The Sixteen Burdens (4 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

F
ARRELL
NEVER
STAYED
angry long, not with a drink in each hand. All afternoon Gray plied him with Gin Rickeys, Sidecars, and Whiskey Sours from the private bar Farrell kept in his loft.

Some new outfits had arrived from France—air mail—and Farrell had been twittering about the place all morning like a hummingbird on caffeine. Gray insisted on serving as valet while Farrell tried on his new clothes.

The outfits were all custom, or as Farrell kept reminding him, “bespoke.” The double-breasted morning suit was too formal for anything Farrell ever did. The tweed coat with contrasting pants was too thick and scratchy for Southern California weather. A two-piece men’s swim suit with a striped top and a belted bottom was the only piece that might have made sense, except that Gray had never once seen Farrell go to the beach.

By the time Farrell got to the maroon smoking jacket, he passed out on his bed, thoroughly zozzled. Orange rays of afternoon sun streamed in through the windows. Gray pulled the drapes and tucked Farrell in. He then left instructions with the cook that no one should wake him for dinner.

He stole Lazy Eye’s jacket and was sneaking out the side door when he was stopped by Panchito, his new bunkmate.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Take me with you.”

“I got business.”

There was no way Gray was going to wheel this kid around the broken sidewalks and uneven pavement of the city.

“Let me help you,” Panchito said. “Whatever it is.”

“Help me? How you gonna help me with anything?”

Panchito’s face reddened.

“Sorry,” Gray said, “but I don’t need no help. I work alone.”

“Working on what?”

Gray wasn’t about to tell this kid about his plans to become a private eye. The idea felt too fragile, a bubble that would pop if he tried to touch it.

“I’m working on getting out of this dump.”

Panchito’s weak little hands grasped the arms of his wheelchair as if someone were about to roll him down a ski jump.

“You can’t leave. I’ll tell Farrell.”

“Farrell’s as embalmed as King Tut. Now mind your own potatoes.”

“Let me go,” Panchito said. “We gotta look out for each other.”

Gray hated how helpless this kid was, how helpless all of the boys here were. Most of them would be crippled for life; many would always have to rely on someone else for their survival. The thought made Gray cringe.

“Nobody’s looking out for you,” he said. “You wanna survive, you got only yourself to rely on. The sooner you learn that the better.”

Gray stood on the street corner outside the United Artists studio lot in Hollywood. This was presumably where Mary Pickford was headed every day when she passed the Brown Derby, but Gray didn’t know for sure. He could only wait and see.

The sun was drowning slowly into the Pacific, dragging a blanket of darkness behind it. If she didn’t show up in the next few minutes, then he had probably missed her. With each minute that passed he thought about what would happen if Farrell awoke and found him gone.

It was the sound that drew Gray’s attention—the purr of a familiar engine. As it pulled up to the guard gate, Gray recognized the smooth lines of the Buick Limited.

As the arm of the gate lifted, Gray stepped up and flagged it like a taxi. The car passed him, but then stopped. The idling engine purred in front of him, like a cat unsure of whether it should pounce or run. Gray ran up to the back of the automobile and looked inside. There she was, in her same black dress and veil, looking particularly ghoulish in the growing darkness of the early evening. Mary Pickford stared out at him, and for a moment they simply looked at each other, two worlds separated by a single pane of glass.

After a moment, she rolled down the window.

“You’re the map peddler,” she said through her veil. “Do you mean to sell me a map? Because I’m already quite aware of how to get to my own home.”

Gray handed her the folded map he had drawn on.

“Seems like you know how to get to a lot of homes.”

She took the map and, as she did, took in his poorly trimmed whiskers and unkempt clothes.

“You’re not so cute up close,” she said.

“You should talk.”

Pickford chuckled, just slightly, through the wall of fabric that hid her face.

Gray knew all about the downfall of Hollywood’s greatest silent film star: How the actress once known as “the girl with the curls” became too old to play America’s sweetheart. How, years ago, she had snuck back to her native Canada to undergo some experimental beautification surgery. How some quack doctor had chopped her face up real good, like some horror film monster. How she put that veil over her face and had never taken it off since.

