The Cunning

  “It did.” Crile smiled. “I spent most of my life hiding from such notions, barricaded behind bookshelves. But that was role-playing too—playing the scholar, the historical researcher, the intellectual ostrich burying his head in the sands of Time. Of course, ostriches don’t really bury their heads and I couldn’t really bury mine. The past prefigures the present, and history always repeats. The real lesson of history is that there is no lesson; no one ever learns, so all change is merely a surface manifestation. Once you accept the world the way it was, you can accept it as it is. Yesterday and tomorrow are two sides of the same coin, and today is merely its edge.”

  Crile rose abruptly, shaking his head. “Now how did I get off on that nonsense?” He started across the room. “Have to excuse me—”

  Warren frowned. “Leaving?”

  “Be right back.” Crile grinned self-consciously. “You see how philosophy can lead you astray? Here I’ve been so busy being profound that I forgot to get myself a drink.”

  He moved through the doorway and Warren turned a glance at Eden once more. The outlines of the distant rooftops were beginning to blur. Not yet two o’clock, but already the winter sun was silvering, and fog wisped in from the sprawling shoreline behind the hills. Just a few hours left. Might as well drink up and watch the sun go down. Why not? At least it made talking easier. And he could talk to Crile, perhaps even learn his secret, if there was a secret. There had to be something, some reason for his acceptance of the status quo, had to be—

  Footsteps sounded softly behind him; Crile was returning with his drink. Warren stared at the sky.

  “You know,” he murmured, “I was just thinking—”

  “Don’t—it’s habit forming.”

  A giggle sounded close to Warren’s ear and he turned to see the woman bending over him.

  Limned against the light, her face rushed toward him like a movie close-up: a tightly curled mop of auburn hair offering, within its oval frame, a pair of wide-open china-blue eyes, a snub nose, red mouth set in a smile larger than life.

  Or was it? Actually, her face and features were not out of proportion—it was just that they didn’t seem to fit her body. Not a line, not a wrinkle marred the smooth surface of the skin. The doll eyes, the cupid’s bow mouth, belonged to babyhood.

  The pale pink of her slacksuit added to the illusion, but the ripe maturity it enclosed was far removed from infancy.

  Yet her voice echoed the illusion. “Been drinking?”

  It was obvious that she had. A plump wrist curled against the glass in her hand and the faint perfume of juniper enveloped Warren as he glanced up, nodding.

  “Just one. I’m afraid I’m not used to handling more at this time of day.”

  “Me either.” Again the giggle. “I’m not supposed to drink at all.” She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  Automatically, Warren followed suit. As he set his empty glass down on the table beside him he was again conscious of her stare.

  “You’re Warren, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Roy was telling me, just before he left. Asked him who’s the party pooper sitting out there all by himself. Said that’s not a party pooper, that’s Warren Clark.” Giggle. “You know me, of course.”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  The smile faded. “Dolly Gluck. You remember Dolly, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure—”

  The smile returned. “What makes you so sure about the pleasure? Somebody been spreading the word?”

  “I wasn’t implying—”

  “Hey, do that again!”

  “Do what?”

  “Blush.” The smile was back, bigger than ever. “You’re really something, you know? Haven’t seen a man blush in years. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a man, period.” The giggle was back, too. “All I get are obscene phone calls, and most of them are collect.”

  Warren waited for the giggle but it didn’t come. He glanced up just in time to see her swaying, then rose quickly to support her as she sagged against him, gasping for breath, blue eyes glazed. Her fingers released the glass and he caught it before it fell.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “Here—you’d better sit down—”

  “No—I’m all right. Just let me catch my breath—”

  “What gives?”

  Warren turned at the sound of Jerry’s voice. She moved into the room.

  “We were just talking,” Warren said. “And all of a sudden—”

  “Oh, no, not again!” Jerry shook her head. “Come along, Dolly. I’m taking you home.”

  “Sorry.” The baby face forced a smile, the woman’s body straightened with an effort. “It’s okay now. I can make it.”

