Backlot Requiem - First Chapter

            I had on my best tuxedo and a beautiful woman seated beside me, and Stan Kenton on the radio. We exited the new Cahuenga Freeway at Barham toward a party held at National Pictures Studios, out in the Valley. 1954 was a good year for radio, and a good year for jazz. And a good year for the detective business. 
            The party orchestra was already playing inside as Doreen and I hurried toward the klieg-lighted entrance to the big movie studio sound stage. The uniformed security guard found Doreen’s name on the list of performers and checked it off, and we rushed inside along the wide, blood-red carpet and through the sixteen-foot-tall 'elephant doors' of the barn-like structure, into the hubbub of a Hollywood soundstage party. The building was filled with executives and movie stars and other movers and shakers of the movie industry, all taking a night off from their work in the 'dream factories', a night of frantic festivity whose purpose was to raise money for charity. It was my night off, too, a gumshoe in his best suit among the nabobs of Hollywood.
            The orchestra segued to a brisk foxtrot as Doreen and I quickly took in the huge and dazzling room. The sound stage was decorated with all the glitz and glitter that the host studio could muster. Miles of dark blue velvet curtains hid the four walls of the sound stage. Brilliant chandeliers that must have been ten feet across hung from the smoke-blackened overhead 'perms'. The tables were decorated with floral centerpieces that were big enough to hide a body. On our left was a large dance floor in front of the orchestra stage, where Doreen was supposed to be performing ten minutes ago.
            After taking Doreen's coat and ogling her blue-sequined dress and ample charms – she was married, but we liked to kid around, to tease playfully – I led her toward the stage. She blew me a kiss and climbed the steps and strode up to the microphone, with a wave to the orchestra leader, who gave her a smile of exasperation. Doreen needed someone to push or prod her gently, to get her to the gig on time. Her stage-fright always disappeared once she was performing. I was then free to circulate, to join in with Doreen's audience or not, depending on my mood of the moment.
            I stowed Doreen's coat and my fedora with the hat-check attendant as the orchestra kicked into "Early Autumn" and Doreen put her sweet pipes to work. A studio party like this was an important showcase for her, and I didn't exactly have to be talked into rubbing elbows with Holly­wood's upper crust, since I wasn't working on a major case at the moment and had the evening free. I headed toward the less-crowded end of the sound stage, planning to sit and just listen to the music and Doreen's excellent vocal work.
            Some hoedown this was. I checked out the crowd as I made my way around the edge of the room. The male guests almost all wore tuxedos. And the women wore their fancy ball gowns – the wives and mistresses and dates, tall and short, slim and otherwise, as colorful as a rainbow. I was quite glad that I was not in charge of security for this shindig: the jewelry displayed around the throats and wrists and on the ears of the ladies present could have funded another war in Korea, with some left over.
            I veered toward a small bar at the back of the room that was manned by a uniformed Negro bar-tender. The stoic old gentleman did indeed have tequila on hand, and he wasn't stingy. I parked myself on a chair near the wall and listened to the cool river of sound from the orchestra. This was Hollywood at its most glamorous, but I only half-watched the goings-on. The crowd mingled and chattered and danced and had a noisy good time, occasionally drowning out the fine work of the orchestra. I simply sat and listened.
            A second tequila deepened my detached and pensive mood, and I was humming along to something-or-other when a blond vision swept up to the old Negro bar-tender. I sat up and watched as she shook her long golden tresses and sighed and asked for champagne, which was available in abundance. Without saying a word, the old bar-tender poured some into a glass for her. I watched her tilt several dainty swallows of cold bubbly over vivid red lips and down her long, lightly-tanned throat. She looked around and saw me staring.
            She said something. I put a hand to my ear and leaned forward. "Do you dance?" she asked. I nodded and she smiled and moved toward me. I set my drink on the table and stood. I really liked the way she filled the dress, a white number with a tight bodice, very décolleté, above a mid-length skirt that rustled mysteriously over a superb pair of legs.
