Getting Garbo Page 17

  With waspish delight, he spells it out for me. Addie’s store. Not a money pit, but a money maker. She’s been hiding assets like crazy. Phony write-offs, stashing the cash and the bailout checks I’ve been giving her in a numbered Swiss bank. He ought to know. He’s her silent partner. Blabbing now, of course. Can’t resist. Just can’t. Best for last: Guy has used his contacts to arrange a national affiliation. Lots and lots of Adrienne’s Emporiums will be sprouting all across the land. As soon as the divorce decree is final.

  “That’s the cream of the jest, you see. She’s going to be a very wealthy woman—even without a penny of what she’s getting from you in the divorce.” He winks at me. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

  • • •

  I’m on top of the world. Looking down. Don’t like what I see. Not a bit.

  I fled McDaniel’s market. Guy Saddler’s snicker pursuing me. Had to get away from him. From everyone. Fast. So here I am. A place where I’ve never been, never even thought of going to.

  The bell tower on top of Beverly Hills City Hall.

  Walked, almost ran, blindly down the street. Too many people. Ducked into the post office on Santa Monica Boulevard. More people. Stopped at the water fountain. Just long enough to wash down the last of my darvons. Pushed a few doors. A staircase I hadn’t noticed before. Up, up, up. Leading here. Where I’m alone. With my frantic jumble of thoughts. If the pain in my head doesn’t stop I’m going to have it chopped off. Ha! Why bother? Got other people who’ll do that for me.

  On a clear day you can see the ocean. It’s not a clear day. So I have a terrific view of the smog hanging over the chic shopping streets of Beverly Hills. Little toy cars darting this way and that. Tiny antlike people scurrying about. All going somewhere.

  Not me.

  I’m going nowhere.

  All washed up.

  Not only has Addie skinned me in the settlement, but she robbed me before and after. Raped me financially. I know better than to try and prove it. Guy Saddler wouldn’t tell me all that if Addie hasn’t made the trail untraceable. I should be entitled to at least part of what her business is worth—or about to be worth. But she’s maneuvered it so I get goose egg. Gournisht. Nada.

  Unless…

  The unthinkable thought.

  It’s starting to seep out.

  Of course, I’d been happy when the divorce moved along so briskly. Didn’t know Addie had her own agenda going. While I was doing it to her, she was doing it to me. I’m beyond anger. Filled with hate. Boiling with outrage. That cunt! She lied, stole, absolutely ambushed me. And her punishment is she wins it all.

  But the wild thing is that there’s a new sensation rising within me. I feel relief. Release. Almost thankful. Because she’s given me the excuse I craved. Done something that tips me over the top. Supplied my justification to think the unthinkable. Which goes like this:

  Addie doesn’t win until the divorce judgment is finalized.

  In two weeks I am a pauper. Probably permanently.

  Providing she’s still alive.

  There. I said it out loud.

  Until then we are still married in the eyes of the courts of California. And a surviving spouse owns the entire joint estate. If anything happens to Addie before then, I’ll not only retain my TV royalties—I’ll probably even own a controlling chunk of the store. Which is a local gold mine about to go national. Even if she’s changed her will, which she probably hasn’t bothered to do yet, as co-owner the worst I’d hold on to is half. Of everything. Without begging.

  Sounds fair to me. Either way.

  Of course, just wishing won’t make it so.

  I look over the small city below. Hodge-podge of rooftops. Sun glittering off the gold dome of the Beverly Theater, like the top of the mosque in Gunga Din. “We’ve got to save the regiment—before it’s too late.” Let’s just imagine. Adrienne’s Emporium is about there. Two blocks over, one block up. Suppose I just stroll in at lunchtime. Find the bitch alone and—and—

  That’s where I get hung up. Because the simple fact is—I don’t know how to do this.

  Not in real life.

  But I do, says the voice inside my head.

  It’s Jack. He’s back.

  No, I’ve been here all along. Just waiting for you to wake up to what has to be done. His voice is soothing. I’ll show you how.

  “You don’t know anything. You’re just a fucking figment of my imagination.”

