The Ticket Out Read online

  The front gate opened and Silverman stuck her head out. The look on her face was hilarious: a snarl worthy of Helga.

  I said, “Dilettante perverts,” and laughed again.

  SILVERMAN TOOK off while I was hiding behind my car. I tailed her along the coast road and lost her at a light. I wandered around Malibu, saw no black Humvees, gave up, and drove back into Hollywood.

  I parked in an alley by Greta Stenholm’s and walked to the Chinese Theater. Hollywood Boulevard was the usual zoo—a cleaned-up zoo since the big rehab and new subway. The tourists were out in force like always, but the street freaks had been displaced by hip and happening locals.

  I’d shelved Neil John Phillips and Arnold Tolback for the moment.

  I’d called hotels in Desert Hot Springs on my way in from Malibu. I didn’t find Phillips. I’d also dropped by the Chateau Marmont: Tolback wasn’t around. But I did a lot of interviews at the Marmont and knew the desk staff there. The guy on duty said that Tolback checked in the week before. I made a note of the date: August 23. I promised him twenty bucks if he’d call me the minute Tolback showed up. He said he’d rather have a tape of my interview with Clive Owen. I said fine.

  Hannah Silverman was not shelved. I didn’t know which movie she won the Oscar for; I didn’t remember ever hearing her name. A world-class witch, Penny Proft had said—with a thing for younger men and corny discipline games. And the third party in two love triangles, if Proft’s gossip was reliable. Stenholm had slept with Edward Abadi and Arnold Tolback. That was more than coincidence; it looked deliberate. But why would Stenholm want to mess with Silverman?

  Lockwood knew why.

  I’d called from Malibu and caught him at the station. He didn’t like it that I knew about Edward Abadi. He confirmed that Abadi had been shot, but wouldn’t expand or explain. I asked him straight out: why would Greta Stenholm want to mess with Hannah Silverman? Lockwood said he’d meet me at my place later, named a time, and hung up. He hadn’t gotten my messages and didn’t give me a chance to mention them.

  I walked into the forecourt of the Chinese, glad I hadn’t agreed to his one-way “cooperation” deal. I would have known exactly nothing right now.

  The forecourt was jammed with people. They were pouring out the theater exits, lined up behind velvet ropes, and taking pictures of the footprints in cement.

  I stopped to remind myself why I’d come.

  Last Friday, four days before she died, Greta Stenholm spent a chunk of time seeing movies on the Boulevard.

  I was filling in the blank week in her calendar. On Thursday she went to the library and read about herself in the Hollywood Reporter. She saw movies all day Friday and vandalized candy machines on Saturday.

  The question was: Why would Stenholm come here? Maybe she still lived in the area; the movies she saw, except the documentary at the Cinematheque, were playing citywide.

  Was it another way to celebrate the sale of her script? Was she saying good-bye to five years of failure? Was it an act of triumph and revenge, like defacing the Reporter piece? Or was she a fan of movie history like her ex-partner Phillips? The El Capitan was a landmark. The Cinematheque was in the Egyptian Theater. The Egyptian was Sid Grauman’s first theme palace in Hollywood, the Chinese was his second, and both theaters had been restored to their kitschy ’20s splendor.

  I didn’t know the history of the Vine, but she went to see a Steven Spielberg double feature there.

  Where did she get the cash to buy tickets? She was bouncing checks and stealing from candy machines, and she died broke. Did she spend her last dime on movies?

  I walked up to the main doors of the Chinese, flagged down an usher, and asked him to get the manager. The kid ducked into the lobby and came back with a frazzled-looking man. I showed him my press card. I said I was doing a piece on Hollywood hopefuls and trying to locate Greta Stenholm. He didn’t register the name, so I showed him the Reporter photograph.

  He smiled when he saw it. She was a regular at their discount matinees, he said. “A lovely young lady, crazy for movies and very bright.” The day shift loved her and wished her luck with the new screenplay. He hadn’t seen her last Friday, but he knew one of her haunts: a pizza place across from the Egyptian.

