by Ed McBain
“No. What?”
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks. What were you doing before you dreamed up your cowboy?”
She giggled and covered her mouth again. “You won’t believe it.”
“I will.”
“You say you will, but no one ever does.”
“What were you doing?”
“Guess.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake…”
“Go on, guess. I like to hear the answers.”
I looked at her long body stretched out in the chair. “A model?”
“Oh, really. Christ, no. Me? A model?”
“You’d make a good model.”
She chuckled again and sucked in a deep breath. “For bras, maybe. Go on, guess.”
“For lots of things,” I said, watching the curve of her leg and the flatness of her stomach.
“Guess,” she insisted, ignoring my eyes.
“A schoolteacher?”
“Do I look like a schoolteacher?”
“Hell, no.”
“What do I look like? Use your imagination.”
“This is my third and last guess, yes?”
“All right, go on.”
“A high-priced call girl.”
I watched her eyes because I wasn’t sure how she’d take this, but she laughed suddenly, that same hearty laugh that utilized all of her.
“Oh, God, is that what I look like?”
“No, not really. You tell me now.”
“I worked in Brentano’s.”
“What?”
“See? You don’t believe me.”
“You mean you sold books?”
“Yes, sir. Not real books. I worked in the basement. I sold pocket-size books.”
“I’ll be damned. Westerns?”
“Westerns, mysteries, historical romances, everything. Hell, I read more than I sold.”
“What did you read?”
“All of them. A few stood out in my mind. I read, and I read, and I read until I was red in the face. Then I decided to write one.”
“Voilà, Draw Hudson!”
“No. Voilà Priscilla Masterson.”
“Who?”
“The heroine of the first novel I wrote. She is now in the incinerator.”
“And then came Draw Hudson.”
“Yes. Then came Draw Hudson.”
“How?”
“The milkman.”
“What?”
“The milkman. He was long and lean, with grey eyes and thin lips. He had a deep tan from being outside so much, and he had a horse—a real horse—pulling his wagon. You very rarely see horse-drawn milk wagons anymore, but he had one. He called his horse Duke, though I think she was a mare.”
“That’s what Hudson calls his horse, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Hudson is the milkman, but for Christ’s sake, don’t tell anyone.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t, huh? You should have seen that milkman. I bet he was responsible for more broken homes than the San Francisco Earthquake.”
I laughed, hoping she’d join me, but she only smiled.
“So you took your milkman, sexed him up, gave him two six-guns, a batch of women ready to tumble into bed, and you revolutionized the Western.”
“And,” she added, “made a lot of money at it. Revolutions don’t interest me, Mr. Blake…”
“Josh.”
“Sure. They don’t interest me. The farthest West I’ve been is New Jersey, where a guy took me to a burlesque in Union City. I don’t crave the wide open spaces, and I hate the smell of horses. I deplore guns.”
“All kinds?”
“Huh?”
“.45’s?”
“All kinds,” she said. “There’re only a few things I like, Josh, Just a few.”
“And those?”
“Money.”
“You’re normal.”
“Whiskey. In moderation.”
“You’re still normal. Is that all?”
She paused and smiled a quiet smile, looking up at me with devilish eyes. “My third is perfectly normal, too.”
I cleared my throat. “I see.”
She stuck her tongue in her cheek and nodded her head knowingly. “I thought you would.” She paused then, leaned forward, and added, “I like you, Josh.”
Her leaning forward had done devastating things to the top piece of her suit. My hands began to tremble a little on the arm of the chair.
“I like you, too,” I said.
“Fine.” She stood up, sucked in another breath and said, “I’m sorry all this garbage had to come up, Josh. I honestly don’t remember signing any agreement, and I’ll go along whichever way the deal works out.”
“You can get into trouble, hon,” I said. “Heaps of trouble.”
“That’s what your partner said.” She shrugged. “I’ve got money enough to fight trouble. It doesn’t bother me.”
“Bad publicity…”
“Every one of my books has been panned. I’m still the hottest thing on the scene today.” She paused. “Speaking in a literary sense.”
“Of course.”
“So, whichever way the wind blows, I bend with it. I like money, Josh. If Draw Hudson gets into the movies, I’ll make money on the deal, and I’ll also sell more books. I want him to get into the movies.”
