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  Jack pulled out his packet of tobacco and started to roll a cigarette. Small routines helped.

  He’d have to find ways to keep his thoughts in check if he was going to look for the man who murdered Wilma.

  WILMA, 1943

  WILMA HADN’T INTENDED to throw such a party. Gertie stopped by with one of her pals from the studio, a wardrobe girl named Ethel. Ethel had a bottle of red. Wilma poured three glasses. They sat on the dusty chintz love-seat and matching chintz chairs that came with Wilma’s new bungalow on 243½ Newland Street. Conversation drifted everywhere it could as long as it avoided the war. Less than a month earlier, two Air Force officers—one a chaplain—had showed up on the doorstep of Wilma’s then-apartment in Los Feliz to deliver the bad news that Jack’s plane had been shot down over Germany. “There were no survivors,” the chaplain told Wilma. As if she couldn’t take the next logical step from that one, the chaplain made it perfectly clear. “Your husband, Sergeant John Chesley, was killed in action.”

  Wilma didn’t want to talk about it anymore. All she’d done for the past month and a half was talk about it. She asked Ethel, “Any new talent over there at Republic?”

  “Oh, honey, is there!” Ethel said. “We have this new dreamboat on contract. Tom Gutierrez. He’s a Mex but you wouldn’t know it to see him. All you’d know about is those deep, dark eyes. A woman could get lost in those.”

  “He is a handsome fellow,” Gertie said.

  “Honey, handsome ain’t the word. That lug walks on the lot and my panties try to walk off me.”

  “When did you start wearing underwear?” Wilma asked.

  “Touché.” Ethel sipped her wine. She repositioned herself on the loveseat, legs tucked under her, floral skirt spread over her knees and calves, only ankles and bare feet visible. “Anyway, he’s not going by that Mex name. They’re calling him Tom Fillmore, for some reason.”

  “Because he’s from Fillmore,” Gertie said.

  “What’s Fillmore?” Ethel asked.

  “A little farm town north of the San Fernando Valley.”

  “What’s it near?” Wilma asked.

  “Nothing,” Gertie said.

  “So Tomas Gutierrez, a little Mex farm boy from next to nowhere, is about to take over Hollywood and slide inside Ethel’s skirt. Am I getting this right?” Wilma asked.

  “Hitting the nail on the head,” Gertie said.

  “Oh, honey, let me tell you about this boy. We had him playing a G-man in a tight blue gabardine suit. It was all I could do to put that suit on him. I had to measure his chest and inseam a half-dozen times before I got it right. He just stood there and let me run my fingers across him.” Ethel adjusted her bun. “My goodness, I’m getting flushed just thinking about it.”

  “Call him up,” Wilma suggested.

  “Really?” Ethel asked.

  “Sure, why not?” It was Saturday night. They were adults and could do as they pleased. What could be the harm?

  Gertie plucked that question right from Wilma’s brain and offered the answer, “Haven’t you been drinking a bit too much since, well…for this past month?”

  Wilma waved her hand like a matador would. “We’re young. We deserve to have some fun.”

  Gertie gave in to Wilma’s twelve extra minutes of wisdom once again. “Okay, Ethel, call your dreamy Tomas. Tell him to bring some friends.”

  “And more booze,” Wilma added.

  “And some records for the Victrola,” Gertie said.

  An hour later, Tom and his friends and his booze and his records filled Wilma’s little bungalow. Rather than risk the enmity of her new landlords, Wilma invited the Van Meters to join the party. They brought more booze. Mr. Van Meter spun Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing.” Gene Krupa’s opening drumbeats got Wilma up and dancing. Tom’s friends pushed the furniture against the wall and cleared the floor. Pretty soon, everyone was hopping.