  I walked east and found the pizza place. It was a biker hangout with brown Naugahyde booths, but it was clean and it smelled good. I showed my Stenholm picture to the guy at the counter. He identified her right off. He knew her first name and said she was a longtime customer.

  According to him she’d talked about nothing but her script for the past month. She’d also looked more and more ragged because the studio negotiation was driving her nuts. She’d made calls from the pay phone, and gotten calls back—from her agent, she’d said. And she’d eaten there every day for the past two weeks. The counterman admitted he was feeding her for free. He couldn’t let her starve, he said, when her script was going for hundreds of thousands of dollars. He saw her last on Monday, the night of Barry’s party. She’d made a few calls, eaten a calzone, and gone to a movie down the street.

  I ran back to my car and drove down to the Vine Theater. There was no place to park, so I left the car in a loading zone. I bypassed the box office and asked an usher to get her boss for me. The usher wanted to know why; she was busy. I told her my “Hollywood hopefuls” story and showed her the picture of Stenholm.

  The usher turned to a shaggy surfer boy who was working the concession stand. He wore a beaded choker with his uniform. She called, “Yo, Harrison! She’s got your girlfriend here!”

  The usher giggled at the look on the surfer kid’s face. He left his popcorn popper and came over.

  He said, “Hi, can I help you?” His face was tight. I steered him away from the giggly usher.

  I said, “It’s about Greta Stenholm.”

  His face changed. He whispered, “But I talked to the cops yesterday. Is this going to start again?”

  “Is what going to start again?”

  He shook his head and clamped his lips together. I showed him my press card. “I’m not the police.”

  The kid just shook his head. I said, “She saw a movie here last Monday and I know for a fact she was broke.”

  The kid sagged against the wall. “Oh, man. I’m going to get fired this time—I’m going to get fired.”

  I pulled a twenty out of my pocket and put it in his hand. “Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

  He passed the bill right back to me. “I don’t want money.”

  “Then I’ll have a few words with your boss.”

  He said, “No!” and moved to block my way.

  “Then talk. What is starting again?”

  The kid hesitated. “A dude ... like ... got iced last year.”

  “Her film agent?”

  The kid nodded.

  “And?”

  “And, like, she was here when the deal went down.”

  “Here at the Vine?”

  “Uh-huh, watching movies. She used to come every week, sometimes more than once. Sometimes she’d be low on cash or whatever, and I let her in for free.”

  I saw what he was getting at. “You let her in free that night, so she had no proof she’d been here, no ticket stubs.”

  The kid nodded. “But Greta covered for me down the line. She told the cops she lost her stubs, and anyway, two of us saw her that night—me and this other girl.”

  “Did the cops suspect her of the killing?”

  The kid rolled his eyes. “Oh man, like, for real. They wouldn’t leave us alone. They kept coming back until the other girl quit because she couldn’t take it anymore.”

  I said, “Now Greta’s dead and the cops are back again.”

  The kid smiled for a second. He was missing teeth. “But not the same ones. These dudes are, like, cool. I told them about the ticket stubs and they believed me, and they won’t narc me to my boss.”

  I described Lockwood and his partner. The kid nodded. “That’s them.”

&nbs
p; “Did they know that Greta had been here Monday night?”

  “Nuh-uh—not until I told them.” He looked over at the concession stand. The line was getting long and there was only one other kid to handle it.

  I poked his arm. “Greta was here last Friday for two shows. Were you working that night? How did she act?”

  “She was, like, strange, man. She asked if she could sleep in the ladies’ lounge.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “She couldn’t go home maybe.”

  “Do you know where she was living?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “Did you let her sleep in the lounge?”

  “Nuh-uh—I’d get in trouble.”

  I said, “Do you know where she did sleep that night?”

  He shook his head and pointed at the lines. “I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.”

  “One more question. What happened Monday night?”

  “Monday I let her watch A.I. for free.”

  “Didn’t she see it on Friday?”

  “Uh-huh, but she did stuff like that, like, see the same movie over and over. But she left in the middle of the show to meet somebody about a movie she wrote.”

