The Devil's Due (6 page)

Despite the fact that she was there on what could be a dangerous mission, Elizabeth suddenly felt giddy. She felt a huge smile wash over her face. She was being beckoned by Alan Grant.
The
Alan Grant. There was beckoning. She turned to Simon to share her excitement only to find him watching her with a bemused smile. Maybe she was making a fool of herself, but she didn't care.

“You can bring your…” Grant said with an indifferent wave in Simon's direction. “Come, come, come.”

They did as he requested and she stood awkwardly at the edge of his table. He looked up at Elizabeth through red-rimmed eyes. “What is your name?”

“Elizabeth,” she said, feeling like she'd stepped into a movie.

“Ah, Elizabeth!” he said, waving his hand expansively. “Fit for a queen and a chorus girl I knew once in Dubuque. Please join me?” he said and then added almost to himself. “I don't do well alone.”

Elizabeth and Simon sat down. Alan rose slightly in a courtly bow, and extended a hand toward Simon. “And you are, sir?”

Simon shook his hand. “Simon Cross. My wife is a quite a fan of yours.”

Grant perked up at that. “Is she? How wonderful!” He tried to rest his elbow on the edge of the table, but missed on the first try. Got it on the second. “Have you seen many of my pictures? They aren’t all worth it, mind you, but some of them aren't bad.”

Elizabeth could hardly believe she was sitting having drinks with Alan Grant. “I've seen them all.”

Alan rested his chin on the palm of his hand and gazed at her. “Aren't you a dear?”

“I think I loved
The Sword of the Seven Seas
the most. When you asked Myrna Loy to leave Basil Rathbone and go with you…”

Alan grabbed Elizabeth's hand and pressed it to his chest. “Come with me, Lucia, across the seven seas and I will lay kingdom after kingdom, the riches of all the world, at your bejeweled feet.” He finished with a flourish that nearly knocked over a water glass and kissed Elizabeth's hand.

All she could do was sigh. It was cheesy and ridiculous and absolutely wonderful. For his part, Simon looked slightly nauseated. Alan basked in the glow of the memory and Elizabeth's adoration for a moment before sighing dramatically. “That was a wonderful picture. They don't make movies like that anymore.”

Elizabeth did some quick math. “It's only been two years.”

“My darling, in the picture business that's a lifetime.” His smile faded. “My lifetime.”

Elizabeth knew it was awkward to ask, but she had to try. “If you don't mind my asking, who were those people you were with before? Some of them seemed upset.”

Alan let himself wallow for a moment longer before answering her, his melancholy replaced with a new tension. “Nothing for you to worry about. Business associates. Roth and his brother are always stirring up some sort of trouble. But that's not for a beautiful woman like you to worry about,” he said and then touched the tip of her nose. “The night is young and so are you!”

He raised his cup in a toast and drank the rest of the contents, at least two shots of liquor. Simon and Elizabeth exchanged amazed and slightly worried glances. After he drank, he slapped the table and his mood shifted yet again. He shed the cloud that hung over him and that mischievous spark lit his blue eyes again. “How would you like to have a little fun?”

Alan's car was waiting out front and his chauffeur, a large, heavy-set black man, got out from behind the wheel and met them at the curb.

“Peter,” Alan said, although it came out sounding like “pita”, “I'd like you to meet Simon and Elizabeth Cross. They're going to join us for the evening.”

Elizabeth reflexively stuck out her hand toward Peter. He looked at it, unsure for a moment. It was only then Elizabeth realized in this era, it was probably odd for a woman to shake hands, and even stranger to offer hers to a black man. Without meaning to, she'd forced Peter into a very uncomfortable position. But she couldn't take it back now and, frankly, didn't want to.

Peter looked briefly to Alan, who seemed more amused than anything else. Peter took off his cap, tucked it under one arm and shook her hand. “Ma'am.”

Peter quickly let go of her hand, put his cap back on and opened the back door to Alan's forest green Bentley limousine. Elizabeth went in first and slid across the plush leather seat. Simon sat next to her and then Alan flopped into the seat opposite them. He lifted the top of a domed, silver cigarette holder bolted into the middle of the back seat floor and offered one to Elizabeth and then Simon before lighting one for himself. He rapped on the glass partition behind him. A moment later, Peter slid it open.

