Lone Star (23 page)

Nell seemed ready to leave, twisting her body away, but at that moment she caught my eye. She folded her arms over her chest, reminding me of a sullen Buddha, and the look in her eyes was hard, deliberate. “I’m not sorry,” she said, bluntly.

Jimmy spun around, looking helpless. He took a few steps back, glancing back at the studio entrance, then looked toward the parking lot. I realized he wanted to get away. He didn’t want to be here, not because he disliked drama, certainly, but because this somehow no longer
mattered
to him. He’d already moved past this. Past Tommy. Past Polly.

“You don’t deserve…” Tommy faltered. Then, in a swaggering gesture, he indicated the building behind him. “This.”

Jimmy, quiet, swung his head around, following the direction of Tommy’s arm, and started to walk back to the studio. But his face registered alarm, and I looked. There, in the doorway, stood Detective Cotton, watching. Jimmy’s face got beet red, and he faced Tommy. “You’re a small man, Tommy.”

Polly reacted. “Jimmy, stop it.”

“I mean it,” Jimmy sputtered. “Small.” And he actually laughed. “And that’s the problem here. You know, you’re tiny inside.” He caught his breath, intoxicated with the new word. “Tiny.” He stressed the word. Said, the word hung in the air like a curse, awful but true. I noticed him glance back at Cotton, and the look was different now: triumphant, sure.

Tommy’s body shook. Jimmy stepped closer, waiting. Nell muttered something—to me it sounded like a grunt—and Tommy suddenly lunged forward, socked Jimmy in the jaw. Jimmy reddened, fell back, but then rushed forward, shoving Tommy back a few steps. In seconds the two were grappling with each other, wild, off balance; and with one calculated and powerful thrust of his muscled arm, Jimmy hit Tommy squarely on the side of his head. Tommy slumped to the ground and lay there, gasping for breath. Jimmy rubbed his still-clenched fist, contemplated his bruised knuckles, and, spotting Mercy and me, forced a thin, what-can-I-do smile, and walked away. Then he stopped, turned to face Cotton, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Facing the detective, he mumbled, “If I felt I belonged someplace.”

Slowly, almost jauntily, he walked away.

Mystified, I looked to Mercy, who whispered, “His character in
Rebel
says that
.
Big scene, climax, really.”

I shook my head. Hollywood: the place where people speak in someone else’s lines.

Nell looked like she was going to follow Jimmy but then thought better of it. She saw me looking at her with censorious eyes, and, throwing back her shoulders in an arrogant gesture, grabbed her meager cardboard box, cradled it in her arms like a heavy child, and walked toward the parking lot.

I turned to Mercy, “Now that’s an exit worthy of De Mille.”

Stretched out on the ground, Tommy was moaning. Polly knelt down and cradled his head in her lap. She whispered, “You don’t
need
him, Tommy. We’ll leave Hollywood. He’s always
used
you—us. He used
me
, too. You know that. He uses any girl. You know how he is. It didn’t
mean
anything to me, what he did. It’s you and me…” On and on, still cradling his head and rubbing his temples with her fingertips. She looked shattered, pale as dust; and she swayed back and forth, rocking Tommy.

I turned to walk away, and Mercy followed. Mercy whispered, “I’ll never understand that relationship.”

I muttered, “What relationship?”

When I glanced back, Polly was still holding onto a whimpering Tommy, whose eyes were closed now, but Polly was staring down toward the end of the lot. I followed her gaze. Jimmy stood there, leaning against a car, smoking a cigarette, his body rigid. From a distance, he could have been a young Jett Rink, surveying his worthless Texas acres, his Little Reata, God’s forlorn land.

I looked back at Polly. She was rocking the sullen, immobile Tommy now, but she was looking at Jimmy—not with disgust or hated or even pique. No, I realized, the look was one of desperate longing.

Chapter 21

Mercy and I walked to the Smoke House across the street. Neither of us spoke, which was the way I wanted it. Echoes of Jimmy and Tommy’s silly squabble still rang in my ears. But, more so, I was baffled by Polly and Nell. Why had Nell chosen to tell Tommy of Polly’s one-time infidelity with Jimmy? Mercy was shaking her head. I was glad she was there—someone I could talk this out with, someone levelheaded, smart. A woman with fire in the soul, strength in her sinew. Luz Benedict herself, the strong-willed spinster of
Giant
.

