The Biggest Liar in Los Angeles by Ken Kuhlken (speld decodable readers TXT) 📖

tower, Tom thought. From up there with binoculars she could spy on Angelus Temple.

As always, Milly had transformed simple and spare to exotic. Bougainvillea grew high on the east wall and rounded the corner to frame a front window. Tall lilies and gladiolas spanned the front except for the small porch, which was enclosed by an arch of trellises woven with vines of emerald leaves and bright blue flowers like tiny trumpets.

He would’ve preferred a blitz straight into the toughest line Coach Rockne could field to knocking on Milly’s door. He glanced down at his shirt that quivered with the pounding of his heart, and rapped on the door frame.

He expected her to react with a scream. But she simply yanked the door open, stared for a couple seconds, turned without a word, and strode back to her occupation, which was sewing.

She worked on one of the new electric machines that resided in a wooden cabinet. He wondered if she still made costumes and offstage outfits for Mary Pickford, whom she used to both idolize and passionately envy, even before the star married Douglas Fairbanks. Milly sat as her son remembered, with statuesque posture, her long neck bending slightly forward. Her golden hair was curled up in a topknot somewhat like Sister Aimee’s, only of lighter, finer hair.

Baskets of ferns and vines hung from the ceiling above Milly’s head.

“You’ve come to apologize,” she said.

“Mind if I sit?”

Though she didn’t answer, he believed he saw a shrug. He sat on a loveseat with arms of carved mahogany, which he remembered, and newer stitched magenta upholstery. He noticed the familiar odor of moist soil. Every surface featured potted succulents, herbs, or flowering plants.

“Florence is well, I presume,” she said.

He wanted to ask why in hell she would presume anything of the sort. Instead he chewed his lip until he could mouth the words with which he had decided to lead, before Milly could stun and confuse him with accusations. “Your man,” he said, “Teddy Boles. Why’d he come after me?”

“Well, Tom,” she said, her voice measured and calm, “I suppose it’s the only way he knew to pay you back for what you’ve done to me, how you’ve broken my heart.”

“Uh huh, I could possibly buy that if he hadn’t come with a gang that included a shooter.”

She kept sewing, didn’t glance his way. “Then I’m a liar?”

He wanted to declare that the English language included no word more fitting. But such a remark would bring the interview to a close with him ducking and running from whatever she chose to throw. “Teddy live here?”

He noticed a move of her throat as if she’d choked on a sob.

“You want me to leave,” he said, “just tell me when and where I can meet with Teddy.”

Her arm flew to her face. A ghostlike wail burst out of her. She wailed and wept for a minute or so. Tom didn’t budge but sat and suffered the familiar gut-wrenching helplessness until she wiped her eyes with a sleeve and wheeled on him. “Teddy’s gone,” she bellowed.

“Gone where.”

“Packed his belongings and ran away. From you.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Why would he tell me, when he knew very well you’d come and beat his whereabouts out of me?” She sprang to her feet. “I suppose I’ll never see him again. He skipped town at the first sign of trouble. Just like your evil father.”

The smooth and graceful lines of her face had warped. She had instantly become a harpy. The pale skin she pampered with a movie queen’s ration of herbs and ointments glowed like a block of ice in summer sun. He expected a barrage of potted plants, scissors, or stuff more lethal, or an assault with her flailing fists and torrents of garbled speech from the Azusa Street days. But she threw nothing, yelled nothing, only attacked him with the eyes of a tigress fighting for her life.

“Teddy’s an electrician, I hear," Tom said. "For the city. Where’s he work?”

“Leave me,” she commanded.

“Give me a friend of his. I can track him down anyway, bring him back if that’s what you want.”

“I won’t let you hurt Teddy. I know you. A violent and hateful man. Like your father.”

Tom tried not to snarl. “You’re lying again, mother.”

“Oh am I? For God’s sake, he beat me mercilessly, don’t you remember?”

While Tom shook his head, she turned and dashed to an easy chair quilted in daisies, threw herself face first into its cushions and sobbed.

Tom could think of nothing to do.

On his way to the door, the brilliance of a sequined scarlet evening gown caught his eye. It hung on a rack in the hallway to the back rooms. Pinned to its collar was a tag with the name Marion in bold capital letters.

Thirty

TOM walked uphill, then down, not quite sure of his destination. All that mattered was, each step put him farther from Milly. Even after he began to sense a tail, minutes passed before he stopped and looked around.

He leaned against a power pole and reminded himself that lying came as naturally as breathing to Milly, that Charlie Hickey was a kind and gentle fellow. For at least the thousandth time, he wondered why would a good man run off and leave his kids behind with a savage woman.

He set out across a small park beside a Victorian structure labeled by a sign as “Aunt O’Dell’s Room and Board for Young Ladies.” Two ancient fellows sat on a bench ogling a voluptuous pair who frolicked with badminton rackets and a birdie. Before Tom approached the men, he rolled his neck and worked his jaw back and forth to relax his expression, which he supposed could pass for the grim reaper’s.

“Sirs?”

One of the men grudgingly turned his way. “Need something?”

“I believe there’s a city maintenance office in the neighborhood.”

“Yep.”

“How about pointing me there?”

The old fellow hitched a thumb over his shoulder and turned back to the badminton game.

Tom plodded across the park. While circling around a football game of three-man teams, he allowed a moment to dream of running a play. But he knew better than to let himself lament or long too deeply for a life he could only have by sending Florence into the world on her own, which he wouldn’t consider.

