The Devil's Due Read online

  “That could be, sir,” Peter replied enigmatically. He pulled up a chair for Elizabeth before doing the same for Simon.

  Alan frowned. “Is there some reason or does it simply amuse you?”

  Peter stepped forward. “I didn't want you to see this.” He pulled a folded newspaper out of his jacket pocket.

  Alan squinted at it before waving him closer. “You know I don't care what they say.”

  Reluctantly, Peter handed him the newspaper, Variety, the Hollywood trade magazine. “It's not a review, sir.”

  “Well, what—” Alan started as he unfolded the paper. “Damn.” He closed his eyes tightly for a long moment before looking at the headline again and skimming the story. “Damn, damn, damn.”

  When he looked up from the paper, his eyes were full of unshed tears and a deep bone-weary sadness. There was something helpless and wounded and even a little afraid in him. Elizabeth's heart ached. She reached out instinctively and touched his arm.

  Alan sat up a bit straighter. “One of the,” he started and then cleared his throat. “One of the darker sides of the dream, I'm afraid.” He handed Simon the paper.

  The headline read: Starlet Takes Her Final Bow…Off Hollywoodland Sign. “This is the girl from last night,” Simon said pointing at the small round inset image next to the story of a young starlet who leapt to her death from the Hollywoodland sign. “Ruby.”

  “Yes.” Alan drank down the last bits of his drink, stared into the empty glass and set it aside. “Such a pity.”

  He was trying, and failing, to sound like anyone who'd heard of the untimely death of a stranger. It was clear to Elizabeth, even if she hadn't seen them at Musso & Frank last night that he held some attachment to the girl. “Were you,” she started cautiously, “involved?”

  Alan's eyes snapped to hers. “No,” he said fervently and then repeated more softly. “No. She was just a child.”

  “But you knew her,” Elizabeth pressed. “She was at your table last night.”

  “She was at the Biltmore as well,” Simon said. “She pleaded with Sam Roth for help.”

  “Did she?” Alan asked, sounding unsurprised by the news.

  “She was desperate.” Simon folded the paper. “I didn't realize how much.”

  “There was nothing you could do,” Alan said, not unkindly. He stared down at the ground and then massaged the inside of his elbow as if it ached. “Nothing anyone can do.”

  The shift in tense wasn't lost on either Simon or Elizabeth, and they exchanged a quick, concerned glance. He sounded so forlorn, so defeated; Elizabeth got out of her chair and knelt in front of him. She took both of his hands into hers. “Maybe we can help.”

  When Alan looked up at her, she thought for a moment he was going to confide his secrets. His water blue eyes glittered with emotion and then a smile quirked his lips. “It is beyond even the realm of angels,” he whispered. He patted her hands and his emotions shifted like waves sloshing in a pool.

