More cops piled into the room.
Strothers followed their gaze from the flensed bodies to the baggie spilling white powder cheerily across an empty chrome table.
“You’re under arrest!”
“You don’t understand—they’re infected!” he shouted.
He felt his arms jerked backwards, cold metal handcuffs bit into his wrists.
Outside, through the windows, Strothers could see the flashing red lights of town and state police cars.
He watched the crimson glow play over the pale skin and ruined muscles of the cadavers, giving them an unearthly vibrancy—a warmth, he was certain, that would soon return them to life.
Ron Goulart
It was the only movie ever made starring a dead man. This was back in the late spring of 1942 and Hix, the short, feisty, and unconquerably second-rate writer of low budget B-movies, was one of the few people who knew about it. He’d hoped to turn the knowledge to his advantage. But that didn’t quite work out.
His involvement commenced on an overcast May afternoon. He was pacing, as best he could, his diminutive office in the Writers Building on the Pentagram Pictures lot in Gower Gulch.
Carrying his long-corded telephone in one hand and the receiver in the other, he was inquiring of his newest agent, “In what context did Arthur Freed use the word ‘tripe,’ Bernie?”
“He applied it to your movie treatment, the one I was foolish enough to let you cajole me into schlepping over to MGM,” replied Bernie Kupperman from the Kupperman-Sussman Talent Agency offices over in the vicinity of Sunset Boulevard. “The full sentence was, ‘How dare you inflict such a load of tripe on me, Bernie?’ ”
“That’s not so bad. He could have called it crap instead of tripe.” Hix, his frizzy hair flickering, halted just short of an unstrung mandolin that lay in his path.
“Actually, Hix, he did, but I never use that kind of language over the phone.”
Sighing, the short screenwriter set his telephone down on his wobbly desk atop a scatter of glossy photos of starlets, drafts of scripts, three old issues of
Whiz Comics,
and a paper plate that once had held a nutburger. “Alas, that’s the curse of being ahead of my time with my ideas.”
“Two weeks ahead isn’t that far,” suggested his agent. “Oh, and Freed, hardly using any profanity at all, did mention that he’d heard that Val Lewton is planning to do a picture with the same title over at RKO.”
“What I hear is that Lewton and his heavy-handed director Tourneur are probably both about to get the bum’s rush out of the studio before they have time to make another clinker like
Cat People.
” Hix gazed at a spot on the far wall where a window would’ve been if his office actually had a window. “More importantly, Bernie, Lewton’s flicker is entitled
I Walked with a Zombie,
while my proposed blockbuster enjoys the far superior title of
I Waltzed with a Zombie.
”
“Even so, Hix, we—”
“Furthermore, pal, Lewton’s movie is going to be just another trite lowbrow effort aimed chiefly at the Saturday matinee crowd, mostly pubescent boys who flock into movie palaces to eat popcorn, whistle at Rita Hayworth, and pass gas,” he pointed out. “My effort is a big budget musical, the very first horror musical comedy ever conceived by man.”
“So far nobody—”
“Face it, buddy, the concept of a Technicolor musical in the horror genre is, well, both brilliant and unique.” When Hix’s head bobbed enthusiastically, his frazzled hair fluttered. “Were I given to hyperbole, I’d dub it super-colossal.”
After a few silent seconds, his agent told him, “Estling over at Star Spangled Studios wants you for another Mr. Woo quickie.”
Hix sank down into his slightly unstable swivel chair, sighing again. “As a potential Oscar winner,” he complained, “I ought to be working for somebody who’s not as big a moron as Estling.”
“He’s offering five hundred bucks more than you got for
Mr. Woo at the Wax Museum.
”
“Okay, tell him I’ll write it,” said Hix. “But keep pitching
I Waltzed with a Zombie.
”
“Only if it doesn’t look like it’s going to result in my suffering bodily harm.”
Hix hung up and slid the phone toward the edge of his desk. “Twenty-nine smash B-movies since I came here six years ago and they still treat me like a hack.”
The telephone rang.
“Mr. Hix’s private office,” he answered in, he was quite certain, a very convincing imitation of a very polite British servant.
“Listen, Hix, I’ve got to talk to you.”
“That can be arranged, Marlys,” he assured her. “Still unhappy about how things are going for you at Paramount? You’ve only been under contract for a little over three months after all.”