  “What time was that?”

  He shrugged. “Nine-thirty?”

  “Was she going to meet her agent?”

  The kid shrugged. “That’s all I know. She said she was seeing somebody about GBDB.”

  “G-B-D-B?”

  He shrugged again. “Whatever—I guess it’s the name of her movie. Now, like, I really have to go. And don’t talk to my boss, okay?”

  He ran back to the popcorn machine. I pulled out my pen and wrote “GBDB—???” on the palm of my hand.

  As things got more complex, I got more excited.

  A film-school star reviving her dead career. A beautiful blond, flat broke and scrounging free meals and movies. Two murders, a burglary, a blackmail scheme—and a six-figure film script that told the truth about the condition of women.

  My Hollywood story.

  One article wasn’t going to be enough. Greta Stenholm would need a series, and I already had the title. I was going to call it “A Bright Young Woman.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  EVERYTHING WAS dark when I got home. I’d left in such a rush that morning, I forgot to turn on the floodlights around the mansion. I always left lights on if I was going to be late. The place could be eerie at night.

  I pulled down the drive and parked by the garage in back. Checking my watch, I decided to leave the driveway gates open. I was exactly on time. Lockwood was due any minute.

  I walked around the pool, trying to pick out my door key by feel. My head was down and I was squinting at my key ring as I walked up to the pool house. There were bushes beside the front porch. I heard leaves rustle. I looked over; it was too dark to see. On instinct I ducked and threw up one arm.

  Branches snapped. A figure crashed out of the bushes. I yelled and faked to the left. He fell past me, waving an object in the air. A heavy iron bar grazed my shoulder.

  I dodged sideways and tried to run. He grabbed my bag and jerked me back. I twisted away from him. He swung the iron bar; I caught a glancing blow. It stung. I twisted and ducked and dug for my sap. Swinging wild, he hit me on the wrist. I screamed and dropped my bag. The guy stumbled backward with it. I took off running. The guy came after me. I heard his breath as he closed in.

  I could have outrun him. But it was dark, and I was frantic, and I ran straight into the swimming pool. My feet hit air and I smacked the water face first.

  The guy jumped in on top of me. Something rammed my head. I saw starbursts and almost blacked out. We both went under. The guy grabbed my neck and started to strangle me.

  I tried to scream. I opened my mouth and sucked in water. I thrashed and kicked and clawed for the surface. The hands squeezed tighter.

  I banged my head on something hard. It was the cement lip around the pool. I flailed and kicked, trying to throw the guy off me. I couldn’t breathe.

  Suddenly my neck was free. Water sucked and churned—squishy footsteps raced across the lawn. I grabbed the edge of the pool and held on, choking, spitting water, and gasping for air.

  Someone touched me.

  I screamed and struck out blind. Two hands latched on to my wrists. I tried to kick away from the edge. The hands grabbed me and pulled me over the side. I was yelling. I fought; I twisted my body and squirmed backward. Then I heard a familiar voice:

  “It’s me! I’ve got you! Stop!”

  I went limp on the cement. Lockwood rolled me over, put his thumbs along my spine and pushed. My stomach heaved. I rolled onto my side and threw up pool water. The chlorine stung my mouth.

  Lockwood jumped up and took off across the lawn. I lay there panting for breath. He ran to the back wall, grabbed some ivy, hauled himself to the top, and jumped down into the vacant lot behind.

  I lay there a few minutes, then made myself sit up. I was soaking wet and shaking hard. I was dizzy. My lungs ached, my neck ached, my nose and throat burned. I tried to pull a clump of hair out of my mouth. My right fingers were numb, and my right wrist wouldn’t bend.

  I rested a few more minutes, then made myself stand. My head started to spin and I almost fell down again. I caught myself on a chaise lounge, gave it another minute, and walked to the pool house very slowly.

  I found my bag in the bushes where the guy had dropped it. I bent slowly and picked it up. I had to keep my head level or else I’d fall. Reaching into the front room, I hit the wall switch. The ceiling light went on.

  I stared at the chaos.

