Play It Again (16 page)

He dialed. After eleven rings, a man picked up.

“Hello?” came a weak and quavery voice on the far end.

“Hello, Arthur, it’s me. R.J. Brooks.”

“Who is it?” said the old voice.

“R.J. Brooks. Belle Fontaine’s son.” He was almost shouting.

There was a long pause. R.J. could hear the old man fumbling with the receiver. “Is it R.J.?” he finally said.

“Yes, that’s right!”

“Oh,” said Arthur. “Well, how are you, my boy?”

“I’m fine, Arthur, how are you?!”

“You don’t have to shout,” Arthur said, and R.J. could hear a faint echo of the man’s old-time urbanity in his voice. “I can hear you perfectly well now.”

“Oh. Well, great, how are you, Arthur?”

“I’m old and deaf, but otherwise as well as can be expected,” he said. “Please let me offer my sincerest condolences.”

“Thank you,” R.J. said.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman, R.J. I know you did not get along famously of late, but never forget what a remarkable talent she was. Truly remarkable, and we shall all miss her terribly.”

“I know, Arthur. Thanks a lot.”

“Well,” said the old man briskly. “By my best recollection, it has been thirteen years since I’ve spoken to you. To what do I owe this call?”

“It’s about Belle’s murder. I need some help.”

“Indeed.”

“I got an idea that the killer might be an actor. Somebody who knew her professionally.”

“Ah-hah.” R.J. could almost hear the gears whirring in the old man’s head, a stack of cards dropping into the slot. “Have you anything more than that?”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s it. There’s nothing definite, but it would make a lot of sense if that’s how it was.”

“All right then. How can I help?”

“Arthur, you were her agent for a lot of those years out there.”

“All the good ones, my boy. And some not quite so good.”

“I remember,” R.J. said. “I was wondering if anything stuck in your mind, any incident where somebody might have wanted to hurt her. It wouldn’t have to be anything definite, just somebody who got mad at her, or whatever.”

“Well, R.J. I can think of ten or fifteen very specific death threats Belle received.”

“Jesus Christ!” R.J. exploded. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, yes,” the old man assured him. “Your mother was very demanding, like so many great creative artists. That led to an awful lot of friction. And as I say, at least a dozen times it led to somewhat more.”

“Who were they, Arthur?”

The old man laughed. “Almost a Who’s Who of Hollywood, old chap. Names you wouldn’t believe if I told you. Of course,” he said, a note of regret creeping into his voice, “most
of the really interesting ones are dead now. So many dead.” He sighed.

“This could be important, Arthur. Can you check and let me know of any that might still be alive? And maybe still holding a grudge?”

“Of course I shall, dear boy. I would do a great deal more for your mother, or for you. And in fact, with your illustrious bloodlines, which I believe show strongly in your looks, if you should reconsider your career options I can still—”

“No thanks, Arthur. Not for me. But I’d appreciate it if you can find something on this thing.”

“Like winged Mercury from great Zeus, I go,” said Arthur.

“Thanks, Arthur. I’ll call you.”

“God bless you, my boy,” the old man said and hung up.

Ten or fifteen,
R.J. thought.
Holy Christ.
He’d been worried that he would find just another dead end, and he guessed he should be grateful there was a chance of a lead, but this… He shook his head. It was looking like a miracle she’d lived as long as she had.

He went back into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. As he sipped he thought some more. He could wait for Arthur to come up with something, but that could take days. Anyway, that wasn’t his style. If he was going to sit around, he’d start thinking about Casey, so he might as well get out and do something.

That’s half a decision, he thought. Now, exactly what should I do?

It occurred to him as he finished his coffee: his mother’s journals. He could go at the same problem from the other end. She would surely have made some mention of death threats, run-ins, things like that.

He rinsed his cup out in the sink, grabbed his coat, and headed out.

CHAPTER 19

R.J. took a cab over to his mother’s apartment—
his
apartment now—and spent the ride thinking he was taking too many cabs lately. He wondered what that meant.

Maybe it went with the apartment. People who lived at that kind of building took cabs. Or limos. And hired somebody to walk their poodle and pick up the droppings.

Belle had never had a poodle, he thought with approval. Or a cat, or a cockatiel, or even a goldfish, for that matter.

The cab pulled up in front of the building. If you didn’t know much about New York you might walk right by the place without a second look, and that’s pretty much the way the residents wanted it.

But if you knew the warning signs, you could almost smell the mink inside. This was a high-class place, in the old-fashioned, lunch at the Algonquin sense. The apartments inside could not be bought. There were almost never vacancies. You just about had to inherit them.

Christ, he’d have to sell the place or something. It wasn’t his style. It just wasn’t
him.

But it
was
his mother. When he thought about that, R.J. didn’t know if he could bring himself to sell the apartment.

The cab pulled up in front of the building. While R.J. was paying the driver, Tony, the doorman, opened the cab’s door.

“Mr. Brooks,” he said. “Gladda see you.”

R.J. stepped out. “Thanks, Tony. How’s it going?”

Tony shrugged and waved the cab on. “Can’t complain. How’s about you, Mr. Brooks?”

“I could complain plenty, but nobody listens.”

Tony gave him a polite laugh and ushered him inside.

The elevator always worked in this building. And it never smelled like pee or cheap disinfectant. R.J. wondered if maybe he shouldn’t move here after all. Sure, he thought. And I can live off the interest on my inheritance. Learn ballroom dancing, grow a little mustache. Get a Pekingese.