  “Now,” he said, his voice firm and filled with his natural, mischievous spark of life. “About that drink…”

  ~~~

  Jack squinted up at the midday sun. It felt good to be out of Jilly's and in the light of day again. Once he'd gotten out, he'd just walked. Anything was better than being cooped up in his little hotbox of an apartment. He didn't need to check in with Simon and Elizabeth for hours yet.

  It felt good to stretch his legs, but even back in the 1930's LA wasn't a walking town. Too spread out. So, he'd hopped on a Red Car in mid-city and headed west. He always seemed to be heading west.

  He'd been damn lucky to overhear what he had, although he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. The cops hadn't stayed long, thankfully. McCray did give him one last lingering look before they left. He held it long enough for Jack to wonder if he'd been sniffed out, but in the end McCray and his partner left him alone and left Benny Roth to stew.

  What was Roth up to? Was he blackmailing his brother for the studio? And if he was, where did the others fit in? Alan Grant worked for Mammoth. Maybe that was the connection? He looked up at the street signs. He wasn't far from the studio. Maybe he could do a little poking around. He headed down Washington Boulevard into Culver City, the real heart of Hollywood film production, unknown to the outside world. Little production bungalows and small Spanish-style houses that the studio workers lived in started to dot the rural landscape as he got closer to the enormous studio. He could see it just ahead - several city blocks walled off by non-descript cinderblocks on the outside. Inside, full street replicas of New York City, a little Spanish town, lakes and jungles and enough office buildings for a few thousand people. He'd gotten his job in Hollywood at Mammoth. He'd worked there a few times in the past or was it the future? Time travel was hell on tenses.

  Larger buildings replaced the bungalows. Bodegas, restaurants, small hotels, shops, all sprung up around each studio like old-time, army camp followers. Where there were studios, there was money and jobs. Men of all ages, from young boys to old men, hung around the gates hoping for a crumb, for a job. Sometimes, they got lucky. He'd been one of the lucky ones.

  When he'd left his family in Chicago, he had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do. He just knew that he needed work and work meant going west. He'd spent a few of the longest months of his life working on the construction of Hoover Dam. It was brutal, grueling — 115-degree heat and backbreaking work. Men drowned, were crushed or just worked themselves to death. Jack knew there had to be something better. He left the camp called Ragtown and risked his future further west. He was damn lucky it paid off. He looked across the street and saw the studio gate where he'd stood, fresh off the train, hoping for a break. Felt like a lifetime ago.

  Jack started to cross the street when he heard an odd sound coming from the alley between two buildings behind him. He stopped to listen — hushed voices and then a woman's cry of surprise. Jack felt the rush of adrenaline. Cries coming from alleys never meant anything good.

  He ran back down the street. As he rounded into the mouth of the alley he saw a well-dressed woman being attacked. A man in a torn, shabby suit had her around the waist, squeezing her hard. Jack felt a flash of anger as he dashed down the alley. He ripped the man's arms off her waist and flung him aside. For his size, the big man went down easily. The man looked up at him with gaunt eyes, wide with surprise. Jack grabbed him by the frayed lapels of his dirty coat and hauled him to his feet.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Jack growled, his fist cocked and ready to send this chump into tomorrow afternoon. The other man raised his hands in surrender and Jack shoved him away in disgust. He fixed him with a glare that told the man he'd better not move a muscle and turned to make sure the woman was all right. What he saw was the last thing he expected and it hit him like a punch in the gut.

  “Betty?”

  ~~~

  When Elizabeth had first arrived in California, she'd taken the Universal Studios tour. Riding a tram through a studio-cum-amusement park wasn't quite the same as rolling up in a limo to the main gate of Mammoth Studios with Alan Grant. He was baffled at their interest in Sam Roth. “He's the least interesting man on the lot.” But, Alan was pleased to acquiesce regardless and introduce them to the mogul after he'd given them a tour of the studio. He had to go to the studio to view the rushes from his latest picture and, it was clear to both Simon and Elizabeth, Alan didn't want to be alone.

  On the way there, they'd planted the seed that Simon was between jobs and if Alan knew of anything at the studio that might tide them over for a bit, they'd be most beholden. Whether it was a job in the secretarial pool or blocking hats, it didn't really matter as long as it got them studio passes. That way, they could have access to the lot without having to rely on Grant. Between Ruby, Sam Roth and Alan, Mammoth Studios seemed like it might a good place to start looking for the source of the trouble.

  The guard smiled broadly and let them through the main entrance. The enormous iron g
ates with the outline of rearing wooly mammoths on either side slowly closed behind them.

  Elizabeth loved the movies and being in a real live studio, in the heart of the Golden Age of movies was almost too much. She barely resisted rolling down the window and sticking her head out as they drove down the main road between towering sound stages.

  Eventually, Peter pulled the car over and Alan helped her out of the back seat. A group of men dressed as American Indians walked toward them. One of them pulled a box of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to the chief. They greeted Alan with waves of their hands and thick Brooklyn accents as they passed.

  Elizabeth giggled.

  “Totally inaccurate,” Simon said. “Apache headdress and Chumash markings. Ridiculous.”

  “And awesome,” Elizabeth said. “This isn't a museum; this is the movies.”

