I turn and look up at him. Both these men and their creased white collars and scruffy faces and this is not how it is supposed to be . . .
“Perfect.” Mike shakes his head.
“No, no,” I say quickly to my brother. I can’t manage him, too.
“Do you want me to get him out of here? I will, Lora. What do you want, Lora?” Bill stutters, unsure, never looking at me, looking only at Mike, jaw newly set. “What has he done?”
What has he done? What have they all done to us both, Bill?
“Skip it,” Mike mutters, seamlessly lighting up a cigarette. “I was heading out anyway. The police don’t need my support these days.”
I put my hand to my mouth at the insinuation and turn my eyes away. Does he know, too? Does he know about my brother, too?
“You know, they take care of themselves now,” Mike adds—needlessly—tossing his match behind him.
As I watch, arms to my sides and mouth slightly open, he walks away, around the side of the house, disappearing into the trapped darkness there.
I turn back around even as I know Bill too is gone, swallowed up by the party, by Alice, or just not wanting to look me in the face.
• • •
Inside, everyone is dancing, waiting for Alice to take her usual position at the center, leading the group. But instead she keeps vanishing into the kitchen or the back bedroom or the powder room, a cigarette always in hand, the sweat now coating her skin, seeping into the white geisha girl powder, scattering her black eye makeup.
“Alice! C’mon! Alice, are we going to mambo?”
“Let’s go, Alice! We don’t know any Oriental dances, unless you count the cha-cha-chopsticks!”
She begs off, mouths an excuse, heads back into the kitchen.
“Bill’s in there, too,” I hear Tom Moran bark to two other cops. “Washing dishes! In the middle of a party!”
Doris Day’s voice belts out, “Oh, why did I tell you it was bye-bye for Shanghai? I’m even allergic to rice . . .”
“For God’s sake, Alice,” someone shouts out. “We need you.”
I turn around to see that Tom Moran and Chet Connor each have one of Alice’s arms and are walking her to the center of the makeshift dance floor.
The look in her eyes is that of a cornered animal, but she quickly reassembles, and inhaling hard, she hoists a dazzling red Alice-smile on her face.
“All right, boys, all right. You can’t take no for an answer.”
“Or so Tom’s girlfriends say,” Chet guffaws, grabbing Alice around the waist and into position.
All cherries and foamy milk, Doris Day prattles on, “Why don’t you stop me when I talk about Shanghai? It’s just a lover’s device . . .”
Alice leans back and grabs a fan from the basket as Chet twirls her. Her distracted look evaporates, and as she twists her wrist and spreads the green fan out in sync with the music, I can see her pleasure, blunt and maddening.
“Who’s gonna kiss me? Who’s gonna thrill me? Who’s gonna hold me tight? . . .”
Chet laughs delightedly, and everyone steps back to let them have the floor. Eyes glittering, Alice begins singing along, the sultry counterpoint to Doris, “I’m right around the corner in a phone booth and I want to be with you tonight!” Every line Doris belts with cheery vim, Alice matches with tantalizing venom. Everyone is clapping and cheering, packed tight together, maybe twenty-five of them, to see the show.
I feel caught between admiration, awe, and fury. Whipping around the room, fan snapping and hips swiveling in the tight dress, she’s utterly alive, and even when her eyes pass over me, they practically spark with unabated energy, and then, as the last stanza begins . . .
She almost trips. She’s looking, eyelashes shuttered open wide, past me and to the left, at the door.
Her face is sliding off.
That’s what it looks like, because it is.
I jerk my head around to see what she’s looking at, what has so dissembled her. Peering through the throng and smoke, I think I see— And then I see it is.
There is a man standing in the vestibule.
I fix on the lightning bolt scar over his left eye. It’s the boy from the studio. The one who drove Joe Avalon. The tough kid seated four chairs down from me as I waited. Teddy. That is his name.
Alice’s eyes fix on him for a split second. Only I—and probably Teddy—see. And she finishes the final twirl and then, trying glamorously to catch her breath, clutching her hand to her chest with all the drama of Bette Davis, she fashions a breathtaking smile.
