Shoot It Again, Sam Read online

  "You are nice, Lila."

  "Ed, come sit by me. I like you. Not many men out here to like. Hollywood is so phony, now. Like the rest of California. Not what it was in the old days. When you had the studios. The family way of making films. These goddamned independents may be artistic and all but they've taken the guts out of this business. The fun. You know what De Mille once told me—?"

  She told me what De Mille told her.

  And then she told me what Zanuck had told her.

  She had another drink. And another.

  The sun moved across the sky and then we moved inside the house into a living room out of an old Hollywood movie. Complete with stone fireplace, bearskin rug, knee-deep sofas and lounges and she locked a big oaken door behind us and poured out what was left of her soul. I really tried to ask some sensible questions, to make some progress in trying to find out about Dan Davis. But it was useless. She had made up her mind about something. I didn't see a butler or a maid all that afternoon and by five o'clock when I had called it a day and driven the Buick through the ranch-style gate past the sentry box, even the quiet guard on duty there was fast asleep.

  I left Lila Park Davis lying on the bearskin rug, a little the worse for wear. Too many cremes de Davis had taken their toll. In between all the drinking and all the talking, class always tells. She had gotten very tight, downright morose and for a fifty-seven year old woman with the body of a twenty five year old, she had come on the only way she knew how. As she probably had done decades ago. With all the people she had learned something from, and all the tricks of the trade which calls for compromise when there's too much competition. She very probably had been a good wife for Dan Davis, maybe even a great wife. But in her cups, and a newly-made widow, suddenly feeling very old, on a very dead summer afternoon she had taken a fancy to a new face on her veranda. So she kissed me very moistly many times, cried a little and promised me that in a few days she'd like to see me again and maybe when she didn't have her period we could have a real go-round.

  I let her make that face-saving lie and tried to act crushed. And when she had fallen asleep, I placed her gently on the bearskin rug in a more comfortable position and tiptoed very quietly out. The phone had not rung all afternoon, which seemed to be an oddity.

  Backing out of the Davis driveway, I felt like I was walking out on an old movie. Somewhere in the darkened corners of my mind. Lila Park begging Tyrone not to leave her.

  Breezing along the coastline back toward downtown L.A. where I had taken a hotel room, there was a feeling of ashes in my mouth and dust in my soul. The movie oriented mind can take a helluva going over sometimes. Especially for the man who's been there and is not quite back yet. And still has quite a distance to go.

  I had made progress, though. Some kind of progress.

  I was very sure of two things. Two ABC things.

  Lila Park Davis had loved Dan Davis very much.

  She had never known a damn thing about his work for the U.S. Government.

  A lonely old widow who wouldn't stay lonely too long.

  Along the shoreline below the beach that lay below the highway, a great white seagull soared along, like it was trying to keep up with me. It was as if it were the same solitary bird winging around the Davis house. I gave the Buick some more gas, leaving the gull behind.

  It was too late in the game to be imagining any more things. Make-believe had been my reality for far too long. Reality could not become my make-believe, as it is for most actors.

  I still had to do a job of work.

  Whatever it was that Dan Davis had died knowing, the President and a lot of other people still wanted to know, too.

  Including the Enemy, maybe.

  With a cast of thousands.

  ". . . lighthouses, John. Lighthouses in a foggy world . . ."

  James Gleason as Connell in

  Meet John Doe. (1941)

  AGENT

  □ At the crowded corner of Hollywood and Vine, the Taft Building was an old-fashioned, out-dated pile of brownstone architecture that made the world look like it was 1927 all over again. Right across Vine Street, the modern Americana was more of the cut of the Seventies, making the Taft look like old home week by comparison. Further up Hollywood Boulevard, the stack of artistically waffled floors that housed Capitol Records, stood like an innovation in the sunlight. But the Taft was my destination that morning. Abe Fogelman had business offices on the tenth floor and Abe Fogelman had been Dan Davis' agent and hand-holder and closest friend outside the world of the studios in the last quarter century of his life. Or so Variety had claimed for many years. It was Fogelman who had rescued Davis from his slave contract at Fox, right after the end of World War Two and from that point forward, Davis' star and bank account had climbed, climbed, climbed.

