The Ticket Out (37 page)

He walked back into Dorene's; I heard more girlish titters. I walked down the path to Scott Dolgin's. Tolback was still on the phone.

“...they go ahead without me. I might make it for coffee.... That cheapskate should pick up the tab.... Yeah, I'll call you when the cops cut me loose.”

Tolback flipped the phone shut. “This is blowing my schedule. I have business.”

I sat down beside him. I said, “Nice suit.”

Tolback opened his jacket and showed me the label. He said, “Armani, what else?”

I said, “The Silvermans have spread it around that you murdered Greta Stenholm.”

Tolback just laughed. “Jules and Hannah are trying to shaft me. Deals are falling through for no reason, people aren't taking my calls—I got bad breath all of a sudden.”

“What does that have to do with the Casa de Amor?”

Tolback's cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...So screw him and the horse he rode in on.... Yeah, call those guys, then call me back.”

Tolback flipped the phone shut. “More people not taking my calls. How's this for a lead, loudmouth? ‘Jules Silverman—the Conscience of Hollywood—has a conscience for shit.' He's a sex pervert and a killer. Don't you want to take notes?”

Tolback's cell phone rang again. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...Yeah ... Yeah, I'll know by the end of the day.”

He flipped the cell phone shut. I said, “Could you turn that off?”

Tolback shook his head. He flipped the lid open and shut for a joke. I said, “I want to hear about Greta.”

“She came to work for me last November, after I started dating Hannah. I recognized her name because Hannah's nutso about her and Ted Abadi. I shouldn't have hired her, yeah—but she looked good answering phones and my partners wanted to bang her.”

“Did you and she have an affair?”

Tolback laughed. “I don't bang losers. Besides, she didn't sleep around—she still loved Ted.”

“I heard she did sleep around.”

“You heard wrong, loud. She would've had more luck if she put out. I told her so but she didn't listen.”

I said, “Then you fired her.”

Tolback said, “Yeah, Hannah made me do it in March. But I didn't know the whole story until two weeks ago—I just thought somebody finked on me. I couldn't do anything for Greta in the Industry so I—”

“Couldn't, or wouldn't?”

The cell phone rang. Tolback flipped it open. “Yeah?...You're bullshitting me? That meeting's been set up for months!...They
said
that?...Yeah, call her people and call me back.”

Tolback flipped his phone shut. “Jules, that old cocksucker. I'll strangle him myself.”

I said, “You couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything for Greta?”

Tolback laughed. “Greta had a bad rep and I don't promote lost causes. Hey, I made Lynnda give her a job—I get points for that. Sure I was messing with Hannah and Jules, but not the way they think. They think I'm in on the blackmail. Why would I bother? Because Jules hates my guts and Hannah turns out to be a lousy connection? Please, the Silvermans aren't the only game in town. They just think they are.”

I said, “What is ‘the whole story'?”

“The
whole
story is a riot. Greta tried blackmailing Jules a total of, check this out,
three
times. You gotta admire her balls. The first was in March, with the communist witch-hunts and the old murder. Communists—
peh,
who cares? That's why Hannah made me get rid of her. The second was two weeks ago. Greta caught Jules on film at Lynnda's and sent him the pictures. Hannah kicked me out of the house for that. I saw Greta the same day and she told me everything. Ask me if I laughed my ass off.”

I said, “Did you lend Greta money that day?”

“Sure, yeah, probably. Since I knew her, she was always broke.” So she spent Tolback's money on her movie marathon the Friday before she was killed. A minor item for her predeath calendar.

I said, “What about the third blackmail?”

“The third was the day of your man, Barry Melling's, party. She told Jules she found a lady who'd blow his murder alibi out of the water. She told me the same thing. That's why I'm in swinging Culver City, and talking to you. If Hannah and Jules want to shaft me, I can dig up the dirt and shaft them back. The dirt on Jules is
here.”

Tolback's cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Yeah?...What did the lawyer say?...Call me back, yeah.”

Tolback flipped his cell phone closed.

I said, “Greta asked for two things in her blackmail demand—twenty thousand dollars and something else. What was the ‘something else'? Did she want Ted Abadi's killer, or Silverman's confession to the Bauerdorf murder?”

“She wanted a deal.”

