Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) Read online

  Lost Among the Angels

  Alice Duncan

  Dedication

  To Anni & Robin, as ever

  One

  July 1, 1926

  I hadn’t anticipated the heat. As I carefully positioned my high-crowned felt cloche hat and stuck a pin in to hold it to my neat bun, a trickle of perspiration ran down my cheek. My sister frowned at me.

  “You need to get your hair bobbed. I don’t know why you persist in keeping your hair long. Bobbed hair is ever so much cooler.”

  This was undoubtedly true, but I hadn’t had my hair cut in my entire life. “Mother and Father would disown me if I had my hair bobbed,” I said.

  “Mother and Father aren’t here.”

  Even as she stated the obvious, my heart soared. I told it to stop doing that. Such behavior on its part was extremely unfilial and in very bad taste.

  Nevertheless, Clovilla, my sister, had a good point. Mother and Father were on their figurative thrones in Cape Cod (this being the summertime and all), Massachusetts, and I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt (named after a fabulously wealthy aunt and an engraved silver tea service, although the latter fact is seldom mentioned in the family) was here. In Los Angeles, California. Living with my married sister, Clovilla Adelaide Nash and her rich husband Harvey, who did something important in the motion-picture industry, although I wasn’t sure what.

  “I couldn’t do it, Clovilla—”

  “Don’t …” She sucked in air. “… call me Clovilla.” She was angry. I could tell.

  Wincing in sympathy—I mean, what young woman in her right mind would want to be called Clovilla?—I said, “Sorry. Chloe. I meant to say that I wouldn’t dare cut my hair. If Mother ever found out, she’d crucify me by mail, if she didn’t hire a gangster to come out here and do it in person.”

  Clovilla—I mean Chloe—shrugged her slender shoulders, barely covered this steamy July morning by a filmy silk wrap of Chinese design that came to her mid-thigh. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to the styles ladies wore out here in the Wild West. “Who cares? You’re here now. You’re free, white, and twenty-one, and you’re in Los Angeles. And I, the sister who is charged with your keeping, say you need to get your hair bobbed. And,” she added, looking with distaste at my skirt, which hung down a few inches below my knees, “you definitely need new clothes. I never expected to see an Allcutt looking dowdy.”

  I frowned at my reflection. “I don’t really look dowdy, do I?”

  “Yes.” She spoke firmly.

  “I wouldn’t look dowdy in Boston.”

  Reflected back at me in the mirror, I saw Chloe’s rolling eyes and sighed.

  “Well, maybe I’ll get something more fashionable after I have a couple of paychecks in the bank.”

  “And that’s another thing. Why in the name of goodness do you want a job?” She said the word as if it had been rolling around in mud and she’d been assigned the unpleasant task of picking it up and cleaning it off. “For God’s sake, Mercy Lou—”

  It was my turn to interrupt. “Don’t call me that!”

  “Sorry. But, Mercy, you don’t need to work! Harvey and I are happy to have you living with us.”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s not an imposition!”

  Although I regretted the frustration I heard in my sister’s voice, I wouldn’t be dissuaded from my purpose. Turning away from the mirror, I picked up my handbag and the marked-up copy of the Los Angeles Times I’d perused during breakfast, and smiled at her. “I know you mean that, but I really want to get a job. Just to see what it feels like. Other people do it all the time.”

  “Not Allcutts,” she said with emphasis.

  Tilting my head in a gesture of agreement, I persisted. “And I want to be able to support myself if ever I need to.”

  “Gawd.” Chloe uttered the word in the exaggerated drawl she’d adopted since moving to the West Coast and marrying money. Not that she didn’t come from money to begin with, but Boston money was old. Los-Angeles-moving-picture money was new, and both groups had their distinct accents. For the most part, the newly rich L.A. folks I’d met sounded snobbier than the old-money Bostonians I’d known forever. Or for twenty-one years, which is my own personal forever, since that’s how old I am.

  I lifted the paper. “It won’t hurt me to look. In fact, I think it’ll be fun.”

