Ellen didn’t leave her house until late the next afternoon, when the sky was already inching to purple. I was getting itchy—I’d been there for hours, and I’d promised to meet Lou at Olvera Street for dinner, scope out the location for Carrigan’s upcoming fund-raiser. I told myself that if Ellen didn’t budge soon, then I’d been wrong, at least for today—that she was planning on staying put or going to see her mother or a friend or something. Anyone else except Klein.
I told myself that I was chasing her for nothing, and I kept telling myself that right up until a pearly black Jaguar pulled up across from her complex and purred for a full two minutes before Ellen bounded out to meet it, practically bouncing in her stilettos. She clicked into the car, not even pausing to look around to see if anyone was watching. That made me angrier than anything. It was one thing to flout my rules, another to do it so blatantly, without any discretion or fear of being caught.
The driver of the Jag turned his head so she could kiss him, full lip smack, a lover’s kiss, and my blood ran cold. Ears like a jug. A jowly face that had always had enough money that he’d never needed to work hard at being handsome. Joel Klein, Hiram’s loathsome creep of a son, peeled away from the curb with Ellen’s hand down his pants, tires squealing.
I waited thirty seconds, long enough to put inconspicuous distance between us, and then followed. At the first stoplight, heading west along Sunset Boulevard, I could see her tilt down the driver’s side mirror, tip her head, practice smiling. Gave the mirror her best bedroom eyes and checked her teeth for lipstick. Furry pink fronds poked up from the bodice of her dress and turned the underside of her chin fuchsia. Klein Jr. goosed her under her armpit and she jumped. The light turned, and she went back to practicing seductive expressions.
I guessed where we were headed before we got there. Paramount Studios sat between a country club and a cemetery. Most other studios had moved out of Hollywood years before, finding cheaper or chicer digs in other parts of the city. But Paramount held on, locked away like a castle from the small-time wannabes a few blocks over who cruised Hollywood and Vine dressed as Marilyn or Elvis or King Kong.
An industry party, I guessed. The film Ellen had been working on—although that was a strong term; she’d been about as involved as background scenery—was a Paramount picture. I thought of her face in the cramped room at the St. Leo—she really did feel something for Klein; I knew I was right. You couldn’t hide an eyelash in those big eyes. But maybe she thought it would make Klein jealous, seeing her with his son. Maybe she imagined he’d realize how special she was. His dream girl. Or, worse, maybe she was trying to transfer those feelings to Joel. Neither option was good business for me.
As I looked for street parking, I was already imagining a cover story to bluff my way into the party—I did not have it in me to pretend to be a lost tourist, starstruck and wide-eyed by the memorabilia of Tinseltown—when the Jag turned away from the gates, circling the block. I was surprised enough that I let another car maneuver in between us and then rode their tail until they blinkered and jerked into the other lane, sending a one-finger salute after me as I followed Ellen into the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
I idled behind the Jaguar, not caring now if she could tell that someone was following her, and watched Junior half lift a hand to a security guard, interrupting an argument with a billboard-handsome man in a rumpled silk suit. The security guard waved them through, continued his argument.
I took a glance at the guard and weighed my odds. He seemed preoccupied enough that maybe I could squeak by without a story. I rolled down the window, not stopping the car.
“Here for the party,” I called, catching a glimpse of the two men in the dying glow of the afternoon. They didn’t stop their argument—the guest (an actor, no doubt) wanted to liberate the caged peacocks for the festivities, and the rent-a-cop wasn’t having it. They both seemed occupied and I was counting on it. I kept driving until I heard the shout behind me.
“Hey! Come back here!”
I checked in my rearview. Both men were staring at my car now, and the security guard had a hand on his two-way radio. That stopped me. I backed the car up.
“Cake delivery,” I said, adding, “special for Mr. Klein.” I patted a hand at my back seat, then gave them both a full smile. None of us liked the smile much.
“Name?”