  Dolly released herself and moved to the sliding door, tugging it open. “See?” she said. “I’m fine.” And swayed again, as Warren jumped up to grip her shoulder.

  He glanced at Jerry. “Where does she live?”

  “Over there.” Jerry nodded. “The house just behind ours. Here, let me help you.”

  “I can manage.” He felt Dolly’s weight slacken as she moved forward onto the patio.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “All I need is a little air.”

  “I’ll see you to your door,” Warren said.

  “Thanks.” She turned, offering Jerry the ghost of a giggle. “Tell Tom I turned out to be the real party pooper.”

  Warren guided her to the gate at the far end of the patio, then turned to wave at Jerry, but she had disappeared from the doorway.

  They crossed the lawn, moving up to the back door of the house. Dolly walked slowly but without a hint of hesitation and Warren glanced at her inquiringly.

  “Do you have your keys?”

  “Don’t need them. The door’s unlocked.”

  He grasped the knob, stood back as the panel swung inward.

  “Here we are,” he said. “You sure you’re able to manage?”

  She smiled uncertainly. “Maybe if you’d come in for a minute—”

  She gripped his hand and, before Warren could reply, guided him through the doorway.

  THIRTEEN

  billions and billions, everyone after her. but they wouldn’t get. god would protect. jesus christ the saviour, our father who art linkletter, haloid be thy developer, thy kingdom come, thy will be dung.

  blasphemy, billions and billions of blasphemers. they wouldn’t get her. she was saved, sic transit gloria vanderbilt. sic rapid transit tempus toccata and fugit. music, heavenly music, billions and billions of notes.

  bank-notes. billions and billions of dollars, all stolen from her. bill stole the money. dollar bill. her brother bill the judas. judas goat, judas priest who sold her down the river for thirty pieces of silver. pieces of long john silver, pieces of eight, fifteen worms on a dead whore’s chest yo ho whore and a bottle of rum. bay rum, we were sailing along on moonlight.

  oh it would be so nice to sail on moonlight far far away from brother bill. away from signing the papers and selling her birthright for a mess of pottawatamies, onandagas, sioux, cheyenne. hop on my pony and sail far far away. for mine is the kingdom and the power and the glory for never and never, amen. amen-ra, amen-hotep, lord of secret egypt where black basilisks brood.

  crazy talk, crazy talk, you’ll drive yourself crazy talking like that. yes mother, no mother, but she wasn’t her mother, she was just bill’s wife ruth and she had no right to tell her what to do. treating her like a child, lie down, you mustn’t get yourself excited, we’re only trying to help you, you’ve got to take your pill now, here drink this.

  ruth couldn’t make her, only mother could make her and they couldn’t fool her because she knew mother’s name was mary, a grand old name. it’s a grand old flag and night for singing, a baby grand, steinway, far far away.

  the first meeting of the word association will please come to disorder. disorderly houses and disorderly orderlies. bill couldn’t send her
back there where the orderlies would strap her down and give her the shocks. electrocute, how very cute. billions and billions of shocks, billions and billions of volts.

  she wouldn’t go back, bill and ruth couldn’t make her go. she’d get married and have a child, the immaculate deception. they wouldn’t dare to crucify a child, not even judas bill, for thirty treatments of silver nitrate. nitrate for the soil, night soil, where black basilisks brood.

  bill was calling the doctor, he’d come and take her for a ride. oh yes he would.

  only she wasn’t going. because she was perfectly all right now, perfectly oriented, perfectly occidented. it was saturday afternoon and she was in her own bedroom in her own house in eden and bill was her brother, her younger brother. she was the first child, not second childhood like bill said. everything else was a lie. billions and billions of lies, but the truth shall make ye free. free, fie, fo, fum, i smell the blood. i smell the blood of a chrysanthemum’s the word. believe in the word and the truth shall make ye free white and twenty-one.

  she’d get married and have a child in a little black bag. damn the niggers. billions of them, billions of sons of ham, shem, japhet, shadrach, mesach, abednego. abednego. no crazy person could remember that.

  so let them plot, she wouldn’t go. the doctor couldn’t make her go, ruth couldn’t make her go, bill couldn’t make her go. a billion bills couldn’t make her go. she’d stay right here in the bedroom when they came, forever and ever. she and a billion black, brooding basilisks.

