“A couple of people died in that fire,” March told her. “A woman and a child, a young boy. There was a small house — a shack, really — near to where they were filming, and they got caught in the blaze. Burned to death.”
“Because of your pal Frank,” Sommer added.
“And that’s why…?” she asked, trailing off.
The sun tossed a broad swatch of light across her face as she recalled the gruesome scene from the street that night. The man Frank shot — Petey — had said something about being in the red. She had taken that at face value at the time, that Frank owed money just as he eventually said he did, but now she turned the phrase over in her mind. Grace wondered now if it wasn’t a sort of pun.
“His cronies ordered him out of town,” said Rivers. “He wouldn’t go, and he wouldn’t stick with them. Got a conscience at the last minute, I suppose. A conscience that was a liability to the men he’d been running around with.”
“You mean there were no drugs, no smuggling operation?”
“The closest that boy probably ever got to any drugs is quinine,” Sommer said. “He fed you a story, and a ridiculous one from the sound of it.”
“And it sounds like his old pals in the labor racket used it to squeeze some funds out of you, too,” Rivers added.
“This is crazy,” she muttered. “Why, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s the truth, Gracie,” Sommer told her. “Frank isn’t anything more than a union thug, the sort who wants to ruin everything we’ve worked for out here to make a picture business that the people want. To entertain a troubled country. To make a star out of a little country girl like Grace Baronsky.”
Lighting a cigarette with a trembling hand, she turned her head until the car was in her field of vision. Frank remained inside, behind the wheel, though curiously slumped in his seat.
“I don’t believe he meant to hurt anyone,” said Alan Rivers. “That was an accident, and the reason he got out of it. We want to take that newfound conscience of his to its logical end — we want to put Frank in the picture.”
“You’re kidding,” she said, snapping her head back.
“Not in the least,” said March with a grin. “I know he’s no actor, but the labor crooks know him, and when they see him make a turnaround, to come around to the right way of thinking right there on the silver screen…”
“You want to make an example out of him.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose and envisioned herself standing up, walking calmly from there to the automobile in the drive, climbing inside, and telling Frank to get them both the hell out of there. Which, she instantly knew, would signal the end of her career in pictures before it ever got the chance to start. Her first picture still unfinished, she’d never make another. The boozy businessmen around her would undoubtedly turn the tables on Frank, turn him in for his part in the set fire. She could go with him, back to Idaho or farther still — she’d already changed her name once, why not again? Go back into the vaudeville circuit. He could be her manager. Grow a beard, perhaps. Never set foot in California again…
But he lied to her. Took advantage of her charity, her friendship. All the while a Red thug who sought to destroy the very thing she loved most, needed most. Her very livelihood, her dreams, her destiny.
Petey crumpled on the street, soaking the ground with blood…
The knife in Billy Francis’ gut, leaking blood…
Blood on the Odessa steps…
Blood, blood, blood…
Grace emitted a small sound as she stood up again, the cigarette falling from her fingers. She didn’t notice.
“What about the other men?” she said breathlessly. “The ones I paid off? They said they’d kill him if he didn’t leave town.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Rivers answered, picking up her smoke and tamping it out in the ashtray. “I know the Assistant D.A. personally. All Frank has to do is write down their names and they’ll never be able to touch him. They’ll be too busy pacing in their cells.”
“You’d do that for him?”
“If he agrees to our terms, absolutely.”
“Go get him, Gracie,” Sommer said, gently. “Everybody wins.”
She paused, stalling. Joe Sommer grinned up at her. Rivers checked his wristwatch.
“All right,” she said at length. “All right.”
With a deep breath she left the four men on the veranda and went round the house, to the front, where she descended the marble steps to the drive. Frank peered up at her from his slumped position behind the steering wheel. When she was near enough, he hissed, “What in God’s name is going on over there, Grace?”
“A meeting,” she said. “And they want to talk to you.”
“Christ,” he growled. “Come on, get in. We’ve got to go.”
“It’s not like that, Frank. They want to help you. They told me everything. I’m sore, I won’t lie to you, but it’s going to work in everyone’s favor, including yours.”
“Do you even know who Joe Sommer is?” he shot back. “That muckamuck — that goddamn fink.”
“He happens to be a friend of my aunt’s, if you must know…”
“He’s a strike-breaker, or used to be. Cracked skulls for some of the production outfits when the crews wouldn’t work. Got on swell with those boys, protecting the profits and all. Guess now he rides high with the tuxedo brigade.”
“God, Frank — none of that means a thing to me. I’m just trying to help you, and so are they, Joe included. They want to offer you a chance to dig yourself out of this grave you got yourself into.”
“Grave nothing. I believed in worker’s rights at one time. In fact, I still do, just not the way we were doing it. I care a lot about pictures, Grace, which is why I wanted to see them work the way every industry ought to work. And this one so new, it had a chance, but that chance is shot. It’s lost. I’m done with all that, but a guy like Joe Sommer wouldn’t ever let me forget it. A better company man never lived, and he’s got it out for the little man and baby, I’m as little as they come.”
“You’re not so small,” she said. “And besides, all they want to do is talk. I can’t say it isn’t a strange proposition, but it’s sure an interesting one.”
“I’ve heard a lot of propositions from finks like Sommer. I don’t want to hear another one. I’ll be straight with you, Grace — get in or don’t, but I’m leaving and I mean right now.”
She stood still as a statue, her face without expression. Behind her, the men on the veranda watched in silence.
“They’re using you,” Frank said. “Or at least trying to. Can’t you see that? They couldn’t care less what happens to you. There’s always another girl with feet just as bloody as yours from the circuit stages to take your place.”
“That’s some cynical way to look at things,” she said.
“You should try it,” he replied. “Open your eyes a little. See what’s going on around you. You’re a commodity. I’m the enemy. Nobody has our best interests in mind but ourselves, and it’s about time you realized that. Now are you coming or shall I leave the car in front of your place?”
“You lied to me,” she said sharply.
“I thought I had to. To protect you.”
“From what?”
“From thinking the wrong thing about me.”
“I think the right thing now. And it’s still wrong.”
Frank narrowed his eyes and started the motor. The automobile shuddered, rumbled to life. Back at the house, Joe Sommer stood up quickly.
“It’s time, Grace,” Frank said.
She reached in through the window, retrieved her bag on the backseat, and turned back for the veranda. While she climbed back up the steps, the car rolled away, sputtering into the distance as Frank drove.