Harlan Ellison - Spider Kiss

Stag bit his lower lip. His tone was less domineering, less imperious. But still Stag. “Aw, c’mon, you’re just trying to scare me. Who ever really got burned by a scandal?”

Shelly named a few.

“Fatty Arbuckle, Alan Freed, Charlie Chaplin, Dalton Trumbo, Gale Sondergaard, Howard da Silva, William Talman, Lila Leeds … hell, do I have to run through the Who’s Who for you? Some make it back, okay, but most of them get hung good and proper. And don’t think you’re that big that you can risk it, sonny-boy. Are you willing to take the chance?”

Stag bit his lip again. His eyes narrowed. He wanted to strike out. But at which face could he throw the punch? “That bastard Hackett! I’ll get him … I’ll get the sonofa—”

“Listen, just bag that punchout shit for the moment. You’ve got a problem, and don’t forget it. Try to focus ! He’s got god knows how many prints of that film, and you’ll be dead in a week if they get out … or what if the Confidential stringers get wind of it?”

Stag flailed his arms to windmill clear the very sound of Shelly’s voice from the air. “Lemme alone, willya, fer chrissake; I can’t even think any more. I don’t know what the hell to do! I haven’t got that kind of money, and you know it!

“You and The Man have been makin’ it all off me.” He was suddenly snarling, belligerent. “I’ve been workin’ my ass off and you two are raking in the bread. Why should I have to pay the freight?”

Shelly aimed a finger at him. There was no sympathy as he said, “Why? Because you’ve blown every cent you’ve made; you’ve acted like king of the hill and clipped the Colonel, and me for every penny you could mooch, just to pay off your stupid debts. Now this one is yours , Sunny Jim.

“Either you pay it or get started washing your socks for the long hike back to Louisville. Because you know and I know the Colonel will dump you like a bucket’a garbage if this thing breaks. And I’ve about had it up to here with you already so don’t count on any more support from me!”

Shelly was surprised at how easy it had been to tell Stag the truth. Whatever friendship or empathy he had felt for the boy was now sickened, dying. He still harbored a pang of uneasiness as a shadow of fear crossed Stag’s face, but that pang subsided as the old arrogance once more seeped back into Stag’s expression.

“They wouldn’t dare blackball me. I’ve got a contract.” His mouth curled in a tight return to former assurance.

Shelly shook his head wearily. “Boy, I’ll bet you believe in leprechauns and the Easter Bunny, too, don’t you? Sure you’ve got a contract, you simp, and your contract’s got some fine print called a morals clause! And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, that little film you made the other night is what the studio would term ‘offensive to the average citizen’s morality.’”

“Aw, hell!”

“Aw, hell, my backstrap, Stag! Listen, you think I’m trying to scare you, and maybe I am, but if I am it’s because I like my share of what you make and I’m not happy about the idea of going back to flacking for a living.”

Stag threw a hand at Shelly, and a snarl. “What’s the matter, partner, you afraid you’ll have to go back to work at an honest job? You’ve been making a pretty buck off me … you’re as bad as me, blowing your dough on that pad of yours, and Carlene…”

He caught himself.

Shelly’s jaw muscles worked. That was a part of his life he didn’t talk about. But Stag had come into contact with that part a little too often. He ignored the matter, for the moment; obfuscation and sidetracking would only make logical arguments murkier.

“You really think you’re big enough to buck it, don’t you? You really think you’re a hero, that your hotshot teen-agers’ll stick with you. Are you in for a surprise! The crowd is like a … like a weather vane, or like a pet panther. As long as it gets meat, it won’t bite your hand. You miss one meal, or sneak in a red herring instead of ground round and watch how fast it goes after your throat!”

“I don’t believe that. It’s different with me. They love me … I’ve got ’em right in the palm of my—”

“Bullshit! They have no mind … it’s a mob. Don’t tell me there’s any reason in a mob like that. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been riots at the University of Georgia when those two Negro kids wanted in … there wouldn’t be any lynch mobs or strike riots or—”

“What’s that got to do with me? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, forget it. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” Shelly remembered Trudy Quillan. “Especially not you. But listen, did you ever hear of Dashiell Hammett?”

“No. What’s he got to do with—”

“Ever hear of The Maltese Falcon or Red Harvest or The Glass Key ? No, forget it, I wouldn’t expect you to have—did you ever hear of The Thin Man ?”

Stag nodded slowly. “Wasn’t there some tv show like that?”

Shelly agreed with a nod. “Yeah, right. Well, the character, the Thin Man, was dreamed up by a writer named Dashiell Hammett.”

“So?” Stag was bored, but still concerned by the problem at hand.

“I’m trying to make a point, so listen: Hammett was a big writer in this town. He had it locked. But he got mixed up with some stupid political affiliations and they crucified him…”

“What was he, a Commie? He deserved it, they all oughta be strung up by the b—”

“Yeah, sure. That was the kind of pudding-brained thinking that got Hammett slaughtered. He was the biggest, Stag; he had a reputation that couldn’t be touched, maybe the finest detective-story writer we’ve ever had. And do you know what this rotten town did to him … he died about six months ago in New York, and no one had heard of him in years. Hell, I thought he was long dead; it was a shock when I heard he was still alive … or had been. That’s what this town’ll do to you if this thing gets out. They’ll run over you like a Mack truck.

“You want to lose everything?”

Stag had listened. Finally, he nodded. “Okay, tell the Colonel I’ll go along with it.”

Why had Shelly worked so hard to convince Stag he should pay off the owners of the film? Why had Stag balked? It was all tied up with Stag’s deflated bankroll and the debts Freeport had been marking down in the little green-leather notebook.

Stag was broke.

Freeport would pay the tariff.

But Stag had to sell a block of his controlling interest in himself. To Freeport.

The Colonel had laid it out to Shelly simply. Either get Stag to agree, or start looking for a new line of work. Ruin was an easy mistress to acquire in Shelly’s line, and he had no reason to refuse. So he told Stag about Dashiell Hammett. At length.

Until Stag said, “Okay, tell the Colonel I’ll go along with it.”

That was the point at which Stag Preston began his long, untidy trip to the garbage dump.

The film had been destroyed; Freeport had talked at length to Porter Hackett, alone, and whatever it was the Colonel had said to him, Porter Hackett turned over all prints. There would be no further demands. Freeport had a way about himself in these matters.

But now Stag worked for Freeport and Shelly. Bits of his share began to chip away. A new matched pair of turquoise Rolls-Royces for the twin showgirls Stag was balling, a few bribes to keep Stag out of court on old charges incurred while running with “The Ginchy Set,” minor expenditures for partying, wardrobe, appearances. It all added up. But so much was coming in … who cared?

Certainly not Stag Preston.