"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 6

Here is the sixth installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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It was after seven. I rubbed my eyes, red from being parked in front of the computer most of the day, and realized I was starving. I wandered out to the kitchen, removed the Gouda cheese and hard salami from the refrigerator and sliced a generous serving.  I then added some walnut bread, all of which hit the same plate. I sliced up a green apple and threw that on too. And, of course, I yanked another cold Corona from the lower shelf of the fridge. Back in the dining room, I pushed some papers aside on the dining room table, set the food down, sat and let out a big sigh.

Before consuming my little repast, I leaned the letter against an empty Corona. I looked for something in the text that might give credence to its being a farce, a ruse. But—and with much reluctance I had to admit—the letter was starting to feel real. But to make that jump, where does one go? Time travel? Parallel worlds? A rip in the time/space continuum? As I said, I would love to believe the letter was real. But if the letter were real, why had it taken so long to reach its destination? Or had it? In her reality, she probably had no idea she was putting her letter into a mailbox that existed over eighty years in the future. So which of us was in the wrong world? Or the real world?

And to what “negatives” was she referring? And what “vanity?” And why was Louise Brooks mistaking me for her soon-to-be ex-hubby Eddie Sutherland! I stared at those last two paragraphs again:

One other thing. I want the negatives. It took me a year of court battles to get them, and I don’t want you getting any ideas. You know what I’m talking about, so don’t make this difficult. They’re where we hid them—in an envelope taped to the bottom of the right-hand drawer of my vanity.

I know you’re home, Eddie, so no games. I’ve seen you the past few nights standing at the window. Put the envelope in the mailbox this evening. I will pick it up during the night.
Louise—

The truth is—and it makes me slightly uncomfortable to admit it—I have never fully explored every square foot of this house. I realize I’ve been here over eleven years, but I never had any reason to skulk about the attic or the basement. Over the years I have thrown a few things into the attic—and once I spent the good part of a day with some guy that replaced the central heating unit located in the basement. But as I am not a big fan of spiders, cobwebs and little things that creep around in the dark, for all I know there may be a colony of hippies living downstairs—or a gaggle of munchkins in the attic. But if either are there, they’ve been incredibly quiet tenants. And, as I mentioned before, in the backyard, there’s the dilapidated  and overgrown garage.

I’m wondering—you’re thinking it too probably—if that vanity might still be around here somewhere. But what would be the chances? We’re talking over eighty years ago!  Still, Jay’s comments kept coming back to me regarding these old “…museum pieces” and their “ghosts…” still frolicking about. If this letter were real—then maybe a tour of the basement and attic made sense.

Are you with me?

It was almost eight. I had the evening before me. The first thing I decided to do was secure some type of protection from any unfriendly intruders that may have laid claim to either of those rooms.  In place of an iron vest, I found an old UCLA hooded sweatshirt and pulled it on.  Next, I grabbed a broom –in lieu of a sword—for doing battle with any hippies or munchkins—or spiders!  With my four-battery flashlight in my other hand, I was ready.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the seldom-used cellar door and passed onto a small landing that led down the stairs. I yanked on a short chain that hung from a light fixture and a dusty, web-covered, bare bulb flicked on, barely lighting the stairs as they disappeared down into a vast gloom. I flipped up my hood and—feeling a bit like Indiana Jones—plunged downward into that cavern of creatures (and possible hidden treasures!) known as my basement.

At the bottom of the stairs I found another light and flipped the switch. A single low-wattage bulb began to glow about fifteen feet in front of me. There were a total of three light bulbs that stretched the length of the basement and two were out. But with the flashlight and that surviving, low-wattage bulb, visibility was adequate for finding furniture—particularly mysterious vanities. Basements like this one were typical in the Midwest, providing space that included just about the whole area inside the foundation. Many folks used the additional area to build playrooms, workrooms, extra bedrooms—even theatres and private offices. Mine, though, was a California classic: a place for insects, central heating units and items that should have been donated to the Salvation Army. My basement reflected the fact that all the owners of this abode—past and present—were sane folk, and sought life only above ground.

For the next hour, I examined every square inch of that clammy, creepy space. I saw a couple of spiders that—if inclined—could have carried me off, and a black beetle I could have strapped a saddle on and ridden down Rodeo Drive. I did find some furniture under a filthy blue tarp, but it was one of those fifties-style rectangular dinner-tables with the shiny grooved aluminum edge and tubular steel chrome-plated legs. A clan of mice or rats had torn apart and settled into the seats of the chairs.  I made a mental note to get an exterminator out here first thing Monday.

