As he turned the key in the latch, Tom was still trying to settle on what to do next. In the ten minutes it took to walk back from Normand’s, all he thought of was calling Sullivan and telling him what Davis had said about Taylor’s clash with this bootlegger, Madden. It was a hot tip, and he owed it to Sullivan to pass it on. But with only Davis’s word to go on, something held him back. Handing on this nugget untested might do more harm than good. Not least for Miss Normand. If her connection with Madden got out to the press – and it would for sure once the detective squad got hold of it – that would be the end for her. Just like Arbuckle. Only worse, because she was a woman. Forget evidence. Forget the law. The way things were, every hack and reformist zealot in the country would be baying for her dope-tainted blood on every front page from Portland to New York and all points in between. And Sennett’s long association with Normand might well be enough to drag him down with her. Everyone in the business knew how parlous studio finances could be, and Sennett’s more than most. No way was Tom going to have that on his conscience. Not without hearing the whole story.
He pushed the door open and stopped. The girl was not there, but her presence was everywhere. Gone was the bundle of blankets on the couch. Gone, too, the scattering of papers, ties, books, cups, odd socks, ashtrays and other garbage that normally littered the floor. The meager stock of crockery on the dresser had been rearranged to look almost homely. The sound of a chair-leg scraping drew him in as far as the kitchen door. It was the same in there. The griddle was missing its crust of grounds, grease and egg spatter. A stack of cups and plates gleamed on the drainer. Colleen was sitting at the little bench table, jacket all buttoned up, absorbed in scribbling on a piece of paper. So pale, a few flecks of pink on her cheeks and eyes red-rimmed. Almost innocent in the daylight.
‘You do all this?’ he said, tapping on the doorframe.
She whirled around and stood too quickly, kicking the chair back with a clatter. He raised a hand to calm her, saw her hurriedly fold the paper she’d been writing on and stuff it in her jacket pocket.
‘That for me?’
Her cheeks fizzed red. ‘I wanted to say thanks for taking care of me last night and, well, you know, say goodbye and all. I didn’t think you’d want me here when you got back, so, uh … I mean, really, thank you.’
He held a hand out, thumb rubbing across his fingertips. ‘Aren’t you going to give it to me now you’ve written it?’
She fished the paper out of her pocket and handed it over. ‘I didn’t think you’d be back, so maybe I said too—’ She broke off.
‘If you want, I can read it later, the way it was intended.’
She nodded and looked relieved, so he folded the note and put it on the table.
‘I better be getting out of your hair,’ she said.
He stood aside to let her into the parlor, wondering why she was in such a rush. ‘You never did get round to telling me how it was you got to be in that place. How’d you get in a bind like that?’
She glanced around the room, looking for something to fix her eye on and spotted a small, framed picture on the wall. The only thing hanging there, it was a faded photograph of a stern, sharp-featured woman of advanced years, a high lace collar tickling her chin.
‘Is that your mother?’ she asked.
‘You think she looks like me?’ The idea made him laugh.
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘Looks kinda tough for an old lady.’
‘Sure does. I wouldn’t mind having some of that steel in my jaw. But she’s no relation of mine. Maybe Mr Sennett’s – he rents me this place. She was up there when I got here and I just let her be.’
‘And that one? She one of his girls?’ There was a defensive note of sarcasm in Colleen’s voice now. She was pointing at the studio shot of Fay on the dresser, inscribed to Tom and signed with all her love. Fay had laughed when she gave it to him, hiding her embarrassment, claiming the way her career was headed there might not be a next one to give him. But he had it framed and kept it propped there on the dresser all the same, where he could glance at it of an evening while she was away.
‘She’s a friend,’ he said, as non-committal as he could. No point telling her the whole of his business.
‘Millions’d believe you.’ She turned away. Her tone implied she wasn’t one of them.
‘You didn’t answer my question, Colleen.’
He drew her name out, not just to make it sound like a secret, but also because it fell oddly from his lips – not a girl, not any girl, as his mind translated it to and from the old tongue. But this girl, here, in front of him, now. ‘What were you doing in that place? And what’s your real name, now we’re getting so personal?’
‘Mae,’ she said, flat, as if it meant nothing to her. She dropped her gaze and tucked a lock of yellow hair behind her ear, fingertips brushing back across her cheek again. ‘I’m not proud of what I did, you know,’ she blurted. ‘I tried my best to get movie work, true as God I did. Tried four months solid but there are so many pretty girls in this town, and every one of them looking for the same.’
