The Harpy Ch 02

A Fool There Was

The next morning he awoke to a wicked hangover and the sound of a woman's voice. For a moment he thought it was all a dream, a terrible, horrible wonderful weird dream. But the woman's voice burst that balloon. It wasn't Rose's voice, however. It was Nazimova's.

Her dark, heavy baritone blew the last fog off Clifton's mind.

"Why are you still in my house?"

Clifton looked up from the bed. Nazimova stood at the base of it, imperious in a black day dress. Several young dancers and actresses huddled behind her. "Well?"

Clifton scanned the room for his clothes and found them in a pile by the screen. Rose was nowhere to be found. He tried to remember when she had left but the last time he remembered her being here was when her hand was around his... He looked under the sheets. He was naked.

"Get out!"

"I'm sorry Miss Nazimova." he put his hands up in an open palmed gesture. "I'm naked."

"No one cares." Miss Nazimova must have seen the look of terror on his face because she sighed and ordered everyone to turn around.

Clifton hustled to the screen, picked up his clothes and scurried into the powder room to get dressed and whet his hair. From the other side of the door he heard Nazimova speak.

"Damnit, Maria, we need new sheets. Damn it!"

There was a door on the other side of the powder room. Clifton used that to make his exit.

It was a 45 minute walk in the late morning sun down Crescent Heights Boulevard to his tiny apartment in West Hollywood. At least it never rained in L.A. He'd had enough rainfall in the trenches to last a lifetime.

Clifton killed time during the walk with his thoughts. He wondered why he agreed to do it, to be filmed pleasing Rose McQueen's pussy. At least he remained clothed. Was it still a crime for him, then? Only if the wrong people saw it. But who would see it? Would his likeness (albeit only the back of his head and hands) be featured on every army base and bachelor party for years to come?

Is this why Rose McQueen hadn't done a feature film in 4 years? My God, if people found out that was him, he could get blacklisted just like her! She was Rose McQueen. She was The Harpy! And this was powerful enough to keep even her out of the studios. He decided then and there he needed that movie. He needed to know it would never see the light of day. He hadn't come this far to turn tail back to Texas shamed and humiliated, branded a blue actor for the rest of his days.

Clifton was scared and full of regret. He'd made a mistake while intoxicated, a mistake that could cost him everything, maybe even his name. But he'd been intoxicated in another way. Rose was beautiful and invigorating. Her sounds filled his mind and his soul. There were still pleasurable echoes rolling in his head. Even her orgasm was unique. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he knew you couldn't fake something like that.

Though he was frightened he was also profoundly sad because he knew he was nothing more than a plaything to her, a mere trifle in her pleasure. Waking up alone just put a klieg light on that. He was nothing but a mark to her and that thought cut him to the quick.

He wasn't due back to the studio until Wednesday so he spent the intervening days on the beach in Santa Monica and the nights in a speakeasy in West Hollywood. He kept hoping he would see her wandering through the door, but people like her didn't need a speakeasy, they had bootleggers deliver to their homes. Clifton had no idea where Rose McQueen's home was. He hoped Basil might know. It would have to wait until Wednesday to ask.

"Um, she has a mansion somewhere in Beverly Hills, I believe. Where exactly, I have no idea."

It was early morning Wednesday and principal shooting on the 7th Inspector Lightley mystery, The Night Terror, was about to begin. Clifton was set to play the British bobby who interrupts an overnight heist only to get cold cocked. As Basil promised, it was a more meaty role. He opened the movie's action and was featured in the big reveal at the end. He even got 2 dialogue cards in the film. That meant he was a 'speaking' role, inasmuch as such a thing could exist in a silent film.

"I told you I would stick to my word, Lad." He was back to talking in his fake Etonian accent.

"Thanks, Barry."

He pulled Clifton in close. "At the studio, it's got to be Basil, old boy. And I've got to keep the accent. Elsewhere you can call me Barry. Actually, I rather like it when you do. But not here. Keeping up appearances and all that."

"Sorry, Basil."

"Not a problem, chap. Now tell me, why do you want Miss McQueen's address? Did she break your heart? I'll curse that witch if she's hurt my protege."

Clifton recounted the evening, leaving out only René, the filming and the salacious details of the act. But he left in the bed, and his rude awakening.

"Don't feel too bad, chap. You made that old Russian bint's day." He patted Clifton firmly on the back. "Cheer up! All's well that ends well. I dare say you've dodged a bullet. You've had your first starlet. If you're lucky it will wind up in the trades."

