A call sheet. Her two lines from the same movie, a western, cut from the script. A clipping showing the movie poster — on which she had not been featured. “So, you were performing—”
“I was putting in my dues. Just like everybody else back then.” She removed the lid from the ice bucket, and with her forefinger and thumb plucked out two fresh cubes. She dropped them into the wine. “You couldn’t pop out a sex video and become a star. You had to work for it.”
“You believe you had the talent to succeed?”
“I sure as hell did. And the backbone. That right there.” She nodded at the scrapbook. “Shows you I had the looks too. All I needed was to get noticed. That’s what brought me here... in answer to your question.”
The kid’s head jerked back; one brow raised, telegraphing his incredulity. “You’re saying you came to Palm Springs to advance your career? Can you explain what led you to believe spending time in the desert would improve your chances of stardom?”
Donna chuckled. “Sure, it sounds crazy now, maybe, but back then this town was something special. Glamorous. Everywhere you went there were producers, directors. Stars. Even here. In Deepwell.” She looked around like she was taking in the whole of the neighborhood. “Liberace. William Holden. Tippi Hedren.” She flung up her hands and mimicked Tippi’s batting away the birds from her bouffant. The kid froze and stared at her like he thought she was having a seizure. She dropped her hands. “Tippi Hedren? No?”
The kid shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Elizabeth Taylor? You have to know her.”
“Everyone knows Elizabeth Taylor. She lived in this neighborhood?”
“Yeah. For a while. Over on Manzanita, back when she was trying on Eddie Fisher.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed.
“Fisher. Eddie. Princess Leia’s dad.”
“Oh.” His eyes widened with recognition. “Yes.” He leaned back, seeming pleased with himself. “So, you came to Palm Springs to make... connections?”
“Connections. Is that what whoring yourself is called these days?” Donna laughed. “Yeah, I started coming every weekend or so. I figured it would be easier to catch a director’s eye prancing around a swimming pool than it was on one of those god-awful cattle calls they used to do. Do they still do those?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“No, of course you don’t.” She returned the lid to the ice bucket. “You don’t know Jack.” She paused for the punch line. “Webb that is. Jack Webb. He lived around here too.”
The kid shrugged. “I’m not familiar with him.”
“Shame. You two would’ve gotten on. He was all just the facts ma’am, too.”
The kid pretended — poorly — to be amused and rewarded her with a polite for-the-recording laugh. “Did coming here work for you?” Again, the NPR diction, punctuated by a precisely timed pause. “Did you get noticed?”
Donna was beginning to get a feel for this podcast business. She leaned into a well-polished contempt. “Oh, I got noticed all right.” Then allowed a beat to pass. “But not by any movie people.”
“By Joseph Fiato.”
“And others, but Joey was special.”
“Were you aware from the start that Fiato was involved in organized crime?”
Donna grunted. “I was.”
“This didn’t concern you?”
“Listen. Back then — here — it didn’t concern anyone. The Hollywood crowd, the mafiosos, even some of the police. It all blended together. A cocktail with a killer kick.” She pointed at the mic, then whispered behind her hand, “That’s pretty good. You can make like you made that up yourself if you want.”
He closed the scrapbook and studied her with his gray, unblinking eyes, his gaze lingering on her hairline. Donna straightened her wig. The kid seemed as embarrassed as she once might have been. “May I?” he said, gesturing to the shaded window.
“Sure. Just drop a token in the slot.”
“I’m sorry?” His head tilted like a dog’s at a high-pitched whistle.
Donna waved his question off. “Never mind. Go ahead.”
He rose and went to the window, tugging the chain with a smooth hand-over-hand motion. Sunlight flooded in, and in an instant Donna could feel the temperature rising. The kid stood there, in silhouette, taking in the view. “That’s a shame.”
“You stop seeing the wires,” Donna said, knowing he was speaking of the power lines garroting the mountain view. “After a while you do. But they’re always there. In the background. Humming. It isn’t so noticeable when people are around, but this time of year, the whole street is empty. It gets pretty damn quiet around here.”
“Quiet enough to hear the hum of the power lines?”
“Quiet enough to hear a mouse fart. You can hear them now if you listen hard enough. The wires. Not the mice.”
“Why don’t they bury the lines?” He began lowering the shade. “Save the view?”
“Maybe it’d cost too much. Or maybe someone’s afraid what might get turned up once they got to digging.” She leaned in toward the mic. “That’s a joke. I repeat, a joke.”
The kid returned to his seat.
“It’s Deepwell,” Donna said. “They’ve always been here.”
“Always have been doesn’t mean always have to be.”
“Aren’t you the philosopher?” She pasted on a parody of a smile and batted her eyelashes at him. “Listen,” she said, letting her voice drop an octave, “if they aren’t gonna hide the wires for Elizabeth Taylor, they sure as shit aren’t gonna hide them for me.”
“You have a point.” He glanced down at his computer. “Let me make a quick adjustment to the balance.” He fussed a bit, his focus on the monitor. “I’m curious,” he said. “The intake guard. What did you say?”
“I said she was bawling—”
“I’m sorry. I meant, what did you say to her? When she began crying in front of you?”
“What could I say? Sorry for your loss? I said, That’s terrible. Or something along those lines.”
“Were you worried that she might mistreat you later to make up for this display of weakness?”
“Damned straight I was worried,” she said, the memory of her vulnerability turning prickly. “I was terrified. I was in prison.”
“For the murder of Joseph Fiato.” He looked up from the screen, his eyes locking in on hers. “A crime you didn’t commit even though you confessed to doing so at the time.”
She snorted. This kid thought he was so flipping smart. Pretending to mess with his computer. Jumping her around in her story. Poking around for a sore spot and trying to catch her off guard. “Don’t be stupid. Why would I say I killed Joey if I didn’t?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
She sloshed the wine in her cup, then rested the cup on the table. “What makes you think I wasn’t the one who killed Joey?”
“There were rumors—”
“There’ve been rumors since Eden. You want the truth? The unembellished and verifiable truth? Here it is — the son of a bitch needed killing. I did it.”
“Why?”
“Rumor has it...” she drawled out the words, “he was cheating on me, and stealing from me too, though he called it ‘investing.’ Claimed he’d lost it. That same night I saw him out with this bimbo. My investment was hanging around her neck.” She shrugged. “I snapped. Crackled. Maybe even popped a little too. I shot Joey in the gut. Twice.” She lifted her hand and feigned a tremor. “My hand was shaking. I was aiming for his balls.” She stilled the trembling and reclaimed her wine. She lifted the cup to her lips and wet her mouth. “No regrets. No regrets at all. No, wait, that isn’t true. I do have one. The DA offered me a plea deal if I waived a jury trial. I would’ve enjoyed a chance to go on the stand before my peers. I could have given Susan Hayward a run for the money. All I got was an old gray judge flapping around in his black robe.”