“Egyptian,” Alan said and then checked his watch. “If we hurry, we can make the early show.”

Peter slid the partition closed and Elizabeth felt the car rumble to a start.

Alan leaned back into his seat and blew smoke up to the high ceiling of the car.

“We're going to the movies?” Elizabeth asked.

Alan grinned. “Something like that.”

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. Alan cleared his throat, smoothed down his hair and said, “It'll be more fun if you play along.”

Just as Elizabeth was about to ask what that meant, Alan popped open the back door and jumped out of the car. He offered Elizabeth his hand in a silent request to join him.

“Be careful and stay alert,” Simon said.

She nodded. They still had no idea what threat there was against Alan's life. Elizabeth took Alan's hand. He wrapped her arm in his and strode toward the box office like Caesar with Cleopatra at his side. She had to nearly run to keep up with him as he led her through the long Egyptian forecourt. Large potted palms and brightly painted Egyptian art lined the sandstone-like walls on either side of them as they neared the inset entrance to the theater.

Elizabeth could hear Simon behind them grumbling something about the hieroglyphics being utter nonsense. A couple lingering by one of the ornate fountains did a double-take as Alan strode past.

As they approached the front of the theater, a broad colonnade with four enormous columns, Elizabeth noticed a man pacing back and forth across the roof above the marquee. He was dressed as some sort of Egyptian guard. He stopped as he saw them and waved his ceremonial staff in greeting. “Mr. Grant!”

The young man in the ticket booth gasped as Alan walked past. He strained to see if his eyes were deceiving him and pressed his face up against the glass as Elizabeth and Alan walked under the marquee and toward the large double doors.

“M-Mr. Grant,” stuttered the red uniformed man at the door.

“You don't mind if we slip inside, do you?” Alan asked. “Just to say hello.”

“N-no!” the man said and stood aside.

“Good lad.” Alan clapped him on the back and gestured for Elizabeth and Simon to go first.

Elizabeth had only read about theaters like this. The Egyptian theater was the very definition of a movie palace. Everything about it was elegant and opulent. From the plush carpet to the dazzling chandeliers, magnificent grand staircases to smartly-uniformed and attentive staff, every nuance was designed to make every patron feel like they were someone special, as if they were experiencing something magical. Egyptian motifs were everywhere. More hieroglyphics, these outlined in gold, ringed the high ceiling. Elizabeth tried not to giggle when she saw huge statues of the god of the underworld, Osiris, guarding the entrance to the ladies' bathroom.

Next to her, Simon snorted. “Ridiculous.”

The three of them had barely taken more than two or three steps inside when a portly man in a broad-shouldered suit hurried over to them. He mopped his brow and stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket. He stuck out a meaty paw and Alan politely shook it.

“Mr. Grant,” he said, almost panting for breath. “It's an honor to have you here.”

“Thank you.”

“Your picture's showin'. Right in there! Right now!”

Alan's mock surprise was priceless. “Is it really?” he turned and winked at Elizabeth.

“It is,” the man said, his head bobbing in excitement. He glanced at his watch. “It should be letting out—”

The rest of his sentence wasn't necessary as four sets of double doors to the theater opened at once and a trickle of moviegoers soon became a mass. It only took a few seconds for one of them to recognize Alan Grant.

Two women called out Alan's name in unison, soon a few more followed and the rush was on.

“Stay close,” Alan said in a hushed voice. “Sometimes I think they'd love me to death if they could.”

Simon gripped Elizabeth's arm and leaned toward her. “We should get him out of here.”

“I don't think we can.”

In less than a minute, they were surrounded by Alan's adoring fans. He was gracious to each, signing autographs, shaking hands and being utterly surprised and delighted that they enjoyed his pictures.

Someone tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder and she turned to find a rosy-cheeked teenage girl, autograph book in hand. “Are you somebody?”

“Well, I—”

“Somebody?” Alan said with a booming laugh as he edged over to them. “My dear child, this…” he said loudly, sure to get everyone else's attention, and with a dramatic pause for effect, “…is Elizabeth Cross!”

