Эд Горман - Murder on the Aisle

Tears remained in Joan’s voice. “You seem to forget, Michael. We don’t have any friends.”

Dailey said, “That’s enough of the dramatics, darling. Let’s go now.” He squeezed her hand hard enough to break bones. You could see her wince under the pressure. Then they were gone, vanished into the land of floating orchids.

“Two of my favorite people,” Tobin said to the Daileys’ backs as they left.

Marcie looked revolted. “This is a long way from D. W. Griffith.”

“Huh?”

“Film is supposed to be about artistic expression. Neither of them have the dimmest idea what art is. They’re vultures and you—” Her grave brown eyes fumed. “You’re just as bad — you’re a critic.”

“I guess I don’t necessarily consider that an insult.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I do an honest job trying to direct my audience to good films and stay away from bad ones.”

“And getting well paid for it.”

“Probably not as much as you think.”

But by now she had turned away, as if searching out a companion for the evening.

“How did you get in here?” he asked.

“What?” she said, not facing him.

“How did you get in here?”

“None of your business.”

“Michael got your name put on the list, didn’t he?”

Now she turned. “So what if he did?”

He surprised himself by reaching for her arm. She didn’t surprise him by jerking her arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Why don’t we leave?”

“Are you crazy? Me leave with you?”

“Yes.”

She smirked. “How do you stay out of rubber rooms?”

“I’m not so bad. I’ll buy you dinner.”

“You just want to find out, don’t you?”

“Yeah. But I’m also attracted to you.”

That was the second thing he’d said in the past forty-five seconds she found amusing. “Are you putting the moves on me?”

He shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s Christmas time. I’m lonely and you’re probably lonely too.”

“If I’m as attractive as you say, then I doubt I’m very lonely.”

“Well, maybe just for tonight you’re lonely.”

“Well, maybe just for tonight you’re full of shit.” Then she walked away.

He watched her until she disappeared and then he saw an unlikely couple making their way through the crowd. Frank and Dorothy Emory.

Before Tobin could even say hello, Dorothy said, “Don’t look at Frank’s crotch.”

“All right, Dorothy,” Tobin said. “I promise not to look at Frank’s crotch.”

“He insisted on getting a paper cup of coffee on the way over here,” she said.

“Honey, I would’ve been all right if you hadn’t slammed on the brakes.”

“If hadn’t slammed on the goddamn brakes, Frank, we’d both be in the hospital. The truck ran a red light.”

“Well, anyway, that’s how come I’ve got coffee all over my crotch.”

“That is not why you’ve got coffee all over your crotch,” Dorothy said. “You’ve got coffee all over your crotch because you’re clumsy and because you wouldn’t listen to me about not getting any coffee, especially after you’d had so much to drink.”

Frank frowned. “See, Tobin, my fault as usual.”

But by now Dorothy was already looking around, bored with Frank’s coffee and crotch. “Nice to see you, Tobin,” she said airily, and then was gone.

“Never marry the runner-up prom queen in high school.”

“That’s not a very charitable thing to say about your wife.”

“If she’d have won, she wouldn’t be such a bitch. But she’s never forgiven herself for losing, especially to somebody who was knocked up at the time they were putting the crown on her head.”

“The queen was knocked up?”

“Yeah, and by a Puerto Rican, at that.”

“Sad tale, Frank.”

“You don’t like her, do you — Dorothy, I mean?”

“Not much.”

“How come?”

“Because you’re my friend and because she makes you eat too much shit.”

“How much is too much?”

“Anything that doesn’t fit into a lunch bag.”

“Well, at least she’s beautiful.”

“She is that.” And she was — shining blond, with legs up to here, and an erotic teasing mouth and breasts that seemed to pout at you. As if to disguise all this, she generally dressed in conservative clothes and feigned disapproval of anything even faintly sexual.

“Say, you missed the excitement tonight.”

“What?”

“Break-in. At the studio.”

“You’re kidding.”

Frank, still drunk, looked at him earnestly. “No, Tobin; why would I kid you about that?”

“It’s just an expression, Frank. Christ.”

“Well, anyway,” Frank said, kind of wobbling on his heels, “there was a break-in. Dunphy’s dressing room.”

“God.”

“What?”

Tobin told Frank about the break-in at Hunter College. Dunphy’s office.

“Shit,” Frank said.

“Exactly.”

“Wonder what they’re looking for.”

Tobin, who had been thinking about this occasionally over the past six hours, said, “Did you know Richard sold a movie script?”

“Not until this morning.”

“So you weren’t aware he was writing one?”

“No. Weren’t you?”

“No,” Tobin said.

“Well, you know how Richard was. He always liked to surprise you.”

“I know. But he also couldn’t keep a secret.”

“That’s true. Now that you mention it.”

“All the time he was writing a novel, that was all he talked about. He knew I’d be jealous.”

“You were jealous?”

“Sure,” Tobin said.

“Why didn’t you just write your own?”

Tobin sipped his drink. “Either I’m saving myself for the right time in my life, or I don’t have a novel in me.”

“So you think he would have said something to you about the screenplay?”

“Right.”

“I guess that is kind of weird, now that you mention it.”

“More than kind of.”

“Oh, damn.”

Tobin knew what Frank was frowning about without asking. Frank’s wife was waving him over to meet the Ryder Twins. Frank, who had an M.B.A., felt a vague contempt for show-biz people and the Ryder Twins were the worst sort of the breed. Being in their company was like spending time with your maiden aunt while all the other kids were outside playing baseball.

“Well,” Frank said. He left, shaking his head.

For the next twenty minutes Tobin made the rounds. He discovered that Dunphy’s death had made him a sought-after celebrity. Everybody had questions and condolences for him. He ogled breasts, stifled yawns, peed three times (he needed some food), exchanged glares with another set of TV critics (suburban boys they were, overripe and gushy, who seemed to enjoy nothing so much as a bad “campy” science-fiction movie), and found himself staring wistfully at Marcie Pierce, who seemed fetchingly lost, wandering about in her summer prom gown, apparently in search of somebody who wanted to talk about D. W. Griffith.

He was on his way to the john for the fourth time (he was going to have to load up on shrimp when he got back or else his wrist was going to get sore from doing and undoing his zipper) when he saw the slap Joan Dailey gave Peter Larson.

The two had stepped out of the party proper. They didn’t see him as Tobin approached so he watched a minute and a half of their arguing. Then the slap.

“You bastard,” she said. “You know you owe it to me.”

It was then that Larson saw Tobin coming toward them. He shushed her and nodded at Tobin. Joan, beautiful in her brittle way, drew into herself, straightening her shoulders, preparing a social smile.