Anatomy of Fear

37

Dickie Marwell turned the simple act of entering the small Boston conference room into a three-act play: cape off with Zorro-like panache, Act I; gloves plucked daintily from each finger, Act II; trying out the two identical chairs, sagging into one, jiggling his bottom around in the other, Act III; a deep histrionic sigh as coda.

He smiled, or tried to. Nothing moved, his face a Botoxed mask. There were pale surgical scars around his ears. Still, I took him to be close to eighty.

“Can’t we do this in a cocktail lounge?” he asked.

I was about to point out that it was not quite 10:00 A.M. when he launched into his résumé, starting with, “I used to make movies.”

“Wait a minute, you’re that Dickie Marwell? I’ve seen all of your films on video and DVD-The House That Dripped Blood, Die, Die Dracula, and my all-time favorite, Killing the Undead.”

I thought the skin on Marwell’s tight-as-a-drum face might split as he attempted to smile, though the simple act had been rendered close to impossible by the botulism injected into his facial muscles. “The one and only,” he said. “Retired. Beverly Hills paled and my hometown Beacon Hill beckoned.”

I wanted to ask him everything about making cheapo horror films in the fifties, but I was getting paid to ask other, more important, questions, so I opened my drawing pad to get started.

Marwell gripped my hand. “What have you done to your cuticles? Good-looking boy like you. My God, it’s a sin.”

I tugged my hand free.

“With your looks and name-Rodriguez-I can see it on a marquee faster than you can say ‘Qué pasa, baby.’ No offense, darling, but today it’s all Latin Latin Latin. Am I right, or am I right? I may no longer be in the film biz, but I keep up.” He framed my face. “If I were still making films I’d sign you up in a minute.”

“Another horror film, huh?”

Marwell’s hands continued to form rectangles around my mug. “I know a face when I see a face, and you have a face.”

“Yeah, I always knew that. I see it like two or three times a day.”

“But clearly not this morning. When was the last time you shaved? No matter. It’s a look, I know. And the camera will love you just the way you are. But promise me you will stop picking at your fingers.”

I promised. “So, tell me about the perpetrator.”

“The perpetrator. I love that.” He took a deep, dramatic breath. “Well, I had a party and showed a movie in my screening room, Brokeback Mountain, to make my old-fogy Boston amigos sit up and take notice, and-”

“Can we cut to the robbery, Mr. Marwell?”

“I’m the director, sweetie, I’ll say when we cut. And call me Dickie.”

“Okay, Dickie. The robbery?”

“Well, after my friends left I was exhausted from all of the party chitchat, you know how it is.”

I did not.

“Anyway, I went directly to sleep. Next thing I know, I’m awake, it’s the middle of the night, and oh my God, there’s a man in a black jumpsuit-awful, by the way, so seventies, and he was way too big for spandex-stealing my things! Here, in Beacon Hill, of all places. I mean, really, in Beverly Hills it’s to be expected, but-”

“Mr. Marwell-”

He raised a finger. “Dickie.”

“Right. Dickie. The man? In spandex? Can you describe him?”

“He had a big sack, like Santa, and he was putting my gold candlesticks in it-a gift from Vincent Price, by the way. I pretended to be asleep. I’m lucky to be alive!”

“But you saw him?”

“Indeed I did. A big man. Real rough trade. If I wasn’t so tired…” He laughed.

I took a deep breath and went through my usual questions-race, shape of the face-and Marwell was good.

I was doing fine for a while; Marwell had an excellent visual memory, but then something went wrong. When I looked down I was shocked.

I hadn’t been listening to Marwell at all. That other face in my mind was all I could see-and draw.

I didn’t want to show Marwell, but he turned it around. “Oh, my, what’s this? You need a Xanax, m’boy-or maybe just a good colonic?”

I said I was sorry. I didn’t know what had happened.

We took a coffee break and I asked Marwell a few questions about his life in Hollywood, which he was more than happy to answer. Afterward I tried again and did better. Marwell deemed my sketch brilliant and said if he ever made another movie he was going to call me.

“You’ll be the new Andy Garcia,” he said. “Only taller.”

“Oh, sure,” I said.

I gave the sketch to Nevins, who barely looked up from her desk when she said, “Thanks. Make sure you leave your social security number with the desk so you can get paid and reimbursed for the train and hotel.”