Chapter 21 It Doesn’t Get Better than This
It Doesn’t Get Better than This
June didn’t get her funeral. That’s what Frankie thinks as they rush from the cemetery and even as Nico storms into Mickey Mulroney’s office—Mickey, who takes anxious pulls off his cigarette but offers only a half-hearted apology, like someone with a nagging worry they put money on the wrong fighter.
All the while, June is alone, the world around her silent and green.
Mickey stays seated and Nico paces, his words furious. “You made a mistake here. A big one.”
“There was gonna be a revolt,” Mickey says. “You don’t know the calls we’ve gotten. You don’t know the pressure we’re under to lock him up.”
“At her funeral? At her funeral you do this? Because it’s bad enough you’re targeting the wrong guy, but at his fiancée’s funeral?”
“We knew he’d be there.”
“Bullshit. You knew every eye would be on you and it would make all the papers and make you look good.”
“Your lawyers will get him out. What does it matter?”
“Perception! That’s what matters. The accusation is everything. No one will care when you let him go or that his alibi checked out. Past tense. You already knew that about his alibi.”
Now Mickey leans forward in his seat as if smelling a meal he’s been cooking. “My issue is about what you already knew. That Tank Adams’s alibis check out too. That’s the problem.”
“What, there are two men in the whole world? If it’s not one, it has to be the other? Come on, I’m not a detective, but—”
“That’s what I’m saying! You’re not a detective, but your guys got to every alibi—”
“Because we’re faster! Which is something I’m sure the good people of Los Angeles would love to know, that we’re faster than the actual police—”
“Faster because you sent them to Mexico!”
“Now hold on, because, like I said, we’ve got two guys who are proven innocent by way of their alibis—which means it’s someone else. But meanwhile you’re chaining my star to a rumor he may never shake.”
Mickey lines up some papers on his desk and punches his stapler.
“When push comes to shove,” he says, with another smack on the stapler, “it’s about the public—not you.
Even the studio works for the public. You think they don’t?
Their opinion is your paycheck. Their interest, their approval—that’s what pays you, my friend.
We’re no different. Be furious if you want, but we had to do this, and you would’ve too. ”
“Sure.” Nico nods. “Sure. I don’t have to be understanding, but I am.
And here’s my offer: I give you this moment in the sun, so you can satisfy your public’s thirst for blood, and we say that Jack’s here cooperating and helping.
All right? Give him books, give him clean sheets, make his stay better than the lousy motels I’m sure you’ve frequented, and maybe my temper settles.
But that’s not it. Because here’s what’s key: I need you to hold off on releasing the bit about Tank Adams and his alibis, just for now.
And, to undo this spectacle you made today, I’m suggesting you bring Tank in while you figure it all out. ”
Mickey blinks. “Bring in the man whose alibis checked out?”
“Like you did Jack, whose alibi checked out.”
“Nico.”
“A day, two. Even things out. Take some of the spotlight off my guy. That’s all I’m asking.
In the past we’ve had words with Tank Adams, and he knows it’s best to keep us happy, so I’m thinking he’ll remember that.
After the performance you put on today, you owe me this. Then maybe we forgive everything.”
Mickey sighs. “I’ve got no cause, Nico. I want to—”
“No cause? You keep looking into it like we did, and you might see that one of those professors from the school has a bit of a card problem and owes Tank a bit of dough. That’s already one alibi you should question.
It’s looking like another card player is Tank’s relative.
Bet you didn’t know that, did you? You want me to keep going?
Because I also noticed some cruisers out there that could be a bit rusted. ”
Mickey raises an eyebrow. At last, he nods. “A day, two at the most.”
“That’s all I’m asking. Jack goes home, Tank goes home.”
Then, kinder, Mickey says, “You want to see him? We’ll put you in a room without eyes or ears. You can talk privately.”
