welling up again, her voice got that little hitch in it that meant she was going to cry any second. “I … I … my father is missing, and I thought—”

Myrna opened the door to her apartment wider and Thora could see the blue glow of a black-and-white TV screen showing an old movie and a room crowded with bric-a-brac and memorabilia. The smell of coffee drifted out.

“How about a cup of java?” Myrna asked.

Their eyes met. Thora could do little to disguise the pain she was going through, and Myrna couldn't help but feel concerned.

“I don't know,” Thora mumbled.

“Oh, sure you do. Everybody likes a nice cup of hot coffee to cheer them up. You look like you've been out all night.”

“I've got to find Miss Devila,” Thora begged, her face distorted with the onset of tears.

Myrna handed Thora a tissue and led her into the tiny apartment. She sat her down gently at the kitchen table as though she was leading a child, and busied herself pouring a cup of coffee and buttering an English muffin. The food and drink seemed to revive her slightly.

“I'm sorry. I should go. I shouldn't bother you,” Thora said with the halting speech of someone fighting to control their emotions.

“Nonsense. You just sip that coffee and tell Myrna what's troubling you.”

Thora did as she was told. The coffee, a trifle too hot, burned her mouth and throat and brought the color of life back into her cheeks.

Thora, unpracticed at holding things in, began to explain. It felt good to tell it, as if the words themselves were bearing weight and once removed let her breathe again.

“My father was very sick, he … he had a fever, and he wasn't himself.”

Myrna nodded. “Fevers can do that, hon. Go on.”

“Anyway, I had to go to class, I go to college at UCLA, and I left him alone for just a few hours. Right when I was leaving, Miss Devila showed up, said she wanted to visit my dad, so I let her in. I thought it would be a good idea, you see. They dated one time.”

Myrna poured more coffee. “I see,” she said.

“So, anyway, I left her alone in the house, told her to go on up and stay with him, and when I came back, he was gone.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, both. I thought that maybe they were together, you know, maybe he felt better and they decided to go out somewhere. But he's been gone all night!”

Myrna pointed to the muffin. “Eat some.”

Thora put the dry biscuit in her mouth and began to chew. Myrna watched with sad, knowing eyes.

“Well,” she said, “it sounds to me like they probably went out and had a good old time and he just forgot to call, that's all.”

“I don't think so. He was very sick. It doesn't make sense.”

There was a knock on the back door of Myrna's apartment. She had a small door that led from the kitchen to the parking court in the back. Myrna crossed the room and opened the door. Another old lady was standing there.

“Katherine! Do come in. We've got company.”

Katherine entered the room looking very much like Myrna, without the curlers. Her housecoat was pastel blue and made of the same quilted material.

“Company! Well, isn't that—” She saw the tears on Thora's face and stopped. “What's the matter, child? Did old Myrna scare you?”

“I most certainly did not!” Myrna rasped. “She came here looking for you-know-who.”

“Devila? That witch? Well, it doesn't surprise me one bit. She's made more than one person cry.”

Myrna was trying to signal for Katherine to shut up, but the other old woman kept right on talking.

“What do you mean?” asked Thora.

“What I mean is, that hussy has been nothin' but trouble since she moved in here.”

“I don't think she wants to hear that,” Myrna protested.

“Please.” Thora looked at Katherine. “Please tell me.”

“You might as well sit down and pour yourself a cup.” Myrna sighed. “By the way, this is Thora. She's looking for her father, who didn't come home last night, after seeing our lovely neighbor. Thora, this is Katherine Schlitz. Katherine lives upstairs.”

“Oh,” Katherine said. “I didn't mean to—”

“What were you going to tell me about Devila?” Thora demanded.

“Well, it's just that she isn't very honest, that's all.”

Thora looked from Katherine to Myrna, searching for answers, her brow furrowed.

“Go ahead, tell her. You've already tipped over the apple cart,” Myrna said with resignation.

