Shooting Star / Spiderweb

  “Good boy.”

  “See you tomorrow.” I started down the walk. “And don’t worry, we aren’t ready for Forest Lawn yet.” I smiled and headed for the car.

  Driving away, in darkness, the smile slipped off my face. It hadn’t been glued on very well in the first place. Because I really was scared.

  Daisy’s notion made sense to me. I remembered all those stories about unsolved killings and mysterious suicides and sudden deaths. Everybody who has anything to do with the industry hears a dozen of them. I could understand why, too. If you’re mixed up in a billion dollar business and your success or failure depends on publicity, you’ll take steps to see that the publicity is good. You won’t hesitate to frame and fix in order to protect your good name or the good name of your product.

  Not that Hollywood is any different than any other city, or the motion pictures different than any other industry. Detroit has its scandals and its unsolved murders, too. The automotive business holds secrets and so does steel and the railroads and the mines. You can’t indict the automobile industry as a whole because of a few black marks. And you can’t indict Hollywood because of the few exceptions.

  On the other hand, the exceptions do exist; the black marks crop up from time to time. Ugly black marks, like the smudging X where the body is found. And if somebody threatens to rub you out, make another X, it’s worth thinking about.

  I thought about it a lot during the long drive back across town. Suppose Daisy was right, and a lunatic had killed Ryan? Thompson spoke about the possibility of a pervert or a sex fiend at work. Such a man wouldn’t hesitate a moment. He’d be ready to kill again, and again if necessary. And he’d be clever. Clever enough to find out (he had found out, somehow, what we were planning) and clever enough to act.

  Wilshire was welcome, with its bright lights. I headed east, through MacArthur Park, cutting off a way, then back and down to Columbia. My apartment was around the corner, on Ingraham. Darker, there. I parked in the shadows, then hurried across the street towards the safety and security of the well-lighted lobby.

  I climbed the two flights, reaching for my key as I got to the second landing. At the same time I couldn’t keep my hand away from my coat pocket. It wanted to feel the gun nestling there.

  I opened the door. The apartment was dark, and I switched on the light. Everything was in order. I stepped inside, but when it came to closing the door behind me, my hand wasn’t having any.

  It wouldn’t cooperate. It insisted on leaving the door open as I stepped across the room to peer into the kitchen and the bath. Nobody there, of course. And nobody in the closet, when I went to hang up my coat.

  “Silly,” I told my hand. And took it over to the door again. This time, reluctantly, it reached down and closed the door for me.

  I turned. And my hand reached out and pointed. I followed it over to the armchair, next to the table. It brushed the top of the table and scooped up the little white card resting against the ashtray. The little white card I’d never seen before, the little white card I’d never propped there. But my hand held it up so that I could read the brief message scrawled with a common ballpoint pen.

  “LAY OFF!”

  That’s all the card told me.

  I wasn’t frightened. My hand was frightened, though, because it trembled.

  Then I looked down in the ashtray and I saw the butt. The coarse, crumpled butt of a hand-rolled cigarette. My fingers closed around it, and even before I brought it to my nostrils I could smell the harshly sweet scent of marijuana.

  He’d been here. He’d been sitting in my chair, in my apartment, smoking weed. He’d given me another warning, and if I didn’t take it, he might come back. Only this time he wouldn’t bother to warn me. You get high on weed. It was a crazy thing to risk leaving a butt like this. But then, he could be a maniac.

  All at once my hand stopped trembling. It dropped the butt back in the ashtray, picked up the card again, and shredded it to bits between my fingers.

  Maybe I was up against a lunatic. Maybe I was up against somebody bigger—somebody who didn’t want his secrets revealed. Maybe I was just a little guy, like Bannock said, and a scared little guy at that.

  But nobody, sane or insane, big or small, was going to push me around. I needed that eleven grand as badly as Bannock needed his big stake. Besides, I had a prejudice against murderers. It was so easy for me to put myself in the victim’s place.