I found some spoke wheels (maybe for an old Model A Ford?), a steamer trunk with some iron pans and pots, cheap silverware, and table linen for maybe a seating of twelve, most of the linen eaten away by moths, rats or whatever. There was a kit with some old tools along with a large wooden container with a large fuse box, fuses that looked like shotgun shells, pipe joints, plumbing and toilet parts, and cans of paint labeled with a name I had never heard. There was an old neon beer sign advertising Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer (neon tube broken), a long stack of warped two by fours, and boxes of pinkish insulation that were currently inhabited by something unknown. Their Pink Palace. I stood in the center of the basement, flashlight in hand, and did a 360-degree turn, impersonating a revolving lighthouse.  There were no hippies, munchkins and, regrettably, no vanity.  I did find the staircase.

Break time.

Somewhat disappointed, I returned to the kitchen, leaving the broom at the top of the stairs. I set the flashlight on the sink, found the fridge, and grabbed a beer. After a long pull, I set the bottle down next to the flashlight and walked through the small utility room and out the side door of the house, where I stood on a small porch that exited onto my driveway. I took off my sweatshirt and gave it a shake. And another. Cobwebs, dust and other debris from the basement filled the air. With some reluctance, I pulled it back on and returned to the kitchen, where I decided to take a few minutes to finish the Corona—and assess my sanity.

I sat down in the alcove of the kitchen, which was comprised of a semi-circle booth that wrapped around a small round table. I leaned on my elbows.  I pulled part of a cobweb out of my beard. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I scratched at the label on the bottle like it had a bad itch, and then shook my head and smiled. Damn!  I really wanted to believe the car, the driver, the girl in the backseat were real and from 1927. The truth was, all I had was the letter. And with that, all I knew was that the stationery was old. Period! Is that enough to convince a sane person to spend another hour or so searching an insect-infested attic for Louise Brooks’ vanity—a vanity that might be there after eighty years? Come on, Mike! This is crazy!

But, crazy or not, somewhere between that haunting, lovely face and my wanting to believe, no spiders, no rational thinking was going to stop me from looking for that vanity.

And what if I did find the vanity? And the negatives were still hidden there? I’m sure they would be worth a fortune to somebody! Do I believe in Louise and stick them in the mailbox—possibly handing them off to someone who is scamming me?  Shit!  Too many questions!  Anyway, I needed to find this vanity first—if it still existed—then deal with all this. I looked up at the ceiling toward the attic. Was the vanity up there? Up went the hood.  I looked at my watch: 9:17.

The flashlight brightly flooded the narrow staircase to the attic with light. The smell was musty—a smell reminiscent of all that is undisturbed, unused and uninhabited. Uninhabited except by eight-legged creatures who now, spotlighted by the flashlight, danced and darted about their massive playground of cobwebs that hung from the walls and ceiling, creating shadows that danced and darted too. I pulled my hood down to the top of my eyes, bowed my head and plowed upward, the broom, lance like, leading the way. Don Quixote!

I stepped out onto the floor of the attic like a Wurlitzer organ rising out of an orchestra pit. No hatch or door to open, I was now standing at the far end of the attic. Although the floor was wide, the walls leaned in as they headed upward to meet above me—the peak of the roof. As long as I stayed near the center, I had plenty of space to walk tall. I looked up through the rafters and saw there were skylights; the glow of starlight trying to work its way through the dirty windows, barely cutting what would have been total darkness to a shadowy dimness; outlines of large objects could be seen—or imagined. Whether they were sleeping munchkins, waiting ogres, hibernating grizzly bears or forgotten bed frames, bureaus, bed stands—or even vanities—remained to be discovered.

I found a string just overhead that hung down from a large bare light bulb, the fixture attached to a large beam. I tugged, heard a click, the light lit, went “Puff!” and went out. I expected nothing more. What fun was there in a bright and cheerful attic? And besides, using a flashlight provided a feeling that I was doing something covert and clandestine.
The attic floor was large, probably covering a good portion of the second floor of the house below.  I could see many things—on both sides of the floor. Some were covered with small tarps and old dustsheets, most with spider webs. Above me, on a plywood loft, I spotted some chairs, an old box spring and some cardboard containers; there was a long, rolled carpet lying on some beams next to the loft and two old bicycles suspended upside down just beyond the carpet. I decided to start at the wall on my left and continue down to the end and then come back along the other side. Simple, but effective.

The search through the first few items was fairly predictable and uneventful—and all covered with cobwebs, dust and dirt.  I found a box of books and magazines, mostly Book-of-Month stuff and a ton of National Geographic Magazines. I had to smile. Isn’t it amazing how people never throw away their National Geographics? And just as amazing, they never ever look at them again? At best, someday, they get donated to the Salvation Army. The reality is, they usually end up waiting for another generation to dispose of them. At least, nowadays, they might get re-cycled.