  “Fun?” She eyed me as if I’d slipped a cog.

  She might be right, but I wouldn’t let on. “It’s something I’ve never done before. It’ll be interesting. A new experience.”

  “It’ll be a new experience, all right.” Her frown lifted. “Say! I have an idea! Why don’t you go to work for Harvey at the studio? They always need people to run around and do things.”

  “That’s all right, Chloe. I saw some jobs listed in the newspaper, and I think I’ll check them out first. But thank you. I may talk to Harvey later if I can’t find anything interesting today.”

  I didn’t tell her that I wanted to find a job all by myself, that I wanted to do something on my own for once in my life. I didn’t tell her that I wanted to gather new and different experiences. And, most especially, I didn’t tell her that I wanted to do those things because I aimed to use my newly gathered experiences in the novels I burned to write.

  Which was the whole point, really. You know how people always say that writers should write what they know? Well, I didn’t know anything. How can you write novels if you haven’t lived? And I don’t care what anybody says, living on Beacon Hill in Boston during the fall and winter and then in a mansion (called a “cottage”) on Cape Cod during the spring and summer isn’t really living. Oh, maybe if you’re a man it is, because you still get to leave your mansion and go work in the city.

  But if you’re a woman, all you do on Beacon Hill or Cape Cod is sit in your gilded cage, order your butler around, and look down on the rest of the world. Play tennis occasionally. Gossip. Hire and fire servants. That’s not for me, darn it.

  Don’t tell my mother I said darn it, please.

  * * * * *

  Chloe and Harvey live on what Los Angelenos call Bunker Hill. Our parents had suffered several spasms when they learned that the upstarts in Los Angeles had usurped a name so closely associated with the American Revolution, but nobody in Los Angeles seemed to care what they thought. What I liked best about where Chloe lived was that there was a precious, tiny, almost vertical railroad ride, called Angel’s Flight, that carried people to and from their elaborate homes on Bunker Hill to downtown Los Angeles, where real people did real jobs of real work.

  You could hop on a car on Angel’s Flight and in less than five minutes you’d go from fabulous wealth to everyday life, something with which I’d had little to do until then, and which I wanted to scoop up and devour like ice cream. Of course, you could also retreat again in the same amount of time, thereby giving those of us who had one an escape. That seemed like cheating to me, so I didn’t aim to give up in my quest for the common touch without a good fight.

  Until that moment, when I handed my nickel to the engineer and found a seat, I hadn’t realized exactly how many people did go to work every day, women as well as men. Sure, there were some women on the car holding shopping bags, who were probably headed out to do their marketing, but I do believe that most of those people were on their way to jobs. A thrill at being part of the worker proletariat shot through me. I’d never tell Chloe, who would laugh. Or my mother, who would faint.

  The excitement of Angel’s Flight aside, by the time I’d traversed Fourth to Broadway and down Broadway on one side and back on the other, I was beginning to question the wisdom of gath
ering new experiences. So far, I’d applied for jobs at an attorney’s office, two life insurance companies, and the Broadway Department Store, and was about to fall down dead from heat prostration and sore feet. It gets warm in Boston sometimes, but Jeez Louise, as my younger brother was fond of saying, the heat here in Los Angeles was downright oppressive.

  I promised myself that after I applied for one more job, the one that was listed at a building on—I consulted my very smeary newspaper—Seventh and Hill, I’d find myself a soda fountain and have luncheon. I mean lunch. Chloe has been trying to teach me how to speak Los Angelese, so that I don’t “put people off with my Eastern ways.” I suppose that’s a good thing for a novelist to do. I mean, I wouldn’t want people not to talk to me because they thought I was a snob, would I? No, I wouldn’t.

  My heart was too weary to soar, but the rest of me was happy when I found the address. Or was I? Good Lord. I peered up at the washed-out gray brick building and had second thoughts about applying for work there. It looked … unhealthy.

