Beverly Hills Dead

53

Sid Brooks sat on a stool at the counter of the diner in Santa Monica where he had lunch nearly every day. He needed a midday break from his work, since he was at the typewriter for eight hours a day, compared to the four hours he had been working before he had been blacklisted.

He was deep into a bowl of homemade clam chowder and paid little attention when someone took the stool next to him.

“You’re a real piece of work, Brooks,” a voice to his right said.

Sid turned and looked at the man. He recognized him as Fred Blair, another blacklisted writer. He knew the man only from the meetings of the nineteen subpoenaed writers when they were discussing their legal defense. “Hello, Fred,” Sid said. “What are you talking about?”

“We’ve heard what you’re planning to do,” Blair said.

“Who is ‘we,’ and what am I planning to do?”

“You’re going to purge yourself before the committee, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “You’re going to rat us out.”

“I’m not going to rat anybody out,” Sid said and turned back to his chowder.

“So, you’re a liar as well as a rat.”

“Did you hear what Billy Wilder said about us, Fred?”

“Huh?”

“Wilder said, ‘Of the unfriendly ten, only two had any talent; the others were just unfriendly.’ There’s not much doubt which group you belong to. You have nothing to lose, because you were doing shitty work all along. Somebody always had to be hired to clean up after you.”

Blair stood up and squared off. “You lousy son of a bitch. Stand up, and I’ll make you eat those words.”

Sid ate the last spoonful of his chowder, laid a dollar and a half on the counter, stood up and faced Blair. “Why don’t you grow up, Fred?” He brushed past Blair and walked out of the diner.

Blair caught up to him in the parking lot. “Just a minute, you coward,” he yelled and grabbed at Sid’s shoulder.

Sid took a step away from him and turned; he saw it coming. Blair started at him and drew back his right hand. As he swung, Sid stepped inside the punch, blocked it and drove his right fist into the man’s solar plexus.

Blair sat down on the pavement, clutching his midriff, and vomited into his lap. Sid wanted to hit him again, but he was too pathetic. He turned and walked toward his car, mentally thanking the instructor at the Lower East Side settlement house who, when he was twelve, had taught him to box, a handy skill for a Jewish boy in a public school.

“We’re gonna get you!” Blair yelled from behind him.

Sid turned and used his whole arm in a very satisfying obscene gesture. He got into his car and drove away, thinking that any remaining doubts he had about testifying had been resolved.

Hank Harmon left her upstairs bedroom in her friend Sylvia’s house and went downstairs in search of a pen. She went into the den and began opening desk drawers, finding all sorts of things, including a snub-nosed revolver, before finally finding a pen. She borrowed some stationery, went back upstairs and peeked through the drawn venetian blinds. They were still out there with their cameras. She sat down and started writing.

She had written, sealed and stamped her letters when, a little after six, she heard a car door slam outside. She peeked outside again and saw Sylvia elbowing her way through the little mob of reporters, then she heard the front door slam. Hank went downstairs.

“Hi,” she said to Sylvia. “Did you have a good day?”

Sylvia sank into the sofa, not looking at her. “Sit down, please, Hank.”

Hank sat down.

Sylvia looked up. “To answer your question: no, I didn’t have a good day. First of all, when I left for work this morning, I had to wade through that bunch outside. Then, when I got to work, my boss showed me a newspaper article by Hedda Hopper that mentioned my name and address and that said you were hiding out here. I was pretty much told that if he read anything like that again, I’d be out of the studio on my ass.”

“Sylvia...”

“I’m not through. Then I came home from work, and I had to wade through the reporters again.” She held up a batch of mail. “I never get this much mail.” She riffled through the envelopes. “All of it is from my neighbors on this street.” She chose one and ripped it open. “Dear Miss Pound,” she read, “We would appreciate it if you would come to a neighborhood association meeting at the school at seven-thirty this evening to discuss with us the ruckus outside your house and your choice of houseguests. And I would advise you to read the bylaws of the neighborhood association before you come.” Sylvia tossed the letter aside. “I’m sure the others say pretty much the same thing, and I don’t need to read the bylaws to know that there is a clause stating that any resident who is a bad neighbor for any one of a number of reasons can be voted out. They can actually force me, legally, to sell my house.”

“Sylvia...”

“I’m not finished. When you called and said you needed a place to stay, you didn’t mention that you were the chief suspect in a murder investigation and that the press would follow you to my house.”

“Sylvia, I’m so sorry.”

“Hank, I’d like you to leave tonight. You can go late, when those people have finally decided to go home and go to sleep.” She went to her desk, rummaged in a drawer, came back with a brochure and handed it to Hank. “That’s a seaside hotel in Santa Barbara that is friendly to sisters; I’d recommend it as a good hiding place until all this dies down.”

Hank nodded. “All right. I’ll go tonight. There’s something I want you to know, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I didn’t kill Susie.”

“I never thought you did, Hank, and I would have been happy for you to stay here if you hadn’t brought the entourage with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a shower and wash my hair before this meeting tonight, and I think I’m going to have to wear a skirt, too, and my wedding ring. The neighbors all think I’m a divorcee.” She got up and went upstairs.

Hank slept until the alarm woke her at two A.M. She got up and peeked through the blinds. The front yard and the street in both directions seemed clear. She got dressed, carried her bags downstairs, went into the garage and put them into her car. She put the top up, then went back inside for her handbag, which she had left on the desk in the den. She picked it up, then stopped and thought for a moment. She turned, opened a desk drawer, took the snub-nosed revolver and put it into her handbag.

She went back to the garage and opened the door. She backed out her car, got out and closed the door, then backed into the street and drove away. On the main road she found a mailbox and mailed her letters.

At the top of the mountain, instead of continuing down the other side, she turned right on Mulholland Drive.