There was a pair of pink end-table lamps (one broken) with huge coffee-colored lampshades—definitely from the fifties; two large pictures of flamingos (each different) framed with little square mirrors, an etched shower door with palm trees and a swan, three wooden tennis rackets next to a pail of once white Wilson tennis balls (now dirt-gray in color) and, my favorite so far, a wooden fruit crate filled with brass-framed pictures of Ike, Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew and Gerald Ford, along with a huge stack of letters wrapped with a thick rubber band that literally snapped apart when I went to remove it—all the letters were ‘thank you’ notes for donations to the GOP. The last items in that box were maybe a dozen or so neatly rolled black and white panoramic photos of Republican Party dinners. I unrolled one: hundreds of folks sitting around dozens of round white linen-covered tables.  All the men in dark suits, white shirts and narrow ties.  The women in dirndl dresses each with a tight bodice and low neck, split between either sleeveless or short full sleeves.  Aaah the Grand Old Party!

Next to the GOP box, there was an old blanket with something poking up from underneath. I yanked back the blanket and pointed the flashlight. Two huge eyes stared back at me! “Shit!” I yelled and jumped back. I was ready to throw the flashlight when I took a closer look. It was a deer head—a rather large one—with antlers at least four feet across. Thank God I didn’t have a gun. I would have put ten shots into that poor, helpless buck head.

I had come to the end of the left wall. Facing me now was the wall which ran straight up—against which sat a series of items larger than boxes and deer heads. These items were covered with dustsheets, which now, worn and tattered by age, barely hid what sat underneath. I shone the light and pulled off the first sheet.

Before me, leaning against two sets of single, rusting bedsprings was a large round mirror, maybe four feet across and layered with filth, barely reflecting the light of my flashlight. The mirror rested within an extraordinary cherry-wood frame which—at the top—had an elaborate Art-Deco motif, made of many sweeping parallel lines converging from both sides into a five-pointed star. I pulled the mirror away from the wall and saw that it was not a stand-alone but had the fittings to slide on to a bureau—or a vanity? Branded on the back was the name “DeCaccia Brothers, Los Angeles, California.”  Stapled near the brand was a cardboard tag with information regarding the mirror. I brushed away the years of dust and I could clearly read “Mood and Image, Deco Dream, I.D. 20643-001, KEM Weber, Hollywood, California.” It certainly appeared the mirror was from the twenties or thirties, but what do I know? I made mental note to google The DeCaccia Brothers and Mood and Image, Deco Dream. I could not find a date anywhere on the piece.

To my right, there were other bulky items covered with the same kind of tattered and well-worn sheet. I didn’t hesitate. I swept the cover off and there, leaning against the wall, was the cherry-wood backboards to the two beds, each with the same design of the mirror: parallel lines coming from either side, sweeping upward and joining to form a five–pointed star. Next to the backboards, standing like a sentry, was a six-drawer tallboy, definitely part of the cherry-wood ‘Mood and Image’  design of the DeCaccia Brothers. Although covered with the dust of the decades, the beautiful cherry-wood shone through the filth with just a single swipe of my hand. This was high-end furniture. I checked the rear of the bureau and found no attachments for mounting the mirror. I opened each drawer, hoping to find anything: an article of clothing, a book, a piece of jewelry—an envelope? But the drawers were empty. All of them. That is, except for a small clan of black beetles, one very long-legged spider and droppings from something that I hoped was smaller than a breadbox. I checked underneath each drawer—just in case—and found nothing. A few of the drawers still had the original drawer liners. A brownish paper in a tweed-like design. I reached in, peeled back the liner and underneath was a home-cut piece of newspaper that must have been used as a base for the liner.  But as I went to remove it, it literally crumbled in my hands. I was more careful with the next drawer. Removing the liner, I flashed the light on the newsprint, leaving it in place. The first thing I saw was most of a Christmas ad for ’Atkinson’s Basement of Los Angeles’ advertising Beaver Lamb and Wombat coats for $22.00!  Beaver Lamb and Wombat coats?

To the left, at the top of the newspaper, I could see ‘ngeles Herald.’ I carefully blew away the dirt (and other unmentionables) right below the title. With my fingertips, I gently swept away the thin dust that remained. I suddenly sucked in air. Clearly readable was December 17, 1938.  1938!  This furniture was from the wrong period. It was 1930’s, not 1920’s. This definitely would be the Stephens’s furniture. It couldn’t be the Sutherlands’.

Remember, Eddie and Louise had split in 1928, and he moved out in 1937. People lined drawers right after they bought them and/or just before they’re about to use them. I was betting the Stephens bought this furniture from The DeCaccia Brothers and lined it when they moved in here. I was beginning to wish I wasn’t getting good at this detective stuff. Damn!