Jack sits at a long table, still wearing the black suit he wore to the funeral. For all intents and purposes, it appears as though he’s just visiting, perhaps doing research for a role. But the look on his face belies the truth.
“As much wrong as I’ve done in my life,” he says when he sees Nico and Frankie, “I always kept myself out of jail.”
Nico pauses to be sure no one’s lingering in the hall, and shuts the door. “Mickey only did this to prove a point.”
“Point proven.”
“Was that true,” Frankie says to Nico, “about one of the alibis being Tank’s relative?”
Nico shrugs. “Could be. I thought they looked alike.”
Jack leans back in his chair. “I’m over. You know that right? Even out of here, I might have my freedom, but I won’t have a career. Not anymore.”
Frankie tries to be calm, and takes a seat. “You haven’t been charged. You’re just being held—”
Bang. The noise is so loud that Frankie jumps and her heart goes wild before her mind latches on to what Nico is saying: “Jail door. It was a jail door.”
Jack is up and backed against the wall. “That noise,” he says angrily. “Fifty times a day here.”
“Not much longer,” Nico says. “You’ll be out and we’ll fix this.”
“There’s no fixing this. No one cares if I’m innocent. They just want the story, and I’m the story. Doesn’t get better than this.”
“Now you are,” Nico says. “Yes. But something bigger and brighter always comes along, and people forget.” Then he narrows his eyes. “You’re still in your suit. I sent regular clothes. Give me a second.”
The moment the door closes and Nico’s gone, Jack takes a seat, leaning in across the table. “No one can hear us, right?”
“Right.”
“Frankie, what happened in the alley?”
It takes her a second. “The alley at your house?”
“I need to know what happened.”
“I told you—”
“No,” he says, his voice turning into a furious whisper. “I had a gun. And I don’t remember what happened.”
She glances at the door, then makes a decision. “There was a noise. You thought it was press or a trophy hunter, I don’t know. But you wanted to scare them. That was it.”
He waits, and when she doesn’t continue, he leans forward. “What happened next? Tell me.”
Finally, resigned, she says, “A woman and her child were looking for food.”
In an instant, grief and repulsion cave his features.
Quickly, she says, “You didn’t hurt them. They were fine. Scared, but that was all. I didn’t tell you because they were fine and I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Do you see? This is why I need to know what happened with June. Because of what I did and don’t remember. The fact that that’s possible. And what if it were you? What if I did that with you?”
“You didn’t. You wouldn’t. And you didn’t do anything in the alley or with June—”
“Until I know for sure”—he stops, glancing around the room as if trying to verify once more that no one is listening in—“my career is the least of my worries.”
“You didn’t do this.”
“Then we need to prove that.” He motions to the rest of the station.
“What are they doing other than trying to cover their own asses? They brought me in because the public made them. They’re doing what they need to for appearances—until the door closes and their allegiance shifts to the studio.
They don’t care. Please. I don’t know what I did to make you mad—”
“You gave Milton Ewing my life.”
She’s said it without thinking, and watches the confusion on his face.
“What?”
“My life, Jack. My mother. All the details of where we lived. The morning glories.”
He sits back, thrown. “You didn’t like it?”
Incredulous, she says, “Didn’t like a story about a poor girl who ends up with a rich man?”
“And saves him. She saves him.”
Frankie says nothing, unsure.
“You didn’t read it.”
“I saw it. Everything I told you was right there, for everyone to laugh at. What I told you in confidence about the person who meant more to me than anything in the world.”
Slowly, he nods. Understanding. Accepting. “It was a tribute. To you. Something only we’d recognize. No one knows where it came from or what it means.”
“I know what it means. And I know where it came from, because I told you, and that’s it, my whole life.”
“Frankie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry a million times over, but I’m in jail at the moment—”
“You are not. This is for appearances. They’re not going to touch you. This isn’t real.”
He narrows his eyes. “It sure feels real.”