The city maintenance station was a dirt lot, a gang of trucks, and a shed, on Glendale about a half mile past Angelus Temple. He entered and found a portly man napping, leaned back in the swivel chair behind his cluttered desk. Tom stood a minute shuffling his feet, hoping the man would rouse. Then he opened the door and slammed it.

The man startled, quaked, and muttered something. Tom guessed it might’ve been, “What do you need?”

“I’m looking for Teddy Boles. Electrician. You’ve got a roster?”

“That I do, only you ain’t getting a look at it.” The man showed him a bulldog face.

Tom stared back and decided the offer of a bribe, at least what he could pay, would only rile the fellow. “How about you look up Theodore Boles, tell him to come see me.” He leaned over the desk, helped himself to a note pad and pencil, and jotted his name and address. “Tell him I said we’re square, and I’ve got something important he needs to know.” He gave the man a look he figured might befit a loan shark’s collector.

As he stepped outside, he noticed Fenton Love. Leaning against a light pole. Tom would’ve bolted across the street, except the eastbound streetcar came rattling. In the time the three cars took to pass, Love vanished.

Tom walked to the next stop and waited for the westbound. On the ride, between Vermont and Normandie, he noticed a banner draped on an apartment building. It advertised a new film, Marion Davies in Beverly of Graustark. The image, Tom had seen before, on the cover Theatre Magazine. Florence had brought it home to prove Mister Hearst’s lover could be Milly’s younger twin.

“Marion,” he said, in a pitch that earned him curious looks from fellow travelers.

The scarlet evening gown had clued him that Milly sewed for a Marion, with an “o.” Which connected Hearst and Milly. What that meant, he couldn’t guess. He thought of racing back to her place. But she would only lie. And a sudden fear struck him. Milly might already be on her way to avenge herself against Tom by stealing her daughter.

From the bus stop at Vermont and Third Street, he ran home. He heard Florence's radio and flopped on the sofa in relief.

She came out and looked him over. “Teddy Boles whip you again?”

“Teddy skipped town, according to Milly.”

She dropped to her knees and clutched his wrist. “You saw her?”

“In the flesh.”

“What’d she say?”

“That Teddy came to pay me back for what we did to her by running off.”

“Five years later.”

“Closer to six. Some people are slow to anger.”

“Not Milly.”

“I meant Teddy. Now the bum’s gone off, she said, on account of I attacked him. And good thing he did, since I’m a wicked and violent monster.”

Florence’s hand rose and muffled a nervous laugh. “Did she say anything about me?”

“Said I ruined her life when I snatched you away.”

“Aw, Tom.”

“Hurts?”

“Not me, it doesn’t. You?” She was patting his hand when the front door rattled.

Tom sprang up, led her to the kitchen, and told her to stay put. He went to the door and flung it open.

“How’s tricks?” Bud Gallagher asked.

“So so.”

“Well, I came to ruin your day. Mister Woods wants to see you, right now.”

“He give a reason.”

“Says there’s a fellow you need to meet. Sounds fishy to me. You want, I can tell him you’re at the opera.”

Florence had strolled out to join them. Tom said, “Sis, you’ll wait right here? Please?”

“Can’t I go?”

“You wanted to help, so sit down and read.” He fetched the Forum copies he’d taken from the library. “When you get these read, borrow the Times and Examiner from Señor Villegas. When I get home, tell me what all’s at stake in next week’s election.”

“Sure thing.”

“Promise?”

“Unless an emergency comes around.”

“Define emergency.”

“Look it up,” she said.

Thirty-one

SAM Woods drove a Cadillac Brougham touring car. From Alamo Meat, he followed Central to Firestone and took the boulevard east to El Camino Real.

Sunk into the leather seat, Tom watched packing plants give way to groves of olives and oranges then vast fields of cabbage and cantaloupes bordered by smaller Japanese farms, each with its own produce stand.

Mister Woods wasn’t talking. Roaring down the road and honking at the slightest annoyance appeared to require all of his powers. He hadn’t mentioned their destination. If he meant to rattle Tom with ominous suspense, the gimmick failed. After the visit to Milly, Tom supposed he wouldn’t rattle if the Ku Klux Klan tied him to a cross and brought out the matches.

His meat route didn’t extend this far south. A couple of years had passed since he had ventured into Orange County. He’d heard about the tracts, but hadn’t imagined the extent of them. Whole villages of square stucco, low roofed, hardly bigger than sheds. Countless variations on the hacienda, from miniature to grand and showy as the mansions around Westlake Park. Along wide streets that featured a citrus tree every twenty yards or so, signs and banners implied even yokels could own an eighth-acre of paradise. Between the tracts lay more groves of oranges and grapefruit. Then came fields of broccoli, a legion of Mexican workers trudging home, and another tract.

A few city blocks beyond the “Welcome to Anaheim” sign, the Cadillac turned, then rolled along an avenue bordered in avocado trees, and pulled to the curb across the street from the town plaza.

“I go in first,” Mister Woods said.

Tom climbed out and rounded the car, stretching and watching the schoolgirls and boys. They strolled Mexican style, boys clockwise, girls counter, and circled the plaza while they eyed each other and exchanged remarks and snickers.

“Tom,” Mister Woods beckoned from the doorway to a storefront with its display window covered in thick white paint. Inside were rows of white wooden chairs facing a lectern and a long table behind which a ruddy man of forty or so looked intent on some calculation, jotting on a tablet.

Mister Woods showed Tom to a seat across the table. The ruddy man greeted him with a smile. He had big teeth, sharp blue eyes, and a shiny bald dome fringed in black. His shoulders were peculiarly narrow, his hands large