This ‘Private Investigator’ wanted a vanity. And not Mrs. Stephens’s vanity.  If this were the Stephens’s furniture before me, then I was wasting my time here. But I wasn’t about to stop now. I needed to complete my little circuit around the attic. And I was glad I did because I discovered who the original owners of this furniture really were—and I found the Louise Brooks’s vanity! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 5

Here is the fifth installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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October 8th was today’s date.

I stared at the letter for a long time. Definitely not an invitation to a Merrill Lynch seminar on rollovers!  Still, this had to be an elaborate hoax. A good one, I admit, but still a hoax. I am a sane, fairly bright individual and this letter in my hand was not over eighty years old! A quick aside—and confession. As a writer—and a person—I have sometimes been reluctant to depend or rely upon logic or reality. I—we all?—want to believe in magic and fantasy—think that there really is a Santa Claus or a Mickey Mouse; that Star Trek transporters and H. G. Wells time travel machines really do exist. But the bittersweet truth is that I know they don’t. The magic is in the wanting, the pretending—in the imagination. Like when we walk up Main Street in Disneyland, watch the movie Back to the Future, or read Jack Finney’s Time and Again. And as much as I would love to believe this letter was really written in 1927—and by that lovely young lady who stopped by my house (was it just this morning?)—I was not buying it.

But, if it were a hoax, then why? And who would do it? This was far too elaborate for my neighbor Jay to pull off—and for what reason? Still, the truth is, he does have access to classic cars—and he was standing near my mailbox this morning. Maybe that was Cousin Connie in the back seat of that car!  But Connie’s not twenty—and this so-called Louise in the car was young enough to be my daughter. And why would Jay—or Lorraine—concoct this strange letter? Cross off Jay. And the same goes for Alan; it’s just not his style to mess around with something like this. Again, no reason, no motive, and besides he’s in New York. Not Alan.

Obviously, someone has too much time on their hands—but who? Yet I saw two people in that car. And there was this letter. Jay’s words came back to me: “There are ghosts still hiding in the walls and in the attics—and apparently, in the streets now…”

I made the decision to take all this to another level. I googled ‘A. Edward Sutherland’ to check for any information regarding his personal life during the twenties—particularly if he had been married in 1927. And he had been. To a Louise Brooks. L.B. Bingo! They had been married between 1926 and 1928. And what a celebrity she was! Point of fact, she had been much more famous than her successful husband. I found literally hundreds of articles about her, most in agreement stating she was one of the most recognized actresses of the silent movie era—and also one of the most beautiful. All were in accord that she was one of the most independent, liberated and sensual women of her time. Here are a few photos I found.

I jotted down these quotes from some of the contemporary journalists and movie critics from her time

“One of the most mysterious and potent figures in the history of the cinema…”

“…the only woman who had the ability to transfigure no matter what film into a masterpiece…”

“Louise is the perfect apparition, the dream woman, the being without whom the cinema would be a poor thing.”

“Those who have seen her can never forget her.”

Need I say that this “mysterious…figure…” this “perfect apparition” was the woman who stared at me through that backseat window this morning? Something is happening here!  I headed for the kitchen and another Corona.

I still refused to believe the letter was written by Louise Brooks in 1927. Nor did I believe that was she in the car. But I did decide to continue to search for the truth. I couldn’t find any examples of her actual handwriting on Google, but, believe it or not, I found a Louise Brooks Society. I sent them a note via their email address requesting a sample of her handwriting. Meanwhile, I thought I would check on the stationery. I was beginning to feel like one of those private eyes of the 1940’s. (Never could hear that term “private dick” without wincing. Right now, I’m sticking with Mike Lundy, Private Investigator.) And I was out to prove my client (me) was having his leg pulled. And to find out the reason why.

The stationery was obviously top-end. It had texture and a thickness only found in expensive paper. My knowledge of paper was limited, although Jeanne once took a class in papermaking and would come home with samples she had made from cotton-rag. I do recall her telling me that certain cotton-rag paper can last hundreds of years without much fading or discoloration. But truth be, cotton-rag paper is available today. Therefore, there was no way to place a date on this stationery unless…

I held the letter up to the light and looked for any markings. Down, just below middle, toward the right, was a watermark. The backlight brought the image out like a photo in developer. A bit smeared but clear enough to decipher was the following:

The name White and Wyckoff’s arched the top. The ‘Exclusive Stationery’ near the bottom of the watermark was a tougher read, but it really didn’t matter. White and Wyckoff’s was in business before 1928 as stationery makers—in fact, I found an old ad pre-dating 1928 on eBay that amusingly stated their stationery was “Autocratic Linen” and that it was “…so rich in character; so responsive to the pen; [and} so refined in appearance…”  Okay, I accepted that the letter was written on high-end quality paper, but what pushed me another step in conceding the age and authenticity of the stationery was the following:

The only White and Wyckoff’s in existence today was in the business of providing “information on 32 million companies” and described as a business services company. Definitely not a stationery company. And I could not find any info regarding when White and Wyckoff’s Exclusive Stationery folded, sold out, or merged with anyone. The stationery—in spite of its fresh, crisp appearance—was certainly from another—much earlier—era.

