The Drazen World: The California Limited (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 8

  “When I arrived to find your bungalow in such a state, I knew that you needed to take a rest. And what luck you’re here,” he put his hands up to display recuperative California in tropical swag all around them. “The hotel recommended a place called Las Encinas. I called them and they have a room waiting for you?”

  “A sanitarium? You committed me to a sanitarium?”

  “It’s more of a retreat. Not committed. Admitted. Think of it like another fine hotel, only with an emphasis on restorative humors.”

  “Hell no.”

  Jack turned and started walking away, but his father grabbed his arm, pulling him close, a tight smile on his handsome face. “Listen to me very carefully, my beautiful son, for I’m only going to say this once. Committed. Admitted. It’s all semantics as far as I’m concerned. You’re my son and you’re in trouble. I will not let you ruin yourself. It would ruin me.” He swallowed, his face breaking barely imperceptibly.

  “Indulge your dear old dad,” he said, his voice breaking as he swallowed again.

  Jack studied him. His father would never allow vulnerability to surface if he could help it. There was something more to this, he was almost certain.

  “A retreat, you say.”

  “Yes. Yes. A place to get on the wagon, get your head on straight.”

  “I’m not getting on any wagon.”

  “Fine. Fine,” Seamus flicked his fingers dismissively. “Just as long as you’re not reeling every day. Three, four weeks maybe.”

  With grave reluctance, Jack finally nodded faintly.

  “Good.” Seamus punched his arm lightly and broke a smile. “I didn’t want to have to punch your lights out and carry you in there slung over my shoulder.”

  Jack rubbed his arm as his father directed him back to his car. “I know you would have.”

  Seamus stopped and ripped a banana right off a tree and began to peel it.

  “I don’t think you’re just supposed to eat them like that,” said Jack.

  “Why the fuck not?” Seamus took a bite.

  “It’s very woodsy. Homey. A little dark. But that’s mysterious, isn’t it?” Just after checking in, Seamus wandered around the living room of Jack’s private Arts & Crafts-style cabin with his arms folded benignly across his chest.

  “I think it’s meant to be private,” said Jack, adjusting a Morris chair so he could recline.

  “Speaking of, I heard that none other than W.C. Fields himself is right in the next cabin,” said Seamus a little dazzled.

  “I couldn’t be bothered to care about that,” said Jack, desperate to close his eyes.

  “You should. Did you see him in The Old Fashioned Way?”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

  Seamus smiled widely. “I missed you, Jackie.” It was exceedingly rare that his father ever called him that. He must have been feeling expansive. Great.

  Jack stared at his father in that way one does when they have nothing else to say and they’re not yet ready to say, get the fuck out.

  Seamus got the hint. He sat down, sitting on the very edge of the couch, his elbows on his knees, hands rubbing together as if he would stoke the words to come.

  “When I got that call from Harry, I was angry and embarrassed. I’m not used to feeling that way in regards to you. It scared me.”

  Jack stared at his father, revealing nothing.

  Seamus’s mouth was parted for what seemed like a long time, his gaze fixed in the middle distance. Finally, he turned to look at Jack. “Did I ever tell you about my uncle?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “I was named after him. Jonathan Patrick O’Drassen. J.P., everyone called him. He was a few years younger than your grandfather. Sixteen when I was born. Oh, he was beautiful. And wicked smart. Brilliant, really. A more brilliant mind than you could ever imagine. Yet so genuine. And kind. So good to all of us lads who tagged after him, wanting to be just like him. He always made time for us. Always.”

  He swallowed and looked into the middle distance again as if unable to look Jack in the eye. “Then one day when he was right around your age, I was…five or six at the time, that brilliant mind never stopped. He couldn’t sleep. Was agitated all the time. Started drinking heavily. Started seeing things that weren’t there. Hearing voices inside his head. His mind broke. That beautiful man broke. I was scared. Terrified. Can you imagine a boy watching his favorite uncle disintegrate into madness? It was…such indescribable pain.