  And that, of course, was exactly what I was doing...

  Chapter Five

  I don’t like the smell of reefer butts.

  I thought the air might be purer at a hotel, so the next morning I moved. I didn’t give up the apartment; just packed two suitcases and checked in at a room in the smallest and cheapest hostelry across the Park.

  Then, just to keep the smell out of my office, I went to a hardware store and bought a new lock for the door.

  By the time I’d finished changing the lock and holding a treasure hunt with the mail, looking for checks, it was close to noon.

  I lunched, then drove out to Harry’s office to pick up my studio pass.

  He was out, but his girl had news for me.

  “Mr. Clayburn, you’re here about a pass, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Bannock called this morning. They’re doing retakes on Miss Foster’s scenes, and they’re behind schedule, so the set is closed.”

  “I see.”

  “But he said for me to tell you he reserved a table at Chasen’s for you and Miss Foster tonight. Eight o’clock.”

  “Thanks. And thank Mr. Bannock for me, will you?”

  The girl smiled. “Gee, Mr. Clayburn, you’re an interviewer, aren’t you? Mr. Bannock says you see all the big stars. How does it feel to be in your line of work?”

  “Feels good,” I said. “As I was saying to Marilyn Monroe last night, though, there are times when I get so embarrassed because Jane Russell keeps telling me things Ava Gardner shouldn’t know.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Could be.” I leaned over the desk. “Funny thing,” I said. “Here you are, right on the inside, seeing Bannock’s clients. And you’re still movie-struck. I’ve never been able to figure that one out. All the smart little chicks in Hollywood going for the phony glamor. Suppose you’d like to get in the movies yourself?”

  “Would I?” Her eyes widened. “Why, I’d give anything to land a job.” Then she grinned. “Come to think of it, I did, about two years ago. But I never got the job.”

  “You’re lucky,” I told her. “This is steadier work.”

  “I’d still trade places with you any day,” she sighed. “Imagine, interviewing Polly Foster at Chasen’s.”

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of time to fill until eight o’clock. We interviewers have to keep busy. Does Harry still run a spot-check on current assignments?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Be a good girl and find out if Tom Trent’s listed for anything today.”

  “I’ll ask Velma.”

  She buzzed Velma and waited for a reply.

  “No, Mr. Clayburn, Trent isn’t down on today’s schedule.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you going to interview him, too?”

  “Why not?” I said. “It’s a free country. Thanks for the help. If you want, I’ll bring you Trent’s autograph. I’m not sure if he knows how to write, but they say his horse is very intelligent.”

  “Could you...could you get Polly Foster’s autograph for me?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll try. See you.”

  Then I went away, wondering about this whole whacky business of hero worship. Even here in Hollywood, where you’d think they’d know better, the crowds still jam the prevues, still mob celebrities, scramble for buttons and souvenirs. Crazy. Crazy, but profitable.

  That’s what made it important. It was profitable to give people what they wanted. If they wanted heroes and heroines, Hollywood must provide them.
And that’s why I was on this job. I had to take the battered, bullet-riddled body of Dick Ryan and prop it up on a pedestal again.

  And the first step was to see Tom Trent.

  Wrong. The first step was to stop at a drugstore and hunt up his address. I might have guessed he’d live out in the Valley.

  But I had time to spare. I took the scenic route and pulled up in front of his place around three.

  It hardly surprised me to find that Tom Trent lived in a regulation, sure-enough ranch-house, complete with true Western air-conditioning, a trusty station wagon, and an ol’ swimmin’ hole lined with turquoise tile and surrounded by umbrella tables at which a quick-shootin’, redblooded hombre could set hisself down and have a shot of firewater—bonded, of course.

  I pulled into the driveway but didn’t bother to ring the bell, because I could see little ol’ rough-and-ready, two-fisted Tom Trent out yonder at one of the tables. I went thataway.