  I followed the sidewalk pattern of gold-trimmed stars set in the middle of the sidewalk all along the Boulevard right up to the Taft's side entrance on Hollywood. The glittering names and the not so glittering ones were a Chamber of Commerce notion way back in the Sixties which the jury was still out on. After all, Valentino, Tom Mix, Fairbanks Sr., Clara Bow have a right to be immortalized beneath your feet in asphalt that might never crack, but Ernest Tubbs and Eddie Arnold? Somehow, it was blasphemy. Visitors from a smaller planet.

  They didn't belong to that special world of the movies.

  Fogelman was in.

  A very good-looking redhead at a receptionist's desk took my name, announced me and showed me all her teeth showing me into an inner office. When the door closed, Fogelman bounced around a crowded but lavish desk, taking my hand and pumping it very enthusiastically. He was a full head shorter than me but his shoulders were wider than Cinemascope and his torso tapered down to sturdy little legs. Not an ounce of fat on him. His face was ruddy, a little sweaty but an overall impression of fine geniality stayed with you. There was little hair left atop a Von Stroheim-style head. He'd be a Brynner in no time at all.

  The office had a big window but the only decent view was of the other office buildings just across the Boulevard. Fogelman's walls were literally wall-to-wall with autographed pictures of Hollywood and Broadway and political great ones. There were a lot of newspaper-type pix of Fogelman in intimate conclave with the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Dwight David Eisenhower and Aristotle Onassis. I was impressed.

  I took the chair he waved me to and he barricaded himself behind the desk again. He was all smiles and effusion, and sitting down he seemed much taller.

  "You I've heard of," he grunted. His voice was gruff but very authoritative. It wasn't difficult at all to imagine him putting the screws on top studios and music firms to get top dollar for his clients. "You're a big man in your own field. Good for you. When there's competition, a man who rises to the top is to be admired. One hundred percent."

  "You've heard of me? I'm flattered."

  "It's a fact, isn't it? I don't argue with facts. You know Anthony's in Boston, maybe? Pier 4? "

  I said yes, remembering one of the finest seafood restaurants in the world, right on the harbor, where you can watch the boats come in. The lobsters you can get there are nearly as big.

  Fogelman nodded. His eyes twinkled.

  "Listen—two, three, maybe four years ago I was there with a man. A very big man. Maybe one of the five richest men in the country, and he said to me— when the subject came up, mind you—I don't push people into talking about something unless it's exactly what they got in mind—'Abe,' this fellow says—'If you ever need a private detective, don't look any further than a man called Ed Noon. He operates out of Manhattan and he's like Einstein at his job.' Now, how's that for a recommendation for a man? I could tell you who the man was that said it but you ought to know him anyway. So we'll let that pass. With my luck, I haven't needed a private cop or anything like that in years. Or we would have met years ago."

  I had a pretty fair idea who he meant but I let it pass. Fogelman squinted at me across the desk.

  "The moustache is new,
isn't it?" he snapped suddenly.

  I grinned. "Sherlock Holmes stuff, Mr. Fogelman?"

  "Listen, you need a good eye in my racket just like that London hawkeye. You'd be surprised how a man's sudden change of expression or a little funny look in his eye will tip you off as to when to push for a better deal. Or stand pat. You know what I mean?"

  "I know. But how did you guess about the mous-tache? I had it crop up on me only a few weeks ago."

  He chuckled. "You had it longer than that you wouldn't be touching it so often or clamping your lips down so much. Unless you're the nervous type. That nervous you don't look."

  "I had skopophobia once," I said. I must have made it sound pretty grim. Fogelman leaned back in his swivel chair.

  "Yeah? And what's that? New kind of disease?"

  "Fear of spies. I got over it."

  Fogelman snorted. "I'd never get over something like that. In this business, anytime they can get one up on you or steal a march, they go after it like a pack of dogs. Tell me, Mr. Noon. How come we did get acquainted after all these years?"

  "You know why I'm here. I told you on the phone."