The security guard was not having a good night. He clutched a clipboard that looked ready to snap at any second. He was red-faced, angry or ashamed, while the man in the silk suit had that above-it-all actor’s gaze, the nothing can ruffle me, sweet stuff billing that had gone out decades ago, once men on celluloid had to pretend to act human. I didn’t like him on sight. But then, I wouldn’t have liked anyone at that party very much—including Ellen.
“Karen,” I said, “with catering.”
“Company name?” He glared at the keyboard. In the distance, Junior’s taillights rounded a corner and disappeared. I cursed under my breath.
“Look,” I said, “if you want to explain to Mr. Klein why the specialty cake he ordered—”
The actor stepped forward and peered at my face in the car. “Oh, Karen, I didn’t recognize you!”
The security guard looked over, skeptical. I matched his expression. “You know her, Mr. Wexler?”
“Sure do,” Wexler said, leaning an arm on my car window. He leaned forward and grinned into my face, showing all his teeth. Wexler wasn’t particularly tall—actors never are—and his face was very handsome, every feature a hair too large, including his oversized upper body and rib cage. But never quite handsome enough to be the lead—even among Hollywood, that sort of handsome was rare, and it made me wonder, for a moment, if Jackal had missed his calling. “Good to see you, Karen. Say, can I catch a ride up?”
“Sure,” I said, looking from him to the security guard, whose face wasn’t so much incredulous as pitying: You sure you want this asshole in your car?
I peered into the half-darkness. Through the carefully tangled ivy and rotting silvery palms, I could see the red glow of taillights and, far ahead, sweeping purple and gold spotlights. Far off, I could hear a woman shriek with glee. I waited until Wexler had walked around to the passenger-side door of my car, and then I gunned it, shooting straight past them both and lurching forward into the boneyard. Behind me, I thought I heard the security guard laughing.
Hollywood Forever Cemetery shared a plot of land with the studio, a shortsighted mistake by the undertakers of the early 1900s, who’d assumed the newfangled movie biz would fold in months. It didn’t take long before the stars hadn’t been content with their half of the land: they’d taken Hollywood, and then started to overtake the cemetery, too. A century later, the two still rubbed shoulders, two ghouls locked together in eternity. It was fitting: you couldn’t see the celestial stars in Los Angeles anymore, but you could find the earthly ones spackling the sidewalks or bricked up in marble.
You could step off the studio lot, walk across the street, and find yourself in the Garden of Legends, treading on the final resting places of residents with names almost as well-known as Carrigan, dozing off a lifetime of largesse.
Hollywood Forever wasn’t home to all the departed luminaries of Old Hollywood, but it had more than its share. Jayne Mansfield and her head rested near the lake, richly fertilized by duck shit and pond scum. Virginia Rappe and her cosmically cruel last name nestled underneath a tiny tree that had never taken root. Marion Davies had been entombed in an enormous mausoleum, as befitting the mistress of one of the wealthiest men in the city’s history. The dowager empress of kept women, an inspiration to us all.
I parked near the peacock cages, winding my way through the clutter of graves carved with curvy Armenian glyphs. Out of the car, I could see that many of the headstones featured carved black-and-white photographs of the long-lost departed in their prime. I imagined an old Armenian grandmother flipping through her photo books, picking out the one that would represent her face for eternity. If it were me, I’d have picked a nude. But maybe that task went to the survived-by. It was unnerving, knowing exactly what the pile of dirt and bones underneath my feet looked like.
I crept toward the front of the cemetery, the big eternity pool where mean-as-fuck swans sipped chlorine-green water in front of the everlasting tomb of Douglases Senior and Junior, patron saints of celluloid. My shoes were sticky with champagne and clung to the pebbles underfoot. I stopped every so often to shake one loose, squinting into the darkness for a sign of Ellen and Junior.
Klein Sr. would send her packing as soon as he figured out she was fucking his son—maybe it would even be an easy out for him, a way to rid himself of an annoying mistress without any nasty recriminations. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed to get her out of there before she could make a fool of herself in front of Klein, ruin any chance that he’d speak to her, let alone fuck her, on Thursday.