  Peter brought a small basket of carnations around to Alan, who chose one and slipped it into his lapel buttonhole. “Shall we?” He checked his watch. “I have to be at the bridge at 3 p.m. That leaves us an hour or so for a cook's tour.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Alan grinned, extended his hand and gestured for her to walk with him.

  The studio was a city within a city. It covered multiple city blocks and the back lot spread out over acre upon acre. It was complete with it's own power plant and fire department. There were laundry facilities, multiple commissaries, housing, offices and even a school.

  “It's a bit like a mad kingdom,” Alan said. “A court where you can curry favor or lose it just as easily. There are jesters to entertain you and fools to tell you truths you'd rather not hear. Intrigue and secrets. Waste and want. Usurpers and honest men. It's a place where incompetence and genius are equally rewarded. Where the more lies you tell, the truer they become. It's false and vain and magic. This, my darling, is the movies. And I love it more than my very soul.”

  There was something about the way he said it that almost made her believe him. Maybe it was true in a way. She lost that train of thought when Alan called out to someone who bounded toward them and Elizabeth's mouth went dry.

  Alan shook hands with the man and turned to introduce her. “Elizabeth Cross, I'd like you to meet, Cary Grant. No relation. He's a young star on his way up. Going to go damn far if I'm any judge.”

  After the words Cary Grant, the rest of what Alan said barely registered. She was drooling. She was pretty sure she was drooling. Oh my god, she wanted to crawl inside that cleft in his chin and never come out and he was talking to her.

  “Hello,” he said with that Cary Grant voice of his, although it was a bit boyish. He shook her hand brightly and grinned at Simon who grunted in response.

  “Don't tell me Roth pried you out of Paramount already?” Alan asked.

  Grant flashed a smile and laughed. Elizabeth's knees wobbled a little. She was probably still drooling but resisted the urge to feel her chin. All she could do was stare.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Although, I think I'd rather be here than there.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Alan said. “Good seeing you.”

  Cary nodded and gave Elizabeth another smile. “Nice meeting you.”

  And with that, he was gone and her hand was still tingling. Alan laughed and waved a hand in front of her face. She finally snapped out of it.

  “Oh, yes,” Alan said. “He's going to do all right.” He took Elizabeth's arm. “Do you need smelling salts?”

  Elizabeth giggled nervously. “No. I'm fine. It was just…” She looked after him and then back to Simon who was impatiently waiting for her explanation. She offered him a weak smile, which he did not return. She spun around and pointed at a building. “So that's the laundry…”

  Alan wrapped her arm through his and led her to a nondescript door that said: Publicity Dept. “Very important, people. They paint the posters and create all of the advertising for a picture. There was an unfortunate mishap at a Christmas party that resulted in, well, a less than flattering painting of me adorning Sunset Blvd. You must continuously grease the wheels, as it were.”

  He let go of her arm and she and Simon stood in the doorway of a large office/workspace where several artists were busily creating, painting and sketching images for upcoming Mammoth releases. Alan greeted the two men with slaps on the back and then dipped in front of an older woman. She didn't smile at first, but he said something that broke through her barrier. It was fascinating to see him work his magic.

  Alan took the carnation from his lapel, pretended to smell it and dramatically handed it to her with a courtly bow. The woman, taciturn just minutes ago, blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. With a sweep of his hand Alan bid her adieu and shuttled them all out of the office. “One down,” he said.

  Peter approached them and held out the basket of carnations. Alan took another and slipped it into his buttonhole. “Purchasing next, I think.”

  Alan repeated the same scene to several women in different departments. From the steno pool like set-up of purchasing to the lone woman manning the stacks and stacks of scripts in the script department, he greeted them, made them smile and “spontaneously” gave them the flower from his jacket. Each of them felt special and positively glowed when he left.

  Between giftings, he dutifully explained what each department did.

  “Aren't you afraid they'll compare notes? The women?” Elizabeth asked. “Realize they aren't the only one?”

  “Ah, but that's the beauty of it,” Alan said as he escorted them into yet another building complex. “Each and every flower is sincerely given. In that moment, they are the only woman.”