“I still haven’t been cast in one darn movie, Hix,” Marlys Regal told him. “But this is something else, something maybe worse. Can you meet me in the Carioca Room at the Hotel San Andreas on Wilshire at five?”
“I can, sure. But what exactly—”
“Listen, besides writing a whole stewpot of movies that are always on the lower half of double bills, I know you’ve done some amateur detective work now and then.”
“I wouldn’t apply the word amateur to my work in the ’tec field, kid. In fact—”
“You also know a lot about spooky stuff, occult matters?”
“We’ve been keeping company for well over a month. In that time you must’ve deduced that I’m an expert in the field.”
“Particularly zombies?”
“Well, sure. My as-yet unsold epic musical is about . . . Whoa now. Are you hinting that you know something about
real life
zombies?”
“I am, yes, and I’m afraid I could be in trouble.”
“So, tell me exactly what—”
“Nope, it’s too darn risky to say any more from where I am right now. Meet me at the Carioca Room. Bye, darling.” She ended the call.
Cradling the receiver, he stood up and lifted his umber-colored sport coat off the eagle-topped coat rack to the left of his desk. As he shrugged his way into it, frazzled hair vibrating, he made his way to the door. “If I crack a zombie case,” he said, grabbing the dented doorknob, “I can get some terrific publicity for
I Waltzed with a Zombie.
”
The green and scarlet parrot behind the long teakwood bar was alive. He swung on his gilded perch in his gilded cage, now and then squawking out what were probably Brazilian curses. The other parrots, the ones perched high in the fake banana palms that decorated the dim-lit Carioca Room, were stuffed.
Arriving about ten minutes after five, Hix stopped near the bar and scanned the surrounding South American gloom.
“Still busily turning out crap, Hix?” asked an overweight writer who was occupying a nearby stool.
“I’ve recently been promoted to writing tripe, Arnie.” Eyes narrowed, he looked again at the surrounding tables. There was no sign of Marlys.
After swallowing the rest of his Manhattan and plucking the cherry from the bottom of the glass, Arnie said, “Buy you a drink, old buddy?”
“I’m meeting somebody.”
“Anybody I know?” he inquired, biting the cherry.
“I’m hoping for Carmen Miranda,” Hix answered. “My doctor advised me to get more fruit in my diet. I figure if I eat her hat, I’ll—”
“
Marafona,
” cried the parrot, agitating his golden cage. “
Marafona.
”
Marlys Regal, smiling very faintly, had just entered the cocktail lounge. She spotted Hix, gave him a minimalist wave before crossing to an empty table next to an almost believable palm tree. Before sitting down, she looked back toward the doorway. She was a very pretty young woman in her early twenties, slender and, at the moment, a redhead.
Arnie nodded. “Cute, but a little too skinny for my tastes,” he observed. “And obviously too good for you.”
“She’s lowered her standards because of wartime shortages.” Hix, his crinkly hair fluttering, went trotting over to the actress. En route he passed out greetings to some of the other customers. “Hi, Chester, you were great in the new Boston Blackie flicker.”
“That crap,” said the actor.
“Tripe,” corrected Hix. “Howdy, Eleanor, loved you in
Ship Ahoy.
”
“Do I know you?”
As he seated himself opposite Marlys, the young actress asked, “Did you notice anybody watching me as I came in, Hix?”
“Sure, each and every guy, with the exception of Grady Sutton. As I’ve oft told you, kiddo, you’re very presentable.”
“No, seriously. I’m pretty sure I’m being watched.”
He reached across, put his hand over hers. “Okay, so what’s going on wrong?”
“Well, I know something and I figured maybe Paramount wouldn’t want it known. All I really was after was a chance at a good part, you know.”
“Are we talking blackmail?”
“I call it goosing my darn career. Thing is, I’m not sure how they took my proposition and, past couple days, Hix, I have this really spooky feeling they’ve got a watch on me.”
“The time has come, Marlys, for a few more details.”
She inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. “Now this all started before I met you at the Rathbones’ party in April, Hix, so don’t get jealous or hit the ceiling. You see—”
“What’ll you folks have?” asked the buxom blond waitress who materialized out of the shadows.
The red-haired actress said quietly, “I’d like bourbon and water.”
“Plain ginger ale,” said Hix.
Nodding, the waitress departed.