  All the furniture had been shoved out of place. The daybed was torn apart—mattress, pillows, blankets, everywhere. The rugs were wadded up. Drawers and cupboards were open, the bookshelves had been emptied. My things were flung all over the floor.

  I crawled up on my writing table and tried the slats of the attic fan. The guy hadn’t searched there. I got the envelope of money, climbed down, and set it on the table. I waded into the bathroom to get my flashlight. The bathroom had been trashed, too.

  I walked out to the back wall, careful not to move fast. I tucked the flashlight in my jeans and climbed slowly to the top. The vacant lot was dark. I shined the light down along the outer wall.

  There was a crack of dry branches. I lifted the flashlight. Lockwood was coming through the vacant lot, straightening his necktie. He saw me and pointed off to my right.

  I swung the light around and saw a ladder propped against the outer wall. That was how the guy got in.

  I said, “Look.” I aimed the light low on the ladder.

  Lockwood stooped to examine the ground. The dirt was too packed and dry to show footprints. I leaned down closer. The light beam started to sway back and forth. Lockwood glanced up. I dropped the flashlight and grabbed some ivy to steady myself. My ears were ringing.

  I slowly lowered myself to the ground. Lockwood climbed over the wall and jumped down beside me. I was just standing there, holding my head, fighting the dizzy sensation. I felt sick, I was so dizzy. Lockwood put his arm around me. I wrapped both arms around him and pressed my face into his jacket. I almost wanted to cry.

  Lockwood started to walk me toward the pool house. He said, “We better get you to the hospital.”

  I made a no noise. Lockwood said, “You can’t stay here. I can put you in a hotel, or give you around-the-clock guards. Which would you prefer?”

  We walked up onto the porch. He stopped when he saw the mess inside. I spotted a long object on the cement. I let go of him, bent down carefully, and picked it up. It was a carpenter’s pry bar. I wasn’t worried about fingerprints because the guy had worn gloves. I’d felt the material around my throat.

  I tapped the pry bar on the door, just a light tap. It made a dent in the wood. The guy would have crushed my skull if he’d had better aim. Crush my skull, I thought—and laughed out loud. It sent pain through my whole body. I stopped laughing, grabbed the door for
support, and gritted my teeth.

  I gave the pry bar to Lockwood. He tested the heft of it. I told him about the attack, the sequence of events as I remembered them. I had to stop every so often to gather my strength. While I was talking, he walked into the pool house and looked around. He stuck his head in the kitchen and the bathroom. Three times he turned to stare at me. I finally said, “Is something wrong?”

  He nodded. “I don’t understand you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never seen a witness act the way you did the other day. You made jokes at our first interview.” He held up the pry bar. “Then someone tries to kill you and you laugh.”

  I smiled. “People say I only get emotional about movies. Maybe I don’t feel the gravity of the situation.”

  Lockwood did not smile. “No, I think you don’t feel fear.”

  I stuck my hands out. They were shaking so badly, he could see it from across the room. I said, “I need to dry off.”

  I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I stripped naked in front of the mirror. There were red marks in a band around my neck. They’d turn into bruises soon. My right shoulder had a welt where the pry bar grazed it; my right wrist was numb and already swollen. I dosed myself with more aspirin and arnica, and took two drugstore sedatives to calm down. For the first time in years I wanted a drink.

  I threw on dry clothes and opened the door. Lockwood had found the Burger King file in the mess. He’d put the mattress back on the bed and sat there, flipping pages. He held Vivian’s note in one hand and seemed to be engrossed.

  I didn’t have the energy to clean up just yet. Aftershock was setting in; my legs were rubbery and I felt hot and weird. I sat down in a chair and watched Lockwood read Vivian’s note. He reread it a couple of times. I thought he’d react to the gossip about his Mexico trip and love life, but his expression didn’t change.

  I said, “I’d like to do a piece on you.”

  Lockwood shook his head.

  “Why not? You could tell your side—”

  Lockwood closed the file and pointed to the mess. “We have more important things to discuss. I’ve spoken to your family.”