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 4

Here is the fourth installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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We talked for twenty minutes. I didn’t share anything about the nightly visits of the phantom car or the letter. But among other things, I did tell him that if my neighbor, Lorraine, ever asked where we went Sunday night, he was to tell her we had a long and expensive dinner at The Morocco. Once off the phone, I decided on another cup of coffee—and to head back to my office. Hopefully Molly would be there.

Alan wanted the first fifteen chapters polished and sent to his office in New York via email attachment by Monday at nine a.m. EST. I had told him it would be no problem; truth was, I still had some work to do; I had already roughed-out the first thirteen chapters but had no clue where the story was heading. I spent the next three hours revising parts of Chapters Two and Four and rewrote some dialogue in Chapters Seven, Eight, and Twelve before outlining the next couple of chapters.

About five-thirty, I leaned back with a big, hands-over-the-head stretch; I glanced toward the living room—and the coffee table. The morning sun, which pours through the front window, had long since climbed over the house toward Santa Monica and the Pacific. The living room existed in that wistful, quiet, late afternoon dusk. There was a peacefulness—a stillness—where no shadows played and most things had lost their color. Except on the coffee table.

I had nearly forgotten.

From my chair in the dining room, I could see the square, crème-colored envelope lying on the pile of forgettable mail in that warm, faint light. It appeared to glow—just enough to separate it from everything else on the table. I slowly got up, walked to the living room and picked up the envelope. It sustained a flush all its own in the semi-darkness. The name

Eddie Sutherland

written in peacock blue and constructed with great care, stood in almost violent contrast to the pastel crème of the envelope. I wondered what the message inside—for a long-dead Eddie Sutherland—could possibly be. Most likely it was an invitation to some financial meeting with a local broker. Or maybe—and more appropriately—an offer to buy a plot from Hollywood Forever Cemetery? It would also be interesting to know how they got Eddie’s name. Maybe someone had not updated the Beverly Hills list of potential leads for a long, long time. On the other hand, what’s with the fancy car? Why the clandestine time of night? And who’s the pretty girl who delivered the letter?

In my head, a voice cried, “Open the envelope. Open it now. ”

I know what you’re thinking: Open it, dammit! Well, I did. But not before I went to the kitchen, got a Corona, stopped by the dining room to pick up my letter opener—an old Fuller Brush Man giveaway—returned to the couch, put my feet up—and reached around to turn on the floor lamp behind me.

I wedged the plastic point under the fold and gently lifted up along the top. As the paper parted, a sweet lilac smell immediately filled the air around me. Lilac is a smell of the past. It reminded me of childhood bubble baths and small frilly handkerchiefs, grandmothers who once wore white gloves and T.S. Eliot’s “…breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire…”

I peered inside. I could see a folded sheet of matching crème-colored stationery. Carefully, with thumb and forefinger, I slowly pulled the paper out, set the envelope down, took a long pull on the Corona, set that down, wiped my hand on my jeans and opened the note. This is what I found:

October 8th 1927

Eddie—

I will attempt to make this brief. I know that I have not been the “good wife,” but I will not apologize for what I am. I don’t think I ever loved you, Eddie. Oh, we had some good times for sure, but that’s all behind us now. You and Charlie are working night and day on your movie projects, and Paramount, for now, is keeping me busy.

What I’m saying is I want out. I’m sure you have heard about George and me. I can only say that I love him and I want to be with him. Let’s you and I try to forget our mistake and get on with our lives.

One other thing. I want the negatives. It took me a year of court battles to get them, and I don’t want you getting any ideas. You know what I’m talking about, so don’t make this difficult. They’re where we hid them—in an envelope, taped to the bottom of the right-hand drawer of my vanity.

I know you’re home Eddie , so no games. I’ve seen you the past few nights standing at the window. Put the envelope in the mailbox this evening. I will pick it up during the night.

Louise—

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 3

Here is the third installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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I rolled out of bed, showered, shaved (just my neck—I’ve a closely cropped beard that’s showing way too much gray), dressed, walked to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I took some vitamins with a large glass of OJ and had a piece of peanut butter toast while the coffee finished brewing. As soon as the coffeemaker made that familiar gurgling sound, I filled my handleless mug, strolled into the dining room, switched on the computer, and continued my walk into the living room to the front window. No, neither she, nor the sedan, was there.

How different things look in the brightness of a Southern California sun. I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that we allow the night—or the dark—to make the ordinary, strange and the strange, stranger. In the late morning of a beautiful day, all things seemed harmless, logical, and in their place. Standing there, I was somewhat embarrassed, certain my nightly sightseer was just some pretty little kook who had bought a Map of the Stars.