“For her screenplay?”

Tolback laughed. “Yeah, that farkakte
GB-ya-de-ya-de-ya
she never shut up about.”

“But I heard she was taking it to Leonard Ziskind.”

Tolback shrugged. “Len and Jules are tight—Jules has money in PPA. Don't ask me what Greta was thinking. All I know is, Jules and Hannah are trying to shaft me, and I'm going to shaft them back double.”

We heard a door slam and footsteps come down the walk. Doug appeared; he was wiping lipstick off his chin. He said to Tolback, “Do you think you can locate Miss Silverman?”

Tolback smiled. “With pleasure.”

He flipped open his cell phone and punched a number. I mouthed to Doug, “What about Phillips?”

Doug shook his head. He mouthed, “Not answering the door.” Tolback said, “Yeah, hang on.” He handed the cell phone to Doug. Doug walked away. I couldn't hear what he was saying.

Tolback passed me his business card. He said, “Let's do a meal. I give you the lowdown on Jules and you write a big expose for your newspaper. ‘Holocaust Revenge—Jew Kills German!”'

Tolback laughed at his own humor. Doug walked back and handed Tolback his cell phone. Doug said, “Miss Silverman is meeting me in Beverly Hills. You're welcome to join us.”

Tolback checked the time. “I have people waiting at Joss.” He pointed at me.
“Big
exposé.”

He walked out of the courtyard, dialing his phone.

I said, “I don't believe it—Hannah would never agree to meet you.”

Doug nodded. “I told her we tailed Tolback to the Casa de Amor. She'll show up here if she thinks I'm miles from Culver City—”

He was interrupted by familiar voices.

Doug and I both turned around. Sergeant McManus and Deputy Gadtke walked under the archway and crossed the path toward us. McManus was looking solemn. Gadtke had picked a rose and stuck it in his buttonhole.

D
OUG HAD
called the Sheriff's guys on his way down to the Casa.

We stood on Dolgin's porch while he updated McManus and Gadtke. Everybody kept their voices quiet and I was allowed to listen in. I learned that they'd found Dolgin's truck a block south of the Sony lot. I also learned that if Phillips didn't want to answer his door, the cops didn't have a lever to force him. Doug checked the time as he talked. He expected Hannah Silverman inside half an hour. Nobody doubted she would come.

I asked for the background on Mrs. Dorene Johnson and McManus gave it to me.

She'd moved into the Casa de Amor in 1943. She was nineteen at the time—which made her seventy-seven now, not the ninety she looked. She was a dancer extra at MGM; her boyfriend was an MGM executive. She was among the people who placed Jules Silverman at the Casa on October 11, 1944. Everyone had been liquored up, but Dorene had special status: the Sheriff's singled her out as a “problem drinker” in their original report. She'd also claimed she spent the crucial hours after midnight alone with Silverman. She was considered the weakest witness because of her alcoholism. She was also the only witness still living.

Dorene's “Mrs.” was for show—like Mrs. May's was. There'd never been a Mr. Johnson, or any jobs after she got too old for the chorus. But she did have a sugar daddy. The Casa tenants all knew it. Someone had paid Dorene's bills and supplied her bourbon for decades. No one had ever seen him; no one knew his name. The cops figured it was Jules Silverman. They figured that a blotto Dorene was Silverman's insurance against arrest. Silverman probably hoped the bourbon would kill her.

McManus didn't know why it
hadn't
killed her. Dorene's capacity for booze was incredible—even Gadtke was impressed.

He and Gadtke had seen her every day since Arnold Tolback revealed the Greta-Georgette-Dorene link. They'd tried smooth talk, and they'd tried intimidation; they had never engaged Dorene in a coherent conversation. She'd been drinking hard for two weeks and her toot coincided with a man's visit. Various neighbors described the guy: he sounded like Jules Silverman in a dark wig and sunglasses. The cops guessed he received Greta's third blackmail threat and ran straight to the Casa. What happened then, the cops didn't know. But it had a drastic effect on Dorene.

Doug checked his watch again. He said we should set up for Hannah Silverman.

Gadtke was sent to hide on Mrs. May's porch. He would beep Doug when Hannah showed—and stop her if she tried to run. They wanted me to stay outside with Gadtke. I balked and there was no time to argue; I would hide inside Dorene's place with Doug and McManus. As Mrs. May's proxy, Erma had given the cops free access.