  Hey. I was there with you. When the technical advisers on the show taught us.

  “Who remembers all that stuff?”

  I remember. Listening to those guys was an education. He’s materializing now, I swear he is, I can see his body language as he rattles ’em off. They showed us how to kill with a gun, a garrote, a stiletto. How to eviscerate, asphyxiate, defenestrate, defoliate. Doing ’em in by drowning, burning, poisoning, bludgeoning, disemboweling, freezing, frying, am I forgetting anything?

  “It’s enough.”

  Lucky we were working on an action show.

  “What about getting caught?”

  You won’t. He puts his arm around my shoulders. Protective. Don’t be scared, Roy. I’ll be with you.

  I listen. He makes it sound easy. My headache starts to fade.

  18

  Reva

  This is the first time I’ve ever shown my entire autograph collection to anyone all at once, and I must say that Gunther Weybright is a very attentive audience. He flips through page after page, book after book, even the crumb books which, of course, do contain some real nuggets, and he seems quite impressed. “You have been a most industrious person,” he says.

  Podolsky gives me a surreptitious but encouraging nudge.

  We’re in Mr. Weybright’s store on La Cienega Boulevard. He buys and sells rare books, first editions, and autographs. Neither Podolsky nor I have ever met him before, but we’ve both noticed his store in the past. The Coronet Theater that plays old movies is just down the street. Once Podolsky and I went to see some Charlie Chaplin shorts there, and right before the show was supposed to begin the manager came to the front and scanned the spectators, and I guess none of us looked like cops because he ran a rare bootleg print of Modern Times instead.

  Across the street we once got Elsa Lanchester, who was the Bride of Frankenstein and also Mrs. Charles Laughton in real life, when she was arriving to do her one-woman show for children in a tiny stage theater up the street. She signed for us, then realized she’d left her stage door key at home so she had to crawl in a window. We helped her get inside the theater, and I know I’m rambling on here but I’m scared Mr. Weybright will say No, because I really need money desperately now that Killer won’t help me, but I’m also scared Mr. Weybright will say Yes, because that will mean the end of my collection.

  It’s probably a good time to clear up some misconceptions about autograph collectors. The kind we are, anyway. There are people who approach it as a business, they get autographs and try to sell them. We all look down on them. To us it’s a hobby, pure and simple. The notion that we get multiple signatures and trade them with each other also isn’t true. You know, three Susan Haywards for one Bette Davis. Horse pucky. There has to be a reason if you get a repeat signature, like for instance, if there was a misspelling the first time and it came out “Gay Cooper” instead of “Gary.” Some of the autographs never improved, like Marlene Dietrich, who always wrote “M-line-D-line.” No other defined letters.

  Jimmy Stewart would write “James” only on request, otherwise he was “Jimmy.” James Cagney would always sign “JCagney,” no matter what, but as I look around the walls in Mr. Weybright’s store I see a framed letter hanging behind his desk signed “GWashington,” so maybe collectors have always had these problems. Sometimes we got a new autograph when the actor graduated from crumb book to good book. The only other repeats perm
itted were on 8x10 glossies or the candid photos we shot ourselves. I’m not saying everyone obeyed these rules, but if you were part of the Secret Six, that’s how it worked.

  The point I’m making is that inasmuch as I don’t have any repeats, if I sell my collection that’s it. Either I quit or I suddenly need everybody and I know it’s too late to start over again, so all I’ll have is my memories. The only tangible reminders of those hundreds and hundreds of occasions that are so precious to me will be gone.

  But what choice do I have?

  Mr. Weybright looks like my high school biology teacher. A musty man in a beige misbuttoned-down-the-front sweater, over a white shirt and red bow tie, he purses his lips as he turns the pages, occasionally remarking about a particular signature. “Babe Ruth,” he says, “genuine Americana, and President Eisenhower—”

  “That was from before he was president.”

  He nods. “Pola Negri, is she still alive?”

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him, but when he leafs on I confirm that John Garfield is dead and he seems pleased. Finally he closes the last book and pats it with his liver-spotted hand.

  “So what do you think?” I ask him.