At least she’s got a sense of humor about it.

Pickford unfolded the map and looked at it. She saw the crossed-out homes of the abducted women, and placed her finger on Pickfair in the middle.

If she understood the conclusion to which Gray had come, she didn’t exactly gasp and confess her crimes.

“Have you shown this to anyone?”

He shook his head.

“Have you told anyone about it?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been following you?”

Gray instinctively looked behind him but saw no one on the sidewalk.

“I don’t think so.”

“So then you don’t know for sure.”

Her tone was suddenly sharp. How did it happen that he was the one getting interrogated?

“No,” Gray said.

Pickford crumpled the map into a ball and threw it at her feet.

“You need to go back to your home and stay there until you hear otherwise. Lock up the doors and windows. Don’t go outside.”

Gray was confused.

“Ain’t no one looking for me.”

“No,” Pickford said. “Not yet.”

She removed a five spot from her purse and handed it to him.

“Do not walk home. Take the first taxi you see and get indoors as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Go. We shouldn’t be seen together.”

Was she trying to dismiss the whole incident?

“What about you?” he asked.

“I can take care of myself,” she said. And then, seeing that he was not moving, “I said go home, Gray!”

She rolled up her window and commanded the driver to leave. The car peeled into the evening traffic and sped off.

He stood there, paralyzed by questions bubbling in his head. But there was one that rose quickly to the top of his consciousness.

How did she know my name?

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

G
RAY
CROSSED
THROUGH
Pershing Square with five dollars weighing in his pocket as heavy as a gold nugget. Of course he wasn’t going to waste all that money on a taxi, not when it could pay for some of the maps Helen had destroyed.

Besides, if Pickford was as eccentric as people said, she had probably been spouting nonsense.

No one is looking for me…not yet.

As a precaution, Gray took a circuitous route home, looping north through the colorful streets of Chinatown, then down past City Hall. Even though it was only early evening, Downtown emptied out quickly on Fridays. The middle-class businessmen had left to enjoy a pot roast and an episode of
Amos n’ Andy
in their large Westlake homes. Like the dregs of a coffee percolator, all that remained were drunks, hobos, and a warehouse full of crippled boys.

When he got home and entered through the side, Gray found the boys in the dining hall, quietly finishing their dinner. Too quietly. He poked his head inside and saw why. At the head of the table, Farrell was facedown in his plate of meatloaf, his hand still wrapped around a half-full highball glass. It seemed he had gotten up long enough to mix himself a new drink, and then passed out again halfway through dinner. He was boiled as an owl, and hopefully hadn’t noticed that Gray had been gone.

Although Farrell failed to command any obedience while he was awake, he was eliciting excellent behavior from the boys in his unconsciousness. A seat at the table between Crutches and Lazy Eye was empty.

“Where’s the new fella?” Gray whispered. “Panchito?”

Crutches swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

“Probably the dorm. He was calling out for you a while ago.”

“He’s probably stuck,” Gray said. “Why didn’t no one help him over the step up?”

Lazy Eye shrugged.

“Not our bunkmate. Hey, is that my jacket?”

Gray left for the dormitory, afraid Panchito would tattle on him. The lights in the dorm were out and an orange glow filtered through the windows from the street lamps out front. Dirt from the riverbank was blowing in through a window that wasn’t usually open.

He saw Panchito at the far end of the room, face down in front of his wheelchair, splayed out flat as roadkill on a highway. Gray ran up and saw a large bump on the back of his head. He reached out to touch it, and that’s when he saw the eyes watching him. A man was staring through the slats of the wheelchair, crouched as if ready to pounce. Gray fell backward onto the ground.

“Who’s there?”

The man stepped out from behind the wheelchair. He hadn’t been crouching, he was merely short—three feet tall and solidly built. The shift in perspective was disorienting, and Gray scuttled back a few feet.

“Who’re you?”