  I’d recognized Trent’s face, of course, but he was the kind who doesn’t depend on that alone. As I got closer I noted the white terrycloth robe thrown over the back of the chair so as to display the TT monogram in gold. A few steps nearer and I could see the same TT on his towel, and reproduced on his trunks. When I reached the table he raised his left hand in salutation, and I saw the silver identification bracelet dangling from the wrist. Three guesses as to what was engraved on it.

  For some reason or other, he hadn’t bothered to tattoo his initials across his chest, though they may have been elsewhere, hidden by the trunks.

  Trent was watching a white bathing-cap bobbing in the pool. The cap contained a brachycephalic head which now popped over the edge of the pool as I approached. The face stared up at me. Trent turned and saw me coming.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Hi. I’m Mark Clayburn, Mr. Trent. I’d like a few minutes of your time for an interview.”

  “Interview? I didn’t get any word on an interview.” He glanced over at the pool. “Hey, did the studio call about any interviews this morning?”

  The face moved from left to right.

  “Sorry,” Trent said. “You know the rules. No story without a clearance from the front office.”

  “I really should have checked first,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this. But I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “Who you with?”

  I shrugged. “Freelance. But I’ve got a sort of roving assignment for features from Photoplay. You know, profile stuff, with a picture spread.”

  “You can get anything you want from Higgins, in Publicity,” Trent informed me. “If you get together with him, he’ll set up the whole deal.”

  I smiled. “I understand that, Mr. Trent. But what I had in mind was something a little different.”

  The big man scratched himself under the arm. “That so? What’s the angle?”

  “Well, it’s rather confidential.” I shot a look at the face hanging over the pool. Trent followed my gaze.

  “Hey,” he called. “Swim underwater for a while, will you?”

  The face disappeared.

  “Sit down and help yourself. What were you saying about confidential, now?”

  I sat down, ignored the bottle and glasses, and concentrated on smiling and keeping my voice soft. “Well, it’s like this. I’m trying to work up a series of interviews with dead stars.”

  “Huh?”

  “Novelty idea. For instance, I’m going to contact the Barrymores about a yarn on John. You know, intimate details, little bits of personal reminiscence, things like that. I’d like to do one on Beery and maybe Dix. Get the dope and then write it up in question-and-answer form, in the first person, just as if they were talking.”

  “Sounds screwy if you ask me.” Trent scowled. “Besides, I ain’t dead.” He poured himself another shot.

  “Of course not. But you happen to have been associated with a star who died recently. I thought you might have some interesting material I could use.”

  He’d started to lift his drink, but put it down again now. The sun sparkled on the initials cut into the side of the tumbler.

  “Who you talking about?”

  “Dick Ryan,” I said.

  Trent looked at me. Then he raised the glass, emptied it and lowered it to the table again, all in a single continuous motion. He stared at me again before he spoke. “Never heard of him.”

  “What’s that? I’m talking about Lucky Larry.”

  “Never heard of him, either.”

  “But you played in a whole series together. You were with him the night he died.”

  Trent stood up. “I told you,” he said. “I never heard of Dick Ryan. End of story.”

  “Well, if that’s the way you want to be.”

  He wasn’t letting me finish my sentences. “That’s the way it is, Clayburn. And let me give you a tip for what it’s worth to you: you never heard of Dick Ryan, either. And you don’t want to write a yarn about him, or ask anyone else.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  Trent scowled. “How’d you lose the eye?” he asked. “Poking it in other people’s keyholes?” He was a big man, and he had a big hand. It felt like a ton, resting on my shoulder.

  “What’s wrong with asking?” I murmured. “Who knows, maybe I can find a few interesting angles. Since you didn’t know this Dick Ryan, you might be surprised to learn that he was murdered.” I paused. “Then again, you might not.”

  Trent’s hand began to clamp down. I reached up and batted it off. He made a sound in his chest. “Why, you!”

  There was the sound of splashing from the pool. Both of us turned and saw the face beneath the bathing cap bob up. The head shook again, a slow, grave movement.

