deal.
“Bette’s doing a radio show tonight,” Farnsworth said. “Screen Guild play, Dodsworth , with Walter Huston. She just finished shooting a new movie, Old Acquaintance , with Miriam Hopkins. I warn you, Bette’s a little frazzled. Miriam is not one of her favorite people and she’s still having trouble with her Warners contract.”
“Used to work for Warners,” I said as we moved toward the grinning Carmen.
“You did?”
“Security,” I said. “Got fired by Jack Warner in person for punching a cowboy star who was pawing a wardrobe girl.”
“You and Bette have something in common,” Farnsworth said with a sad smile as I handed the check and a five-dollar bill to Carmen.
More than you’d think, I said, but only to myself.
“Your wife is my favorite actress, Mr. Davis,” Carmen blurted at Farnsworth. “Ask Toby.”
“It’s true,” I said, waiting for my change. Carmen’s favorite actor or actress changed every three to six weeks. Buck Jones held the six-week record.
“Thank you,” said Farnsworth uncomfortably.
“My change, Carmen,” I reminded her, my hand still out. Carmen rang it up and handed the coins to Farnsworth with a smile. He dropped them into my open palm.
“I’ve got some work to do for Mr. Davis,” I said, leaning over to whisper to Carmen. “But when I finish, maybe you and I could take a much-needed vacation.”
Carmen looked at me, her large dark eyes alert for a trap, her wide red mouth ready for an ambush. Farnsworth had discreetly taken a step away from the counter to give us privacy.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“Tahoe,” I said.
“I’ll think on it,” she said, her eyes back on Farnsworth.
Farnsworth and I headed for the door. I held it open for him. “I’ll start tonight,” I said. “If that guy calls you back, let me know. If we need it, I’ve got some connections in the Los Angeles Police Department. My brother’s a captain. Need a ride?” I asked.
“No, thanks,” he said, looking up and down the street. “I’m parked nearby and I have a few things to do before I head home.”
I uncharitably suspected that one of the things was to go to a bar and drink his lunch. We shook again and I said, “Call me if you hear and I’ll let you know if I have anything to report.”
C HAPTER T HREE
M rs. Plaut’s boarding house, which I had called home for more than two years, was in Hollywood on Heliotrope in a reasonably quiet residential neighborhood of small homes, three-floor apartment buildings, and boarding houses.
I arrived, a brown paper bag of groceries in each arm, around two in the afternoon. Mrs. Plaut sat waiting on the porch in her white wicker chair, a bowl of something in her lap which she was mashing with a vengeful wooden spoon. Her radio was plugged in behind her and entertaining the neighborhood with what I think was a soap opera, probably “Rosemary.”
Mrs. Plaut was a gray wisp of a woman, tiny, determined, hard of hearing, resolute of purpose, and of no known age. Her white hair was a mass of tight curls and her eyes a pale blue. Mrs. Plaut believed, alternatively, that I was either an exterminator with unsavory friends or a book editor. With the latter forever in her hopes, I was in the process of editing Mrs. Plaut’s family history, a tome which was now to be measured not by pages but by pounds. I had considered trying to convince her to stop writing simply to keep from wasting paper that might contribute substantially to the war effort.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Peelers,” she said, looking at the packages.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Plaut,” I answered.
“I have been waiting for you for several hours,” she said, reaching back to turn off the radio, “and I am browned off.”
“Browned off?” I repeated, stepping across the white wooden porch to the front door.
“Bored,” she explained. “I heard it on the Arthur Godfrey radio show in the morning. Army bomber lingo. Like laying the
“Bette’s doing a radio show tonight,” Farnsworth said. “Screen Guild play, Dodsworth , with Walter Huston. She just finished shooting a new movie, Old Acquaintance , with Miriam Hopkins. I warn you, Bette’s a little frazzled. Miriam is not one of her favorite people and she’s still having trouble with her Warners contract.”
“Used to work for Warners,” I said as we moved toward the grinning Carmen.
“You did?”
“Security,” I said. “Got fired by Jack Warner in person for punching a cowboy star who was pawing a wardrobe girl.”
“You and Bette have something in common,” Farnsworth said with a sad smile as I handed the check and a five-dollar bill to Carmen.
More than you’d think, I said, but only to myself.
“Your wife is my favorite actress, Mr. Davis,” Carmen blurted at Farnsworth. “Ask Toby.”
“It’s true,” I said, waiting for my change. Carmen’s favorite actor or actress changed every three to six weeks. Buck Jones held the six-week record.
“Thank you,” said Farnsworth uncomfortably.
“My change, Carmen,” I reminded her, my hand still out. Carmen rang it up and handed the coins to Farnsworth with a smile. He dropped them into my open palm.
“I’ve got some work to do for Mr. Davis,” I said, leaning over to whisper to Carmen. “But when I finish, maybe you and I could take a much-needed vacation.”
Carmen looked at me, her large dark eyes alert for a trap, her wide red mouth ready for an ambush. Farnsworth had discreetly taken a step away from the counter to give us privacy.
“We’ll see,” she said.
“Tahoe,” I said.
“I’ll think on it,” she said, her eyes back on Farnsworth.
Farnsworth and I headed for the door. I held it open for him. “I’ll start tonight,” I said. “If that guy calls you back, let me know. If we need it, I’ve got some connections in the Los Angeles Police Department. My brother’s a captain. Need a ride?” I asked.
“No, thanks,” he said, looking up and down the street. “I’m parked nearby and I have a few things to do before I head home.”
I uncharitably suspected that one of the things was to go to a bar and drink his lunch. We shook again and I said, “Call me if you hear and I’ll let you know if I have anything to report.”
C HAPTER T HREE
M rs. Plaut’s boarding house, which I had called home for more than two years, was in Hollywood on Heliotrope in a reasonably quiet residential neighborhood of small homes, three-floor apartment buildings, and boarding houses.
I arrived, a brown paper bag of groceries in each arm, around two in the afternoon. Mrs. Plaut sat waiting on the porch in her white wicker chair, a bowl of something in her lap which she was mashing with a vengeful wooden spoon. Her radio was plugged in behind her and entertaining the neighborhood with what I think was a soap opera, probably “Rosemary.”
Mrs. Plaut was a gray wisp of a woman, tiny, determined, hard of hearing, resolute of purpose, and of no known age. Her white hair was a mass of tight curls and her eyes a pale blue. Mrs. Plaut believed, alternatively, that I was either an exterminator with unsavory friends or a book editor. With the latter forever in her hopes, I was in the process of editing Mrs. Plaut’s family history, a tome which was now to be measured not by pages but by pounds. I had considered trying to convince her to stop writing simply to keep from wasting paper that might contribute substantially to the war effort.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Peelers,” she said, looking at the packages.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Plaut,” I answered.
“I have been waiting for you for several hours,” she said, reaching back to turn off the radio, “and I am browned off.”
“Browned off?” I repeated, stepping across the white wooden porch to the front door.
“Bored,” she explained. “I heard it on the Arthur Godfrey radio show in the morning. Army bomber lingo. Like laying the
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