Dead Extra. Sean Carswell

empty. Wilma would have to write to Gertie and ask her sister to bring a new collection of sad little lifelines to fill her state-issued satchel. At least one of Wilma’s new roommates had a pencil and a notebook there.

      The nurse turned to leave. Wilma quick asked, “What am I supposed to do now?”

      “Wait. We’ll call you for supper in a few hours.”

      The thought of being alone in this tiny room was too much. “Can I at least have a smoke?”

      The nurse took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her scrubs and handed it to Wilma. Wilma shook one cigarette loose, stuck it between her lips, and handed the pack back. “Come on,” the nurse said. “There’s no smoking in the rooms. I’ll take you to the Section and light that for you.”

      The hospital had been so beautiful from the outside. It struck Wilma initially as more of a Santa Barbara resort than a bughouse, with its red tile roofs and iron balustrades and wide, sunny balconies. Wilma pictured the smoking room to be some kind of veranda or garden, like the ones she’d known at Union Station. She couldn’t indulge in this fantasy for too long, though. The Section was three doors down from her own. And it was the restroom. The nurse led her inside, lit the cigarette, and left without a goodbye. There were no seats in the restroom, save the toilets and the floor. Wilma chose the floor. The cool tile pressed against the prodigious folds of her cotton dress. She leaned against the wall, legs splayed out in front of her, and sucked in the tobacco.

      Two months.

       JACK, 1946

      JACK SPENT the afternoon at the central library, digging up all the news he could on Wilma. Her death was barely a blip. The Los Angeles Times had a brief mention: “Local Starlet Dies in Tub.” The cub reporter who typed it up made a meal out of the handful of movies you could find Wilma in if you squinted at the right time. They were all B pictures with tiny budgets. Gertie would drag Wilma to the set on Wilma’s days off and remake her as a nightclub patron or a pedestrian or a Martian or a doll who elicited a wolf whistle or the world’s only red-haired Indian. There’d been one movie Wilma practically carried Jack to so that he could see her perform an actual line. Some mug with makeup for a beard got chased down the street by a dashing fellow. The mug crashed into Wilma. She said, “Saaaay. Watch it!” Jack applauded in the little theater off Figueroa. Someone in the back pelted him with peanuts and told him to can it.

      The Times thought those movies the key to Wilma. They mentioned she’d been in over a dozen films prior to getting drunk and falling in her tub. There was no mention of her husband who, at the time, was believed to be dead in Germany. No mention of the book she wrote or her family or anything. All of that came out in the second piece Jack found about her. The obituary that Gertie had obviously written. Gertie would’ve paid by the word for that obit. She’d splurged the extra couple of pennies to add the words “beloved” and “cherished.” They caught Jack right in the back of the throat.

      Other than the blurb and the obituary, there was nothing. No mention of a murder, an investigation, of questions raised, of neighbors concerned. Nothing. Just a dead extra and yesterday’s news.

      Her book was in the racks. Jack climbed four flights of steps and wandered through a maze of shelves before finding the dusty copy. The card inside showed it hadn’t been checked out since September of 1944. He climbed back down the steps, brought the book to circulation, and checked it out.

      He left the library and headed across downtown toward Cole’s. He would have to catch the interurban there and head back this way, past the library again and onto another car up Figueroa, but he needed a walk, some time to think, and maybe some luck at Cole’s. He strolled under the shadow of the Biltmore. Somewhere above the high arches and concrete balustrades were the rooms the hotel gave over to officers back from Europe—not the ones with bombardier badges like his. The ones with brass stars. The ones so far away from the action that, if you ran into them, you knew you’d retreated all the way back.

      On the next block, he cut across Pershing Square. His father would talk about this being a meeting ground for fairies back in the ’20s. If the old man was paid to track down a hood or a thief light in the loafers, he’d come down to Pershing Square and start busting heads until he banged into one with a mouth that talked. By the time the war rolled around, the park was a patriotic site. He’d actually been hooked here, walking a downtown beat, pausing to stop under a palm and take in the statue of a soldier from the Spanish American War. A recruiter found him there, told him that his time with the force would count in his favor if he enlisted. He could be a sergeant, dropping bombs out of planes, fighting fascism and taking furloughs on the beaches of southern England.

      Well, most of it was a sales pitch. The part about dropping bombs out of planes was true. And he had been a sergeant, for whatever that was worth.

      When he reached the Pacific Building, he checked the counter inside of Cole’s, looking for a bare head with a bald spot the size of a yarmulke, looking for an arm stuck to a coffee cup that had been refilled a half-dozen times. This was the time of day when he could always find his old partner Dave Hammond here, like it was his office or something.

      Jack didn’t see him at first. The place was buzzing. Customers flitted around from tables and stools like hummingbirds on bougainvillea, waitresses swooped in with food and out with dirty plates. Jack weaved through the tables to the counter, the place with the only open seats in the joint. A few gray-haired gentlemen lingered over their conversations there. And sure enough, though his arm had grown thin and the hair around the bald spot had turned white, Hammond couldn’t be mistaken. Jack took the stool next to him.

      Jack didn’t address Hammond. He sat facing forward, waiting for the waitress. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and started rolling his own. The waitress swung by. “Just coffee,” he said.

      Hammond heard the voice and looked to his right. Jack kept his face forward, his hands on his cigarette. He could feel Hammond’s stare, almost hear the internal dialogue. Hammond brought that dialog to the external in no time. “Am I seeing a ghost?” he asked.

      Jack slowly turned his head left. When he caught Hammond’s glance, he said, “Boo!”

      Hammond jumped in his seat.

      Jack smiled. It was a cruel joke, but he couldn’t resist it when the opportunity arose.

      “Jack? Holy cow!” Hammond walloped him in the center of his back. “You’re alive!”

      “So it would seem,” Jack said.

      “I was at your funeral, kid. Christ, what happened?”

      “At the funeral?” Jack asked. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” He pointed a finger at Hammond. “I hope you cried, though. I hope you turned to Gladys and cursed what a waste it was to lose a great man like me.”

      Hammond smiled. He kept his hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed hard enough to crush the suit padding. “You son of a bitch. It’s good to see you.”

      “You too.”

      The waitress poured Jack’s coffee. He ordered a slice of peach pie.

      “So what the hell happened over there? How’d you get yourself killed and come back to life?”

      Jack lit his cigarette, watched the smoke gather around an overhead lightbulb. He gave Hammond the short version. “The plane I was in got shot down. I took a parachute ride followed by a little tour of Germany on my own. Sometime later, I ran into some Nazis who gave me a place to live for a couple of years. Now I’m back.”

      Hammond scratched his balding head. “A little tour? Were you by yourself?”

      Jack nodded. “I was the only member of the crew who made it.”

      “So you were behind enemy lines? By yourself? For how long?”

      “I