The week she spent in jail after taking the Hawthornes’ car, that was real. Strangely, it was Catherine Hawthorne who convinced the judge that the time was punishment enough. Still, it was the longest week of her life. “You’re being held in a break room, with a couch.”
For a moment he says nothing. Then he relents. “All right.” The chair creaks as he leans back. “But I can’t live not knowing.”
I can’t live not knowing. Strangely, it’s his fear over what he might have done that seems to seal it for her. “Maybe I have more faith in you than you have in yourself, but I know you didn’t do this.”
As if her words have made it worse, he looks to the wall, unable to meet her eyes. “I heard from someone else that June and Ida were fighting.”
She’s barely spoken to me recently, Ida said. I think she knows.
A knock, right as Nico pushes open the door. “You’re getting other clothes.”
“June and Ida were fighting at the premiere,” Frankie says to him. “Ida said that June was barely speaking to her—”
“Not this again.”
“Then Ida said I think she knows. Knows what? What if whatever she was talking about has to do with why June was shot?” She feels Jack watching her. “We need to tell Mickey.”
Nico shakes his head. “It’s not worth telling him.”
Now Jack is up, pacing. “Not worth telling him? What if it has to do with whoever the father was or an affair or—was Ida stealing? Ida always seemed out for herself. And she’s the sole beneficiary!
The only one in June’s will, the—” But then Jack stops talking, eyes steady on Nico.
“You know what Ida was referring to. I can see it. You know exactly what it is that June found out. I’m in here, and you know something you’re not saying. ”
Nico gives a sigh. “We’d been enlisting Ida’s help. We, meaning the studio. That’s all.”
“Help with what?” Frankie asks.
“Keeping June in line.”
Frankie watches Nico. “No. We already knew that. There’s something more.”
Exasperated, Nico shakes his head. “The something more was that we didn’t just ask for her help, we were writing out checks for that help. To Ida.”
It takes Frankie a second. Lucky we’ve got Ida on our side, because just this morning June’s telling me she can be a single mother and maybe she’s done acting. June, who always sought her older sister’s approval. “You were paying Ida to make June do what you wanted.”
“Nobody could make June do anything.”
Frankie feels sick. “June listened to Ida. And you were worried because June was talking about having her baby without getting married and maybe quitting acting—”
“Jesus.” Jack takes a seat and leans over, his elbows on his knees.
“Ida was helping,” Nico says. “Helping June not make rash decisions. Helping her think things through, because I’m telling you, June wasn’t herself.
She stopped caring. About roles, about schedules, appearances, whether the public likes her or not.
This was one of those times when she needed someone to talk sense into her before she threw it all away. ”
Now Jack looks up. “She finally got her priorities straight, and wanted to live her own life, and you put a stop to that. You had no right.”
“I had every right! My job is to take care of you. Both of you. All of you. I’m not going to sit back and watch her destroy herself—the pills, the drinking, the decision to throw it all away.
She wasn’t going to listen to me, so I found someone she would listen to. It’s that simple. How is that bad?”
“You bought her sister,” Jack says, furious. “Which makes me wonder: What else did you buy?”
With that, his eyes shift to Frankie.
Frankie’s breath lodges in her throat. Just barely, she registers Nico’s observation, the way he takes both of them in.
Then Jack nods as if agreeing with something in his mind, and stands. “It’s amazing, what you can justify. What you refuse to see.”
“Nico, can you give us a minute?” Frankie asks, for once not caring, not giving a damn that her boss knows there’s something between her and Jack, because she needs to explain.
She needs to make Jack understand that, yes, the studio’s done things they shouldn’t have, and now she’s seeing through those justifications and realizing that there was so much that was wrong—but never was she paid to be with him.
That it was the opposite. Every time she was with him, she put her job at risk.
But Jack’s heading toward the door. Without looking back, he knocks twice for the guard to come and get him.
“Don’t bother, Frankie,” he says. “I think we’re done.”