            "My husband never dances," she explained, "and I simply can't kick up my heels enough." She gulped the last of her champagne and set the glass on the table. I took her hand and she slipped into my arms. All there was was the music – Cole Porter, with trumpets on the vocal line – and the musky perfume in her long blond hair. It was perfect.
            After several wondrous dances, the orchestra stopped and the blond goddess laughed and stepped away from me and strode to the table and caught up her empty glass. She went to the little bar and the old bar-tender filled the glass with more champagne. She did enjoy being looked at, a bit of a tease in that, but I can also say that I did enjoy doing the looking – until I noticed the ring on her left hand, a rock the size of a walnut, and remembered that the goddess was married.
            The orchestra started up again. I downed the remainder of my tequila and she threw back her champagne. We met again on the smooth floor-space, our private piece of heaven, daring to stand again perfectly in the arms of a stranger. She didn't dance – she floated.
            The next time the orchestra paused, I saw someone coming toward us, a young brunette, wearing a bare-shouldered frock in dark-green velvet. Her head was thrust forward with determination. The goddess saw her, too, and frowned a bit, and then asked my name. From force of habit, I guess, I extracted a business card from my pocket and handed it to her. The brunette halted and tossed me a flirtatious smile.
            "Where do you find these handsome brutes?" she said.
            The lips of my goddess tightened and the brunette looked at her.
            "Daniel sent me for you. He wants you to meet some­one."
            The goddess looked at me and sighed and then at the card in her hand, raising an eyebrow.
            "Thank you for the dance, Mr. Walker. If you are as good a detective as you are a dancer, then I shall have to keep this card of yours." She smiled and looked at the brunette. "In case anyone in the family should get them­selves into trouble." The brunette glared at her.
            I nodded and smiled, ignoring the undercurrent of female rivalry. Perhaps the compliment had made me a tad reckless, or it was the tequila, for I took the goddess's hand and kissed her soft, sun-tanned knuckles. She blushed and smiled at me, then turned abruptly and swept away along the aisle between the tables.
            The brunette turned to follow her, then stopped and turned and winked at me. That surprised me all to hell. She went away and I turned and met the stoic gaze of the old Negro bar-tender. I shrugged at him and reached for my empty glass on the table. He nodded and picked up the bottle of tequila.

                    *                         *                         *

             Up front at the bandstand, the orchestra members shifted into intermission mode and took a break while a piano virtuoso displayed his skill by playing a medley of recent Broadway tunes. I wandered forward and spoke to a trombone player that I hadn't seen for a while, then caught Doreen's lovely eye. She came over and said that she was famished. So we found places in the buffet line, and chose a table that was out of the way. Chateaubriand with those yummy morel mush­rooms: melt in your mouth. 
            The orchestra started back to work before we were finished, beginning with a young tenor on the vocals. I hurried Doreen outside to the honey-wagons that had been parked along the towering walls of the sound stages, and we powdered our nose.
            Doreen dragged her heels, as usual, but I sent her back up onstage. The orchestra switched to a Benny Goodman favorite, with an elegant clarinet line, and Doreen joined the young tenor on harmony.
            I commandeered another tequila and found a corner to stand in, sipping the potent drink and listening to the orchestra and watching the ebb and flow of the people mill­ing about, dancing and schmoozing and enjoying themselves. My relaxed mood was interrupted when someone stuck a finger in my ribs and told me that I was under arrest. I recognized the voice and smiled.            "What is it this time, officer?" I said, falsetto.
            I looked over my shoulder and saw Bulldog Green's ugly face; he's the spitting image of Oskar Homolka, without the accent. We had worked together on this and that for the D.A.'s office, but hadn't crossed paths since his retire­ment.
            "Mopery. First degree. How'd a bum like you get in this fancy soiree?"