  “He was the best of us, Jonathan. The very best. And then he wasn’t. Just like that.” Seamus looked at Jack again. “You’re just like him. So extraordinary.”

  “That’s a heavy burden.”

  “Yeah. It is. But it doesn’t make it any less so.”

  Missing 7 Weeks

  “When am I getting out of here?” Jack asked his father one day as they walked through a wooded garden.

  “You’ve been here a month and look restored. As fit as ever, thank the saints.” Seamus crossed himself.

  “They treat me like I’m some hysterical crank. Wide smiles and soft voices. I can’t build another house out of sticks and glue. I can’t water another fucking plant or talk to it. I can’t go for any more long, restorative walks. I’ll go mad.”

  “Funny.” Seamus smiled tightly, not amused. “Ya know, son, I don’t think I like this LA-attitude of yours. Must be all the sun. I can’t trust a place that doesn’t know how to rain. It’s making me edgy and you insolent.”

  Jack sighed. “You’ve been here a month, Dad. It rains.”

  “Oh. And you three weeks before me. You’re such an expert. Little fucker,” he added under his breath.

  Jack stopped and turned to look at Seamus. “When?”

  “Could be as early as tomorrow. Have you decided what you’re going to do? Your bridge is burned at Columbia and I won’t go crawling back to Harry to ask for a second chance. Nor will I have you doing it. O’Drassens don’t crawl. Not for a long time and never again.”

  “I have some ideas,” said Jack.

  “I hope they include coming back to Boston. Hospitality.”

  “I’m not sure of anything yet. But I need to be my own man.”

  Chapter 8

  Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles, CA

  September 12, 1941

  “Girls,” Evelyn said, raising her chin as she clapped twice. “We are honored to have some very specials guests today. None other than the esteemed owner of this hotel, Mr. Drazen.”

  Jack nodded to the line of girls fresh off the farm fields of America, all clad in the latest style swimsuits to show off their features to their best. Each of them was apple-cheeked pretty. Trim-waisted and shapely. Likely the most beautiful girl within a hundred miles of where she was born and raised, she was her parents’ pride, her hometown boyfriend’s heartache. The brightest star in a small sky. Yet here, in this famous hotel on Wilshire where a new star was christened all the time, she was one in a very long line.

  The brightness of the star in her had dimmed just a little by the time she took the deck. Smiles were tight. Poses were forced. It was the rare one of them who would truly be seen. Rarer than that was the one who would become a star.

  “I’m sure that you are already aware…”

  The girls bent their heads and whispered to each other, smiling at Jack.

  “…that Mr. Drazen would be a most advantageous ally and friend in securing a coveted spot in the Canary and one day, if you are very talented and very lucky, on the main stage.”

  Jack smiled widely as the whispers became more animated, the smiles even friendlier. “This is the hardest part of my job,” he said to his friend with some amusement.

  “At his right,” Evelyn continued, pulling her dark, pointy glasses down her nose as if she did not know who sat beside him, “is the director of Stagecoach and The Grapes of Wrath. You might have heard of him. Mr. Ford.”

  Ford waved to the girls before throwing a dubious glance at Jack.

  �
�What?” Jack replied with an innocent smile. “They may want me to fuck them, but they want you to cast them. They all want to be the next Claire Trevor.”

  “If they want an inroad at Fox, they’ll throw me a smile,” said Ford. “If they want an inroad at every studio, they’ll throw you their underwear.”

  “They do, friend. Never fear,” said Jack.

  “I don’t fear for your prick, Jack. If I had a nickel for every time some producer had fallen for one of your Canary Girls…”

  Jack chuckled as he took a sip of his gin rickey and watched the girls now parading around the lido deck.

  When the parade was finished, Jack and Ford handed slips of paper to Evelyn.

  “Good show as always, Miss Shively,” said Ford.

  She tipped her head to him. “Thank you, Mr. Ford. We do pride ourselves in our stock.”

  “And you’ll see that numbers sixteen and twenty-seven find their way to Fox.”

