Stuart Kaminsky: Murder on a Yellow Brick Road

The drive to M.G.M. was pleasant. I only thought of Cassie James and what she had done once or twice. The rest of the time I thought about my next meal, the money from Metro, and my future.

Buck McCarthy was on the gate, and we jawed for a few seconds until a car pulled in behind me. Greer Garson was in it, her red hair blowing in the slight wind. She pulled next to me, and Buck waved her in. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Everyone was smiling today.

“Adios,” I said to Buck, and he smiled.

Hoff’s secretary gave me a pleasant South of the Border smile and told me to go in. Hoff pumped my hand and thanked me. I accepted a ginger ale with ice, and he looked at the bill.

“Looks reasonable,” he said. He went into his pocket and pulled out four 100-dollar bills. They were crisp and new and I took them.

“We’ll just even it out,” he said. “I’ll get reimbursed when I turn in your bill.”

We wanted to say something else to each other, but there was nothing to say. What we shared we didn’t want to talk about, and there was a hell of a lot we didn’t share. So I drank my ginger ale, and he drank something dark with ice in it. I said I had to go. He reminded me that Mayer wanted to see me. I hadn’t forgotten.

We walked back to Mayer’s office, and he left me. He said he hoped we’d see each other again, and I said the same, but neither of us meant it.

This time I had to wait for Mr. Mayer. Someone was with him. I tried to talk to Blonde No. 1, but she acted busy, as if she had misplaced her desk.

I spent half an hour looking at the photographs of the studio’s stars on the walls. Then the door opened, and Mickey Rooney came out with a tall, dark man wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase. Rooney was grinning and rubbing his hands. He almost danced out. The shoulders on his suit were too wide. I expected him to say, “Oh, boy, oh, boy” in glee, just like Andy Hardy.

He recognized me and said hello, but he couldn’t put a name to my face. A lot of people can’t. I told him who I was and reminded him that I had worked a premiere or two as security.

“You working here full time now?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Just temporary.”

“Too bad,” he said, grinning. “It’s a classy dump.”

The tall man with him said nothing. Rooney bounced away smiling. It was a classy dump.

The blonde led me through the door and turned me over to the redhead; then to the second blonde, who led me into Mayer’s office. He was talking to a woman in a grey suit about redecorating the office. I thought it was a good idea, but I didn’t say so. I sat in the same comfortable white chair without being asked and waited.

“I want it to stand out and yet be subtle,” he told the woman, who nodded to indicate she understood.

When she left, Mayer came around the table, and I stood up. He pumped my hand a few times and looked into my eyes.

“Words can hardly express how much I appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Peters,” he said.

“Words and cash,” I said. “I’ve been paid, and I’ve been thanked.”

“Do you know who was just in here?” said Mayer. “Mickey Rooney. He’s a good lad, a little excitable, but a good boy. This studio has a reputation for good, wholesome entertainment, and you’ve helped to keep our image clean.”

He was overdoing it, but that was his style when he wanted something. I’d learned that from my last trip into the huge chamber. I had nothing left to give him, and I couldn’t imagine Louis B. Mayer holding me up for a kickback from 400 bucks.

“So,” he said, “how would you like to become part of our organization?”

It was my second job offer of the day, but I turned it down. I’d worked security for Warner Brothers for enough years to know I wouldn’t want to go back to it. It had the same drawbacks as being a cop, with none of the advantages except slightly higher pay.

Mayer hadn’t really expected me to accept, and that wasn’t what he had on his mind. I think part of his social interaction was to offer jobs to people he liked.

“It’s been nice talking to you again, Mr. Mayer,” I said getting up, and he looked surprised. I guess people didn’t walk out on him very often; they waited till he was finished.

“You’re a pusher, aren’t you?” he said, standing behind his desk. I shrugged. “I’ve got a job for you,” he said. “A job for you in your own line.”

“Fifty a day and expenses if I take it,” I said quickly. He brushed that away with his hand, and indicated that I should sit down. I sat and he leaned over his desk.

“How much do you know,” he whispered, “about the Marx Brothers?”

“Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, butI never thoughta little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds. Look out, here I go!”

With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing that she had really melted away to noth ing, Dorothy drew another bucket of water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out of the door. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on her footagain. Then, being atlastfree to do as she chose, she ran out to the courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange land.