            My turn: "I lied. Told them my name was Rin-Tin-Tin."
            He laughed, then envied my drink and looked around the room.
            "You're working?" I asked.
            "Yeah. This studio security duty is a cakewalk, after Hollenbeck Division." He shrugged. "Being retired got real boring. Janey figures we can buy us a little place out near Palm Springs somewhere, with the extra income." He shrugged again. "Maybe I'll take up golf."
            I had to laugh. He probably would, at that, and make a small fortune on the side betting. He never seemed to lose at poker.
            Bulldog started to move away and then stepped back. "Are you working on anything?"
            "Not tonight," I told him.
            He eyed the drink. "Yeah. Still spending more time playing saxophone than playing detective?" I nodded my head. "Things come up, y'know, that being inside we're better off staying clear. I'll tell the Captain I saw an old pal works private, put in a good word." Bulldog had always been a good friend. I thanked him and he wandered off, casually checking the crowd as he went, on constant lookout for gate crashers and nasty drunks and known grifters, any sign of potential trouble. Bulldog and his men would make short work of any wolves with the audacity to sniff around his assigned flock of party-goers.
            I drifted outside. The wind was kicking up some, sending dry leaves skittering along the deserted studio front lot street. It felt like a Santa Ana might be coming in. The warmth of the day had left behind the aroma of eucalyptus trees and the dusty smell of sycamores and of the produce farms of the Valley. Behind me, I could hear music and Doreen's amplified voice, over the hum of the crowd. I burned a few cigarettes and cooled off and looked up at the stars – the real ones – and let my mind wander where it would.
            Being an investigator, in the Army and since, had pro­vided access to people of every class and race and life­style, showing me facets of life that I did not expect to encounter nor even knew existed. Fresh out of a rural boy­hood, this was all new and fascinating. Over the years I met many good people whose stories would disgust you or break your heart; I met people who were happy in their ignorance, with no clue to what was going on around them; I met self-styled doâ??gooders whose efforts invariably made a mess of other people's lives. And I met evil people who seemed to suffer not at all for their wicked and despicable acts.
            Before long I learned to love this lonely, challenging profession. I discovered that I am good at it, and have found in it a calling. Investigation is a tough business, and maybe the only job that I am truly suited for.
            I love the chase. But a strong, disturbing sense of frustration arises whenever I dig up the facts that I am sent after and yet cannot tie up the case with a ribbon of proof beyond doubt. That will not, however, displace the enjoyment of the never-ending surprises and the mental and physical challenges of the work, the sense of accomplish­ment in solving the most dire survival-threatening problems of those who seek my help. Whenever I take on a new case my blood races at the prospect of another quest, the challenge, the search for justice that will perhaps propel me into the secret, hidden lives of other human beings, into the undiscovered, possibly dangerous future.
            The band inside swung into a fast Chicago-style number, halting my ruminations on life. Music is the best that life has to offer, I thought. Without it my soul will fester and ache. I have it both ways: my profession pays my rent and satisfies my intellect, while allowing ample time for the saxophone and jazz as my artistic expression.
            The music played on inside the massive sound stage. I was like an old hound that night, too long absent from the woods, an old hound trained for the hunt and listening on a windy, moonlit night for the sound of his master inside the house, the thrilling sound of his master getting ready, banging around at the gun cabinet. I didn't know where I was headed, or when the journey would begin, but I was ready and quite eager to be on the move. I don't always find justice, but it is certainly worth the chasing after. I will always need the chase.
            I went back inside the sound stage and over to a bar for a refill and ran into Preston Sturges. He had stopped making those grand and funny movies and opened a restaurant on the Sunset Strip called Players, where I sat in on the saxophone once in a while. He never pumped me about the more lurid aspects of the private detective's supposed adventures – I guess his own life was adventure enough. (Too damn many people believe those noir detective films.) We chatted until an especially attractive starlet with pale green eyes diverted his attention, and I withdrew.