Far off, voices hooted in harmony, and I wondered if this was what the party was meant to be, a sprawling bacchanal over the bones of Old Hollywood. I followed the screeching until I reached an enormous black valentine that held the framed face of a golden goddess, one I recognized from magazine covers but more specifically as the lead of Ellen’s film, with the words Rest in peace, Tati’s youth! emblazoned across it in silver-tinselly glitter. Beneath that, the dates November 6, 1984—November 6, 2012.
Someone had driven a plastic butter knife through the center of the valentine, spearing the ski slope of the birthday girl’s nose.
An altar was set up before the valentine, littered with Veuve Clicquot carcasses and champagne flutes abandoned half full or never used. Little lights had been strung up across the Douglases and the celebratory spotlights swayed over the lawn. I swiped one of the half-finished glasses in passing and downed it, then came up sputtering. Not champagne. Vodka, warm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a quick flare of fuchsia, a tittering giggle—“Oh, Joel, you’re incorrigible!”—and I couldn’t help myself. I turned and barked, “Ellen!”
Something pink and fluttering cackled off into the dusk.
I jogged after her until I caught sight of warm light spilling out of the wall of mausoleums lining the perimeter of the cemetery. That’d be Ellen, all right. Looking to make a scene.
Inside the opened tomb, a woman plunked at an old wood baby grand that hadn’t been tuned in fifty years, and a man leaned heavily against the side of the piano, trying to explain something to her. Behind them, two stupefied revelers swigged straight from their own bottles of vodka. I recognized one, glazed expression and gold sequins, as the birthday girl, although she looked different without a knife for a nose. As I passed by, I heard the man against the piano say, “You’re flat, Cara, if I’ve told you once, then I’ve told you—”
All around us, enmarbled bodies. The acoustics in the place were perfect. The audience was even better. I shivered.
“A twenty-eighth birthday party in a cemetery,” I said to no one in particular. “What a world you people live in.”
No one said anything—I didn’t think they’d even heard me—until the birthday girl said, voice slow as molasses, “As above, so below.”
She stared up at me, gaze unfocused. I thought it was unlikely that she had ever said one word to Ellen. I was starting to feel the vodka already, slick and fizzy in my veins—no dinner planned until I met with Lou. (Oh God, I hadn’t thought about Lou in hours. What was I going to tell her, what excuse for my lateness? Jackal tied me to his bed, then went to Burbank for a sandwich?)
Behind her chair stood Wexler, peacockless. He glanced at me and grinned. His teeth were so white they were practically blue. I decided I preferred the actors in the ground. “Where’d your catering platter run off to?” He made a big show of looking around. “Don’t tell me—you’re here to . . . showcase your various talents for the old man.”
“Am I that easy to read?” I licked my lips and tried to surreptitiously crane my neck, seeking out Ellen’s bright dress in the mausoleum darkness.
“You’ve got the Ava Gardner thing going with the face and the dimensions, but those clothes—” He tutted. “Besides, he’s got a buck-toothed blonde rubbing carpets thin for him these days.”
My stomach dropped at that, but I didn’t say anything. Just because the affair was an open secret didn’t mean Klein wouldn’t pay—it only meant I’d have to work that much harder at crafting the right pitch. I shuffled it away—I’d consider that when I had hauled Ellen out of here by the frizz of her hair. I eyed the vodka bottle he was swirling and decided he wouldn’t remember me the next day anyway. “You know Ellen Howard? My little sister. Frizzy blonde hair, about five-six, follows directions like she aced kennel school? Seen her tonight?” Instead of answering, he pushed the bottle up to my face. I grimaced and knocked it away. “Christ, get a grip.”
“I have something you could grip,” Wexler said, grinning.