  As the music and hum of the little party spread to the houses on either side of Wilma’s, more folks dropped by, more folks were called, more records spun, more booze drunk. Party favors just seemed to appear: a bowl of peanuts, chicken on the grill in the front driveway, a tub filled with ice and bottled beers, marihuana cigarettes for the group milling around by the Van Meter rose bushes, a little mound of cocaine on the bar of the kitchenette, a bag of leftover biscuits from the hash house where Wilma worked, musical instruments. Someone put a uku-lele in Wilma’s hand between records. She launched into a rendition of “Five Foot Two”—just because everyone knew it, and would sing along—then tore into her favorite Benny Bell number, “Everybody Loves My Fanny.” The artist from down the block produced a pair of bongos and joined in. Folks made instruments out of spoons from Wilma’s kitchen drawers and pill bottles and hair combs. One thoughtful pal of Tom’s had brought a kazoo with him. The makeshift orchestra ripped through a handful of numbers, loud and boisterous, if not necessarily skilled.

  The booze kept flowing after the orchestra took a break. Mr. Van Meter stayed on top of the Victrola. Mostly, he kept things swinging, spinning sides by Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, Fletcher Henderson, and the like. When he played Harry James’s hit, “I Had the Craziest Dream Last Night,” Ethel nuzzled up to Tom. You might call it dancing. It looked like something else. The wardrobe girl made a suit of herself and Tom wore it.

  If any eyebrows were to be raised, they’d have to wait until the morning. This party was inertia unto itself. Sure, you could hear the water gushing in the toilet every time someone used the tiny bathroom in the middle of the bungalow, but as Wilma pointed out early, “This ain’t a shindig for gentlemen and ladies. It’s for guys and dolls like us.”

  The little bungalow swelled and sweated with party guests. The lawn around it was trampled by revelers. Various guests used Wilma’s bedroom for one of the things bedrooms are used for. Her sheets were left in no condition to be slept upon. A fight broke out. Maybe a few of them. Who could tell among all the madness? It stretched until the first light of dawn colored the eastern sky.

  The problem with Wilma was she could never keep her drinking to just one night. Her party had been a hit. She should’ve slept it off that Sunday afternoon and been back to herself by evening. She just couldn’t.

  She found a little bit of orange juice and a lot of vodka when she woke up that Sunday. Screwdrivers carried her through the cleanup. Leftover gin hid in her flask during her lunch shift on Monday. She may have accidentally-on-purpose dumped a tray of dishes in the lap of a regular who grabbed her ass that one too many times. Otherwise, it was a good shift. Tom Fillmore, who’d blown his chance with Ethel late that past Saturday, kept Wilma company through Monday evening. On Tuesday after her shift, he took her on a tour of Hollywood nightspots. They drank whiskey neat with showbiz types at Players on the top of Sunset. They grabbed a quick bite and a slow martini at the Formosa Café. He took her to see Lena Horne at the Little Troc. She washed down the songs with her own set list of gin gimlets. They finished the night off at his house on Fountain.

  Tom had ideas and Wilma played along.

  She woke up in Tom’s bed around 6:30 Wednesday morning. She had until 4:00 to get to work. She could’ve slept a while longer there and, surely, Tom would’ve have driven her home, but that seemed like the worst plan of all. She didn’t want to talk to Tom, didn’t want to look into those dark, empty eyes, didn’t want to think about the night before, about how rough and rude Tom had been at the end. She climbed out of bed as gently as she could, stuffed her bra and panties into her purse, pulled on her black party dress, and tiptoed out of the house. On the front porch, she considered walking the two blocks to the red car stop on Sunset in her bare feet but decided that her high heels would be slightly less painful.

  She dozed on the red car down Sunset and on the next one up Figueroa, trying not to think what she looked like, wild red hair styled by a pillow, breasts loose under the black rayon of her dress, only the dregs of yesterday’s makeup clinging to her face, crust around h
er eyes. She could tell her story to the morning commuters without opening her mouth.

  It’ll be all right, she told herself. I don’t know any of these people. I’ll never see them again. She listed off the things that would heal her from this brannigan. A little sleep. A lot of water and coffee. A long bath. A hamburger and fries. Feeling human again was only seven or eight stops up Figueroa.

  The red car braked around Avenue 52. Wilma idly glanced at the passengers boarding the trolley. One of them looked a lot like Jack only older, alcoholic, mean, and sporting a nose that had been broken at least a dozen times. She was too slow about turning away. He saw Wilma and steered a course in her direction. Wilma put her purse on the empty seat next to her. He picked up the purse, tossed it in her lap, and sat down.