  Simon rolled his eyes and Elizabeth took his hand as they followed after Grant.

  The final flower was delivered to a tall, buck-toothed woman in the wardrobe department, which was amazing. Racks upon racks of every imaginable type of clothing filled an enormous warehouse. Clothes were hung three levels high and Elizabeth could hear the hum of sewing machines in the adjacent room. People hurried down the aisles and used long hooks to bring down clothes from the upper levels. A woman with an armful of 18th century French silk coats hurried past and a man pushed a cart with Roman Centurion helmets on it.

  They emerged into the sunlight again and Alan led them back between towering sound stages. Extras and bit players in every imaginable costume hurried past. The trio rounded a corner and was nearly swallowed whole by a dozen dancing girls. They flocked to Alan like birds to a nest, their feathered headdresses and bustles and boobs bouncing as they took turns saying hello and cooing over him. Elizabeth jostled around inside the crowd, a cloud of feathers obscuring her vision.

  And like a flock of birds, they swept on past, leaving the three of them in their wake. Alan took out a handkerchief and grinned after them. His face was covered with lipstick. He happily rubbed it off. “Never let a woman see you with someone else's lipstick on your face.”

  He turned to Simon. “You have a bit…” he said with a broad grin.

  Simon's cheeks were nearly as covered with bright red kisses as Alan's had been.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat and Simon reached up and touched his cheek, surprised when his fingers came away covered with lip rouge. “It happened so fast, I didn't even realize…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Alan laughed loudly. “And now to the lion's den.”

  Chapter Nine

  It had been years since he'd seen her, but he'd never forgotten her. Could never forget her. Betty. She'd broken his heart in 1938 and he was never a whole man again. And yet here she was.

  His mouth went dry and his heart beat out a conga against his ribs. Years ago, when he'd gone to war, he'd given up any hope of seeing her again. But he'd never forgotten her, not an inch of her. Not her smile or her hair or her kindness.

  “You idiot!” Betty glared at him before maneuvering around him and going to check on the man Jack had almost clocked. She touched the man's arm and looked up into his unshaven face. “Are you all right?�
�

  The man gave Jack an uneasy glance before nodding and pushing himself up and off the wall and upright.

  Jack could hardly believe his eyes. It really was Betty. She was younger than he remembered, but, of course, she would be. This was four or five years before they'd even met. God, she was beautiful. Light brown hair that looked like gold when the sun hit it. Brown eyes that flashed when she got angry and that adorable little dimple in her chin.

  For a moment, Jack wondered if she'd remember him. Would it be fondly or just a fading memory. That's when he realized the truth of it. Of course, she wouldn't recognize him; for her, they hadn't even met yet. He tried to make sense of the paradox. He was his older self, meeting her before his younger self had even had the chance. Damn, younger Jack had managed to screw it up. Not that she gave him much of a chance, but what he wouldn't give to have another. She was kind and wonderful and…yelling at him.

  “Listen, you big palooka, I don't know what you think you were doing—”

  “I'm sorry,” Jack said, trying to concentrate on the now. She was standing between him and the man, her brown eyes flashing as she jabbed at his chest.

  “Well,” she said, brought up a little short by his quick apology. “You should be.”

  “I really am sorry,” Jack said. “I thought he was attacking you.”

  “Didn't get hugged much as a child, did you?” she said.

  It was all he could do not to laugh. That was pure Betty — sharp, funny, incisive, beautiful.

  “He was thanking me,” she continued as though she were speaking to a backwards child. “I brought him and his family some things from the studio to tide them over.”

  That's when Jack noticed the rest of the family and he felt a hot flush of guilt. The man's wife looked terrified, ready to bolt, but standing her ground, arms around her two small children who were torn between excitement and horror. Their clothes were torn and old, and dirty. The woman's dress was several sizes too large for her and hung off her thin body like it was no more than a hanger in a closet. Next to them, on the discarded crates in the alley was a small box of clothing, a new pair of Mary Janes sitting on top.