Fae Well, My Lovely

By Teel James Glenn

“We don’t want your kind here!”

Nazis don’t take kindly to that sentiment. Especially when their occult plan to invade America through nightmares has begun.

A murder occurs at a fundraiser for Kate Scorn, the philanthropic “Angel of the Slums.” The victim: an Irish folklore specialist, of all things. A clue-trail leads “Moxie” Donovan, reporter, to the Griffith Park “Hooverville” encampment. A Germanic folklore specialist was to meet with the slain man — then someone punches his ticket.

When Nazis start killing American citizens in Hollywood, Moxie gets angry. So does his actress wife, “Maxi."

MOXIE DONOVAN is a tough Irish reporter married to red-haired, Jewish movie star MAXI KELLER. Relocated to Universal Studios in 1938, the duo investigate mysteries spinning into the realm of weird tales, often with the Nazi menace and occult matters lurking in the shadow of the famous Hollywoodland sign.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005358457

Teel James Glenn

A native of Brooklyn, NY, Teel--or T.J. as most know him, has a long career as a performer, teacher, stunt expert that has informed his writing.

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Copyright © 2022 Teel James Glenn. All rights reserved.

Maxi and Moxie TM & © 2022 author. All rights reserved.

Bold Venture Press, February 2022

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places and events depicted in this story are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, and places or events is coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author or the publisher. This eBook is licensed for your enjoyment only. If you are reading this and didn’t purchase a copy, please purchase your own. Thanks for respecting this author’s hard work.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Fae Well, My Lovely

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Afterword

About the author

More from Bold Venture Press

To Liz,

Who is everything a reporter should be and as a friend so much more, and to ET, who continues to support me, body and soul; thank you both for being in my life.

Acknowledgements:

To the giants who came before me,

Robert Leslie Bellum, Damon Runyon and Dashiell Hammett …

truly standing on their broad shoulders.

Fae Well, My Lovely

February 1939

Chapter 1

Going in Circles

I was in the middle of a screaming crowd of almost six thousand at the newly renovated Hollywood Legion Stadium. The smell of popcorn, peanuts and beer was almost as strong as the vibrations of those yells as the fans jumped up and down in their seats. A banked track had been installed for the charity event and most of the crowd were leaning over the rails and cheering their lungs out like ancient Romans at the bloody games of yore. And I was one of them, cheering for my sister-in-law.

"Killer Kellerman is coming off the high back of the north end of the track and moving up on number six." The announcer’s voice coming out of the loudspeaker was tinny and booming at the same time. Ladies and Gentlemen, men and women compete on an equal basis in roller derby, so Kellerman is coming up fast while Bill Nevins of the white team is taking advantage of being in with the girls and doing his best to block her.

My name is Michael Aloysius Donovan, though I go by Moxie most often. I’m a type-jockey, that is, a reporter by both trade and inclination with ink in my bloodstream and a nose for trouble. These days I hang my hat at a Hollywood movie studio where my honey of a honey —billed as Maxine Keller — is a rising star. I try to stay respectable by working as a press flack for the studio. I also do my best to keep my toe in hard news, in between writing claptrap that covers up the weekend morals-code violations of the silver screen idols in that land of dreams.

Frankly, I would have rather been home listening to that week’s episode of The Adventures of Dr. Shadows on the radio or boxing at the Olympic Stadium, but there I was watching a bunch of muscular men and women zipping around a banked track on roller skates because Killer Kellerman was my sister-in-law, Rachel! It was a bit weird as even seeing her from the distance of the celebrity box, with her wearing a helmet, the resemblance to my lady wife was clear.

The guy trying to keep Rachel from passing his teammates seemed to be twice her size, but I knew from my own Bronx-raised wife that things like that did not even come close to intimidating the Kellerman clan.

My spouse was on my right side trying to out yell the crowd, encouraging the red team and waving her arms around violently enough that I had to duck and weave an occasional flying fist.

Get them, Rachel, the tall dark man on my left yelled, though it came out like Gaatt Dehm, Ray-Shal! but then Bela Lugosi always sounded like he was gargling marbles.

The Hungarian matinee idol turned Hollywood hoodoo-man was the last person you would expect to see at a roller derby, but he had become close with the Kellerman family when he and Maxi had appeared on a short run show on Broadway back in ’36.

In fact, I had him to thank for meeting my pint-sized spouse—I’d been assigned to cover a low budget film they were making together on Governors Island. As the star he had some say as to who costarred with him and he had asked for my redhead.

There were sparks and snide remarks flying from the second Maxi and I met and, as it turned out, the film had been her ticket from the boards to the California silver screen.

Bela’s career had been on a downward slide while hers was rising and she had done what she could to keep him working after the fad for horror films had died down.

This is exciting, yes? Bela yelled joyfully at me, though it was more like Dis ezz egg-sight ting, yez? His delight at the circular mayhem did not make him any easier to understand. His English was still strictly garbled to me most of the time though I was a bit scared I was beginning to understand him more and more.