Resting both elbows on the tropical-patterned tablecloth, Hix suggested, “Get back to your story.”
“Well, before I met you I dated other people.”
“Sure. I’ve been known to do the same.”
“Well, some four months ago I was seeing Alex Stoner and—”
“Stoner? The grand old man of the silver screen? Ain’t he a bit old for you?”
“He was only fifty-six.”
Hix straightened. “
Was?
According to Louella, Hedda, and Johnny Whistler, the old boy is still above the ground. Fact is, he’s over at your very own Paramount about two-thirds of the way through starring in their big budget historical fillum of the year,
The Holy Grail.
He’s cast as King Arthur.”
She took another slow breath in and out. “Alex died early in March,” she said in a low voice. “Three weeks into
The Holy Grail.
”
“So how come he’s still acting in the darn film?”
“They brought him back to life,” she replied.
It was a little over an hour later that Hix got knocked cold by a conk on the head.
He and Marlys had retreated to the small living room of the small cottage that Hix was renting on the ocean side of Santa Monica. The starlet had become convinced that it wasn’t safe to keep talking at a public place like the Carioca.
Pacing the venerable flowered carpet he’d acquired at a rummage sale over in Altadena last fall, Hix was going over what details the young actress had thus far provided. “So you were sleeping with this old coot when he shuffled off?”
Marlys was sitting on the lime-green sofa. “Yes, I woke up at seven in the morning and the poor guy was stone cold dead next to me,” she said. “That was really unpleasant.”
“Tell me some more about what you did next, kid.”
“I was alone at his place in Bel Air. Alex had given his two servants a few days off,” she said. “I was darn certain he had kicked off, so there sure wasn’t any reason to call an ambulance.”
Hix sat on the wobbly arm of his only armchair. “And what about the cops?”
“Spending a night in bed with a dead major movie star doesn’t give you the kind of publicity I need,” she answered. “Besides which, Alex was already partway through shooting the King Arthur flick and I figured Paramount might not care to have his dying made public right away.”
“How come you phoned this guy Wally Needham?”
She looked toward the draped window, frowning. “Did you hear something outside?”
“Relax, kiddo. Nobody followed us here from the Carioca,” he assured her. “Having penned a bunch of Mr. Woo pictures, not to mention three Dr. Crimebuster epics, I know a little bit about how to avoid being tailed.”
Sighing, Marlys continued. “Well, I first met Wally at Schwab’s when I stopped in for a cup of coffee one afternoon a few months ago.”
“Another of your beaus?”
“We were friends, sure. It doesn’t hurt to have a friend who works in publicity at Paramount Pictures.”
“No, that could sure be darn helpful to anybody’s career.” He stood, crossed to the lemon-yellow drapes, and pulled them a few inches open to look out into the approaching twilight. “Nobody around. By the way, I’m not crystal clear on how I can help you rise in show biz.”
“C’mon, Hix,” she told him. “I’m simply fond of you.”
“Well sir, that’s a relief.” He turned his back to the window. “Explain to me a bit more about what this publicity lad did.”
“Well, he got to Alex’s mansion less than an hour after I telephoned him,” she said. “After making certain Alex was dead, Wally asked me if I’d like to sign a movie contract with Paramount.”
“Provided you kept your mouth shut about Alex Stoner being dead.”
She nodded. “Yes, I couldn’t very well pass up an opportunity like that to graduate out of Poverty Row quickies,” she replied. “Then Wally went into Alex’s office and phoned various people, higher-ups at the studio. I heard him tell somebody, ‘Dr. Marzloff can do it. We’ll use him.’ ”
“They hired Dr. Sandor Marzloff? Quack physician and phony self-proclaimed sorcerer to the stars?”
“Not so phony, it seems, Hix. He brought Alex back to life, after all,” the actress pointed out. “He told me once that he’d lived for several years in Haiti and learned—”
“You dated him, too?
“We had a few drinks a couple of times. Long before I met you, Hix.”
“Um,” commented Hix.
“I have the impression that Alex Stoner wasn’t the first defunct actor he reanimated,” she said. “In fact . . . Holy Christ!” She had risen partly off the sofa and was staring past the writer.
Slowly he turned. “Oops.”
Two large men, wearing pinstripe suits and with cloth sugar sacks over their heads had silently entered his living room and were pointing large revolvers at him and the young actress.