  Christ, the last thing she needed on a morning like this was a visit from John Chesley, Sr. She looked out the window to her right and tried to pretend she couldn’t feel his shoulder pressed against hers.

  The red car started rolling again. John said, “You look like you’ve had one hell of a night.”

  Wilma kept facing the window. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “When my daughter-in-law is whoring around town, it’s my business.”

  Wilma faced him, caught his brown eyes with her baby blues. “I ain’t your daughter-in-law anymore, palooka.”

  “You’re still carrying my last name, aren’t you?”

  Actually, Wilma had gone back to calling herself Greene instead of Chesley. Nothing against Jack. She’d just always been a Greene. Wearing his last name felt like wearing his underwear. It never really fit. She didn’t want to explain this to the old man. She didn’t owe him a damn thing. An old thug like him had no right looking down his busted-up nose at her. She said, “Find another seat before I start screaming rape, old man.”

  “You little fucking trollop.” The old man grabbed his briefcase and stood from his seat. “You dirty fucking whore. I hope you know that the State of California takes alcoholism very seriously. I hope you know that.”

  Wilma jerked her thumb toward the back of the car. “Tell your story walking.”

  Two hours later, after a little sleep but before the coffee, bath, or hamburger, Wilma got a knock on her bungalow door. It was the boys in white coats from Camarillo. No doubt as to who called and where she’d be going.

  JACK, 1946

  JACK SAT on a low wall in front of a rooming house on Newland Street. Wilma’s second-to-last moments were spent on the street in front of him. He unfolded Gertie’s account of Wilma’s death and let his eyes graze over the words again.

  A cowbell echoed through the bungalow. Someone had sprung the front door lock and forced himself inside. Wilma grabbed the edges of the tub. Panic poured in. What do I do? Hide or run? Hide or run? What do I do?

  For the past year, she’d been telling herself to move into a place with a back door. She hadn’t done it. The only way to walk out of this bungalow was through the front. She looked up at the bathroom window. It was too small for a full-grown human to crawl out. There was nothing in here to hide behind or under.

  Heavy heels clomped across the hardwood floor. One man. Letting himself in. Letting himself be known.

  The door to the bathroom led into the living room, in full view of whoever thumped his brogues on the floorboards. She could walk out and face him or stay in the tub and wait for him. She stood. Water rolled off her bare skin. The cool evening air pushed aside the residual warmth. Soap bubbles clung to goose bumps. She stepped out of the tub, letting the dripping water puddle underneath. She wrapped her wet hair into a towel and slid on a terry-cloth robe and scanned the bathroom again. Nothing to use as a weapon but a hairbrush. It was hardly worth wielding that.

  In a gamble, she left the robe untied.

  The heels clomped closer. Wilma turned off the bathroom light, gave her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and stepped through the doorway.

  He stopped walking when he saw her and stood next to the loveseat. His hands were buried deep in his jacket pockets; his Homburg brim dipped low like it was shielding his eyes from a sun that had set an hour ago. With two quick steps and a dive, he could tackle her. Too close. Inside the bungalow was too close for him to be. But this ten-foot gap: way too close.

  Wilma slapped a half-smile on her face and twirled the loose, dripping end of a curly red lock. “Well,” with nothing else coming to her mind, she said, “this is a surprise.”

  He said nothing. His eyes presumably stayed locked on her. She couldn’t see them to say for sure. A little bit of the whites glistened in the moonlight that crept into the bungalow, but that was it. And, truth be told, Wilma wasn’t surprised. This wasn’t a surprise. It was inevitable he’d show up, sooner or later.

  Wasn’t it?

  It was.

  Wilma took a couple of slow steps away from the bathroom. This put the loveseat between her and the man. She needed time, an excuse, something to stall him until she could make a run for it. The only thing in front of her, the only thing she could be walking toward if she were acting casual, was the Victrola. She patted her towel turban and glanced over at the man. “I’ll play some music,” she said. The low brim of his Homburg swiveled to follow her steps. Something about this made her even more aware of the open front of her robe, of the white skin that caught glimmers of moonlight.

