Dream Town, page 9
“Yes. Mrs. Jacoby?”
They shook hands and she said the magic words. “Would you like a drink?”
“If you’re having something, whiskey and water would be great, no ice. I can mix it.”
She brought over the two glasses and a stirrer and Archer did the alchemy, leaving out most of the water. He noted that she opted for a bourbon and soda on the rocks with a wedge of lime. He had watched her make it with a practiced hand. He thought that bar must get a lot of use. Some people just loved alcohol and also had a happy marriage. They were in the minority, he’d found.
They sat in high-backed chairs by the fire.
“So, please tell me what’s happened to Ellie.”
Archer gave her a more detailed account, only leaving out the fact of his falling face-first over the body. He was going to take that one to the grave, unless the county cops beat it out of him first.
“And how do you know her?”
“We went to college together back in Boston, then I moved out here and she came later. She went into writing. I went into set design. I work at Warner Brothers.”
Archer looked around. “Which explains this place. It’s got an artist’s eye.”
“I could never afford a home like this on my own, of course. My husband is in finance, and he also comes from money. In fact, this was his parents’ home. Simon’s firm underwrites a great many film productions. He got into the field because of his father, who was a very successful producer. There were lots of connections available for him, you see.”
“I absolutely see. Business is good, I take it?”
“Hollywood is hitting on all cylinders, as my husband likes to say.”
“Any kids?”
“Three. The oldest just turned twelve.”
“Nice. You mentioned you and Lamb went to college together back east?”
“Yes, at Wellesley. I was an art major and Ellie was an Agora.”
Archer set his drink down. “Art I get, but what’s an Agora? It sounds like one of those islands in the Caribbean.”
Jacoby smiled weakly. “She was a history and political science major, and belonged to the Agora Society. They don’t have sororities at Wellesley, Mr. Archer, so these college societies became sort of like a sorority would be for us. Before she moved here, Ellie worked in Washington, D.C., as an intern or aide. She’s very smart, very…worldly, I guess you can say, unlike me. Her father was in the diplomatic corps. Consequently, she’s traveled all over. She can speak two or three foreign languages. I think that’s why she’s in such high demand as a writer. The studios like her renaissance quality, her je ne sais quoi, if you will.”
“Now, that’s a term you don’t hear every day. I spoke to Cecily Ransome, earlier. She is very concerned about Lamb and even hired me to find her.”
Jacoby looked into the fire for a moment, her features distant and opaque. “Cecily’s taken Hollywood by storm. She came at a good time—the war was over and sensibilities and expectations were changing. We came out of that dreadful time a more hopeful, but also a more sober, country,” she said, her wide shoulders slumping.
“After I came back from the fighting I wasn’t sober for about a year.”
She smiled briefly. “But I think people want something new, something different.”
“And Ransome can deliver that?”
“She’s done over a dozen pictures already, most of them with the major studios. Each one more daring and provocative than the last. They sometimes blanch at how far she goes and won’t write the check or allow their stars to appear, and then she just turns to one of the minor outfits, and enlists fine actors and gets her films done. They all make money because she has a devoted and growing following, and they get a lot of attention from the press. The studios love free publicity. She directs, too. That is very rare.”
“Have you done any of her set designs?”
Jacoby chortled over her bourbon, though he saw there was no corresponding levity in her features. “Our tastes and sensibilities are not simpatico, Mr. Archer. The reality is my schtick is fairly simple: I do the grand ballrooms, libraries, pools, and lavish bedroom sets. Early on in my career, I cut my teeth on screwball comedies with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and Carole Lombard and William Powell.” She smiled. “I referred to them as ‘gowns and good golly’ pictures. The cinematic effect was wealth beyond all reckoning, but in the form of a comedy. I mean, no one really lives like that.”
Archer made a show of looking around and said, “Could’ve fooled me.”
She flushed at his words, but then smiled and said, “Touché.”
