Ed Ifkovic - Make Believe

She shook her head. “No, because I noticed his bandaged jaw. I’d heard that Frank knocked him down, but seeing that small man…battered like that…well, I asked him how he was. He was all groggy from painkillers, and he said he was going to sleep. Alice was out with you and Lorena, but come in. So I backed off. I said, ‘But will you call me, Max?’”

Liz started sobbing now, and globs of makeup bunched in the corners of her eyes and mouth, splotches of caked rouge. “‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘don’t worry. There’s always tomorrow.’”

She dabbed at her face with the cloth napkin, but that only seemed to make it worse. Her face looked ravaged and pocked.

“And so you left?”

“Yes. ‘Go to sleep,’ I said. He reached out and shook my hand. A gentleman, that Max. I stood on his doorstep and realized I was shaking.” She grimaced. “So now I’m back to bad-mouthing him ’cause I got to when I’m with the boys. I hate myself when I say nasty things about him.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you.”

“I ain’t proud of myself, Miss Ferber. I do what I gotta do.”

“You have to tell this to the police.”

A sigh. “I know.”

Watching her now, this woman who believed excess defined her-the skyward platinum hair and the garish lipstick, the brilliant spangled blouse, and the chunky rhinestone earrings and necklace-I felt sorry for her. Probably in her early forties, she most likely wrestled with late-night reveries about fame on the screen, though she felt, to the marrow, that life was somehow a dirty trick. The shadowy mirror she peered into in the bathroom at four in the morning told her a story she’d rather not hear, and so each day she renewed her dream with a grim resolve that you had to applaud. A cheap dream, this sad romantic, but it was hers. And, therefore, I supposed, wonderful.

“You went home?”

She shook her head. “No. Seeing Max really made me…fierce. I headed home but I was going nuts, so I drove around for a while. I even stopped for a hamburger and sat there almost crying. It got late but I decided to tell Tony what I’d done. So I drove to the Paradise bar because I knew he and Ethan would be there in that damn booth. Tony wasn’t working so he’d be drinking all night.”

“What did he say?”

She lifted her eyes, a gesture of disgust. “He was slumped in that booth. Drunk, staring at a wall, in a stupor. I doubt if he even saw me in the doorway. I didn’t bother to go in. I changed my mind. Why bother?” She reached for her purse and searched for the compact again. “I’d have to repeat the conversation the next morning anyway.”

“So you went home?”

“Yeah. Cried myself to sleep.”

I woke with a start: the face of Max’s murderer flashed before me. A suspicion, yes, but I felt it to the core of my being. Only one person, without a doubt. I lay there, trembling, as Ava’s provocative words spun around in my head. Those casual words-how she dwelled on that last evening of Max’s life and the whereabouts of the featured players in this Hollywood dark movie. The Hollywood script we both were living.

Dressed, refreshed with two cups of coffee and orange juice, I phoned Ava, afraid I’d be waking her after a night of insomnia. But she answered on the second ring, her voice hurried. For a second I heard disapproval. “Ah, Edna, good morning.”

“Ava, I’m sorry to call so early. You were expecting another call?”

I heard her lighting a cigarette, the striking of a match. “Francis was supposed to be here. We’re going to Metro today. I have work to do and he has to talk to one of Dore Schary’s minions about his canceled contract.” She seemed out of focus, as though she’d pulled the phone away from her ear. “A desperate attempt. He’s not happy.”

“Is he ever happy?”

She laughed. “Edna, of course. But it’s never when you’re around.”

“Well, thank you.”

She rushed her words. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. Lately, he’s…”

“I know,” I broke in, impatient. “Ava, something you said the other night got me thinking about Max’s murder.”

A nervous titter. “My God. What?”

“I know something, Ava.”

Suddenly I could hear her start to sob in quick, choked gulps. “I don’t know if I want to hear this, Edna.”

I had little patience, so my words were sharp. “Of course, you do.” I breathed in and went on. “Ava, this is between you and me. No one else. Listen to me. Here’s what I think happened.” And methodically, as though checking off a to-do list, I spelled out my reasoning. Ava didn’t say anything, though now and then I could hear her sighing or clearing her throat. When I was finished, I waited, pensive, listening to the eerie silence. “Say something, Ava.”

She hesitated. “You have no proof, Edna.”

“No, I don’t.”

“What can you do?”

“Do you have any ideas?”

Another hesitation. “Check Max’s files. His letters.” She clicked her tongue. “His papers. I always joked that he kept a tell-all diary, but I don’t know. He did jot things down. Maybe…”

“I’ll call Alice.” I was ready to hang up.

“Call me, Edna. I’ll be at Metro all day. I’ll wait for your call.”

“I may want to see you there. Late today.”

“I’ll leave word at security.” The striking of another a match. Another intake of smoke. “Edna, be careful. Murder.” As I started to replace the receiver, I could hear her voice quivering. “Please be careful. This story already has an unhappy ending.”

When I told Alice what I wanted, she immediately invited me to her home. I didn’t mention my suspicions, and strangely she didn’t probe. “I can’t go into that room yet,” she confided. “I will eventually.” Then her voice dropped, melancholic. “It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the Max that I want to remember.”

Sitting with Alice in her living room, I had no desire for pleasantries, though I nodded and smiled. Instead, my mind was riveted to that workroom behind the closed door. Ava’s words and my wide-awake suspicions. Max’s murderer was out there, cocky perhaps, confident, because the L.A. police had no substantial leads. Yesterday a back-page mention in the Times noted that the police were stymied. Neighbors spotted nothing unusual, and no one had come forward with information. Nothing. A blank page. I suspected the authorities were beginning to chalk the cruel murder up to a political killing, perhaps a random, maddened one, the embittered public rhetoric on Communism fueling some fringe fanatic’s dubious quest to purify America from unsavory elements. My mind sailed to America First, the group Desmond Peake belonged to-and Larry Calhoun.

Alice detected my edginess, so our socializing ended abruptly when she stood, pointed to the door of the workroom, and said, “Whatever you want, Edna. Please feel free.” She waved toward the door. “Max’s world.”

“Alice, did Max keep a diary?”

“Just a journal in which he jotted down things.” She smiled. “Ava always joked about Max’s secret diary, a treasure trove of inner sanctum gossip that Hedda Hopper would kill to get her hands on. He always laughed about it.”

“I suppose the police have gone through the room more than once?”

“Yes, three times, in fact, before they unsealed it. I know they leafed through the journal because one of them mentioned it. But what could they find? Business receipts, appointments, innocent stuff.”

“Did they take anything away?”

She shook her head. “A list of his clients. Addresses, phone numbers. Mainly former clients, of course.” A pause. “I never got it back.”