I look back at Teddy, and by the time I turn around again, Alice is gone.
• • •
Pushing past the energized dancers, I try to get to Teddy, not knowing what I can possibly say to him. But he has already thrust through the other way, to the patio doors, presumably after Alice.
I squeeze through the oblivious revelers and out the doors, but by the time I’m outside I can’t see Alice or Teddy or anyone.
I begin thinking. Avalon sent Teddy here to scare Alice, or abduct her, or worse. He knows she’s setting him up. He will do anything he can to stop her. Alice has to have known that this would happen, that Joe would find out about the frame. What’s her plan now?
In my head, flashbulbs smash in front of me, and Bill is squinting, covering his face, running down the City Hall steps. Cop Fired in Disgrace, D.A. to Prosecute His Own.
On a guess, the only guess left, I walk quickly and purposefully back through the house and into Alice and Bill’s bedroom.
I have no idea what I might find. None at all.
Some part of me is sure she is too smart for this, too smart for me. There can be nothing to find. She has spent a life covering her tracks. Passing time in one darkened hotel room after the next, peeling masks off only to expose other, still brighter masks beneath. She knows how to leave no trace.
But time is running out, and I have to take the chance that she is scared and desperate. As it turns out, I am lucky.
It is almost too easy. There in the drawer of the bedside table is an oblong envelope with a drawing of chocolate-colored natives on it, flowers in their hair.
I sit down on the bed and open it. It is the itinerary for a boat trip—the SS Tarantha—headed to Brazil. Mr. and Mrs. King. Mr. and Mrs.
The boat leaves tomorrow at six o’clock.
I feel my stomach rise. How could he go with her?
I stare at the envelope for several minutes. Then I walk over to the closet and open the top drawer of the tall highboy inside. In it is the dainty Walther PPK pistol Bill brought back from Europe. I put it in my purse.
I’d like to say I have everything planned, but I am just running by pure instinct, some throbbing voice inside me saying, Don’t take any chances.
I exit the bedroom unseen and leave quickly through the patio door and the black, echoey yard. As I do, I think I might see Teddy lurking in a far corner. I half-expect to see his fleshy scar, feel his hard arms.
• • •
For two hours, I drive mindlessly, unable to think. I drive out of Pasadena and its endless, pungent groves all the way to the Sepulveda Dam, all quivering cottonwoods and glittering sycamores, and the new golf course carved in the middle, and then back through Burbank, by the blazing Hollywood Bowl. I drive and as I drive, slowly, with the radio mourning haunted hearts, I find I’m making plans.
Finally, I find myself on my block and then at my building. As I walk from my car, I hear someone walking briskly to catch up with me. I turn with a start, waiting for the lightning bolt, or Joe Avalon’s coal-eyed stare. Lately, it seems like I am always turning with a start.
“Detective Cudahy,” I blurt, not entirely relieved.
“You’re not playing straight, even after our little talk,” he says with a creeping coldness in his voice.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Where’s your sister-in-law?”
I guess there are few secrets left. I lock
eyes with him. He looks tired, frustrated, impatient. “Where is she, Miss King?”
In my head, I start to say, Sister-in-law? I don’t know what you mean. But I can’t bear to keep playing. I can’t stomach putting on the front.
So instead I say, “I don’t know. I came here looking for her.”
He looks slightly relieved at my bluntness. “She knew we were closing in. We were tailing her.”
“And you lost her?”
“She lost us. I was staking out the party and she just disappeared. One minute she was there, the next she was gone. Must have left on foot. We’re guessing she’s on her way into hiding, or skipped town. This may come as a big surprise to you, Miss King, but she knows even more than you.”
“I thought maybe,” I say, inwardly relieved. He has figured out a lot, but not everything.
And then he pauses as if deciding something.
“We’ll keep your brother out of it,” he finally says, nodding toward me.