  "Sure. You told me. You want to see me about Dan Davis. You want to talk. I know that. But I don't know anything else. That tells me nothing at all. By the way, you want something to drink?"

  "No. I want to talk about Dan Davis."

  Abe Fogelman nodded very slowly. Suddenly, a great passion came over his genial face. The lines of his cheeks sagged, his brow was erased of all lines and creases and his bright eyes went very dull. It was as if I had said a magic word and now he could drop the guise of Fogelman the hard-sell expert and be plain old Abe, Dan Davis' best friend.

  "Dan Davis," he said almost humbly. "A winner. Right from the start. Way back when he put that cockamamie two-bit studio on the map when it counted. With all those action things, the kind of uncomplicated pictures the customers liked. That was when I came along. He had gone over to Fox then but the deal was still more for them than for him Well, he showed them all. Won an Oscar doing the important kind of pictures and right up until the very end, he was still on top. Number One. You can't do better in this business." He shook his almost-bald head almost violently. "Aahh—we talk about Dan, we could be talking for hours. He was a gentle man. As big as he was—both in the box-office and in the body—he was always a gentle man. That's what I liked about him from the very first day."

  Old clippings and memories I didn't want so I cut right down to the heart of the matter. There wasn't all the time in the world.

  "Where were you when it happened?"

  "Italy. Trying to get something going with Lollo-brigida. They want her back here for a movie—but— I flew back in time for the funeral. One of the biggest we ever had out here."

  "What about his will? Probated yet?"

  "That'll take months, all those wives, the kids—interest deals on some of his films still showing and—" He stopped suddenly and the old Fogelman crept back into his face. "Hey. Here I am answering all your questions and I don't even know what your angle is. You writing a book or something or maybe you're representing one of those ex-wives?"

  "I could pose as just a movie fan but I won't. I could tell you I was just passing through but I won't. I'll level with you, Fogelman. My interest in Dan is purely governmental."

  "Come again?"

  "You heard me. My client is Uncle Sam. He is very much interested in Dan Davis."

  Abe Fogelman's face was a study in absurdities. For one second, his surprise was monumental. Then the monument crumbled into mixed expressions of rib-tickling amusement and then flaring anger and unbridled passion. He half-rose behind the desk, his hands poking out at me as if he wanted to put them around my neck.

  "What is this? A crummy tax beef or something? Dan never took a nickel out of this business without reporting it! Well, for the silly love of crap. Noon, I'm surprised at you. Big operator like you for a horses' ass job like this—"

  "Sit down. Hang onto yourself. This doesn't have anything to do with paying taxes."

  He sat down. I said it very quietly. And I had another answer for my little secret information book. The greatest actor in the universe could not have faked or mimed what had happened on Abe Fogel-man's face. Not Sir Larry or Eddie G. or anybody. Fogelman knew absolutely nothing about Dan Davis' double life. I would have bet my own life on that, and won the wager.

  "Go on," he growled. "Tell me something."

  "Okay. Just this. Dan Davis is on the record with his Uncle Sam as one of the great Americans. But just before he died he sent a note to the FBI about something subversive he'd found out in New York. You know anything about that?" I'd mixed the facts up a little intentionally but it didn't make any difference.

  Abe Fogelman frowned. And shook his head, a little dumbly.

  I kept after him, hammering hard now.

  "Did he ever talk to you about politics? Or the world situation or anything like that?"

  Again, he shook his head. He looked like he was trying to breathe. His genial face was a suddenly sweaty mask of confusion. For once, he had seemed to have run into a wall he hadn't expected to find in front of him. Especially in his own office.

  "Okay," I said very slowly. "One last thing. Is there anything—anything at all—that he left with you at any time—you know, a letter, a keepsake or anything that he wanted you to hold for him until he asked for it?"

  Abe Fogelman shook his head.

  "Is there anything to be opened or gone to in the event of his death?"

  Fogelman kept on wagging at me. A very big No, No, No!

  "Is there anything in his will of a curious nature? Anything at all?"

