As he carried his wife upstairs, her perfumed heat seeped from her torn nightgown. Her breath smelled of sherry as she gulped for air. He must have missed a bottle in the kitchen used for cooking. Doris hadn’t.
“I’m so scared!” she sobbed, clutching at his collar.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he assured her, which set off another set of howls in sliding octaves, slicing the air like scimitars in a ritual dance.
He kissed her hair, his lips trembling. Nothing was enough. Not his love, not his drugs, not his professional expertise. He stood by helplessly as demons tried to scratch their way out of her skull. “It’s okay, angel,” he whispered. “I’m here. You’re safe now.” But he knew it wasn’t true.
Dazey laid her on the bed. He tucked the pink satin sheet under her chin, leaving her left arm exposed. Her crooning subsided to a whimper; she followed his movements with watery blue eyes wide open. He pushed up the sleeve of her nightgown, unlocked a drawer in the bureau, and pulled out a black box that looked like a revolver case. He opened it. Inside sat ten prepared hypodermic needles packed as snug as bullets.
Dazey brushed her hair out of her face. Her beauty took his breath away. It always had.
They met in 1933 at the Cocoanut Grove. He was smitten by her, a tall, thin actress with honeycomb curls bouncing on her shoulders. Her large eyes, cerulean blue, were set off by a white lock of hair that started above her right eye and curled around her ear. Dazey knew immediately that she was ill, hopped-up on studio white, downing champagne with the thirst of a long-distance runner. He watched her from across the lounge: her eyes darting back and forth between the guests, her delicate hands gesturing to someone, then landing on her fur collar as if seeking warmth and security, like an injured sparrow chirping for help, fraying her broken wings as she beat the ground in fear and frustration. He yearned to save her.
Yet he knew even then that there would be no gratitude and little love. He knew that if an injured bird doesn’t die in your care, it will peck your hands bloody to be free. He knew that one day she would hate him.
Many of his friends wondered what he saw in her, but to him her soul was as pure and elusive as a child’s laugh, her beauty so intense, it nearly hurt him to look at her. She made him feel strong and capable and generous. She had once kissed his palms and told him they were like the sculptured hands of Michelangelo’s “David.” They made her feel safe, she said, words that flooded his body with love for her; if he could do this, to still her distress for even a moment, perhaps she could be saved.
Dazey dabbed her arm with alcohol and placed the used needle in a tray.
She closed her eyes, smiled, then opened them again. “I don’t think I’ll go out tonight,” she said. “I think I’ll stay right here.”
“We’ll see how you feel,” he said cautiously. Even a hint of disapproval might send her on a frenzied escapade.
“Maybe I’ll go pick up Wally and make you dinner.”
Even now she was beautiful, he thought, her moist eyes sparkling like a grove of blue spruce after an ice storm, her mouth turned up sweetly. “I need to check on my patients,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Do you want me to have Betty Rose come stay with you?”
“No, I’m fine. I feel better now.”
“Okay, my precious.” He’d call Betty anyhow. “You get some rest.” He kissed her on the forehead and left the door to her room ajar.
Later that evening, despite promises to her husband and reprimands from her maid, Doris dressed for a night out on the town.
She drove her chocolate-brown Packard to the palisade at the end of Pico Boulevard. The night was young, just beginning to take on a life of its own. Santa Monica Pier, lit up with Ferris wheels and amusement rides, twinkled below like a rhinestone bracelet on a colored chanteuse.
Slowly, she drove down the incline to the pier, through the crowds of teenagers, sailors, and lovers arm in arm, her tires clapping over the wooden planks. Garish lights spiraled around her like fireworks — pink, yellow, and blue. She inhaled deeply the scent of cotton candy and fried fish, and watched couples dance to Les Hite’s big band broadcasting from Frank Sebastian’s Cotton Club. Overhead, a roller coaster swooshed down like an avalanche, excited screams and laughter tumbling after like loose scree. The pier trembled with excitement.
She parked and stepped out in a white gown, white sable stole, and silver slippers. The cool ocean air rushed into her lungs; her eyes sparkled. She gazed out into the vast black ocean.
Anchored just beyond the three-mile limit, the casino ship S.S. Rex rocked in the gentle surf, its lights strung between its masts down to the bow and stern. Like a jeweled crown awaiting her coronation. She walked down the pier to the water taxis.
Thirty minutes later, under the warm golden glow of gas lamps, amid boisterous laughter, the clack of roulette wheels, and the squealing saxophones of Curtis Mosby’s band playing “Society Blues,” Doris tossed her dice like breadcrumbs to greedy gulls. She admired her graceful arms and her white hands. She saw others taking note of her, flattering her with long looks. Her temples pulsed, her breath quickened. She talked to no one except the croupier, reveling in her performance — the mysterious woman, cool and aloof.
She played for nearly an hour, losing more than she won. As she leaned forward to bet more chips, she glanced up through the window to the deck. Two men, escorted by the ship owner, Tony Cornero, strode past the gaming room, followed by two bodyguards. She caught her breath. She recognized the shorter man from a mug shot in Ballyhoo magazine. She remembered the headline: “Hollywood’s Long-Legged Lookers Lindy-hop with Ganglord.”
He wore a double-breasted overcoat that hung to his knees, a fedora pulled down over his brow; only his mouth and chin were visible. The block of flesh beside him turned his square head toward Doris in slow motion as if sensing her gaze. His eyes bored into her, a warning as clear as sirens before dawn.
Doris stood trembling, fascinated. A rush of heat and electricity pulsed through her; her cheeks felt cold, her upper lip moist.
“Snake eyes!” called the croupier. “You win, madam. Would you like to roll again?”
As if woken from a dream, Doris turned back to the table and picked up her dice. Snake Eyes: That was one of his nicknames. It was a sign.
Her eyelids fluttered shut; she clutched the edge of the table until her dizziness passed. She was shivering and her temples burned. Was her fever coming back? No, it must be the rush of the roulette wheels, and the gimlets she’d been drinking. She picked up her chips, cashed in her earnings, and tucked the crisp bills into her sequin purse. She pulled her stole around her shoulders and walked outside.
The sea air, heavy with moisture, aroused her, the breeze blowing her silk slip against her naked legs. Lights glittered on the water. The darkness called her.
Snake Eyes climbed down into a private boat, followed by his bull henchman. Quickly Doris walked to the other side of the ship, to the landing stage, and stepped into a water taxi that was nearly full with passengers. Moments later, the taxi pulled out toward the pier.
Doris sat involute among the gamblers, like a moon goddess on a starless night. The water taxi slapped over the rolling swells, the motor puttered. As they neared shore, the shadows under Santa Monica Pier appeared black and still, like evil intent beneath a nervous giggle.
As soon as her taxi docked, Doris hurried up the pier. She spotted the two men pausing in front of a striped canvas tent. She ducked behind a group of teenagers and bought a bag of peanuts. When she peeked back, she saw the men disappear into an arcade.