  Actually, it looked dilapidated, and I wasn’t accustomed to that. Bucking up slightly, I reminded myself that just because a building was a little long in the tooth didn’t mean anything. Heck—I mean golly—in Boston, we’re very proud of our old buildings. On the other hand, in Boston we take care of them. This building … Hmm …

  A dull brass plaque declared the place to be the “Figueroa Building.” I wondered who Mr. Figueroa was, and if he knew his building had seen better days.

  Nuts. Squaring my shoulders, I pushed open the door and walked inside. Because of the glaring sun outdoors and the relative dimness indoors, I couldn’t see a thing. However, an electrical rotating fan set up on a reception desk in the lobby blew upon those of us entering the building, and I stood there for a minute, basking in my drying perspiration while my eyes tried to adjust to the darkness. The breeze felt like heaven.

  “C’n I help you?” a nasal voice twanged at me from the desk.

  With a sigh, I left my spot in the cooling air and walked over to the voice, blinking as I did so in hopes of making my eyes adjust more quickly to the altered light. A girl about my age lounged behind the desk, using an emery board to shape her fingernails, which were a bright, bright red. She apparently didn’t have rigid parents, because not only were her fingernails painted red, but her hair was bobbed and marcelled. It was also an eye-popping white-blond. She looked a little like a younger version of my great-aunt Louise Mae Allcutt, and I wondered what would cause a young woman’s hair to turn white like that. My heart twanged in sympathy, just in case she had a debilitating illness or something.

  “Help ya?” she asked again. Her lips were painted the same brilliant red as her fingernails.

  I swallowed, never having encountered a female who looked precisely like this one. “Er … yes, thank you. I would like to speak with a …” Again I consulted the Times. “A Mr. Ernest Templeton.”

  The young woman hooted. Honestly, she sounded like an owl. “Ernie? What you done, sweetie?”

  I blinked at her. “I … beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind.” She flapped a few blood-red fingernails at me. “Ernie’s on the third floor. You can take the elevator. We don’t have a regular operator, so you’ll have to manage it yourself.” She aimed one of the fingers at the far wall. “If you want to get there, though, you prolly ought to take the stairs.” She hooked a thumb over her right shoulder, and I saw a stairwell that looked dark and menacing. Unless that was my imagination.

  “Thank you.” Assuming from the young woman’s esoteric remarks that the elevator was out of order, I aimed myself at the stairs. Unwillingly. However, it was my intention to gather unto myself new experiences and, darn it, this was a new experience.

  Oh, dear. I said it again, didn’t I?

  By the time I’d climbed up three flights of stale-smelling stairs, wondering as I did so why people in Los Angeles didn’t take better care of their buildings, I was dripping with perspiration and about to expire from heat stroke. After standing with my back against the wall for several minutes while I panted and attempted to dry myself by means of a vigorous fanning with my wilted newspaper, I looked around for something that might indicate where the office of Mr. Ernest Templeton, P.I., might be. I didn’t know what P.I. meant but didn’t think it mattered a whole lot. I wanted a job and, according to his advertisement, he needed office help.

  The hallway was dim, probably because several of the lights that were supposed to illuminate it had burned out and hadn’t been replaced. Squinting my way down the hallway, I noticed that there were no signs at all on several of the doors, as if the tenants had left a long time ago and no one else had rented the vacated rooms. Perhaps Mr. Templeton wasn’t the best choice for an employer that I could make. Since I was there, however, I decided I might as well speak to him.

  About halfway down the corridor, I thought I’d found his office. Chipped paint on the window declared E nest Te ple on, P. I guess the I had worn off, along with some of the other letters.

  It took me a few seconds to decide whether I should knock at the glass or boldly walk inside, but I decided to err on the side of caution. I knocked. The glass rattled, and I jumped back in case it decided to fall out on my feet, which were encased in sturdy walking shoes. Hot sturdy walking shoes.

  “Yeah?” a grumbly voice said a moment later.

  Yeah? Was that any way to respond to a knock?

  Knowing myself to be ignorant of Los Angeles manners, I took a chance, turned the dull brass doorknob, and pushed.