His sour thoughts ended when he pushed open the door to his mother’s apartment. He closed the door and stood there in the small foyer for a minute. The place still felt so much like his mother that he half expected her to come striding down the hallway, calling, “Darling! We’re late,” as she tossed her hair back and shrugged into her coat.

He shook his head. She was gone for good, and he still wasn’t sure who she had been.

He went into the study and pulled out a stack of journals.

Because he didn’t know where to start, or even what to look for, R.J. figured it didn’t much matter. He had as good a chance to hit it random as by planning. So he started reading from a time about a year after his father’s death.

He opened it to the first page and was shocked at the handwriting. Instead of the neat, evenly spaced spider tracks he was
used to, this was a shaky scrawl, going up and down the page in a series of uneven lurches.

He was jolted again as he began to read:

I’d give anything for a drink. It’s all I can think about. That beautiful, golden liquid, floating so serenely in the glass, sliding over my tongue and down my throat like liquid fire, lighting me up when it hits with its warm, wise glow—God help me, I don’t know if I can be this strong.

If only I had someone to lean on—but I don’t. There’s no one, nothing, nowhere to turn but inward to myself, and I’m not sure I like what I see there when I look.

Arthur has been calling twice a day, and so has that horrible little weasel from the studio. At least I know what
he
wants.

And I know what I want too—something to drink, anything. I’ve even been looking with longing at the lighter fluid.

But I have to beat this before I can face any of them—and I don’t know if I can.

I’ve never felt so alone….

So she had tried to kick by herself. God, he knew that feeling. And he hadn’t been drinking as long and as hard as she had when he did it. He had just barely pulled himself out of alcoholism. For his mother to fight it like that…

Of course, he had known she had stopped drinking. At the time it didn’t seem like a big deal; okay, she stopped drinking, so what?

But to read about it like this, to get a step-by-step account of her struggle—somehow that brought it home to him in a way nothing had before.

R.J. flipped ahead. About halfway through the volume the handwriting steadied again. He went back a few pages and started reading:

Well, if anybody asks me, the answer is yes. I
do
know Bill W.

I met him last night, in the fellowship hall at Bel Air Presbyterian Church.

So his mother had gone to Alcoholics Anonymous. That was not really a surprise, anyway. He’d known that for years. And why shouldn’t she have gone? The thing worked. Just because he had been too mule-headed to try it didn’t mean anything. He hadn’t tried it
because
he knew it worked. Had to prove to himself he didn’t need anybody or anything, that he was stronger than the need.

Okay, he’d proved it. But for his mother, it must have been even harder to go, to ask for help, to expose herself like that. Nowadays any celebrity with half a brain does detox as the first step in their professional comeback. They’re probably put through it by their publicity people. But back then, when Belle did it, a whisper of that kind of trouble killed careers.

He read some more:

Don’t know why it should be a surprise to
me,
but to see some of the faces there and pretend not to know them, when everyone in the
world
would know them anywhere—These are marquis names of the first order, sitting in their folding chairs and sipping their coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But anyway, it certainly made me feel a bit better. I’m not alone.

I guess that’s one of the strong points of these little get-togethers, letting all of us know we’re not alone, that others just like us are facing the same problem. It’s funny how much that one small thing seems to help.

R.J. could picture the gathering, all those famous names in one place, like one of those fantasy sketches from the fan magazines; lunch at the MGM commissary.

Of course, this would have a slightly different title: AA Meeting of the Stars.

And his mother had fit right in, had
made
herself fit in.

Or had she? He flipped ahead and read on:

And here I thought I was getting into something that didn’t relate to career at all. I certainly won’t make that mistake again. I can’t understand why that evil old bitch would snub me like that. After all, she was pleasant enough at the AA meeting.

Perhaps that’s why—she doesn’t want to admit to herself, in daylight, that she goes. So anyone who sees her there is poison.

Well, considering how her last picture did, she won’t be able to keep that attitude in place forever.

And considering how hard it is for me to get my next picture off the ground, how long can I keep pretending that anyone wants to see me on the screen?

I’m quite sure I’m too young to be a has-been, but it’s not up to me. I always felt just a little like I was faking it, like I didn’t really belong. Maybe that shows. Maybe the public can see that.

Maybe I am all washed up….

R.J. read the volume through and then another. He found himself liking this person, admiring her strength, her willingness to struggle, her vulnerability. He began to like her so much that when he remembered it was his mother, he was startled into putting the book down.

I blew it, he thought. I really blew it. I never got to know her until it was too late. And I never let her get to know me. Maybe because I don’t know who I am.

Maybe all the things I thought were wrong with her were really just the way I looked at her because of what was wrong with
me.
Maybe it’s
my
life that’s a mess, he thought. Because he was pretty sure he didn’t have the kind of sharp, stubborn spunk his mother showed in her journals.

Sure, he was stubborn too. Pig-headed, in fact. But he had used his mulishness to keep her away, while she was using hers to keep trying to reach him. Even after he had pushed her away with all his strength, she was strong enough to keep pushing back, trying to get closer to her only son.

Whatever else she had been, his mother hadn’t been a quitter.

R.J. spent the rest of the day reading the journals, with long pauses between volumes. As he finished one he’d set it down and think, adding up what he was learning about his mother and contrasting it with what he knew about himself.