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“BILLY CAESAR? I HAVEN’T seen him in years,” Steven Teller said. “He’s retired.”
“We heard,” Ida Belle said. She smiled. Mr. Teller winked at her. I don’t think I had seen Ida Belle blush before.
“We’re hoping you could tell us a little about him,” Gertie added. She had caught the wink and smile Mr. Teller flashed to Ida Belle.
“Well, he is a few years younger than me, so he is in his early to mid-sixties, and was from New York,” Teller said. “I saw him in an off-Broadway play somewhere around 1984. He was one of those Chris Evans types, sculpted, muscular, great looking.”
“Who is Chris Evans?” Ida Belle wanted to know.
“Captain America,” I responded, “from the Marvel movies.”
She looked at me.
“You know, Iron Man, Thor...”
“Never heard of him,” Gertie replied.
“Think of Steve Reeves,” Teller said, smiling.
“Oh, now I get it,” she said. She thought about it for a second and smiled, “Ohhhhh.”
“Who’s Steve Reeves?” I asked.
“Reeves was an actor and bodybuilder back in the day,” Ida Belle said. “Played Hercules and Samson in the movies—he was quite the hunk. Hubba hubba.”
“Okay, I get it,” I said, trying to ignore the hubba hubba comment. “Okay, so he was handsome and built well. I get it. Go on, Mr. Teller.”
“He was perfect for my movies,” he said. “The women loved him, the camera loved him. I signed him to a six-picture deal, and he moved to Hollywood.”
“I understand he was never a big success,” Ida Belle said.
“Success is relative. The Grindhouse industry can be very profitable,” he said, “but we almost never make blockbusters by mainstream movie standards. Back in the day our goal was to get triple features in all the drive-in movie theaters. Grindhouse movies were the shows that gave young couples a big scare and nice-looking naked bodies to look at. It got all the young couples warmed up for...”
“We get it,” I interrupted. As if young couples in their cars at night needed outside influence to get warmed up.
“But some Grindhouse movies make it big, right?” Gertie said. “Some of them even launch careers.”
“Some, yes,” he said. “People like Jessica Biel, Matthew McConaughey and Renee Zellweger all appeared in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre series of movies before they became A-listers.”
“But they aren’t the only ones,” Gertie said.
“Right,” Teller said. “Other famous actors appear in them when they get older and Hollywood passes them by. You might say, we get them on their way up and get them on their way down, but rarely in between. But, to the point I think you’re trying to make, for every success story, there are thousands of heartbreak stories.”
“I can well imagine,” I said.
“There have been tens of thousands of B-Movies, Grindhouse movies and exploitation films made, and hundreds of thousands of hopeful actors and actresses playing in them, hoping to become famous. The percentage of actors who make it is tiny.”
“And Billy Caesar was one of those disappointment stories,” Gertie said.
Teller nodded. “He was.”
“Did that bother him?” I asked.
“Sure. It bothers everybody,” he replied.
“But it really bothered Billy Caesar, correct?”
“It did,” Teller replied. “And for good reasons. Most of my clients are eye candy, all muscles or curves with no talent. That wasn’t Billy. He performed on Broadway. He did Shakespeare in the Park. If he’d remained a stage actor, he may have become a stage star. I tried to tell him, but the allure of the silver screen got into his blood.”
“Mr. Teller, to your knowledge, did Billy Caesar ever get into trouble with the law?” I asked. “Did he have a criminal history of any kind?”
Teller looked surprised. “Why are you asking? In fact, what are all these questions about? Does this have anything to do with the murder of that young girl you were telling me about?”
“It may,” I said. I placed the brochure on the table and pushed it toward him. “I found This brochure in Glory’s room. Billy Caesar appeared in a road production of Biloxi Blues... in New Orleans... the same day someone murdered Glory.”
Steven Teller’s face turned white as he picked up the brochure and read it. I could almost hear his mind working, connecting the dots and considering the implications. He put his right hand over his mouth as if to fight back the urge to vomit. “Oh, my god,” he said. “You think...”
“Billy Caesar wore a black Fedora,” Ida Belle said. “Witnesses say they saw Glory with a stranger wearing a Fedora. They described the stranger as tall and about the same age at the time as Caesar would have been in 1986. Mr. Teller, Billy is tall, isn’t he?”
He nodded, still appearing to be in shock. “About 6-foot-4,” he said.
“Billy Caesar has a violent history, doesn’t he?” Gertie asked.
Teller nodded again.
“Can you tell us about that?” I asked.
“I think we should get Donna to join us,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“Who is Donna?” Ida Belle asked.
“Donna is an actress client of mine and a close friend—retired; lives a few blocks away; dated Billy Caesar for over five years,” he said.
“How long ago?” I asked.
“A long time ago,” he said.
“Why did they break up?” Ida Belle asked.
“She left him because of his repeated... physical abuse. She may help you.”
Ida Belle and Gertie glanced at each other when Teller used the term physical abuse.
He called Donna telling her little on the phone other than he needed to see her at his place. After ending the call, he turned to Fortune.
“She’s coming over,” he said. “She’ll talk to you.”
“Mr. Teller, there is one other major piece of the puzzle missing,” Gertie said. “We know Caesar was in New Orleans that weekend and we know Glory planned to see the play. But we don’t know how they met.”
“Once I saw the brochure, it all came back in a rush,” he said.
“What are you saying?” Ida Belle asked.
“Oh, I know how they met,” he whispered.