But a noisy Tansi and Jake, both entering from the sidewalk, interrupted my reverie. Each carried accordion files bursting with papers, each in a hurry. “Edna,” Tansi exclaimed, “don’t forget your two o’clock meeting with Ginsburg and Stevens.”

“I won’t, Tansi.”

Jake turned to Tansi, “We can’t talk. We’ll be late for Warner’s meeting.”

But Tansi hovered over me. “We just met Nell in the parking lot. She said Jimmy hit Tommy.” Wonder, stupefaction; then an odd smile. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.” Jake made a
tsk
ing noise. He wouldn’t look into my face and began to move away. Pulling her folder close to her chest, Tansi rushed after him.

Mercy and I still didn’t talk, just sat there with coffee. Then Mercy broke the silence. “You look tired, Edna.” A pause. “Don’t forget your two o’clock meeting.”

I groaned. “No, I’m skipping it. They don’t know it yet.”

Then, relaxing, we ordered sandwiches and more coffee, and we talked and talked. I posed an idea, and Mercy played off it. Yes, no, maybe; a possibility. At one point Mercy started to ask a question and then stopped. “You’re right, Edna.”

From my purse I withdrew the napkin I’d scribbled on, and spread it on the table. “Four points,” I said, looking at it. “Indisputable. At least to me. Let’s go over this again.”

But we were interrupted by Tansi, who surprised us. “A reprieve. Warner is with some lawyers, so I get an early lunch.” She waited for me to invite her to join us, but I said nothing. I drummed my fingers on the slip of paper before me, impatient. I wanted the time with Mercy. But Tansi, grinning nervously, uncomfortable with the silence, simply stood there. “I thought I’d join you for lunch, but, you know, if you’re busy, well, then…” She waited.

I looked at Mercy, then nodded. “No, of course, Tansi, please join us.” I picked up the napkin, carefully folded it, and tucked it back into my purse. “We just ordered.”

“I want to hear all about the Jimmy/Tommy brawl.”

“There’s nothing to say Tansi. Those two just don’t get along any more. The end of a friendship that was doomed from day one. And Tommy is angry so he strikes out. Jimmy is—well, Jimmy is just himself. It was an ugly, unpleasant moment, two wilderness bucks locking horns in front of two females. This Hollywood parking lot is, I guess, the last frontier.”

“But…” Tansi started. “But is Jimmy hurt?”

“No,” Mercy said. “Tommy suffered a bruise, though.”

Tansi looked relieved. “As it is, Jimmy gives the makeup people a challenge, what with his sleepless nights, those bags under his eyes, the sloppy shaving…”

So we chatted idly throughout lunch, and Tansi lingered, even having a cigarette after the sandwich. Mercy kept looking at me.

“Edna?” Tansi offered me a cigarette.

“Remember when Jake gave me his pack of cigarettes?” I asked. Tansi shook her head. “Well, I just smoked the last of that pack, up in my room. Last night. I’ve also made a vow never to smoke another cigarette.”

Mercy spoke up. “I’ll never stop smoking. Sorry.”

“Me, too,” Tansi added.

I reached inside my purse, and withdrew something. Mercy watched as I dropped a matchbook onto the cluttered table, and all three of us watched it fall between a plate and a glass. It just lay there.

“I thought you didn’t want a cigarette, Edna,” Tansi said.

“I don’t. I told you I’ll never smoke again.”

“Then…” She glanced down at the matchbook, and I saw color rise in her face. She looked at Mercy, who was staring at her, holding her breath.

“What?”

“I believe these are yours,” I said.

“No, I don’t think so…”

Emphatically, “Oh, yes.” I breathed in. “I’m sorry, Tansi, I really am, but when Jake offered me a cigarette, you did, too. You even lit my cigarette. And you slipped your matchbook across the table at me. Later I recalled picking it up, dropping it in my purse. Last night, lighting the last of Jake’s cigarettes, I reached for the matches, and I remembered. I had taken them from you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, dear, I do. Sad to say. Do you see what they say?” All three of us glanced down at the matchbook, face up. Stamped in gold on the dull brown surface was Ruth’s Grill. With a telephone exchange. And the slogan, “Cocktails and Steaks.”