What was out my window this morning was my neighbor, Jay Johnson, who was retrieving his mail on schedule—a few minutes after the postman had slipped it in his box. Jay always wore the same flamboyant V-neck argyle sweater (I was hopeful he owned a week’s worth of the same style) and was gregarious almost to a fault. He reminded me a little of Seinfeld’s Kramer. Our mailboxes were side by side out near the street. He looked up, saw me and waved. I waved back, decided I’d check my mail too and, coffee in hand, walked out to greet Jay—and Saturday’s argyle.

“How’s it going Mike? Got that book finished yet? You know, you should turn it into a screenplay. Betcha it’d make a great movie. Can’t stand all this digital and horror shit that’s coming out now.” He let out a short snort that was the prelude to his laugh, laughed and then scratched his chest.

I liked Jay. Folks could do a lot worse than having a neighbor like him. Jay owned four car lots: two in Hollywood, one in Inglewood, and one in downtown L.A., all known as JJ’s Cars for the Stars!  All offered high-end cars like Jaguar, Ferrari and Mercedes—all were very successful. He and his wife, Lorraine, had been good friends since Jeanne and I first moved in here. And they had been a great comfort for me when I thought the world had ended when I lost Jeanne.

Now they were keen on the idea that I should start dating again and—as a bonus—Lorraine, who was originally from New Orleans, had this cousin Connie from Texas who was a real knockout…and available. Right. I had no trouble imagining why this “real knockout” would still be around. As Jay explained it, Connie was a schoolteacher at some school near Houston—taught a foreign language or something. Said  she was in town indefinitely on a sabbatical, taking or teaching—he wasn’t sure—some classes at USC during the fall semester. Jay said Connie had lost her husband about five years ago in a fire—he had been a fireman. Jay said she took it pretty hard and had gone to the Middle East to teach for a few years, but he was unsure (again) of where and told me to ask Lorraine for the details.  Anyway, I had no interest in pursuing a lonely, four-eyed, academic with a twang like Lorraine’s. I had told Jay many times: one, that I had no desire to be related to him—and two, that I was way too busy for seeing anyone right now. Jay hadn’t mentioned Connie for a few days, and for that I was thankful. Still, the moment Lorraine saw me, I knew she would start right in. Guaranteed.

“Well, I’m writing into the night, Jay. The pages are stacking up. Never considered a screenplay. We’ll see. By the way, you weren’t up late the past few nights—like around three?”

“Hell, Lorraine and I are lucky to make it to nine. Why? You see somebody creepin’ around?”

“No. Well, yes, I have. The past three nights, a big black car—something out of the late twenties maybe—has cruised by here. Slow like. Saw it stop in front of my house early this morning. About three. I think its occupants were looking for someone.”

“Missed that one. You know, that’s the charm of living in these museum pieces.  There are ghosts still hiding in the walls and in the attics—and apparently in the streets now.” Jay snorted again and laughed; he was organizing his mail when Lorraine appeared on their front porch.

Buxom and blonde, she was candy to the eyes. But she was also relentless. She yelled out, “Hiyah, Mike. How you?”

I waved and limited my eye contact. She had a Southern accent born in Louisiana and urbanized in Texas. “Connie’s comin’ over ta’morrah night. Y’all want to join us for dinnah?”

Without a pause I said, “I am meeting with my agent tomorrow night, Lorraine. Maybe next time?” I lied. My agent was in New York for the weekend.  Jay looked up from his mail, smiled and winked and headed back toward Lorraine.

“If your phantom car comes by before nine tonight, let me know. Seeya around.” Jay hesitated, turned and said, “And if you change your mind about tomorrow…” Before he got any further, I gave him my best Clint Eastwood Make my day stare. He resumed his trek back to the house, snorted and laughed.

I opened my old mailbox and reached in, already knowing that most of the contents would be junk mail, mainly those ubiquitous catalogs selling trash such as T-shirts emblazoned with Real Men Use Duct Tape and Old Guys Rule, two story doghouses, exploding golf balls, and cookie jars with images of Lucy and Betty Boop. Whatever other mail was left would be bills. I pulled out the stack while looking down the street—where the phantom car disappeared earlier this morning, taking with it that timeless, remarkable face.