He knew the truth of that and told her so. No one could walk in or out of a movie studio without noticing the long lines of deluded hopefuls outside the gates every morning, hoping for a bit part, the chance to be discovered. So many, there wasn’t work for a fraction of them, and more crowding in behind every week. The lucky ones recognized straight off the crazy odds against success, when they still had the money to get on the train back to Grinnell or Hickville or wherever they came from, nursing their bruised dignity and shattered illusions. It was the ones who stayed got hurt, who believed the pap in the fan magazines about never letting anything stand in the way of their dreams, clinging to the hope of a miracle occurring just around the next corner.
‘Only had sixty-five bucks to start with,’ she said. ‘Most of that went first month, before I found a good-price rooming house. Didn’t take long for the rest to dribble away. Then a girl I met at a casting said she knew a guy who’d pay us to go to parties. Five bucks a time, and we could eat and drink all we wanted. Sounded too good to be true.’
It was, of course. He made a pot of coffee, sat her down again and let her tell her story. How she met a guy called Joe at this party, who was real nice and picked her out special with another girl to go upstairs to a room where these swells were drinking and smoking, and she would get an extra five bucks just to dance. And that was all she had to do, first few times. But soon Joe wanted more for the money. She was too embarrassed to go into detail, and he didn’t really want to hear it: how she had been exploited and abused, coerced and threatened. Didn’t tell her either that he heard it all before, seen what desperation, disappointment, hunger does to people, too many times. Sometimes it’s no solace knowing your troubles are not unique.
‘I’m real sorry,’ she snuffled. ‘It’s not your problem. But you asked and it’s been so awful these past days. I was sure I’d die if I didn’t get away from that place and, all of a sudden, there you were, like you’d been sent to me, and I …’ She buried her face in her hands, the only thing other than pride between him and her tears.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, uncomfortable now, his mind on more practical matters, like how he might help her without getting taken for a ride himself. ‘How bad are you stuck on that stuff?’
From what she told him, this Joe had been dosing her on heroin, building up her need, then demanding money when she sickened for more. Tom knew about that poison. Cocaine and morphine were more common around the studios, but it took people the same way. Got its hooks in, fought like fury to never let go.
‘They got you using a needle yet?’
She shook her head. ‘Joe tried to make me couple of nights back. Said it was cheaper than a capsule. He used it on a girl who came by in real bad shape. Tried to make me use it after, but I saw her blood in the syringe and screamed. Nothing would’ve got me to then, so he stopped. Guess he thought he’d have plenty opportunity to try again.’
Tom rubbed his eyes. What the hell was happening to this city? The most beautiful place you could ever want to be – warm sun, gentle sea, fertile land, a cast-iron land of plenty. And so many bent on dredging the depths instead.
‘You think you can shake it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m sick in my stomach now for the want of it. But I guess I don’t give in and see what happens.’
‘Good, that’s the attitude.’ He doubted it would be so easy, but he would not discourage her. ‘Now, look, you’ve got to be honest with me. Have you got a place to stay for real, or were you putting me on last night?’
She looked genuinely surprised he could ask it. ‘Sure I do. Out in Hollenbeck. It’s a good place, like I said.’
‘This Joe guy know you live there? You know you’ll never get free of that poison long as he’s around. You realize that, right?’
‘Sure, but what can I do? Move? I got no money to go anywhere else. I already owe three weeks.’
‘What about if I find you somewhere to stay?’
She stared at him, her lips parted, unsure of what he was suggesting.
‘Not here,’ he said, strangling that possibility. ‘I have friends who could maybe help. Until you’re back on your feet again, I mean. But you’d have to stay away from Joe, and from that stuff. You’d have to make me that promise.’
He wasn’t sure why he was saying any of this. He might not even be able to produce the little he was offering. But he wanted to help.
‘I can ask around about some work for you, too, if you do OK,’ he added. ‘Might not be acting, but it’d get you started. Would you quit it for that?’
Her eyes lit up and she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Oh Lord, I knew you were—’ The rest was lost in his coat. He pushed her off, embarrassed.
‘Hang on. All I said is I’ll try. Let’s wait and see how it goes, yeah?’ He raised her chin with his balled fist, fixed his eyes on hers. ‘It might take a day or two to organize. And you have to do it proper. No second chances. Meantime, you can stay here. Anybody asks, say you’re my niece, visiting.’
She flashed an uncertain smile at him. ‘Actually, you know. Somebody did ask. Earlier.’
He stared at her, puzzled. ‘Someone called?’
‘On the telephone.’ She grabbed the note on the table, unfolded it, held it out to him. ‘I wrote it down here and forgot to say. Mr Sennett called, wants you to go see him at the studio.’
‘Did he remember you from last night?’
Her bottom lip trembled as she tried to force a smile. ‘Sure he did. Said something mean about having a feeling I’d be here. Said I could hand in his clothes any time at the studio front office. Just as soon as I got them laundered.’