Clifton hoped and prayed that it would not. He could think of only one reason he and Rose might wind up in the trades and it was the worst reason of all. He needed to find her, and find that tape.

"I suppose you're right, Basil." He replied. "Still, I'd like to say a proper goodbye. Do you know anyone who does have her address?"

"You southern gentlemen. When you get something stuck in your head- well, there's no use. Tell you what. I'll ask around. Let me see what I can do."

That was the last of it until Thursday morning. When Clifton arrived to the set an assistant fetched him and told him Basil wanted him in his dressing room to rehearse as soon as possible. He grabbed a coffee and hurried over.

"Shut the door, Clifton."

"What gives, Basil? Everything alright?"

Basil stood up. He was clutching an envelope in his hand. He shook it as he paced. "I went asking around after Miss Rose for you. As it turns out she was doing the same."

"Fantastic! Is that it? Do you have her address?"

"I have that and more, Clifton." He extended his hand with the envelope but when Clifton reached for it, he snapped it back. "I ask myself if I should just pitch this in the trash. I almost did many a time since last night."

"You wouldn't."

"No." he sighed. "I wouldn't. Truth is I'm afraid of what might happen to me if I did."

"I already told you, Basil, I wouldn't hurt you."

"Basil laughed sarcastically. "Oh no, not you. It's not you I'm afraid of, chap."

"Come on, man. Give me the address!" That address was salvation for Clifton. He didn't understand or appreciate Basil's reticence.

"I'll give it to you, alright, but hear me out. Sit, boy." Clifton sat and lit a cigarette.

Basil tossed the envelope into Clifton's lap. "Here. I didn't find her address. I didn't need to. She found you."

Clifton opened the envelope and retrieved a card.

You have been invited

To a private Premiere

The Pleasures of Salomé

8 P.M. Friday - Black Tie

'Talonwood'

12 Laurel Lane

"Seems you've been invited to a soiree."

Clifton's heart lifted. He found her! Even more she wanted him to come to her house. Surely now he could get her alone in a room and negotiate for the film's destruction. Hell, he'd beg if he had to. "Oh thank you, Basil!"

"Don't thank me, Lad." He replied. "I strongly advise you not to go."

"What? Don't be silly. Of course I'll go."

"Here's the part where you listen to me- no, just listen. You swore you would. Believe me when I say you've had your first brush with her and you were lucky to get out of there. Cut your losses. No, no- I don't know what happened and I don't care, boy, but don't tell me that what you told me was the God's honest truth. She sank her claws in you somehow. I can see the worry in your eyes. Maybe it's puppy love, maybe something else, but either way, it's no good for you."

"Come now, Basil." Clifton replied, trying to hide his shame. "I handled myself just fine in the Garden of Allah."

"Ha, a party at Nazimova's is one thing but you've been invited to her party in her nest now. Trust me when I tell you it's a different ballgame, that."

"Why Basil, you sound positively jealous. What goes on at one of her soirees?"

"I wouldn't know, because I've never been invited, but one hears rumors. Rumors of debauchery most outrageous. Things that would put a poof like me to shame. Boys like you are just their type of prey."

Clifton scoffed. "Be serious for a change." In truth he was a bit worried. Rose had so easily manipulated him before, convinced him to do things that felt both amoral and incredible. And yet, he still needed to see her.

"Fine, you want serious? Then you must not repeat this salacious detail to anyone. You did not hear it from me. I'm deadly serious, chap."

"I swear."

"Do you remember Blaine Gilbert?"

Everybody in the army knew that name. He was a doughboy made good. He went from the front lines in France where he got wounded to Hollywood stardom. It was in San Diego, as the story goes, that during his recuperation a producer saw him swimming and cast him on the spot to be Tarzan. The audience loved him, and he had a loyal following from soldiers like Clifton. When he died it practically broke America's heart.

"Well, you may not know this but Gilbert and your miss Rose were secretly married."

"So? That's hardly salacious."

"Yes, but they weren't married for a year before he starts dropping out of film roles. When they're out in public he looks pale and wan, like half a man almost. Soon he disappears from the public eye completely. She keeps him trapped up in that estate in the hills of hers.

"Talonwood?"

"Yes, that's it." he replied. "Offers come and go but he turns them all down. Never leaves, never has visitors except for a few close friends."