We walked into Dorene's front room. Dorene was alone. She'd come to and was sitting up rigid on the couch. Someone had wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot but she looked semirational.

Doug bent down to talk to her. McManus said they'd seen Dorene in that condition before. She could hear and understand, but she couldn't respond. Doug might get a facial twitch if he was lucky.

Doug took Dorene's hand and explained very slowly what he wanted. Dorene batted what was left of her eyelashes. She loved the male attention; it was sort of pitiful. Doug told her they were there to protect her from Jules Silverman. Silverman's daughter was due any minute. All Dorene had to do was let Hannah talk. That was all: let Hannah talk. Did Dorene understand?

Dorene moved her lower lip. Doug looked at McManus for a reading. McManus shrugged and crossed his fingers.

Doug's beeper beeped. He stood up and pointed me to a love seat in the corner. There was so much junk piled around, we could've hidden almost anywhere. McManus ducked into the kitchen. He knew the terrain; he didn't kick any paper sacks. Doug crouched behind the love seat with me.

Ten seconds went by ... twenty...

The screen door creaked. Hannah Silverman's voice: “Mrs. Johnson?...We've never met but you know Daddy, my father, Jules Silverman.”

Hannah was putting on saccharine sweet. The screen banged shut, footsteps approached the couch. I smelled expensive perfume and heard bracelets clink.

Hannah said, “A friend of mine came to see you this morning. Daddy needs to know what you told him.”

Silence. A small swish and a thud. I guessed that Hannah sat down on the coffee table.

She said, “What did you tell my friend, Mrs. Johnson?” Her tone was wheedly and singsong.

More silence.

Hannah said, “What is it?”

More silence. Hannah said, “I don't understand. What's in the kitchen?”

I peeked over the back of the love seat. Dorene was pointing out where McManus was hiding. She had her arm lifted; she had enough energy for that.

Hannah said, “Is there something in your kitchen?”

Dorene nodded. She had energy for that, too. I signaled to Doug: Dorene's blowing our cover.

Doug stood up right away. I stood up with him. Dorene made a whimper sound. Hannah swiveled around and saw us. Standing up, she said, “This is entrapment.”

McManus appeared from the kitchen. Hannah looked down at Dorene. Dorene closed her eyes.

Hannah said to Doug, “You haven't proven anything.”

What had happened to the screaming princess? She was being superrestrained—not like her normal self.

Doug said, “We'd like to speak to your father.”

Hannah dug out her car keys. “Daddy had a heart attack last night. It was a mild one, but he thinks it's time to clear the air before you people kill him.”

At “heart attack” McManus and Doug exchanged a look. Hannah said, “I appreciate your loyalty, Mrs. Johnson. I'll tell Daddy.”

Dorene sat there with her eyes closed. Hannah walked outside; Doug followed her. I watched them through the front window.

Gadtke stepped out from the bushes and caught Hannah. He handed her his cell phone. I heard him say, “Call Daddy-poo. Tell him he can have a lawyer present.”

McManus leaned down and poked Dorene. “You're faking it, lady. Now we know.”

Dorene did not twitch, did not move. She looked mummified.

 

J
ULES
S
ILVERMAN
was convalescing at home. I reviewed what I knew about him as Hannah walked us through the house. Producer and philanthropist; liberal, recluse, perennial Hollywood cheese. The public saw Silverman as the conscience of the Industry. Movies buffs saw him as a spiritual heir to Louis Mayer: a producer of wholesome high-budget entertainment. He'd made mountains of money in the business, but never a great movie. His films were almost never revived except for Cinemascope festivals or festivals of kitsch. I'd only seen one Jules Silverman Presentation. It was a '50s Bible epic—and one was enough.

Hannah led us into a huge den in a far wing. The den was slate and glass, the furniture was contemporary, and the art belonged in a national gallery. Jules collected the French Impressionists. An oil portrait of him and Hannah hung above the fireplace. The mantel showcased a single Oscar—his Irving Thalberg Award for producing. Awards, plaques, and tokens of presidential esteem filled the shelves. A model stood on a stand by the door; he'd built a cancer ward for a local hospital.