The Devil May Dance, Jake Tapper [top novels to read TXT] 📗

“Here,” Margaret said, handing the trophy back to a stunned Chakiris. “These things are heavier than they look!”

Within minutes the Santa Monica Police had cordoned off the stairwell. A perimeter had also been established backstage, police tape demarcating the area where Fontaine had landed. The police seemed focused on keeping everything as discreet as possible. They ensured that when Manny Fontaine and Les Wolff were carried out on stretchers, they went through a back door to ambulances parked in a restricted area.

While Charlie’s wounds were tended by a medic, Margaret guided a detective to the van where Joe Edmondson, Frankenheimer’s sound mixer, had set up shop and recorded her conversations with Fontaine and Wolff. Soon after, Charlie and Margaret found themselves seated in the back of a parked police cruiser.

Night had fallen on Los Angeles. From the back seat, Charlie tried to look in the rearview mirror, but there wasn’t enough light for him to see. With her hands on his cheeks, Margaret turned his face toward hers.

“Nothing permanent,” she said.

“I think he bruised my rib.” He patted his side. “If I hadn’t fallen down those stairs, I could’ve knocked him out.”

Margaret smiled. “I’m sure you would’ve, sweetie.”

They turned toward a tap on Margaret’s window: Detective Meehan. She tried to roll it down but realized there was no way to do so. Likewise, the door wouldn’t open from the inside.

Meehan smiled and opened the door. “One of the officers will be here in a minute to drive you back to the hotel, and we can talk there,” he said. “Too many ears around here.” He handed Margaret a plastic baggie of ice. “Give this to Charlie,” he said. He tried to shut the door but Margaret stopped him.

“My friend was kidnapped!” she exclaimed. “Her name is Sheryl Ann Gold. You should see if she’s at Wolff’s house.”

“Or Fontaine’s,” Charlie added.

Margaret gave Meehan a description of her friend and her home address. Meehan nodded, tapped the roof of the squad car twice, and gently shoved the door closed as he turned to leave them. But Margaret subtly stopped the door before the latch locked them in. She turned to Charlie.

“They’re not going to lift a finger to find Sheryl Ann,” she said.

Charlie looked out into the parking lot, which was buzzing with patrolmen, ambulances, and squad cars.

They calmly walked out of the restricted area and, ditching their car, took a back alley to the Georgian Hotel, which was about a ten-minute walk from the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Isaiah Street was waiting for them in his suite; he put his finger to his lips when he opened the door and whispered to them that Violet was asleep in the bedroom. Her mom—Margaret’s sister—would be there to take her home the next day.

All three of them went out to the balcony, where chairs and cigarettes awaited and Charlie and Margaret could catch Street up on every last detail of the night. They had to try to figure out where Sheryl Ann was being kept and how to save her. By the time they were done, the dawn light was beginning to illuminate the scenic vista before them.

Street opened his notebook. “I have addresses for both Wolff and Fontaine,” he said. “But…” He paused.

“What?” Margaret asked.

“Well, frankly, neither man is dumb enough to stash a kidnapping victim at his house,” said Street.

“So where would she be?” Charlie asked.

“Where are those documents?” Street asked. “Still in your purse?”

“Those were taken from me,” Margaret said.

“But I have copies,” Charlie said.

Chapter ThirtyLos Angeles, California

April 1962

Locals had feared that the shallow canyon known as Chavez Ravine would be choked with traffic for the first game at the brand-new eighteen-million-dollar Dodger Stadium, but the congestion never materialized. In fact, there were roughly thirty-five hundred unfilled seats for the Dodgers’ face-off against the Cincinnati Reds.

Joey Tarantula cared not a lick about baseball—he was a boxing fan—but he was on hand with his camera to capture any celebrities in attendance. Henry Fonda, Milton Berle, and John Wayne had all been shuttled in right before the opening pitch at one p.m., and Mickey Rooney jumped up and down in the stands, providing Tarantula and the other shutterbugs with goofy photos.

It was a fancy park, the first one in the U.S. in decades to be constructed with private funds. There were rumors of New York strip steak and lobster thermidor in the Stadium Club, though Tarantula wasn’t allowed access to it. But that was okay. The press box on the fifth floor had cigarette girls, not machines, and he was fine with the options of spaghetti or lamb in the press dining room. In fact, he’d had both.

At the top of the seventh inning, the score tied at 2 to 2, Wally Post of the Reds smashed a homer into the parking lot past center field. The enthusiasm in the stadium evaporated—“You can give them a nice park but that don’t mean they still ain’t bums,” one scribe said to another—and Tarantula excused himself. Enough. Everything here was wholesome. In other words, nothing here to sell papers.

He hauled himself out to the parking lot and wedged his frame behind the wheel of his ten-year-old Hudson Hornet. The sight of some Mexican-American vendors selling bootleg Dodgers pennants reminded him that the city of Los Angeles had land-grabbed Chavez Ravine from the laborers and their families who lived here, the city’s claims of eminent domain giving way to lying and bullying. Now, that had been a scandal.

The public didn’t care; the victims were Mexican-Americans, and Angelenos wanted a new stadium for their new team. The snobs at the Los Angeles Times looked down on the likes of Tarantula, he thought, not only because of his appearance and coarse manner but also—perhaps primarily—because he worked for a scandal sheet. And yet, where were these would-be Jacob Riises when it came to the men, women, and children ousted from Chavez Ravine? All of the major newspapers had stood behind the Dodger Stadium project,