"Like whom?"

"As if I would know. Anyway, rumors begin to fly that she's jealous of other women, that she's an animal in AND out of the bedroom. Then, in the middle of the night, he packs his things and leaves. Just takes a train out of town. But she finds him, she does. Somewhere up the way near San Francisco, so the story goes. She beat the train to his destination."

"How?"

"Who fucking knows? Maybe Wiley Post flew her out there. They're friends, you know. Anyway, the important thing is she is waiting there for him, at the station. He's a broken man, he's too weak to escape her clutches. He comes back."

"'Escape her clutches'? Come on now."

"I'm nothing if not theatrical." Replied Basil, lighting up a cigarette. "Word spreads in the dailies and in the LA Examiner that they have 'reconciled'. There's even a picture of them boarding Hearst's boat, the Oneida."

"Hearst owns the Examiner."

"How observant of you. Lad. You'll make a fine detective yet."

"So what happens next?"

"What happens next is he dies." Basil took a pull from his cigarette and let the exhaled smoke spread across his desk for effect.

"What?"

"He dies. There is no more after that."

"Surely there's more." said Clifton.

"Like what?"

"Well, how did he die?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Hell, we all would. But truth is he died ever so conveniently across the border line in Mexican waters. Hearst had them pull into the nearest Mexican port, get the nearest Mexican autopsy, then the nearest Mexican mortuary. They all came back a few days later with his ashes."

"Good God, man. What are you trying to say?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid to even say it. On the face of it, it's absurd, but I'm not the only person who thinks this. I wasn't being hyperbolic before when I said she really is the Harpy."

"Say what, Basil? Say it."

"She killed Tarzan."

"You're being melodramatic."

"I'm an actor. It's what I do. Who knows if it's true, I just know she's sunk more men than a German U-boat and now she has put her eye to you."

Clifton shrugged Basil's intimations off. Rose may be callow and insensitive. She may even be a criminal but she was no murderer. Of that he had no doubt, well, very little doubt.

"Ah, what's the use, no one can change a Texas boy's mind once it's made up. Besides these are probably all just the worst kind of gossip." He said. "Just be careful. Don't go dying before we make you a star. Now go and get changed, Officer Kenwick. We've a movie to film!"

The House with Closed Shutters

That Friday Clifton borrowed a tuxedo from the studio, polished his shoes until they were mirrors, pulled the last five dollars from the coffee tin in his kitchenette and walked from West Hollywood to Beverly Hills. From there he hailed a cab and took it to Laurel Lane. It cost him thirty-five cents, but it broke his dollar so he had two bits to tip a doorman or bartender if he needed it.

Laurel Lane was a quiet little cul-de-sac up in the hills, just off of Beverly Drive. Rose McQueen's house was at the very end of it. The cab pulled up the circular drive and came to stop in front of a broad English plantation style house. The house had a porch and 2nd floor deck that seemed to run all around the building.

People mingled in the dark recesses of the porch, lit only by the warm light pouring through the open plantation shutters. Clifton exited and bounded up the wide steps onto the deck. The double doors were open but the path blocked by two men who sat on barstools.

One was perhaps two or three inches taller than Clifton and had a good fifty pounds on him. The other was Clifton's size but younger. He looked like he couldn't be a year or two removed from high school. It was he who spoke.

"Invitation."

Clifton reached into his pocket and handed the kid Rose's card. He could see inside now, where it was well lit. Men and women mingled and drank. In one section, they danced to jazz music coming from a gramophone. They were all dressed in evening wear. Some wore elaborate animal masks, others just shades and eye masks, some wore none at all. The card had said nothing about tonight being a masquerade. Clifton attempted to step in, only to have the kid put his hand out to stop him.

"You forgot the fee."

"I'm an invited guest."

"Everybody pays."

Clifton pulled out his billfold. He hoped it was only a dollar or two. He'd pay it, if only for the chance to talk to Rose about the film. He'd give it all if needs be. "Fine. How much?"

"One-hundred."

"One hundred dollars?" he asked in shock. "You're joking."

"That's the fee. Same for everybody." The large man rocked forward in his stool.

Clifton ignored him and focused his attention on the younger one. "You in college, kid?"

"Glendale High. USC next year." was his reply.

"Good enough. You should be old enough to know that's a ridiculous amount of money. I won't pay it."

"Then you can leave."

"I won't leave. I was invited here."