I looked around, but nobody else even acknowledged my existence. Instead, I caught the low hush of murmurs from deeper in the tomb, voices moving like shadows. I walked away from Wexler without saying goodbye, leaving him calling after me. I crept forward, hoping I wasn’t going to find Ellen’s sweating palms pawing at the crotch of Klein’s son in front of the old man himself.
Thursday, a few more days, that was all I needed. I was so close to paying the Lady back, to getting the money for the police. I held my breath with each click of my shoes against the marble. I had to keep her going until Thursday.
I got lucky. In front of Bugsy Siegel’s tomb—covered in Tropicana pink and coral kisses—old man Klein was flanked by a tiny army of wannabe movie babes. No Junior or Ellen in sight.
“So tacky,” said one of two Harlow-blonde hussies.
“Early in the night for it,” agreed a squinch-faced brunette—pretty in a knockoff-Audrey sort of way. She’d be catnip for marks who wanted to consider themselves American blueblood royalty—yachters, polo players, the country-club set. I shook the thought away. Klein, self-satisfied master of the universe, was rhythmically petting her head like she was a puppy, while the peroxide twins pouted prettily, preening for attention and giving the squat old man all their power. Nothing personal, ladies, I wanted to say, my knees weak with relief. He’s already got a blonde.
Who wasn’t anywhere in sight. I turned to go—Ellen was still out there somewhere, canoodling; it was only a matter of time before someone spotted her—but Klein’s voice stopped me dead.
“Who the hell are you?”
I froze. If I turned tail and scurried away without answering, it would look worse, like I wasn’t meant to be there. Play it big, I told myself. Be bold. There’s no way he remembers you from the St. Leo. He barely noticed you.
In the dark, Klein’s face lit only by a flashlight held by one of the Harlows, he looked like a helpless old man. Eyes shrunken into the blue half-moons of his sockets. Long hairs curling out of his ears. Not so very many years removed from his own enormous mausoleum. He looked feeble. Not capable of getting it up, much less slapping anyone around.
I pictured the sharp pink marks on Ellen’s face at the St. Leo. Looks can be deceiving.
“Sorry,” I said stiffly. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”
Audrey the Second glared at me. She’d cornered the market on brunettery and she wasn’t looking for a rival. The blondes were staring gloomily at Bugsy. Klein raised his eyebrows and extended a hand, indicating I could remove myself anytime I wanted, or maybe offering me the chance to kiss a ring. I picked the former. As I left them behind, I felt a surge of hatred and thought: Be careful, Mr. Klein. Be careful, and when it all goes tits up, remember: cherchez la femme.
A jet crash wouldn’t have disturbed the partygoers collected in the foyer of the mausoleum. The pianist was still plunking notes on the piano, ignoring the man leaning against it. The birthday girl burped vodka in her seat. Wexler had left, presumably off to hunt peacocks.
I stepped out of the mausoleum, glaring into the cemetery. Even in the near-dark, I should’ve been able to see some flicker of that bright pink dress.
Then I heard it: Ellen’s voice, sharp and tearful. I followed the sound and found her slumped over Toto’s shrine, sobbing into the puppy’s metal fur. Not too far away, I could see the shadowy outlines of a small group of revelers, among them both Joel Klein, who wasn’t even looking back at his date, and Wexler, who caught sight of me and gave me a small half salute. I glared at him and knelt next to Ellen, trying to be gentle.
“Ellen,” I said softly, one hand on her heaving back, noting that the fuchsia monstrosity was already muddied and ripped near the hem, no chance for her to return it and get my money back now. “Ellen, come on, get up. Let’s go home.”
Ellen raised her head—I don’t think she even registered my presence—and shrieked, “I don’t even want to screw that old fuck—they’re paying me to do it!”
The conversation among the group lulled, and I could see Wexler’s head lurch up—he must’ve been standing on tiptoe—his eyebrows raised. I didn’t wait to check Junior’s reaction or to see if anyone else had heard exactly what she’d said. I dug my fingers tight into the flesh under her armpits and yanked her up, thrashing against me, then dragged her back to my car.