“The author’s first hand knowledge of the shady Hollywood past is a revelation... The graphic violence, perverse sexual tolerance and brainwashing right in front of our eyes, it’s all there. How the rights of a handful of rich and powerful people overstepped the rights of many others. And violence, evil, pornography and drugs were a way of life...”
-- Pavel Tomov, author, Where Is My Spring?
“It’s all here: sex, murder, power struggles and an eclectic cast of characters that are drawn to the fame and fortune that can only be found in Hollywood.”
-- Marcia Von Leitzau, creative director
Excerpt from Chapter Two:
I crossed the inner courtyard of the old Spanish palazzo, called “Casa Laguna,” which was magnificent with its lily pond fountain and exotic plants. I still thought about going to work. By the time I reached the horse and coach stalls that had been turned into garages, I knew I was going to Fay’s decrepit place in Echo Park. That accounted for my somber dress and mood.
The luxury-size, vintage Lincoln Special smoothly took me past the man-made lake. This was now a high-crime area with once elegant, upper-class residences, unfortunately, now rented to anybody. Fay lived in a bungalow a block from the lake, almost at the top of a small elevation.
The flashing lights of police cars and clusters of curiosity seekers brought back the dreaded premonition that began my day and my headache. There was no place to park, so I drove around the corner and found a spot. I couldn’t shake the feeling it would be a better idea to drive straight to the studio and give this a pass.
“Mr. Arvad? Peter Arvad?” There was a muffled knock on the car window.
A dark, well-chiseled face peered in through the passenger window. He displayed his badge. I nodded automatically, unlocking the doors. A spare, well-dressed man let himself in and with a sigh, slid onto the wide, leather front seat.
“I’m Charlie Reason from Los Angeles Homicide Division. I believe you came to visit Miss Fay Stratton, am I right?” I nodded again. “You must be her acting coach.”
My headache throbbed. I might’ve grimaced. “What’s wrong with her, Mr. Reason?”
“Well, she’s very dead, Mr. Arvad.”
I was shocked into stunned silence and hit by another throbbing headache.
Detective Reason found a slightly damaged cigarette package in one of his pockets. “May I smoke?”
I nodded. “I just can’t believe Fay’s dead.” The cigarette smoke acted as a catalyst to my headache. A tear ran down my cheek. It didn’t go unnoticed.
The detective drew on his cigarette. “You admired Fay Stratton. Am I too far off the mark? She was attractive and gifted. The landlady also told me your wife is much older than you. I’m sorry. It’s rude on my part, but being a gentleman is not my character.”
My eyes were fixed on the elegant symbol on the Lincoln’s hood as I said, “Is your professional reasoning qualifying me as one of Fay’s lovers?”
The man had a heart or at least pretended to. His eyebrows were quite expressive. “No, Mr. Arvad. There are many handsome people in Hollywood, presumably gifted. I think you probably had a warm relationship with that girl, perhaps bordering on romance. You are a hot-blooded man, Mr. Arvad, aren’t you?”
In spite of my thundering headache, I managed a smile.
“But you’re a professional gentleman, sir,” observed the detective.
“I hope so.”
“Let’s see...you’re an accredited teacher in an acting school under the ownership of a well-known film producer.” He studied his notes. “And this school draws a number of hopefuls. Few of them actually find acting jobs, and even if they do, it’s mostly through the back door. A star is born once in a blue moon, or is that just a legend? Your predecessor, Roman, really made it big. Unfortunately, he is now back in Europe because of his sordid affair. He might have to stay there forever.”
For the first time, I looked straight into his eyes. “You don’t have to play cat and mouse with me, Detective. You know I belong to the same army of fools as most of the Hollywood hopefuls. I’m pushing toward middle age, with my only break as an acting coach.”
The detective’s eyebrows did their little play. “You’re not a fool, Mr. Arvad. Naïve perhaps, but even that has to be proven. Shall we drive to the morgue and identify the body. I don’t believe the landlady will do it. She said she wouldn’t look into the face of a dead person. There’s something weird about her attitude. My impression is that she’s trying to hide something. You’re not fainthearted, are you, Mr. Arvad? You’ve been through a lot, as I have in my time. We can’t afford to be fools.” I nodded again and the movement produced another tear.
“Do you have an allergy?” Detective Reason inquired, half facetiously.
Partially relieved that I didn’t have to enter Fay’s dreary bungalow, I muttered, “I guess so. Where is the morgue?”
“Downtown, next to the Coroner’s office. Are you willing to help us? It looks like your student, Miss Stratton, was pregnant and with no health coverage. According to the landlady, none of her wealthy friends were willing to help.”
“Am I one of them?”
“No, Mr. Arvad. Whatever you are, you’re not rich. We know that much. Let’s go.”
I just shrugged my shoulders. “First, I have to know where I stand. Am I a suspect? Then, I can answer your questions from the beginning to the end.”
The detective remained mute to the question. The drive to the morgue was silent; not a word was exchanged.
***
The young woman on the Coroner’s table wasn’t Fay. It was her friend, Thea Stockton, the ballerina — the one that had lived in the apartment across from Jane and me. The one that had so attracted my attention when crossing the courtyard of “Casa Laguna” with Fay.
Suddenly, I felt a hundred years old and absolutely pathetic. The investigator asked me something; but I didn’t hear. The “other Fay” was quietly asleep under the cold luminescent lights. She was so young and peaceful.
“Did you mention something about Fay’s name, Detective Reason?”
“I only said that in our files she has a different name...Francis Nugent.”
I didn’t know what to say, and looked at him with incredulity. “I don’t believe it. She has a police file under another name? That doesn’t sound like my student.”
The detective lowered his booming voice. “Well, she’s nothing now.”
“She meant a lot to me.”
The detective scrutinized me closely. “Then what kind of a person was she?”
That took me by surprise. I had to think for awhile, then lowered the volume of my voice to match his. “She isn’t Holly Golightly, Inspector. She’s a child.”
“You seem to be the most devoid-of-curiosity person in the world,” observed Reason.
“Why?”
“You never asked how your — ahem...shall I repeat myself? — how your favorite student passed away.”
Thoughts were wild, varied, and came from all directions. I had to decide if it was worthwhile to tell the truth at this point. No...Fay wasn’t safe yet and the ballerina obviously wouldn’t mind. So...I’m not lying...no, I’m lying through my teeth. Yet, sooner or later, I’ll be caught. What’s the difference anyway? I’m treading in the water just to stay on the surface, gaining time. I called upon my acting skills and blurted out, “Suicide?”
The detective looked sharply at me. “I’m not so sure...but let’s agree on it...hypothetically. How did she commit it?”
“By her own hand. That’s how suicide is done. Advise me if I’m wrong.”
I’m sure I sounded unpleasantly belligerent and gritty. “So what? It’s none of my business. She’s dead. It’s your job. I can’t help you if you don’t know how to proceed from here on.”
Reason looked at me as if I was half-wit or something worse. “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Arvad. For all I know you might lead a double life.”
Reason turned to leave, and then turned back, and, raising his hand, advised me, “Don’t leave the city without my consent...at least for the time being.”
I was walking from one trap into another; the story of my life...