I pushed the matches across the table. “Take them, Tansi. They’re yours.”

“They’re not.”

“Tell me, Tansi, how did you happen to have matches from a restaurant across the street from Carisa’s apartment? A place you said—more than once—you never went to. A neighborhood you studiously avoided. A neighborhood you insisted I stay out of—fear for my safety.”

“I must have got them somehow—from Jimmy, maybe.” Tansi stared into my face. “Or maybe from Jake. He went there a lot. He
told
you that.”

“I sat in the same grubby restaurant one afternoon with Alyce and Alva Strand, in the same spot where Carisa sat when she was with another woman. And the two were arguing, Carisa yelling at her. They just saw the back of the other woman’s head…”

“But you can’t blame that on me. Really, Edna, that’s impossible.” She looked around the room, as though for a familiar face. When she looked back, she smiled. “I don’t like this, Edna. We’re friends, you know.”

I sighed. “We are friends, Tansi. I’ve known you since you were a baby.” My mind wandered a bit. “I remember…”

“Edna.” Mercy touched my wrist, softly. “Maybe Tansi can explain.”

Tansi, a little hysterical, “I just did. Didn’t you hear me? I don’t know how I have to explain such a trivial thing as…as a matchbook. I’ve had dozens over the years. From all over. I pick them up. Smokers pick them up. Just as
you
did. You said you picked mine up, no?”

I sucked in my breath. “Do you remember the afternoon you drove me to the hotel? You were in your new car and…”

“What does my car have to do with it?”

“Manuel Vega’s granddaughter recalled seeing a woman sitting in a car in front of the apartment the night Carisa was killed. She was on a bus, but looked, and thought she saw Jimmy running out of the apartment building. Of course, we learned that it was Tommy, but she thought it was Jimmy. She thought he was joining a woman who was waiting in a car.”

“That wasn’t me. I’ve never gone there.”

I rushed my words. “I asked Connie about the car. She couldn’t describe the woman, but the car she recalled. Vividly. A brand-new Chevy Bel Air. Shiny turquoise with white top.”

Tansi shook her head. “So? Do you know how many such cars there in L.A., Edna? Dozens. We’re car people out here, and it’s a popular car. We like our cars…”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “That’s why Connie mentioned it. She likes cars, too. And movie stars. Like Jimmy. But that got me to thinking. Tommy ran out—Carisa didn’t let him in—but he was
not
joining the woman in the car, waiting there, watching. There had to be a reason Connie would notice, even if it didn’t quite register with her. She obviously sensed someone waiting in front of the place where she lived. Like a lot of kids, she’s in tune with street life. She spent her hours anticipating the visits of James Dean, her idol. So it stayed with her. Tansi, I think you were there that afternoon. I think you went there, for whatever reason, despite what you’ve said, and watched. You were watching for Jimmy, too. And you saw Tommy run out. And you went in to see Carisa…”

“No, for God’s sake, no!” Tansi thundered. “This is preposterous. Really, Edna.” A tinny laugh. “This is not one of your melodramatic fictions, you know.”

I sighed. “I only wish, Tansi. But my instinct tells me…”

Tansi swirled around in her chair, then looked at Mercy, her eyes searching her face. “Mercy, tell her. Are you hearing this story? A matchbook and a car. A thousand of one of them, hundreds of the other. Circumstances.”

Mercy looked down at her hands, and she seemed surprised they were shaking. There was sadness in her voice. “Edna.”

I held up my hand. “You must have gone to the apartment after Tommy fled, somehow got inside, argued with Carisa—probably about the letters she sent Jimmy and Warner, including the horrible one that very day to Warner, the threat about
Confidential
; and I know you probably didn’t want to go there. And the argument escalated and you threw that statue…”

“There!” Tansi thundered again. “Listen to yourself, Edna. Think about what you’re saying.”

I waited. Then: “You’re going to say you were never in that apartment.”

“Yes, I am saying that.”

“But you went.”

“Edna, talk to Detective Cotton. We’ve been through this, all of us. I was fingerprinted. We all were. Mercy—not you, but Jimmy’s prints, Tommy’s, even Nell’s. Nell was there. That surprised me. Did you think about that? Jake, his prints were all over the place. Lydia. She’s the one to look at. Jake, he’d paid Carisa off. He told me he went there a dozen times. He pleaded with her…” She stopped, out of breath.

