Ace Atkins - Devil’s garden

“He used to direct some of my pictures,” Roscoe said, still sitting in the same childlike pose. “We used to call him Pathé. Like the French picture company. The rumor was that he’d told DeMille that he’d worked for them in Paris. It was all a bunch of hooey, but the name stuck. He’s an arrogant bastard. Have you read the letter he wrote about me? He called me a goddamn beast and said he wanted to kill me. He knew I didn’t do a thing to Virginia. He knows I’m not that kind of fella.”

“Tell me about the girl.”

“Listen,” Roscoe said, pointing the end of a half-smoked cigarette for emphasis, “I’ve been over this ten thousand times with Frank. I met her a few times, knew her when she was with Lehrman. She was cute. A lot of fun. When she showed up at the St. Francis, I hadn’t seen her for years. I barely remembered her name. I was in the shower, and when I came out-”

Sam held up his hand and shook his head. “I don’t need that part. Just who would know the girl?”

Roscoe smoked some more and thought. He wobbled as he tried to get to his feet and then wandered out of the room, and Sam heard water running and then a commode flush and for a second thought about showing himself out. But soon Roscoe was back and asked if Sam would like some coffee because the coffeepot was about the only thing he had left.

“That and a skillet.”

“What about friends outside Lehrman?”

“Hold on,” Roscoe said and walked to the foot of an endless oak banister to the second floor and yelled up for Minty. Minta Durfee appeared at the top of the landing and asked what he wanted, and he told her about Sam, and she said she’d be down in a minute.

“Can you believe she came all the way from New York for me? Have you met her ma? She’s a peach.”

Sam sat at a small, wobbly table that was dwarfed by the size of the kitchen. The four chairs that surrounded it were crude and mismatched and looked as if they’d been picked up at a rummage sale.

Minta came into the kitchen wearing a flowing red robe and a kerchief on her head. She smiled at Sam and said it was nice to see a familiar face and then poured him a cup of coffee to go with his cigarette. All of them sat at the little table.

Outside the window, they could see Daisy playing with Luke.

“Who’s the skirt?” Minta asked.

Roscoe laughed. They drank their coffee and made idle talk for a while, and then the subject rolled back to Virginia Rappe.

“I was gone by then,” Minta said. “Have you talked to Mabel?”

“Minta and Mabel,” Roscoe said. “My girls.”

“I was headed there this afternoon,” Sam said. “Are you sure she’ll talk to me?”

“Sure thing,” Minta said. “She’ll like you. You’re a handsome fella, Sam.” Sam smiled at her.

Roscoe smoked and made a puzzled smile. He snapped his fingers and leaned into the table. “Say, I know you from somewhere. You ever spent time in Bisbee?”

“Nope.”

“But I know you. I’m not crazy. Sometimes it comes to me, people I’ve met. I may not have even spoken to them, but I remember a face.”

“The Palace Hotel,” Sam said. “Last week.”

Roscoe looked at him.

“You should really put on a shirt, Roscoe,” Minta said.

“Did Frank introduce us?”

“I was sitting in the lobby in a chair reading a paper. You stepped off the elevators and spotted me right off.”

“Did I say something?”

“No, but you gave me a look that coulda melted paint.”

“I suppose I took you for a newsboy. You look like a writer.”

“No such luck,” Sam said. “I only made it to eighth grade.”

“Self-made man,” Roscoe said. “How ’bout a drink?”

“Are you kidding?” Sam asked. “That’s the toughest, meanest dry agent in the state of California out there playing with your dog.”

“She’s got a hell of a figure,” Minta said. “She with you?”

Sam felt his face heat but he managed a smile. “I suppose one drink. You wouldn’t happen to have Scotch?”

ROSCOE WAS DRUNK and two hours late for his meeting with Al Zukor. But he was clean-shaven and showered and smelling sweet as he stepped into the dimly lit room at Musso & Frank’s and straightened his tie. The bourbon had given him kind of a loose, resolved dignity, as it seemed to him-maybe he only imagined-that all voices fell silent, forks stopped scraping on plates, and the clink of glasses had all but ceased. In his standard corner was little Mr. Zukor in a high red leather booth, and the little white-headed man stood and smiled and waved Roscoe over. Roscoe knew that being seen in public with an outcast truly pained Al, but it was all show business, and being given a good handshake by Al Zukor in Musso & Frank’s was rock-solid.

He made his way through the maze of tables following the same little maître d’ that was always there but whose name Roscoe could never remember. And he’d about made it to that back booth when he spotted Broncho Billy at a side table over candlelight, guffawing it up with a couple tarts in sequins and hats that looked as if they were made with dead squirrels, and so Roscoe waved over to Mr. Zukor and stumbled up to Broncho Billy and asked him with great sincerity, as he-Roscoe-straightened his diamond cuff links, where the two broads killed that squirrel.

Broncho Billy stopped the guffawing and stood, slipped his pearl Stetson back on his head, and shifted his gunless belt on his waist. He stood toe to toe with Roscoe, and Roscoe looked at the little man with the big nose and bigger ears. Billy sucked a tooth, trying to figure out what to say.

“You have a good time in Frisco?” Roscoe asked.

“Someone has to make the picture business clean.”

“If you keep hanging out with broads like that, your pecker is gonna turn green.”

Little Mr. Zukor inserted himself between Billy and Roscoe and smiled, sweet and calming, but tough, too. Because even though Mr. Zukor was a pint-sized little bastard who used to sell furs on street corners, he was a hard-edged son of a bitch that no one in their right mind wanted to cross if they ever wanted to step foot on a picture lot again.

“Our table.”

Roscoe followed and squeezed into the booth. Every bastard and bitch in the restaurant craned their necks to get a good look at the zoo animal. Roscoe rubbed his face and straightened the cuffs of his shirt under his pressed suit jacket. He took a deep breath as a waiter laid a napkin in his lap and handed him the menu.

“How ’bout a fucking drink?” Roscoe said.

Mr. Zukor made a face, as if Roscoe had just dropped a turd on the table, and sent away the waiter with a flick of the hand.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’d like a drink.”

“Not here,” Mr. Zukor said. “Not like this.”

Roscoe shrugged. “I’m plastered anyway. So what’s the difference?” “That’s a spiffy suit you got there, Roscoe.”

“Bought it in Frisco,” Roscoe said. “Labor Day. You might’ve heard about a little party I threw. I crushed some woman while I was giving her a solid lay.”

“Please keep your voice down.”

“These people are cannibals,” Roscoe said. “They’ll eat your flesh from your bone.”

“It’s a tough business.”

Roscoe leaned back into the comfort of the leather booth and lit a cigarette with a gold tip. He removed a spot of tobacco from his tongue and met the stare of a beautiful woman across the way. When she matched eyes with him, she turned her head.

“Let’s talk about Frank Dominguez,” Zukor said.

“What’s to talk about? You fired him.”

“I didn’t fire him. I discussed your trial with him. We’ll need the best.”

“Frank is the best.”

“Frank is your drinking buddy, the guy you play poker with when you’re feeling lonesome. Not the best, Roscoe. Maybe down here, but not up there.”