The Devil May Dance - Tapper, Jake (short novels in english .TXT) 📗

“And you’d like the FBI’s help,” Kennedy surmised.

“Actually, I have some information for you about your niece,” White said, reaching into his briefcase. He opened a folder that held a typed report. “I did follow up on that note from last time we met. We found her last known address,” White said, reviewing the case memo. “Violet isn’t there anymore. Nor is she in the company of Itchy Meyer, or at least, she hasn’t been seen with him in the past few weeks, according to our eyes and ears. Meyer says he met her for the first time that night and hasn’t seen her since. The landlady where Violet briefly had a room says she fell in with a fast crowd of party girls. That’s all we got.” He closed the file.

“It’s not much,” said Margaret. She rubbed her left arm and her body tensed. She was worried about her niece and also irritated that no one other than Charlie seemed to take Violet’s disappearance seriously, as if she were just a feral kitten. Did young women die in Hollywood on a regular basis the way Chicagoans died in the freezing winds off Lake Michigan? She’d begun to think it was a specifically geographical phenomenon, but here was the FBI echoing the indifference. She was grateful for Charlie pushing the attorney general on Violet’s behalf. Her husband might be turning into a drunk, but he was still kind and decent.

“It’s not much, but it’s more than you had,” Kennedy pointed out.

“We need more,” Charlie said. “You need to keep looking. If we’re going to stay in LA, you have to help us find her.”

“She’s a child,” Margaret said.

“Addington will see what he can do,” Kennedy said.

“Just a few other things before you go back to your hotel,” White added. “Your dad has been transferred from the Tombs.”

“Why?” Charlie asked. He looked at his wife, who was frowning.

“To where?” she asked.

“Sing Sing,” White said. “We had to get him out of the city while this is all going on. There were threats on his life. But don’t worry, he’s safe.”

Charlie found himself gasping, he was so stunned. “Why don’t I believe you?”

White looked at Kennedy. Neither one cared. Kennedy put his suit jacket back on. “Find out who the girl was with before she showed up in the trunk of your car,” Kennedy said. “Figure out who killed her.”

“I don’t even know who this Lola Bridgewater is,” Charlie said, about ready to fall apart.

“Well, apparently she was Mary Bechmann, from Minot, North Dakota,” said White.

“And Mary Bechmann from Minot, North Dakota,” Kennedy added, “had only just turned sixteen.”

Chapter FifteenFranklin Canyon, California

February 1962

Sinatra, in army fatigues, stood in scrubby weeds alongside a well-worn trail, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other while he waited for Frankenheimer’s cue. He and a platoon of actors were gathered in Franklin Canyon, a stand-in for Korea, nestled between Beverly Hills and the San Fernando Valley. It was nearly noon, and the day was warm for February, all memories of the freak snowstorm long gone. The makeup artists scurrying among the cast dabbed away evidence of perspiration; camera crews and the production team were working to perfect every last detail. Charlie and Margaret observed it all on their Hollywood safari, accompanied by Manny Fontaine, who seemed determined to stay close to them.

“Why are they shooting this scene now?” Margaret asked Fontaine. “It’s supposed to take place at night, I thought.”

“It’s called ‘day-for-night,’” Fontaine explained unhelpfully. “He’s shooting it underexposed.”

“Why not just shoot at night?” Margaret asked.

“They want to do the titles over this scene,” Fontaine said.

Margaret raised her eyebrows; she still didn’t understand.

“It’s technical,” he said. Then, with a smile, he added, “I’d be lying if I claimed I really understood it myself.”

“We ’bout ready, Johnny?” Sinatra called out. Charlie noted that the actor seemed in good spirits, which was notable considering that one of his recent houseguests had been found dead.

Sinatra’s bad moods made him challenging to be around, but Charlie knew he was capable of great acts of decency and humanity. A key grip whose wife was suffering from cancer had suddenly learned she’d been transferred to the new Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, with a top oncologist caring for her; everyone knew how that had happened, but almost no one said anything in Sinatra’s presence. An associate producer tried praising Sinatra for his kind deed, but all he received in return was a grunt.

“One second, Frank, we’re almost there!” Frankenheimer shouted from the bottom of the hill where he was talking to Edmondson, his sound mixer, whose efforts to make a workable wireless microphone continued to fall short.

The scene was crucial to the plot of the film. In Korea, Captain Marco, Sergeant Shaw, and their platoon are treacherously advised by their interpreter Chunjin to walk in single file, after which they are ambushed, loaded into helicopters, and taken to the Chinese for a thorough brainwashing.

“Hey, Charlie,” Sinatra shouted down the hill. “Come on up for a sec. And bring a light. If you don’t have one, ask Beanie.”

Brownie and Beanie, makeup and wardrobe, were never far from Sinatra’s side. Charlie looked to confirm that Frankenheimer wasn’t anywhere near calling “Action,” then walked up the grassy slope to the actors. The sun was strong. He felt every drop of his steady diet of bourbon; his headache conjured a Buddy Rich bass drum solo. He had his own lighter and didn’t need Beanie’s, but he felt conflicted about now being yet another member of the retinue.

It had already been a rough morning. Outside the Miramar, as Charlie and Margaret waited for the valet to bring their rental car around, Detective Meehan had materialized like Harvey the rabbit, a cigarette in his mouth and a porkpie hat on his head. A coffee stain marred his loud red tie.

“Congressman and Mrs. Marder!” he barked in greeting.

“Je-sus, you scared me,” Margaret said, taking a step back and putting her hand on her heart.

Meehan ignored her. He pointed a