“And so he did. And everyone liked to believe Lydia killed her. Nell believed the story. You finally got her to move out of Lydia’s room and into your own place. Nell started telling everyone that Lydia did the crime.”

“Everyone believed that.”

“I didn’t. Detective Cotton didn’t.”

“How do you know? Why didn’t she…well, her prints…Edna, you know that Detective Cotton said…he told me, in fact…my prints were nowhere inside that apartment. Nowhere.” She sat back, triumphant.

“That’s right. Your prints were nowhere to be found,” I sucked in my cheeks. “That got me to thinking. How is it possible that the statue had only one partial print of Jimmy’s fingers, and a lot of smudges? And whoever rifled through her desk, messed up her letters, and probably absconded with a letter or two, left no prints there. None. A murder done in anger, unpremeditated, would mean that the frantic amateur would invariably leave telltale evidence behind. But nothing.”

“I told you, Edna. I never
went
there.”

“As I say, it got me to thinking. Then I remembered. Mercy and I went there right after leaving Warner’s cocktail party. I remember how we went in our grand, rather elegant attire—our fancy dresses and, of course, our gloves. What women would go to a party like that without gloves? I had them, Mercy had them, and, I recall, you had them. All the women had them. It’s what you do at such a party. If you left the party and went there, sat in your car waiting, you must have gone straight from the party. In your gloves, Tansi. No prints. Earlier that day Warner had got that last, horrible letter and his office was in an uproar. That panic punctuated the party, I recall, though largely undiscussed. But you were bothered. So you went there, rushing from the party…”

“No. Edna, please.” Tansi’s voice was lower now.

“I’m afraid so. But I have to admit—the matchbook, the car, even the gloves—all could be explained away by an adroit lawyer. The matchbook got me to thinking. But there was one point that finally convinced me.” I paused, carefully planned my words. “The night Lydia died she called me, largely hysterical and crazy, but, through all the blather and nonsense, a couple things were clear. She was despairing Jimmy’s leaving her, true—that probably led to her death, one way or another. But she was also bothered by Nell’s moving out, at your prompting, even though that day you’d all enjoyed, at Nell’s request, a reconciliation lunch. No hard feelings, you said Nell told you. Except that it left Lydia more maddened. She called me because you mentioned how helpful I was to you—and to Jimmy. Lydia probably misunderstood you. Certainly you never expected her to seek solace from me. But she called, rambled on and on, probably gave me clues to her impending death, which unfortunately I misread, and then she hung up. Later on, she overdosed. Probably on purpose, but maybe not. We’ll never know. Max Kohl wandered in, and for a while seemed a perfect suspect. I also realized that he’d probably returned to Carisa’s apartment the time I was there with Mercy in order to get the money he suspected Warner had paid to Carisa. She probably blabbed about it. The police would find it later. But that’s another story. Anyway, I’m getting off track here.”

I breathed in. “But Lydia said something curious to me. She was bothered by the discovery of a letter she’d stupidly written to Carisa, a letter that, like Jimmy’s, made idle threats and dumb accusations. A letter written in anger. Lydia was afraid that its contents, revealed, would draw attention to her. Well, I mentioned that letter to Detective Cotton, thinking he was holding back information, but it surprised him. He’d not found such a letter. In fact, he just assumed Lydia, in her narcotic haze, was really talking about Jimmy’s letter.”

“She was…I know she was.” Rapid, spat-out words.

“No, she wasn’t. It was a moment of lucidity for the tragic girl. And that’s why I had to talk to Nell. The three of you had lunch that day. The so-called reconciliation lunch that reconciled no one. And Nell, at my prodding, recalled that the subject of letters was brought up, Carisa’s letters to Jimmy and Warner. The Jimmy letter, too. And then the subject turned to Lydia’s letter—and its contents. It was all part of the conversation, and Nell thought little of it. She assumed you knew something from Cotton that she didn’t. No one paid it any mind. But Lydia did. She thought that Cotton had found her letter. And then Nell told me that, in fact,
you
mentioned it at lunch. You brought it up. A few drinks, friendly chat, easy going, it just slipped out. No one knew about that letter. The only person, besides Lydia, was the person who probably took it from the apartment, either on purpose or by accident. You, Tansi, you.”