  “Generally speaking, not exactly my field. I specialize in historical figures. I have several Andrew Jackson letters, a playbill signed by John Wilkes Booth, proclamations personally autographed by Woodrow Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt, that sort of thing. Of course, I deal in some entertainment personages, such as Harry Houdini and Sarah Bernhardt. This would be a first for me.”

  “How much?” Podolsky asks, because I’m afraid to.

  “I could offer—” Mr. Weybright purses his lips “—a hundred and seventy dollars.”

  He can see my disappointment. I’d hoped he’d say something in the thousands, that’s how much they’re worth to me, but that’s not how it is.

  “You see, essentially it’s only the deceased figures who have value, and the historical figures, and there aren’t that many of those in your collection. But I’m willing to gamble, and wait, some of the entertainers may…” he gropes for a word, “…they may mature profitably. All right, let’s round it out, I’ll say, two hundred dollars.”

  For everything. That’s all it’s worth to him. Podolsky and I have calculated costs and with round trip bus fare and the cost of an abortion in Tijuana, according to a gal he asked at his job in Music City, plus what I have in savings, that might just barely be enough.

  “Of course, someone else might be able to make you a better offer. Perhaps one of those book stores that specialize in the entertainment field.”

  Podolsky and I have tried them already. First Podolsky tried to talk me out of selling my collection. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life,” like I don’t know that already, so I had to insist, particularly since I still haven’t heard anything definitive from Dr. Berman, except the lab screwed up so much that I had to go in and take another rabbit test and now I’m still waiting for the results, but I’m sure they’re really just double checking and it’s going to be bad news and I have to deal with this problem, because I can’t take care of a child and Mother wouldn’t and I couldn’t even ask her.

  So Podolsky drove me to several Hollywood Boulevard stores to get my collection appraised and they all were totally disinterested, wouldn’t even take the time to go through my stuff. This is the one and only shot. Mr. Weybright’s offer. I better grab it. It’s the only chance I have, there’s really no other way. I have to do it. I open my mouth to accept, but what comes out is, “I’m sorry, I can’t do it.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Weybright says, “as one collector to another.”

  I look at Podolsky, his horn-rimmed glasses are half-fogged because of the tension, he wipes them clear on his sleeve and helps me stack my autograph books back in the carton we brought them in. We carry them out to the trunk of his car.

  “Let’s stop at Walgreen’s,” he says. “I need to take an aspirin, my head’s killing me.”

  He’s not the only one.

  So we go to Walgreen’s, where my problem is solved, for only a nickel.

  I use the pay phone to call Dr. Berman’s office and the nurse puts me through and the doctor says he’s got good news, the report just came back, and it’s negative. I am not pregnant, but apparently I am severely anemic, and combined with emotional stress, that’s probably why my period is off. He can give me a shot to boost my iron count and there also are dietary steps I can take to improve my condition.

  After I hang up the phone I just stand there and Podolsky notices, I guess I’m smiling, but funny. “What’d he say?” he asks me.

  “Dr. Berman told me to go eat a chopped liver sandwich and everything will be okay.”

  19

  Roy

  Addie is a creature of habit. Friday nights, after closing, she is alone in the store. Updating her inventory, working on her accounts. Licking her wounds (she used to lament), or calculating her wins (now I know) for the previous week. Hard, lonely work, poor thing. Juggling those heavy books, hiding all those pesky assets. Performing a feat of reverse alchemy. Making a silk purse look like a sow’s ear.

  Her only interruption comes at six o’clock when the delivery boy from Linny’s deli, two blocks away, brings her dinner. Always the same: an Eddie Cantor sandwich. That’s a lean corned beef and liverwurst combo on rye. Pickle, mustard, and raw onion on the side. And a Dr. Pepper. It’s the only off-diet meal she permits herself all week.

  The delivery kid knocks on the back door. She comes out of the office, unlocks the door, takes the food bag from him and signs for it. Gives him a two dollar tip in cash. He leaves. She goes back to her labors. Scarfing her high-cholesterol repast while gloating over her covert success. Kind of like Bogie in Treasure of the Sierra Madre, sifting gold dust with greedy fingers.

