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  “Okay. You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Will do. Thing is, we’re gonna have to treat this like a homicide.”

  “I thought we already were?”

  “Well, yes and no. What it means is, we’re gonna bring folks in from the party tomorrow for further interviewing. Starting with Smelter and Kordel.”

  “The ones you already interviewed?”

  “That’s just it. Desk sergeant decided to let them go on account of how upset they were, so we didn’t get any statements from them today. And we’re gonna interview Beale and Orpen tomorrow morning too. I’ll text you the times if you want in.”

  “I want in.”

  “Alright then. See you tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I hung up the phone. We were inside the Gelateria.

  “What do you want, babydoll?”

  “Bubblegum,” she said. “Two scoops.”

  “Sounds delicious. I think I’ll have two scoops of pistachio.”

  “Is everything alright?” she asked.

  “Nothing that you have to worry about,” I said. “I have to go into the station tomorrow. You could come. We might even bump into William Orpen.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah. We want to talk to him tomorrow.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  We ordered our ice cream and walked back towards Santa Monica and the little place I call home. It felt more like home with Aibhilin filling in the emptiness. And Pirate liked her. In fact she’d given him that name when she first met him and realized he was blind in one eye.

  SEVEN

  A Play at Death

  IT was a full house at the Los Angeles Theatre. It had been sold out for weeks. The reviews for William Orpen as Stanley Kowalski were mixed. They were better for Mary Beale as Blanche DuBois and mixed for Emma Durham who was playing Stella Kowalski, the wife to Stanley and younger sister to Blanche.

  I’ve given you the synopsis of the play before. It wasn’t the acting that was bringing in the crowds, it was the play itself. You see, friends, the play’s the thing whereby we come to understand ourselves better. At least that’s the hope, isn’t it? And for a town that worships Hollywood and gold naked statues it was encouraging for young hopeful playwrights to see a play having such a good run.

  But all good things must come to an end. This play was in it’s sixth week. The eighth week was not sold out, and the tenth week was only three quarters sold. It would come to an end after ten weeks. That was the decision. There was a new play they wanted to try by a new playwright. Something edgy and dark. That seemed to be the clarion call to get directors interested. That’s not to say that A Streetcar Named Desire was not dark.

  There was after all a rape and plenty of misogyny and physical abuse going on after all. In fact, let’s join the rapt audience inside the ornately sculpted interior of the theater where many bums sit silently and still on the plump red cushions of their chairs.

  We’ve just finished up scene nine. You’ll recall that’s when Blanche almost gets raped by her suitor that she quite fancied. His name was Mitch, though his real name was Harold Mitchell. They really did fancy each other until Stanley told Mitch that Blanche was a prostitute for a time. Whether that’s an absolutely accurate description is not something for us to turn our minds to at the moment. The important thing is, Mitch came over to see Blanche, drunk as a skunk he was, and looking to soothe his conscience. You see he’d been duped by a woman he fell in love with. So being the asshole he was, he thought raping her might be the pill to all his ill.

  But don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet, gentle reader, for scene ten is upon us and things are about to get worse. The theater is dark. We wait a moment for the scene change as dark figures skulk quickly and silently on stage in front, moving props in and out of position. If you have good eyesight you might just be able to make out the figure of our Blanche sitting before her mirror at the dressing room table in her room. The lights come back on.

  She is placing a tiara on her head. She wears a crumpled up white satin evening gown. She is very drunk, and with her sits a trunk overflowing with flowery dresses. She mumbles to herself, and it is hard to make out what she is saying. She seems to be playing drunk even better than at anytime before. She’s talking of partying and she puts on the tiara and takes a look at herself in the mirror. This galls her and so she breaks the mirror.

  Enter Stanley from stage left. Or right, doesn’t matter. Fact is, Stanley enters the scene and he’s as drunk as she is. Only problem is that William Orpen can’t play a drunkard if he was plied with liquor over a three day binge. He’s just not very convincing. But the audience is here for the play, that’s the thing, not the actors. Stanley’s also carrying some beer bottles.