  “Happy to, Mr. Ford. I know they’ll be honored by your interest.”

  “You’ll give number twenty-three my room details?” asked Jack. “Tell her I might be able to find a cigarette tray for her.”

  “Of course, Mr. Drazen,” she replied. “Midnight as per usual?”

  Jack nodded and turned back to Ford.

  “Drazen’s famous Canary Girls Hierarchy,” said Ford. “What do you give the girls on the main stage?”

  “I don’t sleep with the girls when they make the main stage,” said Jack.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re not grateful enough. I want them begging for it.”

  “Mr. Drazen.” His secretary Gretchen appeared at the table. “Your three o’clock is here.”

  Jack stood at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the 10,000 square ft. ballroom. The ceiling soared several stories high, littered by a canopy of cut and lit stars that were sprinkled between papier-mâché palm leaves from an old movie set. It was a jewelry box of bold eggplant purple fabrics and sparkling gold finishes, geometric shapes, and lavish ornamentation. Brilliant gold and crystal chandeliers dangled like icicles and shone warmly on the brightest jewels in moviemaking. Private boxes all around the second floor overlooked the large expanse of tables, open dance floor, and grand stage on the first. Guests, and it was always full, weaved around life-like palm trees and under the famous gilded bird cages that housed dancing girls in sheer leotards with barely-concealing canary yellow feathers swinging from swings and seducing patrons. It was as large and grandiose a place as the egos of the people who frequented it and that was just as Jack had intended.

  He owned other nightclubs, other hotels, purchasing or building a new Ambassador complete with its own fine restaurant or nightclub, one for every year of the past six. But the Canary Lounge – the premiere celebrity oasis for LA’s movie scene; everyone who was anyone and anyone who wanted to be someone came and mingled and dined and danced – was where his heart lay. It was Jack Drazen’s kingdom.

  He descended the stairs with practiced swiftness, dodging fawning patrons and supplicating staff with a tight smile and a gaze that was never completely fixed upon them. He found his guest where he always had, at the table in the dead center of the main floor, practically kissing the dance floor and ogling the main stage. He preferred a private box on the second and his guest knew that, likely reserved the one he did for that very reason. He never came to town without wanting something and would do anything to unsettle Jack to get it. Unfortunately for him, Jack knew that gag. Had perfected it himself. So they always approached each other with swords sheathed but hands at the ready.

  “Francis Fiore,” Jack said, extending his hand with a wide smile.

  “Jonathan O’Drassen.” Frank, a dark Italian three years his junior but equal in height and charismatic physicality, stood, buttoning his suit coat and shaking his hand. Then he gestured to a chair for Jack to sit as if it were his table, his club, and they sat.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” said Jack as Frank poured him a glass of red wine, emptying the bottle he had opened.

  “They are.” Frank smiled as they clinked their glasses with a salute!

  Jack sat back and shook his head. “She must really be something. I don’t know why you’d keep a cow when milk is so cheap.” He nodded to a pretty blonde Canary Girl swinging in a cage nearby.

  Frank chuckled softly. “You’ve never been in love, my friend.”

  Were they friends, Jack wondered, studying him? He supposed he was a right enough fellow. But there was always something slightly off about him, like a hanging picture that was first and always eschew. Or he was a dago and he thought the race of them slightly off. Or he was in the mafia and they were more off than all the rest. What had he said?

  “Love,” he finally said. “I don’t think so. Is it as bad as they all say?”

  “Worse.” Frank threw his hands up as if chagrined. “It was time I settled down. I had a girl once back in Milwaukee. Really loved her, but…” His gaze was distant, then he signaled for a cigarette girl and bought a pack, his smile warm as his eyes crawled leisurely up and down her body. Then he slipped one from its pack, put it between his fingers and sat back gracelessly, his face alight with amusement. “Why don’t you light this for me, doll.” He moved his fingers not one inch in her direction and that, of course, was by design. She bent over just so and Frank took a long, leering look at her cleavage as she put his cigarette to light. “That’s fine,” he said, taking a drag, then he picked something away from his tongue.