  FOURTEEN

  The moment they entered the living room Dolly said, “Let me fix you a drink.”

  Warren shook his head. “Really, I’ve got to be going. If you’re all right—”

  His voice trailed off as he realized he was addressing empty air. Dolly had already disappeared down the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  Good. He could sneak out now, unobserved. No business coming here in the first place. Besides, there was something strange about the looks of this room, something that puzzled him because the strangeness seemed familiar.

  Warren hesitated for a moment, glancing into the shadows. He hadn’t really been aware of his surroundings when he’d entered the drape-drawn dimness but now he stared, seeking the source of his sensation.

  The living room was large and its furnishings were luxurious. The heavily figured oriental rug was sumptuously thick, obviously genuine. The ebony grand piano in the corner was ornately carved, the twin sofas generously oversized. Against the side wall was a huge, old-fashioned radio-phonograph.

  Old-fashioned. Now he knew what was wrong with the room.

  Oriental rugs instead of wall-to-wall carpeting. And the sofas—not oversized, but what used to be called overstuffed. The grand piano was all right in itself, but the fringed, rhinestone-studded shawl draped over it was an anachronism. And the radio-phonograph was a Brunswick, one of the first cabinet models. They didn’t call them consoles then, and Warren knew without examining it that there was no record changer.

  But there were records, scattered over the closed top, and he moved up to read the labels. Old seventy-eights—Okeh, Pathe and black-and gold Victrolas. There was Isham Jones, Coon-Sanders, Russ Columbo. We’ll Make A Peach Of A Pair, Delicious, Paul Whiteman’s Missisippi Mud, and the past recaptured.

  Framed photographs hung on the wall above the cabinet and familiar faces stared at Warren from the shadows.

  “To my friend Harry,” read the unsigned inscription scrawled across the photo of a smiling, black-haired Eddie Cantor. “For Harry—always a pal,” said a boyish juvenile named Gary Cooper. And there were other glossy stills inscribed by Helen Morgan and Clara Bow, Jimmy Walker, Bobby Jones and—

  “Here’s your drink.”

  Sure enough, here it was, right now, in the present. And Warren was back in the present. Dolly handed him the glass, then lifted her own as she stood beside the photograph of Jean Harlow in Hell’s Angels.

  “Looking for my picture?” she murmured. “Up there, second from the right—the one in color.”

  He found it then, and as he focussed on the garish, hand-tinted portrait, recognition came. The same baby face, feature for feature, the same smug little smile—but here the face was appropriately attached to the body of a six-year-old. There, with the enormous polka-dot ribbon in her hair that served as a trademark, stood Dolly.

  Dolly Dimples.

  And Warren remembered. Shades of Baby Peggy, Jackie Coogan and Farina—how could he forget?

  Dolly Dimples, the cuddly child star of the silver sereen! Dolly Dimples, saved from death by Rin Tin Tin. Dolly Dimples, kidnapped by Noah Beery and rescued in the nick of time by Monte Blue. Dolly Dimples, and the Saturday matinees at the Bijou, all seats ten cents. How he had hated her! He and all the other ten-year-olds, waiting for the western, squirming and scrunching as her idiotic girlish grimace filled the screen. Dolly Dimples!

  He stared now at Dolly Gluck, the ripe, red-headed woman on the edge of advancing middle age, on the edge of intoxication. Yes, the face was still there. No wonder it had seemed larger than life-size, like a movie close-up. It was a movie close-up. It belonged on the wall, in the picture—not here, hovering over a Tom Collins.

  But here it was, and it was smiling at him. “I haven’t really changed all that much, have I?” she murmured. “Harry said I haven’t.”

  “Harry?”

  “I forgot, You wouldn’t know him. Harry Denim.”

  “The corporation lawyer?” Warren nodded. “I’ve heard the name. Seems to me he handled affairs for one of my clients.” Warren glanced around. “Is this—?” He broke off, embarrassed by his own question.