“Hey, live and let live. And if you work for Warners, I know you work hard.”
“The sets are wonderful to create. I could live out every fantasy I had.” She glanced at him before continuing. “I guess you would be surprised to know that I grew up in a small town in West Virginia where my father was a coal miner, and we lived in a shack in the hollers.”
Archer lifted his eyebrows. “You’ve come a long way from a valley in West Virginia. And I don’t hear any accent.”
“I spent a lot of money getting rid of it. People do that here, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Reimagine themselves. When I was a little girl, I would go to the one little store in town and leaf through the fashion and movie magazines and dream about…something better.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down into her bourbon like maybe other dreams were hiding in there for her to find.
Archer let her hang out there for a moment. He appreciated the background information she had just given him, without his having to ask a single question. He had learned that silence was sometimes a PI’s best tool. And the more he learned about Lamb’s friends, the more, ultimately, he would learn about her.
But he felt he had figured out something about Jacoby already. An image appeared in his mind, prompted by her name: Alice in Wonderland.
She’s going down every rabbit hole looking for something that she doesn’t have. And she’ll keep doing it until her last breath.
“And Cecily Ransome’s work?” prompted Archer finally.
“Her stories are gritty and, to put it bluntly, shorn of all decoration. She’s an actor’s director, meaning the story is absolutely centered on their performances and the dialogue, not the accoutrements that I typically provide.” She looked off for a moment, as though she was seeing things she didn’t want to necessarily confront. “She represents a new age, at least for women. I think she has a shot at being one of the great ones when all is said and done.”
“And her partner, Bart Green?”
Archer noted that the woman changed color and took a quick sip of her bourbon before answering. “I’ve worked in this town for nearly twenty years, Mr. Archer, and they are one of the oddest business couples I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, Bart Green has been immensely successful. But let’s just say his bread and butter is what Hollywood has been churning out for decades. Nothing daring, nothing that would shock a grandmother’s sensibilities. And he has made a fabulous living doing so.”
“But he doesn’t quite have the je ne sais quoi of Cecily Ransome?”
“No, he doesn’t, hence my description of them as an odd couple.”
“So why do you think they ended up as business partners?”
“Bart Green may have a meat-and-potatoes idea of what films can and should be, but he is also very canny, and quick to spot talent. I think he knows that in the very near future the sorts of films he has the wherewithal to make will no longer be popular. And he also knows that Cecily’s films will not only appeal to the new audiences coming to the theaters, but will also be award winners and stand the test of time. In this town little Oscar is solid gold in more ways than you can count. Did you know they’re going to televise the Academy Awards for the first time ever this year?”
“No, I didn’t, but I’m not in the business.”
She said wistfully, “Bart has all the money he needs. Now he just wants a fitting legacy, at least that’s my take. So he brought Cecily in and she has a free hand to do what she wants.”
“And you got all this from her or Lamb?” asked Archer.
“Mostly from Ellie and a few others, but Cecily and I are acquaintances as well. At least I hope she regards me as such,” she added.
Archer cocked his head. He wasn’t in the business, per se, but he had been around the film world long enough to have figured some things out. And he could read people better than most. “Do I see a desire to build bare-bones—deeply in the background so actors can emote—set designs on a Cecily Ransome bohemian production one day?”
She smiled coyly and raised her glass to him. “My, my. I’ve been married for over thirteen years, and my dear husband would have no idea what you’re even talking about.”
“You said you hadn’t seen Lamb for a week. But had you spoken to her after that?”
“Yes, a few times. We were actually supposed to have lunch tomorrow, at the Warners commissary.”
“She sound okay?”
“Yes, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would explain what has happened.”
Archer took the matchbook out. “You ever been to the Jade Lion Bar with her?”
She blinked rapidly. “The Jade Lion Bar? Where is it?”
“Chinatown.”
“I don’t go to Chinatown, Mr. Archer, and I don’t know anyone who does. I don’t believe it’s safe for people like me.”