The man was dressed in a brown suit that was probably a boy’s outfit specially tailored to fit him.  He wore a matching derby hat and a small boutonniere on his lapel, as if he were on his way to Sunday school in Munchkinland.

He looked altogether harmless until he opened his mouth. 

“Who are
you
?” the man asked.

He had crowded teeth that made his mouth look angry. They looked as if they were fighting for attention.

“None of your beeswax,” Gray asked. “Why’d you clobber him?”

The man stepped closer.

“Because he cried out when I told him not to. I was trying to be reasonable.”

I’d hate to see him be unreasonable.

“Now tell me,” the man asked. “What did she give you?”

His voice was deep, a radio show announcer broadcasting through that tiny body.

“Who?” Gray asked.

“You know who.”

He reached behind and removed from his belt what looked like a miniature baseball bat with stripes painted on it. A juggling baton. He slapped the baton in the palm of his hand.

“That Pickford lady?” Gray asked. “She bought a map, that’s all. You wanna buy one? I’ll give you half off on account of your size.”

The man tapped the sole of Gray’s foot with the baton. A warning.

“If that’s all she gave you, then why does she have her driver outside waiting for you?”

He nodded toward the window, and Gray stood to look out the front side of the building. There, indeed, was the familiar black Buick idling in front.

“How you know it’s for me?”

“It ain’t for Little Orphan Annie,” he said. “We had to take the driver out.”

A taxi pulled up outside behind the Buick. Gray heard a door open.

“What has she told you about the Burdens?”

“The burdens of what?”

Rushed footsteps outside.

“Did she tell you who we represent?”

“The Lollipop Guild?” Gray asked.

The little man growled, and his teeth, pointing every which way, looked itching for a fight.

Gray probably didn’t weigh any more than the man, but he had about two feet on him. He stood up tall.

“Listen, pally. Me and her was just bumping gums. I don’t know what you want with her but it ain’t got squat to do with me.”

There was a distant knock at the front door. A frantic pounding. Gray heard commotion in the hallway as boys streamed toward the door.

The man grabbed Gray’s arm.

“You’re coming with us.”

“Us?”

Two more men stood up from behind beds, both of them little people as well. One wore a newsboy hat and had an ugly hooked nose; the other was burly and bald on the crown of his head. Both of them had the same tiny batons.

Gray stood up tall. He’d been mugged his fair share of times, and he knew his chances were better if he didn’t seem afraid.

They closed in on him, slapping their batons.

“If you’re recruiting players for your stickball team, I don’t play none.”

Gray balled up his two hands, but against the three of them he was short a fist.

The original little man, the one with the derby hat, jabbed Gray in the stomach with the blunt end of his baton while the hook-nosed man cracked at his knee to cause his legs to buckle. Gray fell to his hands and knees.

He saw under his bed a bottle of Hiram Walker Vodka Farrell must have left by accident. He grasped it in his hand and stood up swinging, catching the bald man on the side of the head. The man grunted and fell over onto Gray’s bed.

Gray raised the bottle again but before he could swing it, a baton cracked down on the bottle. It shattered, and Gray flinched as broken glass hit his face. It smelled like rubbing alcohol.

“STOP!”

It was just one syllable, but Gray somehow recognized it as the voice of Mary Pickford. There she was, all in black, storming into the room with an authoritative gait.

“Step away,” Pickford said to the little men. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”

She grabbed Gray by the arm and yanked him upward roughly.

“Then who’s this kid?”

She turned and spotted the wardrobe to her right, where all of the boys hung their jackets.

“Someone of no consequence.”

Pickford dragged Gray to the wardrobe and pushed him inside. He hit the back just as she swung the doors shut. Gray heard her turn the key, locking him inside. Through the crack Gray could just barely see the dwarves.

“And how do we know it’s you we’re looking for?” the leader asked.

“That’s easy,” she said. “I’ll prove it.”

Pickford lifted her veil. Her back was to Gray so he couldn’t see her face, but he could see what looked like beams of energy emanating from it. It seemed to illuminate the faces of the small men with an otherworldly glow.

“It’s you,” the ringleader said.