“Well, I had an Oscar statuette,” Katherine said proudly, “a real one. It was for best actress in the year 1931, won by Marie Dressler. She got it for a movie called
Min and Bill
, beat out Marlene Dietrich who was red-hot that year. Marlene was up for
Morocco
or some such trash.”

Thora nodded, not really understanding what all this had to do with Devila and her father. “Yes?”

“Marie Dressler was a dear old lady who lived in this very building, up in 2B. She was already ill when she won the Oscar, and she passed away a few years later. They cleaned out her apartment and her daughter gave me the statuette because she said that Marie wanted me to have it. I was close to Marie, I guess you could say. Anyway, it was great honor to have the Oscar and I kept it on my mantle for years … until
she
stole it!” She pointed across the hall to Devila's apartment.

“She stole it?” Thora said.

Myrna smiled. “Well, we're not positive, hon.”

“I am,” Katherine said firmly. “I'm sure she took it! She took it while I was making brownies one day. She just came right in and took it!”

Myrna put her hand on Thora's knee and patted it affectionately. “I thought I saw it once when she left her door open. I can't be sure, of course, but I thought I saw it in her room.”

“Who else would take it?”

Myrna shot Katherine a glance. So far the effect of all her furtive looks and “shut up” glances had been nil. Katherine obviously had a mind of her own and didn't care a whit for anything Myrna was trying to tell her through body language.

Katherine sipped her coffee noisily. “She'd been coveting the thing for months, you know. I could tell she really wanted it bad. It was a real Oscar, not some kind of fake knock-off. Julia is a huge movie fan; she collects memorabilia.”

“Julia?” Thora asked.

“Julia Greenly is Devila's real name; it was on the lease. It seems that nothing about her is what it appears to be, does it?”

Thora nodded, interested in Katherine's monologue, yet still polite and timid. She had never considered Devila being anything but honest and sincere. After all, the woman was a star, wasn't she?

Myrna stepped into the conversation, eager to keep it balanced and unbiased.

“Julia wouldn't ever let us into her apartment. She was very secretive, very private. The time I thought I saw the statuette was when she left the door ajar for a minute. Of course, neither one of us has ever set foot in there to know for certain. The point is, and I don't want to worry you, but neither one of us likes that woman. She's dishonest.”

Katherine interrupted. The two ladies seemed to edit each other constantly as they spoke, one hardly waiting for the other to breathe before she jumped in to make a point or disagree. “And then there's all the men!”

Myrna jerked her hand up and wagged a finger at Katherine.

“I don't think Thora wants to hear about that, remember, her father was dating—”

“Yes,” Thora said sharply. “Yes, I
do
want to know.”

Katherine cleared her throat and sipped again at the coffee cup. Thora noticed that it was decorated with a design that said “Elvis Presley is the King.” She held her little finger straight out as she drank.

“I always thought she was a little tramp, what with that costume she wears on television and those dreadful movies she shows. She has a regular harem of boyfriends, mostly deadbeats with beards and dungarees. Usually she doesn't get home until after two in the morning, probably drunk. Men call on her at all hours. Sometimes she lets them stay all night.”

Myrna smiled. “Well, you can see that she has no fans here, dearie. Between that and the missing statuette, we just don't trust her.”

“The brazen hussy took it,” Katherine snorted. “I should have called the police.”

“Why didn't you?” Thora wanted to know.

“Oh, no! We never call the police,” Katherine said.

“Why not?”

The two old ladies looked at each other, a flash of guilt passed between them. Myrna sighed. “Sometimes we make our own spirits.”

Thora looked confused. “Spirits?”

“Spring tonic,” Myrna said. “My father's recipe.”

Albert Beaumond raced through
the scrub brush on all fours, scrambling up and down the dark canyons. It didn't take him long to become completely lost. The lights of LA were gone now, just a ruddy glow over the horizon from where he came. Lizards skittered through the dried shrubbery, making frantic dashes across his path.