Devil’s garden

13

Sam hired a taxi at the Los Angeles station early the next morning after taking the Owl south late the night before. Arbuckle was free for now, and Sam had his instructions from Frank Dominguez and the Old Man. He read off the only address they had for Virginia Rappe to the cabbie, taking him through the downtown lined with wrought-iron streetlamps and palm trees, and then out onto Wilshire and up on Western, through orange groves and large mansions being built on loose, dusty soil. The machine hit potholes and jostled him up and down as they made their way north to Hollywood around where the cabbie said the circus had just started.

“You think it was bad yesterday,” said the cabbie. “Today they bury the poor girl. There ain’t no telling how many people want to see that.”

“Why would they care?”

“People feel bad for her. Say, what kind of work do you do?”

“I work for the Fuller Brush Company.”

“I’m bald, so no need to work your spiel on me.”

“We also sell many items for the ladies.”

“I read this morning that Arbuckle was smiling when they let him out of jail. That made me sick to my stomach. They say he walked right out of jail not feeling bad for nothing he did, only going down to see some barber and getting a free shave. You think the bastard would at least pay for it, him driving a thirty-thousand-dollar machine.”

“Why should he feel bad if he didn’t do it?”

“Come on. Where you been? The guy’s an animal.”

The little taxi painted canary yellow turned onto Melrose, two cars honking at the driver from the crossroad and him waving them off with disgust, turning so hard to the left that Sam thought the machine would lift up on two wheels. But all was steady as the driver headed east, passing the big barn buildings marked with signs for different studios, all of them surrounded by high fences and shut with gates.

“I pick up girls like that at the station all the time,” the cabbie said. “They come in with their little suitcases, all big-eyed and bragging about winning Miss Corn Queen or the like, everything they own brought in from Bumfuck, Iowa, and wanting to be the next Mary Pickford.”

“I think we might give a fella a break till his day in court.”

The cabbie turned around in his seat, the cab rolling into oncoming traffic, and said, “Didn’t you hear the bastard stuck a Coca-Cola bottle in her pussy? Where I’m from, you find a rope and the tallest tree.”

Sam didn’t say anything as they passed a long fence and a corner grocery and finally turned into a little neighborhood of bungalows. Most of them freshly built, the kind they advertise in the papers for veterans to start families. These were California specials, with stucco and red tile roofs and a dwarf orange tree in every front yard.

“Hey, you got a friend with you?”

“Come again?”

“That little Hupmobile has been following us since the station.”

Sam turned and noted the shadows of two figures in the coupe. He reached down to his ankle and slipped the.32 in his hand. His arm rested on the backseat, the gun in his lap, and he told the driver to keep circling.

“That’s the house right there.”

“Keep going,” Sam said. “Don’t circle back till I say.”

ROSCOE WAS bowling to opera.

Minta and Ma watched, eating ice cream from the little parlor he’d had built in the basement of his mansion on West Adams. It felt so damn good to be back home that the last weeks felt like a feverish nightmare, something from one of his pictures where he’d been locked up and whistled for Luke the pooch to come running with keys.

Luke, who was really Minta’s dog, sat at her feet under the wire parlor chair and waited for her to finish her sundae to lick up all the ice cream and pineapple sauce.

Roscoe let out all his breath and closed his eyes, taking a few steps down the lane and watching the ball glide and float to the pins, taking out all but two. A little negro at the end of the lane cleared off the downed pins as Roscoe hunted for another ball out of the dozens shining and gleaming on a brass rack.

“Ma, how ’bout another sundae?”

She shook her head, the spoon still in her mouth.

He smiled over at the pair, finally ditching the depressing black they’d worn in the police court and now dressed like normal folks. Minta in a green-and-white print dress and Ma still in her housecoat she’d worn since running the servants from the kitchen and cooking a skilletful of bacon and eggs.

Roscoe chose a red ball, eyeing the two pins, and stood at the line. Holding the ball up, he took a single step before hearing the warning bark from Luke, and he stopped to see Frank Dominguez coming down the curved wrought-iron staircase into the basement.

He was alone, still dressed in his black suit and red scarf, a fat leather satchel at his side.

Luke continued to bark and jut in and out at Dominguez’s feet without ever really taking a bite. Dominguez coolly smiled and threw down a biscuit the butler had given him, and Luke wandered off to a corner.

Dominguez said hello to Minta and Ma and then took a seat at the parlor bar.

Roscoe put down the ball and walked behind the bar and started to make Dominguez a sundae without him asking. He made a hell of a one with three different scoops of ice cream and three different sauces with chopped nuts and fresh whipping cream. A few cherries to boot.

“When did you put this in?”

“Last year,” Roscoe said. “You want to bowl a game?”