You bet it is, Bela, I shouted back, like Max Sharkey on skates! He gave a very ungentlemanly snort of pleasure at the comment and went back to yelling.

He was riding high of late after nearly a decade of decline in prestige; his son had been born the year before and Universal, the same studio that my red-haired honey and I worked for, had gotten back into the horror film business after a re-release of his old Dracula film proved a success. He had just completed a role in The Ghost of Frankenstein and was generally cheerier than he had been in a while.

"Killer Kellerman is taking up the track with deceptively long-legged strides," the announcer intoned. "Remember, in order to gain a point Nevins must be able to pass a member of the red team. He is moving fast and is just about three lengths of a lap behind the tail end of the pack."

Go get’em, Kellerman! my wife yelled with pipes that should have been on a dame twice her size. I wasn’t sure if it came from her singing training or screaming at construction workers in the Fordham Road neighborhood in the Bronx. She caught my smile and arched a perfect eyebrow at me as if to ask, So what, I yell!

I smiled and yelled, Go get’em, Kellerman! which made her flash her perfect pearlies at me.

"As we approach the end of three hours of continuous excitement here tonight," the announcer continued, keep in mind this three-day match concludes when the team making the most points with this theoretical travel from the Grand Canyon to Hollywood Boulevard will be the winner . . . but the real winner will be the Angel of the Slum’s Charity Foundation which this evening was organized to support! Remember give till it hurts for those who hurt worse!

The ‘Angel’ the announcer spoke of was the stunning blonde Kate Scorn. She was on the other side of Maxi (my wife was good about strategically thinking that way) in the VIP box where we were seated. She was not only taller than my spouse but her skin was paler, white as porcelain and her full lips—well, you get the idea. The fact she was dressed in a tight-fitting grey dress that would have been conservative on anyone else—and was anything but on her—didn’t help with her angel image.

She was stacked like a research library shelf since the dress only pointed out her best assets—not that I noticed, of course, not with my own redhead perfectly positioned to copy her sister in a full body block if I should notice. I’d never even so much as spoken to the blonde so Moxie had nothing to fear.

Standing next to Kate Scorn was her escort for the evening, the hulking actor Victor Mclaglen, his broad shoulders emphasized by the lilac and blue military uniform he wore. It marked him as the head of the private militia he’d founded, The California Light Horse Troop. Many of his troopers were scattered around the arena acting as ushers. The whole group reminded me of a high school marching band showing off for the cheerleaders.

I didn’t much like the whole idea of a private army, but the British army veteran Mclaglen insisted they were ‘American Patriots’ and he had them doing lots of charity work between their weekly training sessions and parades. Up until the floods last year he’d had a stadium out near Griffith Park where he hosted sporting and charity events, like the roller derby, between rounds of playing soldier—so—good on him.

"Bill Nevins is just about one quarter of a lap behind Kellerman and he is moving up slow and doing everything in his power to keep from being blocked out of the pack. Killer Kellerman is looking back over her shoulder and suddenly there is a fall ladies and gentlemen, a fall! One girl going over the north wall has consequences; any time a fall occurs during a jam, the jam is automatically called off with no points given!"

The big roller-skating lug that was pursuing my sister-in-law speed up a bit and bumped into Rachel as she slowed to avoid the tangle at the fall. He almost sent her over the rail, but she skated out from the wall, did a skidding half-stop and kicked the skates out from under Nevins, causing him to fall on his back.

A roar of approval went up from the crowd followed by a laugh when the beefy Nevins started to curse a blue streak as he climbed to his feet.

Rachel skated away as her teammates patted her on the back.

The white team protested to the referee that it was an intentional fall and the referee came out onto the track.

The referees called a foul but they sent Rachel off the track, penalizing her three minutes for kicking the skates out from under the opposing player. That left only three members of the white team on the track.

He deserved it! Maxi yelled and it seemed half the arena agreed with her. Even Kate, her angelic features placid during most of the game looked over at Maxi and gave a smirk at my redhead’s enthusiasm. The Angel’s crystal blues looked past Maxi and made eye contact with me.

I felt a sudden electric thrill race through me as the smirk warmed into a full-on smile and I swear my wedding ring vibrated on my finger.

I gulped and nodded a congenial hello at just the moment my redhead noticed me staring and followed my eyeline to Kate.

I will say that Maxi handled it with her usual flair; she smiled at Kate and then leaned over, grabbed my tie and pulled me down into a high-octane smooch.

Kate who? I said when I got to have some air.

Exactly, Mister, my wife said with a knowing smile. She may be an angel in the slums but I’m the queen of the Donovan castle.

And empress of my heart, I smiled back. I did notice that Kate saw our connubial moment, and elbowed Mclaglen who looked over at us and laughed.

Nothing like an Irishman to appreciate a good woman’s hug. I just wish I’d known then how much that hug would mean to me a few hours later!