I feel my eye twitch. I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting him to mention Bill. I don’t know why I thought Bill was still safe.
I consider, fleetingly, telling him about the tickets to Brazil. But I have no real reason to believe Cudahy would, or could, keep my brother out of it. And, more pressingly, I have no reason to believe Bill would, or could, stay out of it.
“We know he doesn’t know what he married into,” Cudahy continues. “The circles your sister-in-law moved in.”
“Right.”
“You should have told me about him. About who you were.”
“I know.”
• • •
As I walk up the stairs, my head is blank. It crosses my mind that I can’t be sure I’m not being followed now. Still, what choice do I have? I have to take my chances.
When I enter the apartment, the phone is ringing. Somehow I know it has been ringing for hours.
“It’s Alice. Don’t you think it’s time we spoke?” I hear the roar of the ocean in the background.
I say, “Where?” and she tells me.
On the long drive to meet Alice, I am careful to watch my rearview mirror. I take some winding detours and don’t notice anyone.
I am thinking that there are so many things about Alice that I will never know. An airless gap between the stories of her low-rent childhood and her years working for studio costume departments. And do I even know if these exotically sketched narratives are true?
She made herself into someone you didn’t ask questions of because somehow you didn’t know the right questions to ask. Or the questions you wanted to ask seemed impossibly naïve in the face of the dark maw that lay behind her finely etched wife face.
Once I thought she was trying to escape a darkness, and she found rescue in Bill. Now I know that she wanted both. She liked the double life. It kept her alive.
• • •
I arrive at Miramar Point as the moon shows its full size, giving off a faint glitter on the water, whose waves cream forward into sleek spit curls before straightening out to stretched silk again. A lone boat knocks around the Santa Monica breakwater. Past it, the colossal gap of the ocean hangs a steely purple.
I park on a small ridge off the highway and make my way to the top of an endless flight of wooden steps. My hand moist on the nickel rail as I ascend higher and higher, I make the final turn to reach the restaurant. Its round booths, hung over with fairy lights, are uninhabited except for a young man with a shock of white-blond hair nodding off over his drink. A cat twined at his feet suddenly arches his back at me as I walk over and slide into a booth, ordering a short glass of red wine.
It is twenty minutes before I hear someone call. Looking out, I see her making her way up the long set of steps.
Through the brown-violet dusk, I can see her waving, waving as if somehow—against all reason—glad to see me.
As she walks up the last stretch, I think of nothing but the faint sound of passing cars on the highway below. It is the only way.
Moments later, we are leaning, small glasses of anisette in hand, over the terrace rail behind the bar. Her hair, long and undone, swirls around her as she turns to face me. Every moment feels unutterably significant.
“Remember that night when I told you I felt like someone was following me?” she says evenly.
Before I can say I don’t remember it at all, she adds, “Isn’t it funny that it was you?”
Taken aback, I say, “I’m not following you.”
“No?” she says, and suddenly I’m not so sure.
She taps out the final cigarette from her creased pack, her fingers sallow at the tips.
“It’s you who’s followed me,” I insist severely. “Telling Mike Standish things that you couldn’t know.”
She only smiles.
“You wanted to scare me off this. But you can’t.” I feel my nerve rise the more I speak. If she wants it straight, I’ll give it to her. “Why did you keep letting Lois go to Walter Schor when you knew the kind of man—”
I wasn’t expecting the response.
“Why not?” Her eyes ringed red. “If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. Girls like us—” she begins, then lifts her shoulders almost in a shrug. The us is painfully, devastatingly vague.
“But you were out of it all. You could have been out.”
“There is no out.” Her eyes like fresh teeth, hooking into me. “Don’t you know?”
I ignore her question, try once again to shift the conversation to the immediate, the practical.
“So Mike told you,” I say. “What I’d found out.” I’m not sure if it is a question or not. The conversation feels unreal, unmoored. I feel drunk, nerves hot and tingling.
“Everything. He told me everything,” she says, and runs a finger along her lips, blue under the lights. “He couldn’t help it. He had to give me all of it. He was in love and he couldn’t distinguish.”