  The agent came back to life. He found his voice but he kept staring at me as if I had two heads. Maybe, I did.

  "You telling me, Noon—you implying that Dan—Dan—was in some kind of high-and-mighty mucky-muck with the government? That he was doing some kind of undercover work—?" He shook his head. The idea of course was preposterous. It was up to me to keep it that way. I leaned back in my own chair, fished out my cigarettes and lit one. I smiled evenly, blowing smoke toward his desk.

  "Not necessarily, Fogelman. I'm just running down every possibility. We think Dan might have seen or heard something in New York and the White House crowd just wanted me to check it out. May be nothing at all. New York's a wild place these days. Black Panthers, picket lines, strikes, bombings—Dan could have gotten mixed up about things. Anyway, his Uncle respected his getting in touch. It's my job to balance the story out. So far it's proving perfectly harmless I'm glad to say. Like Cincy in the last World Series."

  Fogelman mopped at his damp brow with his right hand.

  "Lila? Did you talk to her—?"

  "Yesterday. She knows nothing and she's trying to get some of her own answers out of a bottle. She always drink like that or is it only since Dan's death?"

  He nodded, unhappily.

  "She's a good woman. Was for him and that's all I ever asked of her. She's old Hollywood and that's still the best kind. Still counts for something in this dead town. But, my God, Noon—to think that Dan was trying to make like a James Bond—"

  "Why not? He was an actor, wasn't he? And isn't that children at their games?"

  "If you say so," he admitted, grunting again. But he settled back in his chair. "Hah! You threw me a curve. Me, Fogelman. You had me going there I can tell you, Mister Private Eye from New York. Word ever gets around—"

  "My lips are sealed."

  He laughed but it wasn't a funny sound. I had worried him very much. "You know something? I don't drink during office hours but that's one rule we fracture right now. I got some gin in the desk. You join me in one while I catch my breath."

  "I'll do that," I admitted.

  We had the drink in a thoughtful silence not exactly mutual.

  He kept staring at some point over my shoulder, nursing his gin-on-the-rocks while I put away one shot and let it go at that. There wasn't too mu
ch more to demand from him. Or to say. I had satisfied myself that Abe Fogelman, Agent, was just as much a dead end as Lila Park Davis, Wife, had been. The score was perfect.

  Dan Davis had kept the secret from them pretty well.

  Or so it seemed. A great actor in private life, too.

  "Goodbye, Fogelman. See you around."

  "You too. Shalom?"

  "Shalom" I agreed.

  When I closed his inner office door, he was still looking up at his ceiling, his balding head a study in grief and confusion.

  I paused by the good-looking redhead on my way out. She favored me with a receptionist's sewed-on smile. But her eyes were friendly and nice in spite of that. They warmed up the enameled facade.

  "Say, sweetie," I mimed the Hollywood patois. "Forgot to ask Abe and no sense in bothering him. Tried to contact him last month but he must have been out of town. Around the time Dan Davis died—"

  "Oh, he was in Italy then. For two weeks. Combination vacation and business. He was back in town for the funeral though. Terrible thing, wasn't it?"

  "You'll never know how terrible. Thanks, doll."

  "You're welcome."

  Feeling somehow defeated, I took the elevator all the way down to the sun-baked sidewalk. The sun was boiling over Hollywood and Vine as I left the cool of the Taft. Fogelman had left me with another taste of ashes in my mouth. The small kind of ashes Lila Park had scattered over my soul. One man dies and a whole world just has to go on about business. Roll on its merry way. Orbit as it must.

  The gold-trimmed stars, traveling in a straight, unbroken line down the middle of the concrete slabs of paving stone guided my footsteps away from the Taft Building. It was a hot, hot day.

  I walked aimlessly.

  The glaring sun followed me.

  It's a long, long trail from Wallace Beery and Ronald Colman and Joan Crawford to Spade Cooley, Vaughn Monroe and Patti Page but I took it.

  Toward Sunset.

  Famous ghosts kept pace with me.

  Wallace Reid, Laurel and Hardy, Buster Keaton, Richard Barthelmess, Lillian Gish, Spencer Tracy—