The Memory of Eva Ryker by Donald Stanwood Page B

it’s about the movie,” she was saying, “I can’t tell you a thing. Mike says the film will be released to the press as soon …”
    â€œIt’s not about the film, Janice. We’ll have to get into that when I get back. I called to tell you that I’m staying over in L.A. for a day at least. I want to get more background about Ryker. You know, under-the-fingernail stuff.”
    â€œWhy L.A., Norman?
    â€œI want to get in touch with Jerry Blaine. He’d be the man with the dirt.”
    â€œI don’t doubt it,” she said stiffly. “You know, Norman, this article is bringing you down to pigsty level. First murder and now Jerry Blaine.”
    We agreed to meet at the Hotel Roosevelt’s “Cinegrill.” I fumbled onto a stool, ordered a bloody mary, and waited for my eyes to dilate.
    The bartender swabbed a towel amidst the ashtrays and pretzel bowls. The towel shambled my way. What’ya think of the Rams game? I didn’t. His eyes registered mild befuddlement. He retired to his corner, drying glasses.
    I finished my drink and watched the tomato juice dregs drool down the side of the tumbler. I was about to order another when I saw Jerry come through the door.
    Jerry Blaine is tubby, sixtyish, and bald. He has a humorous potato face and canny little eyes. The past forty years of his life have been spent searching through Hollywood’s dirty laundry and saving souvenirs.
    Jerry’s memory of ancient scum dates back to the Cenozoic Era. He can tell you about Fatty Arbuckle’s bizarre passions and the strange death of Thomas Ince. Or which current popular leading man began his screen career sword swallowing in gay loops.
    In the good old days, legend has it, Cohn, Warner, and Zanuck all paid Jerry hush money to keep their stars out of trouble. Now he sells tidbits to low-class fan mags and tabloids. The kind of stories where everyone is known as “Mr. or Miss X” and all the people in the photos have black dominoes across their eyes.
    We shook hands, and I could see Jerry scanning his memory banks. Norman Hall: What’s in my file? What past sins are hidden from public view?
    Synapses clicked in his brain. Jerry smiled comfortably.
    â€œNorman, you old bastard!” He slapped my shoulder and popped onto the bar stool. “I never thought I’d see you back in town. How’s Jan?”
    â€œKeeping the home fires burning.”
    â€œYeah?” He flagged the bartender. “Yeah, I guess she wouldn’t want to come back here. Not after the way Mayer and Schary chewed your ass and sent you packing.” He turned his head. “Hey, Jed! Jack Daniels straight!”
    â€œSure, Jerry.” The shot glass slid down the counter. He snapped the whiskey into his throat. For a second I thought he had swallowed the glass. He made a great shuddering face, then blinked owlishly at me. “I knew you’d never make it out here as a screenwriter. You lacked the necessary well-fed eunuch look.”
    â€œJerry, don’t try to bait me with that what-price-Hollywood routine. I was at Metro exactly three months, writing the first draft for From the Ashes . They took the script and threw it in a pot that every hack on the lot peed in. I packed my bags and never looked back.”
    â€œSo speaks His Holiness. The picture made a lot of bucks at the box office, you know.”
    â€œYeah. Tab Hunter and Mona Freeman really pulled them in.”
    He laughed shortly, looking over his shoulder. “My place is down the street, just off Cahuenga. What’ya say we head down there?” He pointed at the walls. “This dump’s no place to do business.”
    â€œFine by me.” I let Jerry lead the way.
    Twenty years ago the architect of the Casa Alfredo tried to give the building the flavor of an old Spanish inn. Now it resembled one of Mexico’s more inhospitable prisons. The stucco-adobe was peeling in big