Фредерик Браун - Ed McBain’s Mystery Book, No. 3,1961

When he returned, washed and somewhat refreshed, his mouth feeling cleaner and teeth less gritty, he saw that Rhoda had set a place for him in one of the booths and stood there with a pitcher of ice water and half pack of cigarettes. That was how they had met She had seen that his portions were extra large and the double scoop of ice cream on the pie was a little gift from her. It was almost quitting time, she explained, and if he didn’t have a place to go, the court apartment she rented was only streets away and the bathroom was larger than the living room but there was a large stall shower, all tiled, and while he really cleaned up she would do his laundry.

“Do you do that for everyone who comes in off the road?” he asked and was immediately sorry because the question indicated he thought of her as a tramp. Son, his mother had once said, in this town of ours, the whores could make a pretty good living if it wasn’t for the waitresses. That was his mother, sharp of tongue and observation, and one of the reasons be had decided to leave home; the other was his father and what his mother’s observations had done to him.

But Rhoda didn’t look at all offended. “Of course, not for everyone. Neither would you. But wouldn’t you do it for a friend?”

“Sure.”

“That’s it,” she continued. “I knew right off we were gonna be friends. Because I only have good-looking actors as friends.”

“Actors?”

“Naturally. To each his own. Are you formal or method? But whatever you are, you’ve got a wonderful chin. And deep, deep eyes.”

Which was not the reason at all. Sure, he had hoped to see some movie stars, see their houses and the places they hung out. He had read about Schwab’s in the Hollywood columns and as the tourists from Ohio had driven along Sunset Boulevard on their way to relatives in Santa Monica, and he had become increasingly nervous about being hailed as a thief, he had seen the sign above the drugstore and decided to leave the good folks there. But not because he wanted to be an actor. The thought made him grin and his strong, handsome face, tanned and darkened by sun and wind, was warmed by a smile that revealed his white, even teeth. An actor? What he had hoped for was a job in an aircraft plant or something similar, a plant where he could make use of his ingenuity with tools and ability to use the micrometer and read a blueprint, talents which had always amazed his family because no one close to them had ever been anything but farmers or clerks. But he had no place to go, fifteen, almost sixteen dollars wasn’t much, and Rhoda had changed into tight shorts, a tighter sweater, and had drawn her long brown hair into a bun. While he had showered, she had sprayed gold highlights into her hair, fixed her eyes by adding dark lines of pencil around the lids and made two highballs. She was older than he, this he knew, but only by two or three years. Still, in a girl it was an awful lot of years. But he was nineteen, good-looking, lean and handsome, this he knew, this he had been told, and if someone who had obviously been around and knew this place as well as Rhoda thought he could be an actor...

“Changing my name doesn’t mean I’ve changed my friends.” He returned to the present with an outrageous lie. “But I’ve a question for you” — he forestalled an obvious gibe. “Just how did you get in here?”

The apartment was in a good building on Beverly Glen and the superintendent had strict orders that no one was ever to be admitted when he wasn’t there. This was necessary because several fan-club presidents of jail-bait age had once been found in the apartment and they had made themselves free with several bottles and more personal souvenirs. And Rhoda, still wearing the high makeup, her hair pretty well shot because of many bleachings and dyeings, its ends brittle and broken because she would decide that certain colorings had to be done immediately rather than over extended periods, was not the sort of person who could sweet-talk the super. She was wearing too-tight black elastic slacks with metallic threads that refracted light, and her black cotton turtle-neck sweater was thin at the elbows and, as always, too tight. But it was the scuffed and shapeless flats of cracked patent leather that told him Rhoda was really down on her luck. At her feet lay an oversize purse that bulged. But in her case, clothes still weren’t necessary to make the man, and at another time — some years before — he might have laughed at finding her in his apartment and got into the branding spirit.

“I want to know how you got in here,” he demanded.

“You showed me,” she said after a long sip of her drink. Deliberately she tonged two cubes of ice into her almost empty glass and covered them liberally with Scotch. Then, hoping to make him laugh, she passed the bottle of soda above the glass; the comedy bit was too old and fell flat “I always watch your show. That’s to give you one intelligent person in an audience of millions.”

“I showed you?”

“A couple of weeks ago.” She nodded and raised the glass to him in a salute. “Remember where you had to get into the sheriff’s house and the windows were locked? So you cut a window with a glass-cutter and you taped the glass and gave it a sharp tap so that it broke out but didn’t drop. It works,” she said with awe. “I thought it was some sort of a trick but it works.”

He strode to the bedroom at the rear of the apartment, saw that the window at the fire escape had been opened and knew how Rhoda had avoided the superintendent. Someone who would burgle her way in wouldn’t hesitate to walk through an alley, and getting to the lowest fire escape was simple. And she was wearing black. But how had she got his address?

“Celebrity Service,” Rhoda explained from the doorway, and he started and turned with his hands raised as if to conceal his head. “It took my last five to find out. My name and number you’d probably find scrawled on a rest-room wall. But to get your address costs.”

Tucson smiled as he took the gold money clip from his pocket “Let’s say that was really casting bread on the waters, because it’s going to get you much more. How much do you need?”

“Money?”

“Money.” He nodded. “Or bread. That even makes the old saying more meaningful. You sure look coffeehouse.” He shook his head in friendly disapproval. “Just what’s been happening to you?”

“As if you care.”

“Must someone care to ask? Rhoda, look, I’ve gotta get dressed and meet some people.” He looked at his large gold wrist watch. “So finish your drink and tell me what you need and get going? But you’ll give me your number and I’ll call you.”

“When?”

He thought for a moment with his head raised to tighten the skin of his throat. Rhoda had always loved, raved about his chin and jaws; now her love was emulated by millions. “Day after tomorrow,” he said with a quick nod. “It’s the last day of shooting and then I’ll be free.” Again he shook his head. “Poor kid, you sure look awful.”

“And you sure look great,” she said. “Clean and All-American. And I’ve read you’re strong on English TV. So you’re a cultural asset, too.” Gravely closing one eye, she raised the glass, held it at arm’s length and turned it slowly to see the cubes from varying angles. “How come you never thought of me for a part in your show?”

So this was it, he sighed with relief. “I never thought of it,” he admitted in a tone that sounded truthful. “But if you want me to put in the word with casting—”

“You have.” She interrupted him with sudden ferociousness. Deliberately she poured the drink on the thick taupe carpeting before she tossed the glass across the room to shatter against the wall. “It’s out — all over town — that you gave orders that anyone who showed up and said they knew you when wasn’t to be taken on. It’s true” — she pointed at him — “and don’t give me the honor pitch. I believed it. I wanted my friends to be actors, to honor the old traditions. Even today being an actor doesn’t mean you have to be a louse.”