“Well, speaking on behalf of people like me, I’ve been there, it’s not that bad. And your friend had a half dozen of these in her desk drawer.”
“I don’t know why she would have them.”
“Okay, do you know a Jonathan Brewster?” he asked.
“Jonathan Brewster? No, I’ve never heard of him.”
“Do you have a recent snapshot of Lamb?”
“Why?” she said sharply.
“Well, when a person is missing it’s helpful to have a picture of her I can show around to see if someone has seen her.” He’d meant to ask Ransome for one but had forgotten, and he’d found none at Lamb’s house, which was curious in itself.
“Oh, of course. Give me a moment.”
While she was gone, Archer walked over to the wall next to the fireplace and eyed the long, framed photo there.
The caption read, WELLESLEY CLASS OF 1934.
He scanned the rows of smiling women. There was a younger and thinner Alice Jacoby beaming away and looking like the sun would never set on her dreams. And to her left and one down from her was the diminutive Eleanor Lamb. She was blond, with what looked to Archer to be natural curls. And she wasn’t smiling.
Jacoby walked back in and handed him the snapshot. It was her and Lamb arm in arm. The background was the Pacific and there was sand under their feet. They were dressed in jeans and matching white cable-knit sweaters.
“That was taken last January.”
“Malibu?” said Archer.
She gave him a surprised look. “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”
“Just a lucky guess. Thanks. I may be back for some more questions if that’s okay.”
“Oh, yes, anything to help.” She took out a business card from her dress pocket. “Here’s my number at Warners. I’m usually there during the week.”
He left without need of the hinged butler leading him.
He climbed into the Delahaye and looked at the photo once more.
Jacoby was again beaming. She did it quite well, he had to admit.
Eleanor Lamb, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to murder someone.
Which made Archer wonder if the worldly writer with a Wellesley degree had.
Chapter 19
ARCHER DROVE BACK TO CALLAHAN’S and found a note inside saying that she had slipped out to run some errands and would be back around six thirty, and what did he want to do for dinner.
He called Willie Dash’s office, and this time the man himself picked up.
“Willie, it’s Archer.”
“I was hoping it would be you. Now, I want to hear everything you told Connie, plus everything else you’ve found out since you talked to her. I doubt you’ve been dragging your feet. If anything, you sometimes move too fast.”
Archer complied, ending on his conversation with Alice Jacoby.
“Malibu, Bel Air, and Beverly Hills, huh? You’re running in some high circles, Archer, and some dangerous ones.”
“It’s not by choice.”
“It was your choice to hustle work in LA, and to take this case.”
“True.”
“I know Phil Oldham. He’ll seem like a nice guy right before he rips your heart out and drops you in a cell for nothing much. You watch yourself around him and his boys.”
“I will.”
“Connie told me about the guys you ran into on the beach.”
“Yeah. I was just wrong place, wrong time. Has to be smugglers, don’t you think?”
“There used to be gun and rum runners in Malibu years ago, especially during Prohibition. Hell, Ramirez Canyon used to be called Whiskey Gulch. I’ll let you figure that one out. The whole coast down there was a smuggler’s paradise. Portuguese Bend, Rancho Palos Verdes. The mother boat stays out to sea and they run the small fast boats to shore with the stuff and a lot of manpower. Quick in and out.”
“Sounds exactly like what I saw last night.”
“You were lucky, Archer. You might not be so lucky next time.”
“I’m not going after smugglers. Just a missing writer.”
“So, the Jade Lion Bar.”
“You know it?” said Archer.
“I don’t have to. I got nothing against the Chinese, but you can’t go in there thinking normal rules apply because they don’t. Thirty-forty years ago you had opium dens and gambling houses and whorehouses and Tong warfare all over. That’s been cleaned up since they knocked down old Chinatown to build Union Station and they all got moved to what used to be Little Italy a mile away. Now the place has nice shops and restaurants and nice people living and working there, just like they do in other communities. But just like in other communities, you got good and you got not so good and you got really bad. And the really bad places all have the same MO.”