  Blanche inquires about the baby. You might remember that Stella has just recently gone into labor. Stanley tells her that the baby isn’t due until the morning. Things start to get creepy now. Blanche is making shit up about an admirer that she’s going to join in the Caribbean on his yacht. Stanley feigns happiness for her, though I get the feeling he’s not quite buying it. He takes off his shirt and cracks open a beer and pours the foam on his head.

  He offers her one and recommends they celebrate each other’s good news. Blanche is not so keen and she keeps going on about this admirer of hers, whipping herself into a frenzy. The audience is enthralled, though it’s getting harder to understand the actress. Mary Beale is either really drunk or she’s forgotten her lines or something else. But the play must go on. Stanley’s off to dress in his pajamas when Blanche talks about throwing pearls before swine. That infuriates him and he makes fun of her and dismantles her made up story.

  Stanley goes back to dressing in his pajamas. Blanche is fearful and the music is egging us on. She tries to make a couple of calls. First to this admirer, but the operator hangs up on her because she doesn’t know his number. Then she tries to call Western Union for help when Stanley comes back out wearing his special pajamas and hangs up the telephone. He puts himself between her and the door.

  Blanche wants to leave and asks him to move, but he only gives her a half-assed attempt. She tells him to move again, and starts threatening him. We really can’t tell what she’s talking about now and the actress is weaving as she stands in front of her colleague. You can see the worry on William Orpen’s face. He whispers to her.

  “Are you okay?”

  We can’t hear it. It’s not part of the play. But Mary, playing Blanche, doesn’t register it. She carries on. She tells him not to test her. She grabs a bottle and smashes it, holding it aggressively in her hand.

  “What did you do that for?” asks Stanley.

  “So I could twist the broken end in your face!” says Blanche. But what it sounds like to the audience is “Show cold twishin bokin ending fashe.”

  They exchange a few more lines and it looks like Mary is about to collapse. William Orpen rushes for her, knocking over the table like he’s supposed to. But she’s supposed to try and strike him with the bottle. She doesn’t. He picks her up, says his line and takes her to the bed where the lights fade out.

  There’s lots of noise as the scene ends. As there’s supposed to be. Trumpets and music. But if you watch closely, you’ll see William Orpen in the shadows trying to shake Mary awake. He’s frantic. He runs off the stage.

  “Something’s happened to Mary,” he says. “I think she’s dead.”

  EIGHT

  Grim is the Reaper's Night

  WE were watching a movie when my phone rang. It was a vampire show with another good looking young actor that Aibhilin seemed quite besotted with. I didn’t know his name, but apparently he was up and coming. “Blood Becomes You” it was called. I wasn’t enjoying it. In fact I caught myself nodding off when the phone buzzed in my pocket. Aibhilin was curled up against me. Who dare disturb my slumber, I wondered.

  I looked at the phone. It was Roberts and it was ten forty-five
.

  “Uh huh,” I said, trying not to disturb my daughter who was clearly enjoying her movie.

  “I come bearing gifts, Sid,” said Roberts. “We’ve had a suspicious death here at the theater.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary Beale, she’s playing Blanche DuBois in the play A Streetcar Named Desire. She plays opposite William Orpen who’s playing Stanley Kowalski.”

  “Yeah, I remember, I was at the play last night. She was the best of the bunch.”

  “That’s what the critics were saying,” said Roberts. “She was also at Ancher’s place last night. I’m starting to wonder if there’s any connection.”

  “Could be,” I said. “I guess we’ll find out. What does it look like?”

  “Dr. Deerstalker says it looks like poisoning from what he can tell, but he’ll know more once he’s done the autopsy.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at Aibhilin. She was comfortable in her pajamas and curled up on the couch next to me. An empty popcorn bowl sat in front of us. I didn’t want to leave. But I was already on the clock, and five hundred bucks for a day’s work was five hundred bucks. It could rent Aibhilin and I a few more movies.