  And I walked into an empty room. Well, now what? Dirty windows let in some light, but unless the person who had spoken to me was invisible, he wasn’t there. Unless he was under the scarred desk, replete with candlestick telephone and typewriting machine, standing in the middle of the room. Four chairs, one behind the desk, two before it, one to its side, and all empty, also occupied the room.

  “Um …” I looked around, confused, not really caring to march over to the desk and search beneath it.

  My confusion ended in a flash when a voice from an adjoining room called out, “In here.”

  Ah. That explained it. Unaccountably relieved—in the split-second I’d had to think about it, I had considered the possibility that Mr. Templeton had suffered a fit and fallen down dead behind the desk, and I didn’t want to find him there—I went to the adjoining room and entered it. I didn’t get farther than a foot inside the door, because I was so shocked by what met my eyes.

  A man—a youngish man—leaned back in one of those swivel chairs that you often find in offices. This one looked as if it had seen some hard usage. He had dark hair brushed back from his forehead although a strand or two had flopped forward, eyes so blue I could see them from where I stood, and his feet propped on his desk, which was messy and covered with papers. One of his shoes had a hole in its sole.

  I think the thing that astonished me the most, however, was the large knife he held in his hand. It looked as if he was cleaning his fingernails with it.

  Was it a local fad, this nail-cleaning obsession people in this building seemed so fond of?

  A coat tree next to his desk held a jacket and a hat. He was in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up. And he didn’t rise to greet me, even though I was a woman. I believe I sniffed, reminding myself of my mother and jolting me out of my initial state of surprise.

  He said, “Yeah?” again.

  I said, “Mr. Templeton?”

  “The one and only.”

  I doubted that. “You have no father?” As soon as the words left my lips, I could have kicked myself. Even though I had little experience with job-hunting, I sensed it was unwise to be sarcastic to a prospective employer.

  Evidently he didn’t hold my slip against me. Grinning, he said, “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Embarrassment burned within me. And probably on me, as I felt my cheeks get hot.

  “You got a problem, lady?” Removing his feet from his
desk, he plopped them on the floor with a clunk—I noticed then that the office was not carpeted—and said, “You need a P.I.?”

  “Um … I don’t know. I’m looking for a job.” I waved the newspaper at him. “I’m applying for the position you have advertised in the Times.”

  Squinting, he said, “Where you from?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “Er … no. I’m from … back East.” Curse it, how could I fit in here if everyone knew from my voice that I didn’t?

  He nodded sagely. “Thought so. You sound classy.”

  I wasn’t sure, but I think that was a compliment. Figuring it best not to respond to the comment in case I was wrong, I forged onward, pursuing the employment issue. “What sort of work are you offering, Mr. Templeton?”

  He waved his hand, the one with the huge knife attached to the end of it, in the air. I drew back, certain that was an unsafe gesture to be making in so confined a space. “I need a girl Friday.”

  “Um … a girl Friday?”

  “Yeah. You know. Like Robinson Crusoe had his man Friday.”

  “Oh. I see.” This man was confusing me. He still hadn’t risen. Perhaps men only rose when women they perceived as elderly walked into their rooms. Perhaps I’d been more sheltered than even I had conjectured. Ghastly thought.

  “Can you type?”

  “Yes.” I said it proudly, too, since I’d defied both my mother and my father, not to mention assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins, when I’d attended a typewriting class at the local Young Women’s Christian Association in Boston. I’d justified my astounding action by saying that I wanted to be able to create a book of her favorite poems for my aunt Ophelia. Ophelia was quite eccentric, but she was so rich nobody avoided her because of it. Everybody backed off after that, deducing that if I was nice to Ophelia, Ophelia might leave me some of her money if she ever died.

  “What about shorthand? Can you take shorthand?”

  “Of course. Pitman system.” I’d learned to use Pitman shorthand at the same YWCA where I’d learned to type. I never even told my parents about that, since I couldn’t think of a moneyed relative upon whom I could blame my shorthand. I guess my parents had believed me to be a slow typist who had to take several classes in order to become proficient. Huh.