As I sauntered back toward the house, juggling the coffee, I flipped through the mail, one item at a time, leaning each rejected piece against my chest. “Junk, junk, bill, junk, junk, bill…” I chimed.  It almost sounded like “Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells” for God’s sake! Then I stopped. I looked down at the last item that lay in my hand: a crème-colored envelope, almost square. The paper was rich and thick—reminiscent of a wedding invitation. There was no address, no stamp, no return address. But clearly written, almost certainly with a fountain pen and looking like calligraphy, was the name:

Eddie Sutherland 

I sat on the couch in the living room clutching the envelope—my coffee and the rest of the mail safely on the coffee table. I stared at the name on the front. I had to grin. Come on. Who’s playing games here? With no stamp on the envelope somebody actually had to have put the letter in my mailbox. I turned the envelope over. It was sealed tightly. At the very tip of the flap—in the same style as the lettering on the front—were the initials

LB

LB? Who was LB? I didn’t know anyone with the initials LB. All this smelled of a joke. A letter addressed to Eddie Sutherland! He hadn’t lived in this house for over seventy years! And what was I supposed to do with it? I couldn’t return it. It obviously wasn’t delivered by the post office. I felt the envelope and there was definitely a note inside. I held it up toward the front window, allowing the sunlight to strike the back of it. Nothing to see. The paper was too thick. Then, as I aimlessly looked out that front window…it hit me! The car, then the letter. Of course! This letter must be from my mystery maiden. I mean, the car probably was the same vintage as this old house—the same period when ol’ Eddie lived here. Was she trying to tell me this morning about the letter? Jesus! This is beginning to look like material for a goddamn Twilight Zone! Or another L.A. scam of some kind.

Suddenly, the phone rang. I tossed the envelope on the table with the rest of the mail and walked over to the dining room, picked up the receiver and quipped, “This someone with good news or money?”—a line from a favorite movie. On the other end was my agent, Alan Hooper, wondering if—and when—I were ever going to grow up.

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 2

Here is the second installment of "The Vanity," a short story by Robert Murillo.

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Before I continue with my tale, let me say I'm not a Beverly Hills kind of guy. But my wife, Jeanne, liked nice things. So when she inherited a bundle from Daddy-dear, we bought this oversized piece of history. That was more than eleven years ago. Then, less than two years ago, Jeanne passed away.  Gone.  I'm still not completely over it. But who would be? We were married close to thirty years and we loved each other. She was a magnificent person, I depended on her, and I miss her. 

Our small mansion was built in the mid-twenties. It is unique, it's gaudy, it's Hollywood. Jeanne and I spent a goodly amount of time and money prepping the house before moving in: new paint, some re-wiring, repaired the plumbing and removed the dry rot. We restored the light fixtures, the cornices, the sinks and tubs with the clawed feet, and the wonderful Art Deco designs over the five fireplaces. We brought in a 'wood doctor' who was able to salvage the handsome built-in cedar bookcases; we fixed the dumbwaiter and added a few Persian rugs atop the restored hardwood floors that have inlaid mother of pearl.  The project was quite an endeavor. And worth it just to see Jeanne's face when we moved in.

This place has six bedrooms, nine closets (four of which you can walk through), a huge dining room (where I've set up my office), a living room (the size of a small Costco), a kitchen that still has the original green and black checkered tile on the floor, and four and a half bathrooms. And there is an abandoned attic and a dark, gloomy basement the size of a hockey rink, both of which remain unexplored. At the end of the driveway, in the backyard, there's a dilapidated, single garage that stands as a monument to what happens to those things forgotten.  This simple, wooden structured, consumed by a vicious blackberry bush, an insatiable ivy plant and Father Time, remains more a tribute to wild, unsupervised plant propagation, than a safe haven for a vehicle or a small warehouse for storage. Yet, surprisingly, it wasn't as unattractive as it was useless.

Jeanne and I did do some research on our new home once we settled in, and, intriguingly, we discovered that the house was originally occupied by a Hollywood actor, later turned director, by the name of A. Edward Sutherland - Eddie Sutherland. And as the story goes, he was fairly famous: he began his career as a Keystone Cop, later worked with Charlie Chaplin in the mid-twenties and, with Chaplin's help, became a director. He went on to direct fifty films over a thirty-one year career. Eddie lived here well into the thirties - 1937 in fact -  when he sold it to some chap by the name of J.D. Stephens from Rochester, New York. Stephens had been transferred to the West Coast to become the new distributor for commercial cameras and film for the Kodak company. He and his wife lived here for over forty-three years. No family. The estate was ultimately sold off to a real estate agent whose intention was to flip it but he ran into a recession. He lived here for awhile, then rented it out and eventually abandoned it. Pretty much that's the story; it was empty when we bought it. Like I said, that was over eleven years ago.

Friday evening Molly staggered in - somewhat red-eyed and lethargic - and we spent the night together, still able to pound out over 2000 words before I finally clicked the 'shut down' button. She had fallen asleep on my shoulder, using my neck as a pillow. I yawned, found the remains of a tepid Corona, finished it, and then moseyed to the kitchen, where I found a fresh one and continued out to the front window to see what was playing tonight. Maybe another rerun of The Car that Stalked Beverly Hills. I checked my watch. Three o'clock. I looked out the window.