  “What is it, Daddy?” she asked me.

  I looked down at her and kissed her on the head.

  “That was Captain John Roberts,” I said. “You remember him, don’t you?”

  “She nodded.”

  “Well, there’s been another death tonight at the play that I went to last night. A Streetcar Named Desire.”

  “Mommy and Artero were going to go to that next week,” she said. “William Orpen’s in it. Nothing happened to him, did it?”

  She looked genuinely unhappy. I quickly shook my head.

  “No, but his co-star, Mary Beale. She’s dead,” I said. I’d never perverted or downplayed the truth when it came to Racquel or Aibhilin. Don’t know if it was right or wrong, but it was my way. I figured the more you coddled the truth the more you turned it into a bogeyman.

  “What happened to her, Daddy?”

  “Hard to say at the moment. Looks like she was poisoned.”

  “That’s horrible, I really liked her. She was a good actor.”

  I nodded my head.

  “But I have to head out now and help John with the investigation so we can catch whoever did this and bring them to justice.”

  It was funny listening to myself talk about justice as if it were some great balm that made everything alright, when it wasn’t. The kind of justice I sought never seem to get meted out. Sometimes I wanted to take justice into my own hands. Not that this was one of those occasions. I’d seen worse done to those more innocent than the likes of Mary Beale and Anna Ancher.

  “Okay, Daddy,” she said.

  “You remember where the safe is? Where I keep my gun?” I asked her.

  She nodded.

  “You still feel comfortable in using it?”

  I had taken Aibhilin to the range dozens of times over the years. Started when she was eight. She’s been shooting just about every calibre available for handguns, from 22s all the way up to 45s. I’m using a Ruger SR40 at the moment. I like the 40 round for it’s ballistic capabilities. It’s what I was used to on the job, and if it ain’t broke I see no need to fix it. I was also used to the Glock, but that short feather trigger pull is just too easy to accidentally discharge. Especially if Aibhilin has to do it.

  She’s been well trained on the longer, harder pull of the Ruger. She’ll be less likely to shoot accidentally. And if she shoots, I want her to be meaning to do it. Now I ain’t a gun enthusiast by any means. But when it comes to my family I just won’t take any chances.

  I also keep two spare mags beside the Ruger in the safe. That’s forty-five rounds. Enough for me to be reassured she can hold down the fort. I might be paranoid. But when it comes to my daughter, I just can’t take the risk to not be too careful.

  “I know how to use it,” she said, rolling her eyes at me like this was such a chore.

  “And what’s the combination to my safe?” I asked.

  “It’s my birthday, Daddy. You always make me do this every time you have to go out.”

  “I know, I just want you to be safe.”

  “I am safe. Besides, no one can get in here. The door downstairs is locked…”

  “Yes, but someone could let someone in accidentally,” I said.

  “Has that ever happened?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, why are you so worried?”

  “Because I couldn’t bear to have anything happen to you. I’m going next door to let Ms. Muniz know you’re here by yourself for the next couple of hours. Okay?”

  Aibhilin was trying to watch her movie. She paused it.

  “Okay, Daddy,” she said.

  “And remember, if anything happens you call 911. Then you try and get to safety and then if you can you call me, right?”

  More rolling of the eyes.

  “You make it sound like we live in the ghetto. God, this is Santa Monica, Dad,” she said.

  “Yes, you’re right. But you know how much I worry.”

  “Well, don’t. I know how to use the gun. I know how to use the phone and I know how to take care of myself.”

  She did know all of those things. The job was getting to me. I mean, random break-ins were extremely rare and even more rare in an apartment building. Though I was gonna make sure that Marcello put in cameras. That was gonna happen. I stood up to get ready to go out.