Chapter 2

The Last Jam

So very good to see you again, little one, Bela said as he accepted a friendly embrace from Rachel Kellerman outside the locker room after the match. The Hungarian actor had been a regular at the Kellerman table when he was on Broadway with Maxi, enjoying the fact that Maxi’s mom spoke fluent German and Hungarian as well as Yiddish. He was like the Dutch uncle to the girls.

Bubellah! Rachel said, giving as good as she got in the hug. She was like a more muscular, darker-haired version of my wife, two years older and considerably rougher around the edges. At least on the surface. She had been on the roller derby circuit for three years and was a rising star in that world while Maxi had been stealing hearts on the silver screen.

The final jam had gone on for eight or nine minutes with points awarded for each time a member of the opposing team passed, and after Rachel was out of the penalty box my sister-in-law got a few of those points herself.

The minutes went fast and Rachel’s team won the last heat to put them ahead. The auditorium cheered and I thought my wife would leap from the stands.

Maxi couldn’t wait to rush into the bowels of the arena to congratulate her sister. Bela came along, just as pleased his protégé’s sister was a star.

How is tall, dark and handsome treating you, sis? Rachel asked as she hugged my redhead.

You mean Bela? Maxi asked innocently.

Hey, he’s only an inch taller than me, I protested while the Hungarian nightbiter smiled.

And you’re only dark if you run out of bourbon, laughing boy, Maxi giggled.

The other muscular women were coming out of the locker room, often two-by-two holding hands, and several were impressed by the Hungarian film star. They were not shy at all about saying it when they saw him, coming over to him to ask for autographs. Bela ate it up.

It was nice to see him so up after a rough couple of years. Me and the Kellerman girls stood off to the side and enjoyed him enjoying his public for a bit while the sisters caught up, since Rachel had been on the road for months.

Being only ‘adopted’ into the tribe, Irish Catholic upbringing and all, as well as not in the performing arts (if one could consider roller derby ‘arts’) I pushed back my fedora and did my best quiet husband act.

I found myself enjoying the fact that the petite redhead in that sibling pair in front of me had somehow lost her mind and agreed to marry me two years before. I was just a word-jockey then and she was already a Broadway headliner on the verge of being discovered by Hollywood.

Now I had won a Pulitzer for my series of articles on the German American Bund, who were the Nazi Party in America; she had a seven-year contract with Universal and a couple of B Plus pictures to her credit. Still, I felt she was way above my class and then some.

I let myself drift away, down the concrete corridor of the backstage area and around a corner to light up a coffin nail. It was a habit I had resisted up till recently and tried not to do around Maxi, who was not a fan.

As I lit the gasper and took my first long drag, I was suddenly aware I was not alone, though I had not heard anyone walk up the corridor.

Standing off to my right was a short, small-boned man with blond-red hair, pale skin and sharp features. He came barely to my shoulder. He looked up at me with a smile and puffed on an old-fashioned clay pipe. He blew out a smoke ring and poked a finger through it.

Nothing like the first puff, eh? he said with an accent that cried ‘old sod.’

Yes, I admitted.

So, you’re The Donovan, are yee?

I snorted at that pure, old Ireland way of saying things.

Yes, I said. I suppose I am the oldest male in the family now. I offered him my hand. Moxie Donovan . . . and you are?

The little guy looked at my hand as if it were a snake, blew out another puff of smoke and smiled. Fithal Mac Tir, he said. He never reached out.

I withdrew the hand and took my second puff. You see the derby? My reporter senses said the guy wanted to get to some point but wasn’t about to be pushed to it. Sources develop like that, usually not a flood but like a dripping faucet, especially if they had something they wanted in return for the leak.

The folks running like the hounds out there? No.

Just here for the smells?

This made him snort. Oh, you’re as much a laugh as Old Willy was.

Old Willy?

And as dense as ever he was hisself, he said. He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at me. Willy Donovan, fellah, the self-same fellah that was your grand da.

My wha— I almost bit my cigarette in half. How did you know my grandfather? I took another hard look at the little guy; he couldn’t be any older than I was, and Granddad Donovan had passed when I was ten. If he knew Willy it was as a toddler. I fingered the lucky gold coin that granddad had given me when I was six that I still always kept with me on a chain around my neck with my St. Christopher’s medal.

I still don’t know how he got the better of me with his riddle game, Mac Tir said. Not if you’re sprung from his loins, yet he foxed me of me horde of coins and made his way ’cross the ocean blue to this speck of desperation.

Wait a minute, you’re telling me you knew my grandfather in Ireland and remember him? He came over here decades before I was born. How the heck old could you possibly be? There were no age lines on the little guy’s face or bend to his posture. His eyes were crisp blue and now narrowed to squint at me.

That’s a rude thing to be askin’ a fella, he said. I’d be askin’ the question which is more to the point of this entire exchange now, for sure.

And exactly what is the point?

He laughed like a flute playing a tune. "Like all you decay monkeys you only see as far as the end of your