  Dolly giggled. “Harry’s place? You might call it that. Of course, his wife and the kids live in Palos Verdes.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right.” She teetered uncertainly. “Hey, why don’t we sit down?”

  Dolly led the way to one of the sofas. As Warren seated himself beside her she downed half the contents of the tall glass in a single gulp, then smiled at his concerned stare.

  “Don’t worry, everything’s under control,” she said. “Reason it hit me at first is because I took something for my nerves before I came over to Jerry’s. But it’s wearing off now.” The smile faded and the high, little girl’s voice dropped an octave. “Look, I’m not hooked, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just a sedative; I get it on prescription.”

  “I know,” said Warren, even though he didn’t. He didn’t know why he was sitting here, why he was listening, except that there was something about Dolly he found oddly appealing. Beneath the vulgarity he sensed a vulnerability.

  “What the hell else can I do?” Dolly was saying. “I’m washed up. The goddamn talkies did it, way back in ’twenty-nine. Threw me right out of pictures because my voice was too high and screechy, just when I was ready to sign with First National. How about that? Me, washed up—whole career right down the tube when I was eight years old!” And then, suddenly, she giggled again.

  “So there I was, booted out on my can, and a year later they put braces on my teeth. That did it for sure. Mama was mad, I thought she’d have a heart attack. She did, in ’forty-two, went just like that. I was doing a routine in burlesque then. What the hell, in this business you take what you can get. Poor Mama, she had such ambition for me, and how she used to hate that Shirley Temple.”

  “Can’t say that I blame her.” Warren took a sip of his scotch. Shouldn’t, not on an empty stomach, and this second drink was a strong one. Strong and warm. Everything was warm here, but that wasn’t unpleasant. He leaned back as Dolly leaned forward, her voice slurring to a confiding huskiness.

  “Well, burlesque folded after the war. When television came in there were a few bits, local stuff, but I never got a shot at a network show. Everybody did series but me. I couldn’t get arrested.” She giggled. “God it’s hot, isn’t it?”

  Unbuttoning the top of her blouse, Dolly leaned back, ti
lting the glass again. Warren stared as she swallowed. Against the milk-white skin a delicate blue vein threaded into the curve between her breasts, pulsing as she spoke.

  “By the time Harry came along I guess I was ready for him, even though he was a mess. Lushing it up, balling jailbait off the Strip, and the only way he could sleep was to pass out. It was this shrink he went to, this Doctor Cranshaw, told him what was wrong. You know what it was?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “Nothing to imagine. Sounds screwy, but it’s the truth. Harry wanted to go back to the past.”

  Warren nodded as he gulped the rest of his drink. She was right about it being hot in here; he felt warm all over, warm and tingling.

  Dolly was frowning. “Hey, you’re not listening!”

  “Yes I am.” Warren set his glass down on the carpet beside him. “This business about the past—”

  “The shrink told Harry he’d only been happy in the old days, on the way up. Now he’d made it, made it big, and there was nothing. He was scared of getting old, his wife was having some kind of a thing with a golf pro, the twins got kicked out of school back East—no wonder he started to flip.

  “So that’s how it happened.” Dolly spoke from the bottom of her glass. “Doctor Cranshaw told him most people are scared when they start going over the hump, but they can’t do anything about it. But Harry was different, he had the loot. If he wanted to turn back the clock he could afford it, so why not?”

  “Is that the reason he came here?”

  “Now you’re cooking with gas.” The archaic slang didn’t seem incongruous in these surroundings, from Dolly’s rosebud lips. “Harry left his wife, bought in when Eden was just starting. He picked up all this furniture and stuff at auctions—the shrink even helped him, I guess he figured it was some kind of experiment. Anyhow, he ended up living just the way he’d wanted when he started out. Believe it or not, he was driving one of those old Packards when he met me.”

  Dolly leaned forward, the larger than life little girl’s face poised above the bobbing breasts. “Of course, that’s what really made it work, for him. Meeting me, Dolly Dimples. It was like I was some kind of a symbol. Because I belonged back there in the past, the way he always remembered.”