  I went back into my room and opened the safe in my closet. My gun was there ready and loaded as were the two mags. Full of brass. I closed it and opened it again just to be sure. When I was satisfied I went back out into the living room. I got my fedora and put on a light sport jacket. I came back in to say goodbye.

  “Daddy, you know that not even old men wear hats anymore.”

  “I know, but I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a PI.”

  “Yeah, but you’re an artist too but you dress like a mortician.”

  Such sass from those sweet little lips I’d kissed as a baby.

  “Maybe next time you’re over you can give me some fashion tips. Right now I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna go next door and ask Ms. Muniz to check in on you every now and then, so don’t get scared if there’s a knock on the door, okay?”

  Aibhilin nodded her head. But she was looking at the TV.

  “Goodnight, babydoll, love you,” I said.

  I hesitated a moment to see if she’d send me some love back. Wasn’t expecting it. Getting those three little words from my baby girl was like digging for water in the African desert. Nothing came my way. I turned and walked out the door.

  Ms. Muniz was up late. She’s a night owl. The very best of people, like me. To hell with the early bird’s worms. I’d sooner go fishing in the middle of the afternoon than eat worms. She’s a good woman Martha Muniz. Been my neighbor since oh-five. Lost her husband the year before from a heart attack. He couldn’t have been sixty at the time. Hard working, honest folk from Cuba. Has a couple of kids. None of this is important. I’m on the Santa Monica Freeway or the I 10. Shouldn’t take me longer than about twenty-five minutes.

  I’ve got my windows rolled down on account that my LeSabre’s AC is dead. I’ve gotta get it fixed. What I should really do is get a new car. This one’s turning into a rust bucket, now coming on sixteen years old. Anyway, the ride was quiet at this time of night. All things considered. And I wasn’t that hot either.

  When I pulled up on Broadway, around 615 South Broadway to be exact I saw a couple of black and whites with their lights on and a couple of ghost cars. The Los Angeles Theatre was built in a time when folks still couldn’t figure out where to put their Rs. Early thirties if I remember correctly. Now it’s got bragging rights to being in the center of the historic theater district.

  Thing is, it’s filthy. The whole of downtown i
s. Thick with the grime and soot of a hundred years of automobiles. The theater for instance doesn’t look like it’s seen rain or a wash for all those years. And this is some of the best part of our lost angels. And if you’d had a couple of drinks during intermission and wobbled outside to the East just a few blocks you’d feel right at home in Skid Row with the bums and more lost angels.

  Now I admit it’s a big problem for this fine city of ours. And I don’t have all the answers. But some of the answers would have right wing fascists labelling me a commie. But that’s because they don’t understand the difference between democratic socialism and communism. That, and even though they consider themselves Christians, they turn a blind eye to the way Christ treated the poor and the victimized.

  No, I ain’t about to start suggesting we redistribute the wealth, though that’s a good start, because I ain’t got time to fight two battles. I’m here to look into a murder. But I can tell you this. If we aren’t willing to take some from those who’ve got and won’t give, we’re gonna end up in a hell we haven’t seen since the dust bowl.

  I got out of my car and walked up to the entrance of the theater. I showed the uniform my driver’s license. They were expecting me and he told me where to go. I maneuvered my way through the lobby and into the hall and down the aisle towards the stage where I could see Beeves and Roberts in the same suits they were wearing this morning. Only now they were a little more crumpled.

  The theater was pretty desolate. I guess they’d got what they wanted from most of the audience. I headed up the stage from the steps on the left and nodded at Roberts and Beeves. They were looking at a bed. This was the end of scene ten if I remembered my play correctly. The backdrop was well done but from this close up it looked very fake. The room, the bed, the tables, all overdone. But that wasn’t what caught my eye. What caught my eye was the lack of a body.

  “Where’s the actress?” I asked.

  “She was taken to the Good Samaritan,” said Roberts. “EMT was first on scene and she was still alive at that time.”