“Namely?”
“Their side business is selling one thing—booze, food, medicine. Their main act is always selling something else and it’s the something else that breaks a book’s worth of statutes.”
“Well, Lamb might have been a frequent visitor to it.”
“I understand your interest.”
“Did you find out anything on Cedric Bender?”
“He’s in our line of work, Archer.”
“You mean he’s a PI?”
“And apparently a respected one. I got a physical description for you.” Archer heard paper rustling. Dash said, “Five-ten, heavy set, thinning gray hair, in his fifties.”
“That matches the dead guy. And his car is missing, too.”
“So the questions are who killed him, where, and why? And what did they do with his ride?”
“He had to have a connection to Lamb.”
“Why?”
“I found him in her house!”
“You can’t jump to that conclusion. Someone could have dumped his body there to incriminate her.”
“I actually fed that line to Oldham. He didn’t bite on it.”
“And the guy who answered the phone couldn’t be Bender. He was already dead.”
“Maybe it was the guy who killed him.”
“Killers don’t normally answer phones. And since it looks like he was killed elsewhere, chances are they dumped him there for some reason. And that reason isn’t good for Lamb, since it’s put the county cops right on her doorstep. She may have gone on the run. And she might not be running just from the likes of Phil Oldham.”
“Or else she’s dead. And then there’s the matter of who knocked me out.”
“Could’ve been the guy who answered the phone. Or it might have been Lamb. Big enough sap and enough motivation, even a lady could lay your butt out, Archer.”
“Makes me wonder why they didn’t finish the job with me.”
“Could be simple. They had one body to deal with and didn’t want another one.”
“So you think whoever killed Bender is trying to frame Lamb?”
“Considering they had the world’s biggest ocean right next door to dump him in but used her home sweet home instead, it’s a plausible theory. What’s your next move?”
“I’ve got one lead to follow up with and then I’m going to hit this Jade Lion Bar tonight and see what shakes out.”
“You want me to come down?”
“I can handle it, for now. When I can’t you’ll be the first to know.”
“How’s Liberty?”
“If anything, even more beautiful.”
“Oh, Archer, you got it so bad, son.”
Chapter 20
ARCHER PUT THE PHONE DOWN and looked at his watch. It was almost six. He scribbled a note to Callahan and went back out to the Delahaye. He drove to Boleros and parked on a side street to hide it from sight, since Ransome had already seen the car. He passed by competing billboards for the Roy Rogers TV show and Gene Autry’s program. Both men were in full frontier regalia. Rogers held a pearl-handled six-shooter, while Autry brandished a fancy guitar. There wasn’t a speck of dust or dirt on their colorful cowboy duds. Their smiles were sparkling white even in the growing gloom. This made him think of Jacoby’s comments on maybe a more sobering and substantive dawn coming for the country. Well, Archer, for one, thought it was long overdue.
He walked into Boleros and looked around. It was pretty much like every other dive bar he’d been in. Wooden stools worn down by drunken butts, a slick, scarred bar with a string of names either carved by knife or via the long fingernails of the inebriated, a few rickety tables, a scattering of more private booths, three tiered rows of bottles behind the bar, and cigarette smoke grazing the ceiling like trapped clouds. The only things that looked out of place were a battered and dusty black baby grand piano with fake gold trim by the window, and a cadaverous old man dressed in a tux from the early forties with a tacky white carnation pinned to his lapel sitting at the piano. He had a toothpick dangling from bloodless lips and an old bowler hat pushed back on his mostly bald head. He was pecking out an Andrews Sisters tune that was impressing truly nobody, not even him. When someone dropped a dime into the neon jukebox and Eddie Fisher came on to sing “Tell Me Why,” the cadaver got up to hit the men’s room.