Clifton turned on his heels and pressed on through the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, the meaty hand of the larger man grabbed him and pulled him back out onto the porch with ease.

"Want me to toss him, Duke?" said the gorilla.

"That depends." said the kid. He strode right up nose-to-nose with Clifton. "It all comes down to you nice and civilized we're going to be about it. Are we gonna be civilized?"

"What is this?" came a woman's voice from the door. It was Rose. "Put him down, boys. He's with me."

"Sorry Ms. McQueen." The gorilla released Clifton and smoothed his jacket. The kid gave a mock bow. "Nothing personal."

Rose reached out across the threshold and took Clifton's hand. "Come with me, Clifton! I'm so glad you made it." She pulled him through the door and into the room.

In the light he could better see her, she was stunning in a long flowing shoulderless blue dress. It was beaded in intricate patterns that ran down to the waving, fringed hem. A single hibiscus flower held her coif in place. At the edge that ran along the top of her breasts he could see the slightest hint of ivory-colored lingerie.

"I do hope you are not cross with me. Only I had a very important meeting that morning and I didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful sleeping and I thought 'let him sleep'." She reached her hand up and caressed his cheek. "I did so enjoy our night. Please tell me you are not angry with me."

Despite everything, it felt nice to feel her touch. He thought of those dainty hands on his face, how they had been wrapped around his head only a few nights ago. "No, of course not but I do need to-"

"Oh, excellent!" She clasped her hands to her chin and let out that lovely little squeal of joy. "Excellent, because I want to introduce you around." She wrapped her arm in his and led him around her house.

"When I was a child in Shoreditch, my grandfather used to tell me about the wonderful and majestic plantation houses of the British West Indies. He was a merchant marine, you see." They passed the dancers and moved into a large dining room in the back. There were canapes and other hors d'oeuvres spread across the table.

"Are you hungry? No?" She whisked a glass of champagne off a waiter's tray and offered it to Clifton who demurred. "Very well." She took a large swig of the bubbly herself. "I just knew one day I would simply have to have one of my own. That is how my home came to be. My very own West Indies Plantation."

They strolled onto the back porch. So it did wrap all the way around. The porch led down onto a chip stone path. The path was lined with English boxwoods and lit by torches set into the ground. The backyard itself was expansive, covering maybe a half acre. At the very back there was a pool and a small bungalow styled as a single floor version of the main house. It was lit on the inside by all the shutters were closed. "This is Talonwood. Do you like it?"

"It's lovely." he replied. "Could I talk to you?"

"Why Clifton, what do you think we are doing now?"

"I mean if we could-"

"Reginald, darling." she said, whisking Clifton off again and down to the corner of the porch where a portly middle-aged man sat with a woman half his age. He was tickling her knee, but when he heard Rose, he stopped and focused his attention on her.

Clifton recognized him immediately. It was Reginald Lubinsky, the producer who signed him to a bit player contract at Famous.

"Hello, my dear Rose." He gathered himself up and kissed her hand. "What a lovely party, as usual."

Clifton wondered if Mr. Lubinsky had paid the hundred buck entry fee or if that had been some joke the kid played on him when he figured him for a bum.

"Reginald, have you met my date for the evening?" So he was her date now?

"A new paramour?" Reginald smiled and extended his hand. Clifton could tell by his blank stare that he didn't remember him.

"Oh but of course you have, Reginald. How silly of me. You signed him." Clifton jumped into the void. "Clifton Henry, sir. Pleasure to see you again."

"Henry, yes. Yes, right. Good to see you again."

"You have quite an eye for talent Reginald. He's no bit player. And I should know."

"Oh, eh? You've seen him act?"

"I've seen him in the act." She winked and once again whisked Clifton away.

"I really need to talk to you, Rose."

She ignored Clifton's pleas, instead she led him around the corner and down to the next table where two men sat having a rather animated discussion. "Harold, Steven, stop arguing for a second. I want you to meet someone." The first man was youngish, with a mop of wild hair and oval spectacles.

"We were just talking about that thrill kill. Harold thinks they're innocent."

"I think they're being targeted for being Jews, Steven. I don't know or care if they're innocent." The older man was rotund and bald.

"This is why you don't have ladies at your table, gentlemen. Clifton, this is Steven and Harold. Boys, this is Clifton Henry. He's an actor." Clifton extended his hand but it was promptly and swiftly ignored.