            Nothing much happened after that, and I almost dozed off waiting for the orchestra to finish and Doreen to get off work. After a while I noticed a change in the tone of the hubbub and stood and stretched and saw that the crowd was starting to thin out. When the orchestra leader said his goodnight from the bandstand, the remaining audience applauded heartily. The musicians began to pack their instruments.
            I found Doreen talking to the orchestra leader, Horace Heidt. Doreen introduced us. He was very pleased with her performance and promised to use her again. Doreen was of course elated.
            As I was helping Doreen into her coat, a group passed by, moving toward the exit, a group that included my blond goddess. The goddess waved to me and I smiled back and the brunette waved and winked at me again. Doreen noticed the exchange.
            "Honestly, Rick. You're incorrigible. Leave you alone for two minutes and you're involved with somebody's wife." She shook her head in feigned disgust. Doreen actually made 'tsk, tsk' sounds.
            "Know who she is? The blonde?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
            She shook her head again. "That's Daisy Zachary. Wife of the new studio head over at Fox. It's a scandal how she behaves sometimes. What were you two doing while my back was turned?"
            I guided her toward the exit. Doreen's concern was that of a friend. At the last minute, her lawyer husband had to work late, so she called on me to act as her escort, to be there to push her beyond her stage-fright. Doreen's husband occasionally sent me new clients, and vice versa. They were both good people, and I was always glad to do them such an easy favor. She didn't really care who I hooked up with, but took every opportunity to tease me about my choices.
            "We danced some," I shrugged. Doreen threw me a look of mild disbelief.
            Outside the sound stage, we had to wait behind a crush of people in front of the main exit doors waiting for their cars. An ancient limousine stopped and the chauffeur got out and opened the door of the limousine and a tall, very old gentleman, pushing ninety at the very least, stepped carefully into the rear of the long automobile. Somebody blurted out that it was Victor King, the director, and I commented to Doreen that I thought he had died long before. The sleek limousine, a prime and highly-polished Duesenberg, purred quietly away and the crowd broke. We walked along the dark and windy studio front lot streets toward the parking lot where Rocinante, my maroon Studebaker coupe, stood waiting to take us home. And back to reality.
            I had no idea how soon I would again be walking these same studio streets.

            Hulking shapes of two dozen motion picture sound stages stand in shadows created by slanting afternoon sunlight. Behind them, the strange and weather-beaten wood facades of the studio backlot surround a flat field of plain brown earth. A line of shiny black limousines appears and slows to a stop, and men in dark business suits, and a few business-women, emerge from the vehicles. The executives are in a pleasant mood and they wave to the reporters and photographers assembled at the edge of the bare dirt area. A lone newsreel camera crew hurriedly sets up their equipment as the executives cluster in front of a large sign covered with plain muslin.

            The white-haired chairman of the studio steps forward and commands everyone's attention. The cheerful executives jockey for position and the photographers take a few casual practice shots. The muslin cover is removed from the sign and flash-bulbs pop as the studio chairman announces future construction on this site –formerly Old Western Street –of a state-of-the-art film laboratory, to be the biggest and most advanced in Hollywood. The bystanders clap politely.
            The ceremonial shovel is handed to the chairman, and the photographers move around for better angles. The chairman sinks the long-handled shovel into the dark, soft earth and flash-bulbs pop again. The studio president takes his turn with the shovel. He is followed by a nervous dowager who struggles to lift a shovelful of earth from the deepening hole, then dumps it next to the growing pile of dirt. A large, gray-white object tumbles into the sunlight and the woman drops the shovel and screams. The reporters and photographers scramble forward to record the sudden turn of events.
            The object is a human skull. Frantic black ants scurry about on the pile of freshly-turned earth, and a potato bug pushes dark, fresh dirt aside and crawls clumsily out of the eye-socket of the skull and into the sunlight.

                           end of Chapter 1 for GATHER