He slid the sundae before Dominguez at the bar. Dominguez rested his satchel on the barstool next to him. He smiled to Roscoe, a really tired, worn-out-looking smile, as Roscoe cleaned out a couple dirty glasses in some sudsy water, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Any word from Fishback or Sherman?”

Roscoe shook his head.

“You’ve called them?”

“A million times,” Roscoe said. “Lowell’s still in New York. God knows what happened to Freddie. I even wrote the son of a bitch a letter when I was in jail.”

“The Pinkertons can’t find him either. They believe he skipped Los Angeles right after you were arrested.”

“Some friends.”

“We need ’em.”

“They’ll come around,” Roscoe said. “Hey, how’s that sundae?”

It remained untouched.

“Freddie Fishback was in that room right after the girl took ill. He could testify that the girl was too far gone to be making any dying accusation. He also moved her into the bath and could account for those bruises on her arms and legs.”

“People think I got the leprosy.”

“You’ll be back on the lot before the year’s out.”

“All my pictures have been yanked, Zukor has stopped paying me till further notice, and when I got back from Frisco I found most of my furniture had been repossessed. Did you see upstairs? We don’t have a place to sit. Lucky the bastards didn’t come down here or they woulda taken every last pin.”

“Let me handle Zukor,” Dominguez said. “We have a contract.”

“A million a year only if I work. How am I supposed to work if they won’t let me on the lot? They pulled Gasoline Gus and it had only been out five days. No wonder the picture didn’t show a profit. Those goddamn bastards.”

Dominguez looked down at his sundae and then up at Roscoe.

“You got anything stronger?”

“What’s eating you?”

Roscoe dipped his hand into the cooler and came out with a bottle of jackass brandy. He poured a generous amount into a coffee mug.

“They want to replace me.”

Roscoe laughed. “Who?”

“Zukor. Lasky. Paramount wants you to go with a bigger name. I think they’ve been going behind my back with that big swinging dick in Frisco. He’s the one who took on the Jack Dempsey mess.”

“’ Cause of that shimmy girl, Bee Whosis, who shacked up with him?”

“Yeah.”

“That was just a dumb case,” Roscoe said. “The girl’s beau sued Dempsey for theft of love.”

“But the newsboys like him and he’s local. Might make a difference with the jury.”

“You still sore at how that son of a bitch U’Ren kept calling you Señor Dominguez?”

“I’m just saying this fella, McNab, is local. You should do some thinking on this, Roscoe. Don’t get all loyal and stupid on me.”

Dominguez finished the brandy, picked up his satchel, and told Minta and Ma good day.

Roscoe followed Dominguez with his eyes as he twirled around the iron staircase and disappeared up into the mansion. Roscoe set Dominguez’s untouched sundae on the floor and whistled for Luke.

“Roscoe, you’re going to make him fatter than he already is,” Minta said.

Roscoe took a seat on the steps down to the bowling lane, eyeing those last two pins, and rolled a cigarette. He massaged Luke’s nub ears as the dog licked the glass clean and asked him, “What about you, boy? Can you see the future?”

THE ADDRESS WAS A BUST.

Sam read out another.

The cabbie U-turned and headed west on Sunset, away from the city, along the long, barren road, and then cut up toward the cool, dark hills and zigzagged up a rough-cut path.

The house was in the old Mission style, a big, fat adobe number built up a steep drive and surrounded by high shrubs and palms. The early-afternoon shadows showed a set of twin hills, and the air smelled of citrus.

The cab parked at the curb. Sam walked to the gate and stared up at the mansion. The day was cool, sky blue, and down below a bunch of men in overalls were digging a trough through an orange grove. Up a long, curving driveway, a butler washed a long Packard touring car.

Sam whistled to him from the gate.

The man didn’t hear him. Or pretended he didn’t.

Sam whistled again and the man stuck the brush back in a suds bucket and wandered down to the gate.

“Like to see Mr. Lehrman.”

“He ain’t here.”

“Tell him I’m a detective from San Francisco.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Emperor of Japan, he still ain’t here.”

“When will he be back?”

“Next week,” the man said. “Leave a card.”

Sam left a card and walked back down to the cab and told the cabbie to wait. On foot, he followed the wall of shrubs until there was a break and he found a wrought-iron gate.

The gate was unlocked.

Sam let himself inside and walked down a winding path through some exotic trees and bushes. There was hibiscus and lime. Lemon trees and palm. Flowers planted along a spindled alabaster wall and up a little staircase to behind the mansion.

Sam found three people sitting by a little round pool with a fountain in the center. Two men and a woman.

All were very naked.

Sam smiled and took off his hat.

“I guess I’m a bit overdressed.”

A man with tight slicked hair and a tiny mustache got to his feet. He was tall and bony and hairless and made no attempt to cover himself. He just wanted to know how the hell Sam had gotten into the garden.

“Let myself in,” Sam said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lehrman.”

“Please leave.”

“I came all the way from San Francisco.”

“Are you with the police?”