  As luck would have it, Wilma had been listening to her Chester Ellis record that morning. She didn’t want to bend down with her back to the man and seek out another side, so she stuck with the one she had. A risky move, playing Chester Ellis in a scene like this, but Wilma took it. She cranked the arm of the little Victrola, dropped the needle on the record, clicked off the latch, and let it play. Chester’s piano filled the room. The man didn’t flinch.

  He was screwing up his courage to kill her. She knew it. She could taste it like a stink drifting off him. It was too dark to tell if he had a gun in those jacket pockets or a sap or was just wearing a pair of gloves to keep from doing it with his bare hands. But it was there: the murderous vibe tangling with the notes of the Chester Ellis record.

  Wilma looped around a dusty chintz armchair, walking this time toward the man. He’d left the front door open. Wilma was slightly closer to it than he was. She eyed the kitchen behind the man. “You must want a drink. I have a new bottle of Vat 69 behind you there. I haven’t even cracked the seal.” She pointed at a cabinet directly behind the man. He turned to look. This felt like Wilma’s only chance. She raced out the front door.

  He took off after her.

  Her bare feet hit the gravel drive in front of her bungalow. Small rocks dug into her soft soles. With one hand, she gathered the lapels of her bathrobe and pulled them tight. Her other arm flopped as she ran. The towel on her head unraveled and fell at the end of the drive. Wilma turned right onto Newland Street and crossed maybe half the block before realizing that she had no idea where she was running to and nowhere to go.

  The man turned right at the end of the drive, also. He picked up the towel and twisted it into a rope.

  The wet night collapsed on the pair. Thick fog blurred the moon into a vague glow above them. A red interurban car rumbled past the nearby intersection of York and Figueroa.

  Wilma assessed her options again. This night just wasn’t getting any better. She needed a car or a friend or a gun or something. She needed shoes because her feet were already torn up and bloody. She needed clothes. She needed help. She needed Jack but he’d gone and got himself shot down in Germany a year ago. That was where the trouble started. If he just hadn’t gone to war. If he just hadn’t died there. If he had just come back like he was supposed to and lent her a hand now and then. Goddamn it.

  With no better ideas, she started screaming, “Jack,” again and again, ripping apart her vocal chords doing it. The screams bounced down the street and vibrated off stucco walls and got absorbed into nearby porches and potted plants. A small dog joined in, yapping as h
ard and loud as Wilma. This stopped the man. He and Wilma faced each other on the street, no more than twenty feet apart, Wilma screaming, “Help,” now instead of “Jack,” the man’s eyes darting from door to door, waiting for someone to intervene.

  The neighbors stayed inside, letting it all wash underneath the sounds of the Gas Company Evening Concert or the new episode of Boston Blackie. No one came outside to check.

  The man walked toward Wilma, twirling her towel. Water dripped from her hair onto her bathrobe. She gave the screams a rest and waited. When he got an arm’s length away, she feinted left. He lunged. She danced around him and sprinted another fifty yards down the street. The soles of her feet left small red drops with every step.

  When her breath would allow it, she screamed again. One neighbor slammed his window shut. Another screamed, “Pipe down out there.” The dog kept yapping.

  The man picked himself off the tar and turned back for Wilma. He made his dash. She made her fake. He fell and she sprinted. They paused for breath. He pounced again. She fled again. Maybe it all looked like something from a burlesque stage, Wilma the flaming-haired Gypsy Rose Lee, the man one of her rotating casts of comedians, only instead of witty repartee with each pause, Wilma screamed. Instead of an audience at the Old Opera, the neighborhood tuned out.

  On one sprint, the man threw down the towel. Wilma tripped on it. She flung her hands out too late. Her nose hit the street, broken for sure. She squirmed up before he could drop on top of her. She ran with blood and snot racing down her chin and soaking into the wet collar of her white bathrobe. When she hit the drive this time, she decided to try her bungalow again. Maybe the lock would hold. Maybe the man would give up and leave. Maybe she could telephone somebody. Maybe Gertie.