Moorpark Palms - 6. Chapter 6

Of the nine buildings on the block, this was the one with four empty apartments – now three.
“We haven’t run ads ‘cause of the cheap Heldigger brothers,” Gabe said. “They want to sell the place so badly, they forget it looks better with people in it.”
Vic had different thoughts. “Nah, the fewer stiffs they’re stuck with, the less they have to pay off.”
Sally said she couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Heldigger was thinking. “Though she is somewhat older than I am.”
“No one’s older than Sally,” Vic commented, though not being rude.
“Vic’s lousy with ages,” Gabe returned. “Sally’s just as old as she says.”
“Which is?”
Gabe hesitated, maybe calculating. “Well, she was eighteen when she moved here.”
“In 1957?” That seemed wrong.
“In 1935 – when she came to do movies. Did she tell you about that?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you who asked her out?”
We were standing in the courtyard, and Gabe carefully glanced in the direction of Sally’s apartment. Everyone in the building seemed to have a range of cautious looks before gossiping. I guess retaliation was too quick. When Gabe looked at my blank expression, he must have realized Sally had said nothing about dating.
“I shouldn’t really tell you this,” he said. “Because she was married at the time.”
“I won’t say anything. Who do I know?”
Why was I interested?
As we spoke, Gabe nodded silently towards Vic’s slightly open window, and I glanced that way. Behind his tight blinds, had something moved?
“I only have three friends in California,” I assured Gabe. “Sally’s secret is safe.”
Still, he hesitated. Evidently, this was hot. Finally, almost noiselessly, he mouthed, “Dick Powell.” Then, slightly louder, “Or William Powell – I can never remember which. The one who played the detective.”
I wanted to laugh. “That could be either.”
“I’ll have to ask Sally again. It’s easy getting her to talk.”
Not to mention Gabe.
“Anyway, nothing happened,” he went on. “It was just for lunch, and only at the commissary. That’s what they called the studio cafeteria, so it couldn’t have been very fancy.”
I nodded. As encouragement? What more did I need to know?
“But Frank – Sally’s husband,” Gabe continued, “also worked at the studio. And she was afraid he’d find out.”
“What was his job?”
For a moment, Gabe tried to remember. Then he laughed. “I can’t recall. He might’ve been a carpenter.”
“Sally was a dancer. I can see where they might’ve met.”
Gabe resumed his story. “Anyway, Sally was worried that Frank would find out she had lunch with one of the Powell brothers. In those days, it was bad enough for married women to be dancing in movies, no matter how good the money was. But you could never go out with a man who wasn’t your husband.”
“Even for a public lunch?”
“My mother had a friend,” Gabe explained, “whose marriage broke up over something that silly. This was later – during Korea – but nothing had changed. And my mother never stopped telling the story.”
“It obviously made an impression.”
“No joke.”
Though I wondered how much of Gabe’s story about Sally could be true. And how much I’d remember. Would I soon be thinking Gabe’s mother’s friend ruined her marriage because she once had lunch in a studio snack bar with Dick or William Powell. Or maybe Eleanor in drag?
“How do you find out these things?” a guy I’d occasionally dated once asked. We were in bed, in college, analyzing friends.
“People like to talk.”
“Maybe to you,” he said.
“Maybe.”
After I left Gabe, I thought about something else Sally had told me. Speaking of her “older” friend Mrs. Heldigger, she’d commented: “She always spoiled those two boys. I told her for years she’d regret it, but now she’s too sick to remember.” Sally had seemed slightly disappointed.
“What do you think’ll happen to the building?” I’d asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” she’d sighed. “The plumbing’s bad anyway.”
If the place came down, it would inconvenience nearly two-dozen people. Besides Sally in Apartment 1, me in 2, Vic in 3, and Gabe and his wife in 6, they were:
Four college-age women from Buffalo – one with a baby – crammed in the two bedrooms of Apartment 5.
Two also-college-age guys in Apartment 7: Lonnie, who studied accounting, and Dale, a mechanic.
Three more college-age-women in Apartment 9 – the place was a dorm.
In Apartment 11 lived a “mystery man” – quite an achievement considering his curious neighbors.
Claire lived in Apartment 12. She was a business exec in her late thirties.
In Apartment 13 were two Hungarian women of different ages. Mother/daughter? Aunt/niece? No one seemed to know.
Finally, in Apartment 14 was a couple from Kansas. Maybe my age. Like Claire, they were also in business.
Apartments 4, 8, and 10 were empty. By the end of a few weeks, I’d met everyone. “Ever been to Buffalo?” one of the girls in apartment 5 – Shannon – asked me. Someone must have told her I was from the East.
“No. Am I missing something?”
“Winter lasts six months, and summer’s miserable,” she said, laughing. Then she went on. “When I was six, I announced to my parents that I was moving to California. I’d never been here and had only seen it on TV. But I started saving my money and was ready to go when I finished high school. It took another year for me to convince my friends.”
They were: Jackie, Kim, and Lisa – the last the (unwed?) mother. They were all thin, pretty, and with various shades of hair. Each had some kind of low-paying job.
“So what?” Jackie joked. “We’ll all marry billionaires.”