“I’m a detective,” Sam said.

“Please sit,” Henry Lehrman said, sweeping his hand to a small lacquered table bordered by four silk pillows. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure.”

“I hope our nudity does not shock you,” Lehrman said. “We find it to be quite natural and nothing to be ashamed of. This is my home and we have our own customs.”

“I heard I was born that way.”

The woman remained seated by the pool, eating an apple. She was young, maybe not twenty, redheaded and freckled, her skin flushed with sun. Sam made a note of her form as she was introduced as Miss Leigh. She smiled at Sam and Sam smiled back, liking the smile and shape.

Henry introduced the man as his spiritual adviser, Dr. Bagwa. The man wore a jeweled headdress and it jingled as he bowed. Sam couldn’t hide his smile, which wasn’t lost on “Dr. Bagwa,” who returned back to his spot by the pool with Miss Leigh.

“Dr. Bagwa is an expert in soul painting,” Lehrman said. “Have you heard of it?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“He can see the colors of man’s soul without the flesh and bone.”

“That a fact.”

“He’s quite wise, you know.”

Lehrman rang a little bell and a maid appeared and he asked for two cups of flower tea.

“I’m sorry about Miss Rappe,” Sam said.

“She was my fiancée.”

“What about Miss Leigh?”

“She’s my secretary.”

“I see.”

Lehrman looked off for a long moment, seeming to study the hills, and turned back to Sam. “She was my muse. My love. My friend. I don’t know if I can work without her. She was to be the star of my next film.”

Sam set fire to a Fatima and laid the pack and matches on the table. “What was it going to be about?”

“The film? Does it matter now? It’s all lost.”

“How long did you know her?”

“I’ve already answered these questions for Judge Brady.”

“Just a few more, if you don’t mind.”

The tea came. The maid thankfully brought a robe, an Oriental affair, that Lehrman slipped into and belted at the waist. He sat cross-legged on the pillow and lit a jade opium pipe.

“She was just an extra,” he said. “But she had a quality. You know they say she was born from royalty?”

“I read that. Is it true?”

“Virginia never knew her father,” he said. “I suppose it could be true.”

Lehrman pulled on the pipe and closed his eyes. He looked quite content on the little pillow.

“She lived with you?”

“She lived in the wing of the house with my aunt.”

“All very proper.”

“Well, of course.”

“And you loved her.”

“I did.”

“And how did she know Mr. Semnacher and Mrs. Delmont?”

“I don’t know.”

“But she was with them?”

“I’ve met Mr. Semnacher and find him to be quite distasteful. I know nothing of this Delmont woman.”

“You didn’t care that she’d gone to San Francisco?”

“We were free to live our own lives.”

“But she was your fiancée?”

Lehrman set down the pipe. He made a show of smoothing down the little black mustache. The wind blew off the shadowed hills, smelling of orange blossoms and tropical flowers. He made a sad face, looking more comical than sad. Sam watched him and fished for another Fatima.

He stole a side glance of Miss Leigh, laughing and talking with Dr. Bagwa.

“When did you meet Miss Rappe?”

“Two years ago.”

“She was in one of your pictures?”

“Yes.”

“And you fell in love?”

“Madly.”

“And she moved in here?”

“Yes. What does it matter?”

“Did you know any of her people in Chicago?”

“We decided not to speak of her past or who we were before we met.”

“I see.”

“Did she have many friends?”

“Of course.”

“Who were they?”

“I’m finding this tiresome, Mr…?” Lehrman raised an eyebrow.

Sam introduced himself and laid out his hand. Lehrman looked to his hand and stood, holding on to the jade pipe and excusing himself. “This all has been quite a troubling ordeal. If it wasn’t for the good doctor, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Lehrman took a crooked path back to the house. The glass doors rattled with a sharp slam.

Sam sniffed the tea and then took a small sip. It tasted like chopped flowers and sugar. He stood and stretched his legs, smiling over at Miss Leigh. She smiled back and crossed her shapely long legs. She wore her hair loose and it fell softly against the fine shoulders and the tips of her full breasts with small pink nipples.

Her eyes were wide set and an innocent green without a trace of paint. Somewhere a farmer was missing his daughter.

So intent on the girl, Sam missed the good Dr. Bagwa as he took a seat at the table, pulling loose a Fatima.

“Whatta you say, Pete?” Sam said, turning his eyes back to the girl.

“Thanks for not blowing it, Sam.”

“Man’s got to make an honest living.”

“You ain’t kidding, brother.”

“How long you been with this four-flusher?”

“A month.”

“Dr. Bagwa,” Sam said, laughing. “That tops your minister act in Port-land. Or the English duke in Cleveland.”

“I try.”

“You know where I can get a decent plate of ham and eggs?”

Pete the Fink told him. Sam said he’d meet him there in an hour.

“And Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you wear some goddamn pants.”