“Yes,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Horace, ma’am.”

“Now do me a favor, Horace,” she said to the leader, her voice calm and soothing. “Hit your friend there on the head as hard as you can. For me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Horace turned and without a second thought brought his baton crashing against the temple of the man with the newsboy hat. He fell to the floor like a sack of flour.

The leader turned to Pickford, as if for approval.

“Yes, lovely, thank you. That was wonderful. Now, Horace, do the same thing to your other friend here. Pretty please?”

The bald one had only a split second to register shock before Horace turned and struck him. He too fell to the ground.

“Oh, that was delightful!” Pickford said. “Now here’s the real challenge, Horace. Can you do the same thing to yourself?”

Horace held the baton in front of him in both hands. His arms tensed, and he seemed ready to strike himself on the forehead. But somehow that seemed to cross a line, and the man couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Never mind,” Pickford said. “It never works.”

Gray saw Pickford pick up one of the batons off the floor and bring it crashing down upon Horace’s head. He fell unconscious on top of the other two.

“Clowns,” Pickford muttered to herself.

She dropped the baton and took a moment to compose herself.

“Mr. Partridge! Are you quite conscious yet?”

The doors of the wardrobe suddenly opened and Pickford gave Gray a once-over. Through her veil it was impossible to read her expression.

“You’re cut,” she said. “We’ll get that taken care of.”

Either she was unshaken by the color of his blood, or it was too dim in the room for her to notice. Gray stepped out of the wardrobe just as Farrell walked in the room, half-sleepy and half-sauced. But when she turned on the light, his entire being snapped to attention.

“Mrs. Pickford,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You wouldn’t have heard Louis Armstrong blowing a trumpet in your ear,” she said. “This young man needs an ambulance.”

Farrell caught sight of Panchito and rushed over to him.

“Don’t touch him,” Pickford said. “It may exacerbate his wound.”

Farrell stood, sweat forming at his brow. He turned one way, stopped, then turned the other.

“What should I do?”

“First, call for an ambulance.”

She spoke as if he were a simpleton. No one spoke to Farrell that way.

A few of the boys had gathered at the door. Farrell looked at Crutches.

“Go on, call an ambulance!”

He and Lazy Eye limped off to the phone down the hall.

“Mr. Partridge, you look like a man who owns plenty of shoes,” Pickford said. “With all that experience I assume you know how to tie a good knot?”

“Yes, I suppose…”

“Good. Find some rope and tie these men up before they awaken.”

“I can’t tie them up,” he said. “What am I going to do with them?”

“You’ll hold them in your basement.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as I say,” she said. “I’ll come back for them when I can.”

“But why not just give them to the police?”

“The police don’t have jurisdiction in a matter like this.”

Farrell exhaled loudly three or four times, like a child who’s forced to do something he doesn’t want. But finally he went to find some rope. Gray ventured a closer look at the dwarves.

“How did you make them obey you?”

Pickford kicked at one of them to make sure he was still unconscious.

“You’d be amazed at what a man will do for a woman who asks nicely.”

Farrell returned with a long spool of twine. He began tying their hands together.

“Mr. Partridge, Gray Studebaker will be checking out. Permanently.”

Farrell’s mouth opened, just enough to register his shock.

“But I have him until he’s eighteen. That’s the agreement.”

“As you can see, circumstances have changed. Thank you for your service.”

She took Gray by the arm.

“Let’s go.”

Pickford pulled but Gray held his ground. In every private detective story he had ever read, there was always a mysterious woman who showed up unannounced. And she was always bad news.

“Hold on, lady. How do I know you ain’t gonna pull out a gat and grease me the second we leave here?”

“For what?” she asked.

“I dunno. Selling maps.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “If I wanted to kill you I’ve had more opportunities than you know. Are you coming or not?”

It was a simple choice between staying with Farrell or not. It was the easiest decision in the world.

“Hold on.”

He walked quickly to his bed and collected his belongings: his unworn fedora, the crumpled newspaper from yesterday, and his favorite issue of
Black Mask
. All of his books would have to stay.