  Jack regarded all of it in some faraway place in his mind, some six-years-ago place. “Milwaukee,” he finally said, sitting forward. “That’s peculiar. Did I know that?”

  “I don’t know. What’s so peculiar about it? It’s a shit town with dairy farms on one side and Lake Michigan on the other. Worked for the Outfit for a time up there when I was younger. Cut my teeth on them.”

  “Really? You don’t hear too much about people cutting their teeth on the Outfit. Seems to me it’s more like the Outfit cuts their teeth on people.”

  Frank chuckled breathily, his gaze narrowed. He was not amused. They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Come to chisel me for more talent, have you?” Jack asked, his tone lighter. “How’s Vegas, the new venture? Hotel Meriggiare, is it?”

  They talked business for over an hour, both asking for more than they needed and getting less than they wanted. Negotiations complete, Frank sat back and took another long drag from another cigarette, the ashtray in front of him piled like pick-up sticks with cooling butts. Then he pointed at the stage. “You’ve got a lunch girl.”

  Jack looked at the stage, the orchestra setting up for the evening.

  “A lunch girl,” Jack parroted, a smile threatening. “So married life is not all honey and roses.”

  Frank looked abashed. “I don’t know what Connie expects, but it’s not fidelity. No. She seems familiar to me, your girl.”

  Jack furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Don’t know her. I lunch across the street at the Derby. But if you have a few more minutes we can find Declan and see about her.”

  They stood.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Frank, checking his watch. “I’m late already. This is my last stop in town. And I promised my girl, excuse me, my wife,” he smiled, “that I’d be home tonight. Next time.” They shook hands and Jack walked him through the crowd to the stairs.

  “Oh, balls! Would you look at this? As if it weren’t bad enough I have the tuner in here once a week to fix the midrange.”

  Backstage Jack found Declan peering into the main stage grand piano that was currently being tuned.

  “What is it?” Jack asked.

  “Well if that isn’t a sign from God, I don’t know what is.”

  “What?” Jack looked into the piano.

  Fine but apparent, he saw an M and a W, beside it, OLeander 4549. His breath left him as he blinked rapidly. What was happening, exactly
? First Frank and Milwaukee, then this. It had been years since he contemplated those initials, the woman they belonged to. After her suitcase had been found, he’d gone to the police once a month that first year, a couple times the next. After awhile it had been easier to let go than hold on. He had succumbed to fatalism and his father’s strong-armed caring.

  When he got out of Las Encinas, Seamus had offered to buy the Ambassador for him with its shabby ballroom. A loan, he had stressed. You’ll pay me back some day. And he had, driving himself tirelessly to do it in less than three years, then buying five more in the following three.

  He wanted the ballroom to be exactly as it became, a place where his lessons in hospitality and love of story making could meet. But Minnie had been in the design of it, on the stage as it was rebuilt, in the cages as they had been imagined. It was all her, because he hadn’t forgotten.

  In his stunned contemplation, Declan had been going on.

  That’s it.

  I’m getting rid of this hunk of chunk.

  Do you want it?

  “When was this written?” Jack asked when he caught his breath. “Do you know who did it?”

  “Didn’t notice it until just now. The strings there are off. Within the last couple hours? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”

  “Who?”

  “MW. I’d say the lunch girl, Mae Wilson. She was just finishing up her shift when the tuner came.”

  Jack collapsed into a chair. “Mae Wilson.”

  “Yeah. She sings on the main stage over the lunch hour.”

  “Frank. He was just asking about her.” It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it? “What does she look like?” He shut his eyes against his fear and his hope.

  “Dark brown hair, blue eyes. Curves that go round and round. A beautiful dame. But she had that extra something, ya know?” Jack opened his eyes, fingers grasping his mouth as he nodded. “And pipes, too. She always closed her set with the same song. Sang Someone To W—”

  “Someone To Watch Over Me.”