And damned if the car wasn't parked in front of the house! With the damp weather having moved south toward San Diego, clearly visible was at least sixteen feet of gleaming chrome and sparkling, black metal - undoubtedly designed by a pencil-mustached German or a monocle-wearing Frenchman. This was no Ford. In fact, this was no car. This was a motorcar. An automobile massaged and molded and stroked into an Art Deco dreamwork on wheels.

Inside, the overhead light glowed, providing some detail of the interior. The driver, sitting on the left, was mostly silhouette. He wore a chauffeur's cap and was staring straight ahead. In the back seat, I saw gloved hands and part of a white hat or a hood. My stalker appeared to be a woman. She leaned toward the passenger window that was closest to the house and there, framed in the glass of that rear door, was a face for the ages: maybe twenty, large dark eyes, and a cascade of black bangs that touched the top of her eyebrows. She forced a smile, and despite the forty feet between us, it was clear she was someone extraordinary. She began to speak- seemingly trying to tell me something, her face now a coil of concern. Then, turning away, she spoke to the driver and sat back in her seat. The massive, gleaming vehicle quietly rolled away, black into black, disappearing into the night once again.

I stood there. What the hell had just happened?

"The Vanity" - a Louise Brooks short story, part 1

This post, the 50th of the new Louise Brooks Society blog, is pleased to present the first installment of a new story featuring Louise Brooks. The story is "The Vanity" by Robert Murillo. I think you will enjoy it. I did.

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“I loathe narcissism, but I approve of vanity.”

­Diana Vreeland

The Vanity

My name is Michael Lundy but you can call me Mike. I’m fifty three, in good health, and I write. I live on N. Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills and spend most nights and early mornings writing the Great American Novel. But that’s another story­ - and one I hope someday you’ll read. Like I said, I’m in good health. Though, as this tale unfolds, you may question that.

It began five nights ago. Wednesday night­ really - in the wee small hours of Thursday morning. Molly, my muse, whose hours are far better than mine, had called it a night. So I stretched, pushed my chair back, got up and strolled from my dining room office, through the living room and to the front window. Outside, the misty October rain had covered everything with a glossy wetness. I glanced at my watch. It was exactly three o’clock. I debated whether to return to the computer and attempt to finish up this chapter without Molly or head for bed, when, down the street to my left, I saw the orange glow of two headlights approaching. I watched as a vintage black sedan rolled by my house, slowing as it passed, and then continued down N. Bedford, disappearing into the mist. Odd, but no big deal. Classic-looking car though; maybe from as far back as the 1920’s. I shrugged, decided to call it a night, and headed for bed.

Most of Thursday afternoon was dictated by an uninteresting list of things to do: lunch with a representative from Westwood Magazine looking to publish a short story of mine, picking up some groceries while I had the oil changed in my Jeep Wrangler, stopping by Best Buy for some black ink for the printer, and then wrapping up my errands with an ice cream from Cold Stone. Flavors: coffee and French vanilla. Too good to sacrifice for any health reasons. Ice cream cone in one hand, steering wheel in the other, it was time to head back for another evening with Molly - ­the only woman in my life ­- or so I thought.

Without fanfare or many breaks, Molly and I worked from about six-thirty to well-past two thirty Friday morning. When my eyes began to glaze over and my fingers remained hovered above the keyboard, I realized Molly had slipped away. I pulled myself up, stretched, found the fridge, grabbed a cold Corona and wandered out to the living room and over to the front window again. It was another damp night in ‘The Hills.’

I yawned, checked my watch - ­it was almost three a.m.­ - took a long and satisfying drink of my beer and decided to head for bed, when the oddest thing happened. Through the gray drizzle came the same black car that had driven by the night before! And again it slowed as it passed my house. I still couldn’t make out what kind of car it was­ - one of those big sedans with suicide doors, running boards and headlights attached to the front fenders. It might have been an old Cadillac­ - or maybe a Packard? I’m much better with cars from the forties and fifties. Suffice it to say, it was big, dark and ominous. It continued down N. Bedford Drive, the small, bright red taillights slowly fading into the dampness of the night.

Was all this strange? Yes. Was I going to lose any sleep about some weirdo cruisin’ Beverly Hills at three in the morning? No. Remember, this is the land of eccentrics and oddballs. So if someone wanted to cruise Beverly Hills in search of the stars’ homes in an old vintage sedan in the middle of the night, fine. Just don’t ring my doorbell in search of Julia Roberts or George Clooney.

I strolled back to my computer to see if Molly had returned. A bright yellow Post-It was stuck to the monitor with the message:

Off to the Viper Room in search of Johnny Depp!­ XOXO, Molly

I switched off the computer and, Corona in hand, headed for bed.