“In love.”
“With you, my girl. I figured on a lot, but not on that.” She draws in the smoke.
“I should have,” she adds, almost kindly. The tone sets something off in me.
“Why don’t you just tell me. Why don’t you just tell me. Was it you? Did you kill her.” My voice is like a knot unloosing too fast, uncontrollable. Even as I say it, I don’t really believe it. But I want to see. I want to see how bad it is.
“I didn’t kill her.” Alice shakes her head. “But I might have, it’s true. If I had to. She knew I couldn’t leave everything behind. Not everything. Or couldn’t yet. I still liked the perfume of it, even if I sometimes hated myself for it.
“Walter Schor, you know all about him, I guess? She showed up at his house. She knew you were never supposed to do that. She wasn’t following any of the rules anymore. Schor called us both. Said get her out of here or there’s going to be trouble. He was through with her anyway.
“When Joe and I got there, his flunkies, they said they didn’t know where she was. But you could feel something in the air, something awful.
“We kept looking through the entire house, walking down corridor after corridor, in and out of over a half dozen bedrooms and sitting rooms and a projection room and pantries and a room, Lora, a room just for arranging flowers.
“The longer it took to find her, the more we both saw our futures shuddering before us. He could see trouble with cops and all the bad business that comes with it. I could see worse. The end of everything.
“It was a half hour before we found her. We’d already looked at his famous saltwater pool and hadn’t seen her. But when I was upstairs in one of the bedrooms, I stepped out on a balcony and looked down at the big kidney shape, and there was something in it, floating.
“It looked like a big black rose, like those aerial shots in old musicals, round black-stockinged chorus girl legs fanning out into big flowers.”
She spreads her blue-lit hand out over the water beneath us.
“It was her dress blooming.
“Joe and I ran
down, and he kneeled over and he saw too.
“Neither of us jumped in. Isn’t that strange?” She turns to me, as if wanting an answer.
I don’t say anything. How can I say anything? I look down past the railing, into the surf. I look down and listen to her buzzing, relentless voice.
“And, Lora, it was so funny. Lois was leaning over herself, facedown, curled over like the top of a cane. Joe reached out and tugged her toward the pool’s edge. I can still see him lifting her head up. Her eyes were wide open. I wasn’t expecting that. They were beautiful.
“Before I passed him off to Lois, I was Schor’s girl for a long time, with the scars to show for it. He wasn’t even as rough as they come. I’ve had rougher. But I knew it could have been me. In many ways, it was me: Alice Steele, folded up upon herself, and Alice King waiting there, ready to cut her losses, reborn free of old ties, old stories, old desires . . .
“Joe called two of his boys and told them to dump her but first make her hard to identify. They didn’t do much of a job. They didn’t think they needed to. Who would stand up for Lois? Who would even look for her?”
She reaches out and grabs my face in her hand. “You really want to know?” Her grip is cold marble on my skin. “Listen”—she holds my chin more tightly, forcing my eyes to hers—“listen, Lora. Isn’t this the kind of thing you’ve always wanted to know? Isn’t this the kind of thing you’ve been touching with your fingertips since we met? Touching in the dark?”
No.
“They busted a cap together, he beat her raw, and when he was done, he pushed her in, and let her sink like a stone. Maybe he held her under, forcing all that hot dirty life out of her.
“Listen, Lora, listen.”
The way she looks at me—I remember what Mike once said: She wasn’t just a B-girl, she was carrying the whole ugly world in her eyes.
Then she finishes me off. “When we got there, Schor was reading the racing form. Drinking cognac and circling sure things with a little blue pencil.”
My hand darts out, knocks her arm away from me forcefully. Then slaps her face with a sharp crack. Her face shoots backward, but she doesn’t even blink. I think she might smile.
“Just tell me. My brother—” I start, then feel all the sound rush out of me—when did he fall when did he fall so far—blood beating in my brain. It is too much.