In Apartment 7, Lonnie and Dale weren’t millionaires. They were from LA but couldn’t have been more different. Lonnie was a tight, toned athlete who spent at least an hour a day oiled by the pool – often accompanied by his pet boa, Yuck. Dale was taller, thinner, and had dark, shaggy hair that nearly covered his eyes. But he was always smiling.
“Great day!” he’d exclaim, even if it were – rarely – cloudy. He’d catch me in the morning, often less-than-awake.
“Hi,” I’d manage.
“See Cops last night?”
Somehow, I’d shake my head.
“Some action!” And he’d zip away.
But you couldn’t dislike the guy. Whenever you needed anything, he’d volunteer. Sometimes, he did things you hadn’t thought to ask.
“I hosed down your car,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Looking for a hand-out?” I joked.
“Oh, no. No!”
I’d hurt his feelings
“I thought you were short on rent,” I apologized.
“No way!” He laughed. “I was washing my car, and yours looked like shit. You really ought to paint it.”
In Apartment 9, all three women were also from LA and all went to UCLA. Teri, the prettiest, was also the most friendly.
“You have to ignore certain people around here,” she warned me, pleasantly, early on. “They’ve never learned manners.”
“I can’t imagine who you mean,” I said, smiling.
Teri grinned and shrugged. “Though you’re a guy. It might be easier.”
“Vic giving you trouble?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t know how.”
I believed that.
“The first month, he kept staring at me,” she went on. “Especially in the pool. He never swims but always watches from his window. Finally, he came down – carrying a towel and wearing cut-offs and a T-shirt that barely covered his hairy belly. ‘Gonna come in?’ I asked. ‘Too cold,’ he mumbled. And it was only September! ‘Come on!’ I joked. ‘Race you across the pool!’ I wasn’t being mean. I was just tired of being spied on. Well, he was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the fence. His towel folded neatly in his lap, but you could tell he couldn’t get up without embarrassing himself.”
“The joys of manhood.”
“I swam... dove... sunned... all the time talking with him. I was wearing a two-piece – ordinary, but it showed me off. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and skunked back to his apartment. Holding the towel in front of him all the way!”
I laughed. “I wish I’d seen that.”
“It was hysterical. Now he won’t even look straight at me.”
“Does he bother your roommates?”
“Just from a distance. The stupid thing is, Annette thinks he’s cute. She likes older guys and would go out with him if he asked.”
Teri’s third roommate was Veronica. All had independent career plans, not involving marrying money.
“Flirting with the bitch?” Vic soon asked me. He’d clearly seen me talking with Teri. “She’ll take off your balls,” he warned. “Clean. Won’t even leave hair.”
“More graphic than I needed,” I replied.
“I’ve been married,” he assured me. “You just don’t know.”
In Apartment 11, the mystery man’s mailbox had no name. Gabe said he paid his rent in cash. And if he owned a car, it never came near the building.
“You don’t know his name?” I asked Gabe, after he’d told me the rest.
“‘Barry.’ We think.”
“First or last?”
He shrugged. “Could be either.”
“He’s selling drugs,” Vic insisted.
“It’s not that bad,” Gabe countered. “He’s friends with one of the Heldigger brothers. That’s how he got the place.”
“Drugs. Absolutely.” Vic was always sure.
Claire had been living in Apartment 12 for nine years. At least, that’s what Sally thought. Gabe swore he and his wife had moved in first, but Claire couldn’t remember. And she didn’t like to be reminded she was living there at all.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s been too long.”
“You don’t like the place?”
She hesitated. “Ynyaah.”
I couldn’t interpret.
“Where would you rather be?” I asked.
“That’s the problem. I won’t invest in a house or a condo. I don’t trust earthquakes. And most of the time, I’m cash poor because of my stocks. I moved here temporarily then lazily stayed.”
In Apartment 13, Gabe reported the two Hungarian women shared a double bed. “That’s all I saw,” he said, “when I was patching their ceiling.”
“I’m sure their couch opens up,” said Sally.
“Nope. I tried,” Gabe added. “And it’s real uncomfortable. Even to sit on.”
I wondered if Gabe tested everyone’s furniture.
The younger Hungarian woman – another college student? – was maybe twenty, and the other as proportionately older as whichever story you favored. They had a large, mixed breed dog, which they walked in tandem every night, and they were rarely seen outside without it. Considering their neighbors’ suspicions, who could blame them?
Sally and Gabe also disagreed about the business couple in Apartment 14. Sally thought they were saving for a house. Gabe said a baby.
“Probably both,” Vic grumbled. “They’re just the kind.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“You know. Breeders. Conservatives from Kansas.”
“Houses are nice,” Sally offered.
“Till you get divorced,” Vic spat.
He also decided the couple wasn’t fertile. “Otherwise, they’d have kids by now. Hell, they’ve been trying for years. And the way she walks! It’s gotta be hormones.”
“It’s the heels,” I pointed out. “She’s relatively short and wears three-inch stilettos to compensate. Without them, her husband’s almost a foot taller.”
“It’s not that,” Vic stonewalled. “Heels like that are for fantasies.”
Of all the tenants, Sally had been there longest, followed – or tied – by Claire and Gabe and his wife. Then Vic and the Hungarians. The accountant and the mechanic. The Kansas couple. The three girls from UCLA. “Barry.” And the Buffalo gals and their baby.
It took maybe a month to gather all this. Mainly, by not asking.