John MacDonald - The Good Old Stuff

Falkner shrugged. “Women came running to him. He must have alternated between thinking he was a minor god and feeling a strong sense of guilt, probably the result of a strict childhood home life. Guilt can do odd things. He must have been on the edge when he made a play for Lisa. She turned him down. That was something new. He brooded over it. The one woman he wanted he couldn’t have, and Hewett’s happiness with her was like a blow in the face. He was an actor. He could do tricks with that voice of his. We’ll never know for sure, probably, but I think he phoned her pretending to be you, Bill. I guess you can fill out the rest of the details. He justified himself by saying to himself that he was punishing her for a sin.”

Park turned to Prine again.

“Our precautions were very simple. Lew and Mick took turns going through your rooms, deactivating anything that looked lethal. Lew was the one who found the gun while Guy was swimming. He reloaded with frangible blanks that look like the McCoy. Mick found the unlabeled bottle. He emptied it on a hunch, washed it, refilled it in the kitchen. While we swam at night, Lew was out beyond the breaker line in the Nancy watching with night glasses to see that nothing funny happened. I saw Darana talk to Bill and then leave in the direction of the house. In a little while Bill followed along. I followed him. When I saw him go into my room I went down onto the terrace below mine and climbed up. Guy left the room as I came over the wall. Poor Bill thought he’d really been poisoned. When I convinced him that he hadn’t, he was willing to play ball with us. I called Norris and explained it to him. We needed a little more on Darana than Bill’s naked word. Well... we got it.”

Hewett said, “It’s over now, I guess. I knew all along she must be dead. But because I didn’t know who or how, I couldn’t relax. Now I can start rebuilding.”

“Can you use any help?” June asked, smiling.

Hewett grinned. “I’ll consider it.”

The group broke up. Park promised transportation after breakfast. Taffy and Georgie Wane lingered behind. Georgie gave Taffy a quick look and then she smiled at Park, saying, “Here I am, wounded. Look, does a girl get a chance to stay here for a few days? Recuperation, we could call it, and it won’t cost you. Only what I can eat.”

Park looked expressionlessly at Taffy. “Why, I suppose that it would be—”

Taffy gave Georgie the warmest smile in her book. “Darling, Mr. Falkner intends to give you a little bonus to take care of that scraped knee and elbow. I really think it would be best for all concerned if you went with the others.”

Georgie shrugged. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t see any signs on him. ‘Night, all.”

Taffy shut the door firmly. She turned, her hands on her hips. “If you think for one minute I’d let you keep that — that female here after the others go...”

Park gave her a look of outraged innocence. “But you told me we were through!”

“Well, we aren’t. Any arguments?”

He didn’t give her an argument. He was too busy.

The swimming pool, under the moon, was like black ink in a white stone tray. Beyond the fringe of trees, blatant and gaudy, were the lights of Los Angeles, that painted lady of the Pacific.

Up on the night hill, by the pool, it was a time of silence, of quiet voices and a blessed peace. Jimmy Hake, that round and comical man of television, that owl-faced, elfin, blundering character in whom every man saw a part of his own image, reclined on the wheeled redwood chaise and watched the way the faint light from both the moon and the house windows made mysterious the features of his beloved.

Jimmy Hake needed all his acting talents to keep his voice and manner relaxed. Murder makes the breath short, makes the palms sweat, the voice tremble, the neck muscles bind.

Murder is something that had been two years a-growing Murder is the answer to a question that couldn’t otherwise be answered.

It was a Sunday night. Tomorrow the final rehearsal, and then the network program itself at eight, live because the network and the sponsor thought a live show would be a good hype, a good kickoff for the series. Jimmy Hake, presented live by the makers of Shynaline Products, the cosmetics that bring out the natural beauty of your skin. Available at all fine department stores...

Going back to a series was a gamble, after two seasons of guest shots, talk shows with Merv and Johnny, one motion picture that grossed medium okay, three well-paid beer commercials. But his instinct told him this series would work. The character was perfect. The scripts were great. They had five good shows in the can, so they could follow up the live opener on the agreed weekly schedule.

Three people by Jimmy Hake’s pool: Jimmy, Bob Morrit, his head writer — and Anna, wife of Bob. In the early part of the evening they had gone over the script for the last time. In the morning Bob would get the right number of copies made and then, at rehearsal, last-minute changes would be made in all copies.

Bob Morrit was saying, “... and we’ll have the thing pinned down tightly enough so we can stay right in the same groove. Character established. Type of incident. Just switch the cast around from time to time.”

Jimmy knew that Bob had been largely responsible for the program pattern that had made him a success. Sure, Bob was clever, but what did he know about how to make a million bucks the hard way? That start, thirty years ago, eighteen and already a baggy-pants specialist in the burlesque circuit. Coffee money for years and years. Small clubs. Rough. Rough all the way.

Then one day you hit the top and what have you got? Weariness that feels like you have putty instead of marrow in your bones. High blood pressure. Shortness of breath. Dyspnea, to be exact. Technically you are forty-eight, but you feel seventy-eight.

Oh, that jolly, jolly Jimmy Hake! That comic fellow!

You have everything except the one thing in the world that you want. Anna.

Funny, sort of. There were always lots of women. Eager to help you spend the bankroll. Laughing women. Tender women. Bitter women.

Not one like Anna.

He watched her. He had watched her for three years. A deep, strong, calm, incredibly beautiful woman. Safe harbor for the rest of his years. Straight and true. And loyal to Bob Morrit. Married to Bob Morrit. All bound up in Bob Morrit. And time for Jimmy Hake only as a friend. A good friend.

When Jimmy Hake remembered the times he had tried to tell her how he felt about her, he flushed. She had handled him so easily. “Please, Jimmy.”

Just that. A tone of voice. The tone of voice said two things. It said, “If you persist, I will go away.” It also said, “You are nice.” But Jimmy didn’t feel nice.

Silver-blond hair and sea-gray eyes and a face that would be beautiful at sixty. That sort of a face. You could tell by the line of temple and jaw, the set of the eyes.

You get to the top and have everything you ever wanted. Except Anna. And the need for her makes everything else worthless, tasteless.

There is no way out. No answer. There can be no deviation in her loyalty — except if there is no longer anyone to whom she could be loyal.

And like the simplest equation written on a school black-board, the answer becomes... murder.

In amusement parks there are small, silvery, streamlined boxes in which one sits and is strapped in. They hang at the end of a long bar. The silver cockpit goes around and around in a vertical circle. Jimmy Hake felt as though he had a very tiny such apparatus in his heart. It went around endlessly. Strapped in the seat, holding the crossbar in brittle fingers, sat a miniature skeleton. The shape of the skull was like that of lean, serious Bob Morrit.