Make Believe by Ed Ifkovic

Author:Ed Ifkovic [Ifkovic, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9781464200809
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Desmond Peake stood outside the MGM town car like a ramrod sentry, heels together, arms locked at his side, mirrored sunglasses shielding his eyes. A black double-breasted suit and a shirt so laundry-day white it dazzled. He reminded me of a Prussian extra in an old von Stroheim silent movie—some robotic underling. I feared he’d salute me as I hurried toward the door opened by the Negro chauffeur.

Mr. Peake greeted me with a facile nod, muttered my name, and ushered me into the back seat where he handed me a sheaf of typed sheets, including a publicity release for Show Boat. Silent, mechanical. The well-oiled manikin.

He’d called last night to confirm that I’d be at the scheduled private showing of Show Boat. “So long as I’m back by four in the afternoon. Max’s memorial service.”

He’d grumbled and didn’t answer.

“I’m Desmond Peake,” he announced now. “Metro liaison.”

“I know.”

A tall string bean of a man, all joint and angle, pale worm-white skin, splotchy with patches of sickly red. Large, flinty gray eyes, magnified behind enormous black-framed eyeglasses which replaced the sunglasses as he slid into the seat next to me. A thin Clark Gable mustache incongruously plastered to his weak upper lip gave his Ichabod Crane physiognomy a rarefied comic touch. But there was nothing funny about Desmond Peake. Officious, Metro’s gatekeeper for scandal and misdeed. Or so Max had warned me.

“He’s the studio’s favorite interference man, a passionless henchman, a founding member of America First, a watchdog group of right-wing fanatics dedicated to policing Hollywood. He lives and breathes Metro. In fact, when he walked me out of the studio and confiscated my I.D., he did so without speaking more than a few words, a sardonic smile on his face.” He’d chuckled. “You’ll enjoy his company, Edna.”

As the Lincoln town car buzzed down Wilshire Boulevard, sped across white concrete pavement, everything pasty yellow under an early-morning sun, even the ragged palm trees seemed props from a desert melodrama. Unnatural city, imagined, temporary, built up to be torn down. Everyone seemed to change one’s mind a moment later in L.A.

In New York folks believed they got things right the first time. I liked that in a city.

The town car slid out of downtown, headed out to Culver City, Metro’s hundred-acre sprawling world of soundstages, cottages, sandstone buildings, commissaries, imposing walls and gates, fantasy backdrops, a self-contained world of wondrous and gripping story-telling.

“Mr. Peale,” I began, “have you seen Show Boat?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

“It’s good.”

I smiled. “Are you certain?”

“Metro makes musicals. The best. And MGM has more stars than there are in heaven.” A mechanical wind-up toy, though one in need of oil.

“I’ve heard that phrase before.”

“I didn’t make it up.”

“Max Jeffries was my good friend.”

“I know.”

“You knew him, right? His name has been taken off the movie. And then someone murdered him.”

Silence for a time, Desmond examining the cut of a particular fingernail, absorbed in the expensive manicure. The corners of his mouth twitched, though he turned his head away.

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