  I’m parked down the street. I see the deli kid come and go.

  Now she’s alone. Benjy the guard and the sales biddies all long gone.

  I walk around to the alley and up to the back door. It’s covered with sheet metal for security. Afterward, I’ll pry at the metal to make it look like a forced entry. But for now I’ve got a key. I turn the key. Open the door to my future.

  Step inside. Turn into the storeroom. Dark. Bit of light splashing in from the hallway. Dimly illuminating the shelves. Stuffed to overflowing with bolts of fabric, lamps, shades, cornices, framed decor artwork, metal ornaments, brocaded toss pillows, candleholders, paperweights, fireplace andirons. Shipping clerk’s packaging table. Neat and empty. Except for the usual tools. Scissors, staple gun, bills of lading impaled on a pointy spike, coils of twine, several sharp knives.

  Fat City. Choice of weapons.

  I stand in the semi-darkness and wait. After she finishes eating, Addie always dumps the garbage back here. Doesn’t want the deli’s garlic smells stinking up her office overnight. So ladylike. I hear her heels clicking now. Coming down the corridor. Manicured hand reaches in to grope at the wall switch. She enters as the light goes on. And sees me. Leaning against the wall. Boyish grin. Hands stuffed deep in my pants pockets. Mr. Casual.

  “Hi there,” I say. Like we’re running into each other at a church social.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Pissed. Not scared. Not yet.

  “I need a special gift. For a new divorcee.” Cute, huh? “Thought I’d give you the business.”

  “You’re shopping—after closing, in my stockroom? In the dark? How’d you get in?”

  “Usual way. Through the door.”

  “You still have a key?” I shrug. “Give it to me! Right now, you asshole—or I’m calling the alarm service.”

  “Hey, you want it—you got it.”

  I take my hand out of my pocket. Key in my open palm. She snatches the key. Triumphant. In charge. Doesn’t even notice. Then she does.

  “Why are you
wearing gloves?’

  “As Little Red Riding Hood said to the Big Bad Wolf in grandma’s bed.” I wigwag my gloved hands in her face. Now she’s got it. Fear jolts her nervous system. She tries to cover. Terror in her eyes, but her voice is steady. I’ll give her that.

  “Well, let’s go out front, Roy, see what we can find for your friend—” She lunges for the alarm service key pad on the wall. They don’t call it the panic button for nothing. Gets Beverly Hills cops here within two minutes. But I’m ready for her. Leap forward. Between her and the panic button. Intercept. Catch her hand. She makes her other hand into a claw and tries to rake my face, but I grab that wrist, too. We’re locked together. Hands upraised, we’re frozen.

  “Want to tango? Always takes two.” I yank her across the narrow room, like Fred and Ginger gliding to the RKO orchestra, and slam her back against the shelves. I let go of her and bow politely. “Thank you for the dance.” She’s staring at me, wild-eyed.

  “What do you want?” she asks. Kind of imploring.

  “Nothing much, sweetie. Just for you to die.”

  And that’s when I hit her. With a pewter candlestick from the shelf. The first blow bashes in the side of her face and she goes over backwards. Down to the floor. I sit astride her and keep hitting her and hitting her until her face is a ketchupy mush and—

  “Oh, God, no, I just can’t do it!” I scream.

  The crash of the waves obliterates my cry.

  I’m barefoot on the moonlit beach at Zuma Beach. Almost dawn. An insomniac trudging the deserted sands all night. While trying on imaginary scenarios for size.

  I’m all by myself. Except for Jack Havoc.

  Calm down, he says. Why can’t you do it?

  “Because—because I’ll get caught.”

  No you won’t. How?

  “All that blood, it’ll splash on me! What’s the point of wearing gloves if I go back out on the street looking like a slaughterhouse butcher?”

  So don’t get bloody. Beating her to a pulp, that was your idea. Not that it’s a problem. I mean, you’d be wearing black clothes, so it wouldn’t show. But if it worries you, clop her on the back of the head, not much blood in the scalp, or choke her to death, that’d be fun—