The crowd ooh'd and aww'd as though they recognized the name. Before she could protest, programs and autograph books were being shoved toward her. She started to glare at Alan, but remembered his advice. It was definitely more fun if she played along. Alan took a moment and gave her a wicked and pleased grin before going back to signing autographs. Elizabeth shook her head. He was going to be trouble.

A young man asked Simon who he was, and Elizabeth prepared for a storm of poison arrows, but Simon just sighed, crossed his arms and said. “Her husband.”

“Oh, he's nobody,” the young man announced to the crowd. “Just her husband.”

Elizabeth laughed at Simon's offended expression. “You're a somebody to me,” she assured him.

Whatever tart reply he offered was lost as she was pulled around by yet another adoring, and instant fan.

After a few more whirlwind minutes, Alan made an abrupt, grand exit and they were safely back in the car. Elizabeth tried to catch her breath. The experience had been bizarre and exhilarating. Alan lounged in his seat and reached for an already prepared glass of whisky. Fans followed them out and rapped on the windows. Elizabeth looked over at Simon who plucked a slip of paper from the shoulder strap of her dress and arched an eyebrow. A phone number. When had someone done that? She smiled and shrugged. Simon merely shook his head and sighed.

Alan rapped on the partition and the car eased away from the crowd. He took a sip of his drink and grinned. “Now,
that
was fun!”

“Are those oil derricks?” Elizabeth peered out of the limousine window. The silhouettes of palm trees had given way to the unmistakable silhouettes of oil wells. And, not just one or two, but an entire forest of them.

“The only thing the city has more of than actors,” Alan said, “is oil.”

A few minutes later they rounded a corner and arrived at their next destination.

“Just saying hello to a few friends,” Alan said casually as their car pulled up to the Biltmore Hotel.

As they got out of the car, Elizabeth noticed again how incredibly handsome Simon looked tonight and took hold of his hand. She knew this was hardly a vacation, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy being with her husband. Simon squeezed her hand and then wrapped it through his arm as they walked up the front staircase to the hotel.

The Biltmore was a perfect example of Los Angeles' delightful madness. It combined Italian, Spanish and, absurdly, French styles into an ornate orgy of frescos, caste bronze staircases, Mediterranean murals, and Romanesque columns. It probably caused epileptic seizures in traditional architects. And Elizabeth loved it.

An enormous double grand staircase led to a bank of elevators, but instead of going up, Alan led them down a staircase into a cavernous posh nightclub. The Sala D'Oro was filled to capacity. Dozens and dozens of tables, with white linen and silver and candles made a crescent around the dance floor. In front of the stage an entire orchestra sat playing Cole Porter standards.

They'd barely reached the bottom of the stairs before Alan began shaking hands and gliding from table to table as he made his way across the room. He always introduced them as “my dear friends, Simon and Elizabeth Cross” as though they'd known each other for years and not hours.

As they approached yet another table, Elizabeth noticed Simon staring at something across the room. She followed his eye line and saw one of the men from Musso & Frank. He sat at a table with several other men she didn't recognize.

“Elizabeth,” Alan said, touching her arm to get her attention.

Elizabeth turned around and there was no mistaking the woman at Alan's side. Even without the introduction, Elizabeth knew who she was. Her platinum blonde hair and bombshell figure gave her away. Jean Harlow. She was Marilyn before there was a Marilyn.

“How'd ya do?” she said, flashing a grin. “Any friend of Alan's and all that.”

She was so beautiful and vivacious; it was hard to believe she'd pass away just a few years later. Even better than meeting her was seeing Simon's expression as he turned to shake her hand. Whatever or whoever he'd been expecting it wasn't Jean Harlow. His eyes widened in a wonderfully cartoony way. He licked his lips twice before stammering a smitten hello and casting Elizabeth a nervous glance. Didn't watch old movies, my eye, Elizabeth thought.

“See you at Eastside?” Jean asked Alan.

“Wouldn't miss it.”

Jean blew them all a kiss and disappeared into the crowd. Alan held out a chair for Elizabeth at the vacated table. As Simon sat down next to her she whispered, “Just Monty Python?”

Simon tugged on his collar as a bright red blush crawled up his neck.

“Are you blushing?” she asked. It was adorable.

Try as he might, Simon couldn't conjure a scowl and pretended to busy himself with adjusting the perfectly perfect cuff of his shirt.