Warren Murphy: Killing Time

"See? He's so much of a nobody that I never even

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heard he died. Did Rona Barrett cover it? Did he make 'Entertainment Tonight'?"

"Do you know anyone who was friends with him?"

"Certainly not. I don't associate with nobodies."

"Who'd he talk to at the party?"

"Who cares? Other nobodies. Oh, yes." He smiled up at Remo. "I know who you can talk to. Seymour Burdich."

"Who's Seymour Burdich?"

"A nobody. He runs an information service on ce­lebrities. Finds out our favorite colors, the names of our pets, things like that. Then he publishes this drive! in some rag and sells it to fans. It keeps the riffraff out of our hair. Seymour gets to come to all the in parties. We stars like him. He's like our littie mascot."

"Won't he be at Shangri-la, too?"

Bobby Jay laughed. "Oh, Seymour would never get into Shangri-la. He doesn't have a nickel."

"I thought you all liked him."

"Friendship only goes so far. One does have one's reputation to consider."

Remo looked back at the list. Burdich's name was near the bottom. His address was listed as Houston Street in the Tribeca section of New York. "Is this where Burdich lives, or where he works?" Remo asked.

"Both. You won't have any trouble finding him. One can always spot poor people in a crowd. Uh, speaking of which, you aren't really poor, are you?" he asked, moving away from Remo. "I mean, I have been talking with you for some time. I'd hate for anything to rub off."

The doorbell rang. "Consider it just another social disease," Remo said, opening the door to let himself out.

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A beefy young blond boy hulked in. Bobby sighed and broke into song. "Lovely to look at, delightful to see. . ."

"I'm the etheort," the boy said.

Chapter Five

A gray-haired man sat at a battered roll-top desk in a storefront in a section of town that looked as if it had been founded by derelicts. There was no trace of former grandeur about the bleak, trash-filled street that howled in abandonment in the dry winter wind. A sheet of newspaper blew onto the wide window of the storefront, on which the words "Stardust, Inc." were hand-lettered with white paint. The newspaper stuck in a crack in the pane, rustling shrilly.

Remo went inside. The place was clanking and churning with the din of a printing press. The solitary figure in the room bent over the desk, his long hair shaggy along the collar of his black turtleneck sweater.

"You Burdich?" Remo shouted.

"Yeah. Who do you want?" He gestured hurriedly toward several stacks of papers on the desk. They were labeled with the names of celebrities and divided by category into film, music, sports, politics, and others. "A doliar apiece. Or you can have the Celebrity Scoop, that's the newspaper, for a buck-fifty." He in­clined his head toward the clanking printing press. "Be ready in a few seconds."

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The press was spewing out pages of newsprint with headlines like "WHAT THE STARS HAVE FOR BREAKFAST" and "HOW TO MEET A ROLLING STONE." As Burdich spoke, the rumble of the press subsided and ground to a halt. Quiet filled the store­front.

"I want to talk to you about the party at the Spangiers' in Virginia last night," Remo said.

Burdich smiled expansively. His breath formed clouds in the unheated room. "Ah, yes. My other life," he said with some dignity. He twirled the ankh around his neck. "You're from a magazine, I presume."

"Yes," Remo lied.

"Which one? Teen idol? Rock Beat?"

"Stars and Stripes," Remo said. "I've come to ask you about Admiral Thornton Ives. The Secretary of the Navy. I understand you were talking with him last night."

"Well, I do circulate with all the guests, even if they're outsiders," he said smugly. "It's my work. Nat­urally, I'd rather spend my time with people of my own caliber. Military types don't make it with the group. Ives was just invited because of the senator."

"That's the second time I've heard 'the group' men­tioned. Bobby Jay was talking about it, too."

Burdich raised an eyebrow. "Bobby Jay? I'm sur­prised he's still in town. The group travels once a month, you know."

"You know about that?"

"Oh, all about it." He puffed up with pride. "They let me in on everything they do. They confide in me. They even send me plane tickets to attend their parties." He leaned close to Remo and whispered confiden­tially, "You know, the BPs really are beautiful. The bigger they are, the bigger they are, I always say."

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"Very profound. About the admiral-"

"Oh, he didn't count. Say, have you heard about my files?" He gestured to a bank of battered cabinets. "They're legendary. I know everything there is to know about celebs. I've even got Greta Garbo's pri­vate phone number, although that's not for sale. They trust me, you know." He winked.

"Bobby Jay called you a mascot."

Burdich rose, sputtering. "That pompous fag . . ." He gained control of himself and sat back down, smoothing the wrinkles in his tattered sweater. "I mean, Bobby's a real card. We always banter with each other. It's the group's way. A laugh a minute." He forced a half-hearted laugh.

"How do you know Bobby Jay?" Remo asked.

"Oh, I've known him forever. We went to school to­gether, in fact. I'm tight with all of them. They love me."

"You two are the same age?" Remo asked, amazed. Burdich looked twenty years older.

"I'm fifty-two," Burdich said huffily. "Bobby Jay is three years older than I am."

Remo stared at him. It was happening again. First there was Cecilia Spangler, who looked twice as old as her own mother. And now Burdich, two years younger than a man who could have passed for his son.

"You don't believe me," Burdich sighed. "I can tell. Well, that's their game. Victims of the disease of van­ity, all of them." His face hardened with bitterness. "Always running around, acting like kids. Kids! Who needs that? Who needs to look half their age, any­way? It's the fault of advertising. The Pepsi Genera­tion has taken over."

"Uh, yuh," Remo said, bewildered by the sud-

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den change in Burdich. "About the admiral-"

"Shangri-la," Burdich whispered, his voice break­ing. "Shangri-la is only for the in group. They !eft me behind. It's too late. Too late."

Remo squirmed uncomfortably. He had wanted to find out about the Secretary of the Navy. And all he was getting was a string of personal obsessions about some health farm called Shangri-la.

"Too late for what?"

"Look at me!" Burdich shouted "I'm old!" He walked over to a small mirror hanging on the wall and smashed it to the floor. "Old! And Hi never be young again. They've all left me behind. Them and their money and their witch doctor. The in group. I wish I were dead. Do you hear me? Dead!" He was standing in the middle of the room, his shoulders heaving, rage burning in his eyes.

"Try deep breathing," Remo suggested.

"Oh, what's the point?" Burdich said, sweeping a stack of leaflets to the floor. "I know what I am. A hanger-on. You think I'm a hanger-on, don't you?"

"I think you're a nut," Remo said. He went on dog­gedly. "I'm supposed to find out about Admiral Ives, if you don't mind. He was murdered last night, and I want to find out who did it. Can you think of anyone at the party who would want to do him in?"

"He didn't count, I tell you. Nobody there cared about him. They don't care about anything except themselves. Their precious youth. Their exalted Doc­tor Foxx."

Remo perked up. "Foxx? Who's that?"

"The diet doctor. Felix Foxx. He's the one who started that place out there, giving the group yet an­other place where they may commune with their rarified peers, away from the rabble. He keeps them

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young. That's what separates the group from the rest of us poor suckers."