  “All right.” His voice shook with the effort at control. “I’m giving you a break. I’m leaving you the other eye, if you get out of here right now. But get this, Clayburn. You aren’t doing any story on Dick Ryan. You’re not asking anyone else about him, either. He’s dead. Let him stay that way. You’re alive. And if you want to stay that way—”

  The hand gave me a shove. I moved back.

  “Thank you for the hospitality and the advice,” I said. “You’ve been most gracious.” I gestured toward the pool. “Now I’ll leave you to your goldfish.”

  Trent made a suggestion which I didn’t care to follow, due to certain physical limitations that rendered it impossible.

  I walked away, and he stared after me. So did the face in the pool.

  Then I climbed into the car and drove back to town.

  The lights were coming on, twinkling in Glendale, flickering over Forest Lawn, sparkling along San Fernando Road. Los Angeles, that gaudy old whore of a city, was putting on her jewels for a big night.

  It was time for me to get to the hotel, to put on a few jewels of my own. I thought it over and settled for a shave, shower, soft shirt and striped tie. What the Well-Dressed Interviewer Should Wear.

  According to me, that is. Tom Trent would probably prefer to see me in a shroud, nothing fancy, of course, but he’d be willing to let me have my initials embroidered on it.

  I thought about Trent as I drove over to Chasen’s. A very aggressive gentleman, Mr. TT. What had his alibi been? Home with the butler, nursing his black eye; something like that. I wondered if the butler had been in the swimming pool. Somebody was calling signals. Maybe I’d better follow them, because it seemed as if the game was getting rough.

  My table was reserved and waiting at Chasen’s, but Polly Foster hadn’t arrived. I glanced at my watch. Just eight. Perhaps I had time for a before-dinner drink.

  I took it at the bar, and it tasted good. Felt good to be there again, after all this time. Used to spend a lot of evenings here, a long while ago. But of course, none of the crowd at the bar remembered me. Too much time had gone by. Almost a year.

  And a year, in Hollywood, is an eternity.

  I remembered the old legend about Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus went to Hades and g
ot permission to take Eurydice away, on condition that he didn’t turn around and look at her during the return trip. But he looked back, and the bargain was cancelled.

  Nobody here in Hollywood would ever be guilty of making Orpheus’s mistake. Because in Hollywood, no one looks back. What you did, what you were yesterday, doesn’t count. Nobody cares if you won the Academy Award last year; the big question is, who’s going to win next year?

  I raised my glass and drank a silent toast to Mr. Orpheus, who’d never get in the Musician’s Local out here. I knew just how he felt.

  I spotted three or four familiar faces down the bar, including a man named Wilbur Dunton who was still working out at Culver City on the strength of a contract I’d landed for him when he was in my stable.

  Nobody looked at me. The freeze was on. Everybody was talking about tomorrow, and I belonged to yesterday. And so did Dick Ryan. Nobody wanted to look at him, either, or talk about what had happened. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, if you’ll pardon the expression.

  I ordered another drink and wondered about Dave Chasen. Did he ever look back, now? Did he remember the days when he played stooge for Joe Cook in all those wonderful shows—Rain or Shine, Fine and Dandy, Hold Your Horses? I hoped he did. Somebody should remember old Joe Cook. A great comic. And Chasen had been a great stooge, too.

  How long ago was that? Less than twenty years. And now Cook was ill and forgotten, while Chasen was a big man out here on the Coast.

  There was a moral somewhere in all this, and I was just looking for it at the bottom of my glass when I happened to see Polly Foster come in.

  I’d seen her on the screen several times, of course, and that had been enough to make me look forward to this evening with a certain mild anticipation. Recognizing her now, my anticipation changed immediately from mild to wild. Polly Foster in the flesh was quite something else again. Nor is that “in the flesh” merely a figure of speech. The figure she cut had nothing to do with speech.

  White-gold hair over white-gold shoulders; her dress was robin’s-egg blue, and where it left off beneath her neck, any resemblance to robins’ eggs ended.