Roscoe looked out the window, the machine idling at Pier 35. A group of sailors passed his car, eyes wide with amazement at the fine machine. He smoked and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You remember me asking about you knowing Mr. Hearst?”
Roscoe didn’t say anything.
“Why’d you lie?”
“I said I’ve met the man once.”
“He’s taken an interest in you.”
Roscoe turned from the window, his profile in the glass.
“His bagman paid Fishback,” Sam said. “I saw it. That same man poisoned the woman who’d come to the city to testify on your behalf. Between Hearst and Brady, the facts will never be heard. The real truth has already been buried or burned up in an incinerator.”
Roscoe looked confused but nodded, and then nodded some more.
Sam leaned into the space between them. He checked his watch and rubbed his head.
“Why do you continue to protect him?”
Roscoe shook his head.
“He’s walking all over you,” Sam said. “Hearst is making you look like a fool. You keep on keeping whatever you know a secret and you’re headed to San Quentin. Why a grown man would want to be anyone’s whipping boy is beyond me. My ass would get sore after a while.”
Roscoe looked at him and Sam saw more rage than he expected. But the rage soon softened and he started to cry, and he was very open about it. Sam had never seen a grown man so open about weeping before another man. He looked like he was about ten, wiping the mess away with his fists.
“I’m not protecting Hearst,” he said. “I’m no one’s whipping boy.”
Sam leaned into the soft leather seats. He lit a cigarette, reached into the bar and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. “Jesus Christ,” Sam said, taking a long pull.
Roscoe reached over and poured him another.
“I could get used to this.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Roscoe said, not looking at him anymore but staring out the window and thinking. The hand-rolled cigarette burned between his fingers. His robe was silk and probably cost more than Sam’s suit and shirt and shoes put together. “All this makes you soft.”
“I left my hat on the boat,” Sam said, reaching for the door.
Roscoe held up his hand. “Hold on. Christ, let me think. I just don’t know. God damn. I don’t understand any of it. It’s making my head hurt.”
“It’s a simple story, Roscoe. You walked into a frame job and the frame job went really wrong. About as wrong as it can get. And that isn’t your fault. But to hold out on me with anything isn’t just pigheaded, it’s damn stupid.”
“Do you know that for the weeks I spent in that jail, all I did was try to remember what happened in that room?”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t. I thought maybe I did kill her. I could imagine it. I could imagine me falling asleep on her, touching her too rough.”
Sam finished the glass.
“I’m so goddamn clumsy when I drink,” Roscoe said. “I wanted to die. If there had been a gun in that cell, I would’ve stuck it into my mouth. I convinced myself that I’d killed her. I read the stories and those stories rolled in my head. I saw myself crushing her. I didn’t really stop blaming myself until today. When Freddie turned on me, I knew it had been a frame job. He worked me goddamn perfectly. He arranged the sets, brought in the actors, and had it play out just like he’d written it.”
“Except for one thing.”
Roscoe looked up at Sam.
“The girl wasn’t supposed to die.”
“Sure she was.”
Sam shook his head. “She was sick. No one was planning on that. But when it happened, they changed the script and rolled with it, and now you’re being railroaded to prison. So why don’t we cut out all the bullshit and you tell me why William Randolph Fucking Hearst wants to destroy your life.”
It began to rain outside. The rain pinged on the waxed hood of the big machine. Roscoe flipped a switch and told the chauffeur to drive. The wheels rolled.
“I don’t want her hurt.”
“A woman,” Sam said. “Always a woman.”
“She’s a hell of a woman,” Roscoe said, as the chauffeur kicked it in gear and they headed down the never-ending row of piers, arc lights blazing the way, the rain catching in their bright glow. “She saved my life. And, above all, I want her name left out of this. She’s sweet and gentle and caring. She saved my life.”
“You said that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“And just how did that work?”
“There was a New Year’s party,” Roscoe said. “Two years ago. She owns a beautiful beach home that looks like an old-fashioned plantation. We were all very, very drunk.”
“What’s her name, Roscoe?”
“Marion,” he said. “Marion Davies.”
“The film actress?”
Roscoe nodded.
Sam nodded. He waited.
Roscoe didn’t say anything.
“And who is Mr. Hearst to her?”
“A friend,” Roscoe said. “Her benefactor.”
“I bet.”
“You ever have a woman care for you when you’re down-and-out? When you feel like you’re at the bottom of a well and can’t see for the dark?”
Sam glanced away.
“I had problems,” Roscoe said. “With my manhood. I confided very personal issues to her. I was drunk and told Miss Davies. I was quite drunk. Very drunk.”
“So you were drunk,” Sam said.
“She said I lacked confidence and the whole business was in my head,” he said. “We walked on the beach when all hell was breaking loose with fireworks and champagne bottles uncorking and all that, and she led me by the hand behind a sand dune.”
“And proved you wrong,” Sam said. He ashed his cigarette into his hand.
Roscoe noted the gesture and handed him a cut-glass tray.
“This is all in confidence,” Roscoe said. “You must assure me.”
“I assure you.”
“Miss Davies isn’t what I call chaste,” Roscoe said. “Surely Mr. Hearst understands that. He’s quite a bit older, and for him to go to all this trouble… She’s known to entertain other gentlemen.”
“God bless her.”
“No one saw us.”
“Oh, someone saw you,” Sam said. “You just didn’t see them.”
“The only thing on that beach was shadows and moonlight,” Roscoe said. “I never told a soul.”
“They’ll convict you, Roscoe,” Sam said. “If Miss Davies is the friend you think, she’ll give us the goods on Hearst.”
Roscoe shook his head.
“This man has destroyed your life.”
“I don’t believe it,” Roscoe said. “Why would a man like Mr. Hearst go to all that trouble?”
“Do I need to draw a picture for you?” Sam asked. “You screwed his girl.”
“Mr. Hearst doesn’t have time to take such an interest-”
“I’ve seen him take an interest in a lot less.”
Roscoe watched Sam. Sam drank some more. There was more rain and headlights cut across the darkness of the cab.
“Miss Davies is-”
“I’ve done some work I’m not proud of,” Sam said. “I know for a fact Mr. Hearst once sent a man, the very same man who paid Fishback, to kill a fella by the name of Little. All Little did was try and help some miners and he ended up with his neck stretched under a train trestle.”
“That sounds like a business matter.”
“It wasn’t just money,” Sam said. “Hearst couldn’t control him. He spoke out louder and better than any Hearst stooge. He attacked Hearst in his speeches and on street corners. Workers listened to Little, respected him.”
“I can’t.”
“Get a message to Miss Davies,” Sam said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
Roscoe shook his head, arm casually resting against the door. The cigarette smoldered in his hand, Roscoe seeming to forget about it.
“Hearst may have set the trap, but I was dumb enough to be snared,” Roscoe said. “I’ll carry my own water, thank you.”
“If you don’t speak up, they’ll win,” Sam said. “This isn’t just Hearst, it’s the lot of lousy bastards.”