“How badly?”
“I don’t follow.”
“How badly? Badly enough to kill a man for it?”
Cam smiled. “All the killing I do is between the covers of my books.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Want to take a swim, Josh?”
“I haven’t a suit.”
“There’s probably one around the house. Come on, I’ll see if we can’t accommodate you.”
She started for the flagstone path, and someone called, “Hey! Anybody home?”
“Goddamn it,” Cam said. “This place is beginning to look like Grand Central Station.” She turned to me, and her eyes narrowed. “We might have had a pleasant afternoon, Josh.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“From the tone of the bellow, I’d say it was Carlyle.”
“Rutherford?”
“Mm.”
“Another fellow who thinks I’m a crook,” I said. “Maybe we’ll have some more swimming, after all.”
“Maybe not.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve never met Carlyle, I take it.”
“No.”
“I wouldn’t advise any wrestling. He’s a big boy.”
“The bigger…”
I stopped short because Carlyle Rutherford had swung into view around the corner of the house. That is, he barged into view. Or, to be more accurate, he consumed the landscape, blotted the sky, overwhelmed the vicinity. He was a big boy, indeed. He was a very big boy. He measured an easy six-five from the flat soles of his canvas-topped shoes to the brown crew-cut that hugged his skull. He had massive shoulders, and a chest that came from weight-lifting. A loud sports jacket covered the shoulders and chest, and he wore an off-color orange sports shirt, buttoned at the throat. Tan gabardine slacks completed the outfit, and they went well with the ruddy California brown of his face. The face could have belonged to a football player, or a prize fighter. The nose had been bashed in, probably with a knee or a sledge hammer. The eyebrows were crooked. The lips were thin and merciless. The eyes were a deep, dark brown. It would not be wise to wrestle with him.
“Cam!” he whispered, and the trees shook, and the house rocked a little on its foundation. “Cam, you delectable piece, how are you?”
He rushed forward like a big grizzly, his arms outstretched, his fingers wide. He gathered Cam into his arms and hugged her tightly, and I thought he’d suffocate the poor girl. He dropped her finally, like a tree he had uprooted, and then noticed me for the first time. One of his crooked eyebrows shot up onto his brow, and he looked at Cam quizzically, waiting for an introduction.
&nbs
p; “Josh Blake,” Cam said after taking a deep breath. “Carlyle Rutherford.”
“So,” Rutherford said. I remembered the not-so-pleasant phone conversation we’d had yesterday, and I waited for more. He smiled, though, surprising me, and extended one of his large paws.
“How do you do?” I said, taking his hand and waiting for the bear squeeze. It didn’t come. He pressed my hand firmly, and then let it go.
“You’re a smart cookie, Blake,” he said. “I admire smart businessmen.”
“Thank you.”
“I understand your partner handed in his jock.”
“What?”
“Gilbert. Shot, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
Rutherford shook his head. “Shame. I understand he was even shrewder than you.”
“He was shrewd, and she was nude…” Cam quoted.
Rutherford turned. “How’s that?”
“He was shrewd, and she was nude,” she repeated, a smile curling her crimson mouth. “She grew nuder and he grew shrewder. She grew nuder, and he grew shrewder, and he…”
Rutherford erupted in a booming laugh that threatened to start a landslide. He kept laughing, with his shoulders shaking, and his mouth wide open, and his head thrown back. When he finally got control of himself, he said, “Christ, what a witty piece.”
“But forgetful,” I said.
Rutherford shrugged. “Yeah, yeah,” he said philosophically. “You’re referring to the agreement again, eh, Blake?”
“The agreement,” I said.
“You’re a shrewd bastard, Blake,” Rutherford said, the friendly smile still on his face. “I admire that, I told you so. You know when to hop onto a good thing, and I understand your late, lamented partner was wiser than Solomon. He’s dead now, sure, but you’re not lacking anything in the marbles department, I admire what you’re trying to pull. If it comes off, you’ll go down in history.”
“I’m not trying to pull anything,” I said.
“No?” Rutherford shrugged his huge shoulders. “Well, maybe not. Let’s look at it this way, though. Ever since Gunsmoke was published, I’ve been breaking my back trying for a movie sale. I know that Hollywood jungle, Blake. I know it like my left ear lobe, and by Christ, I worked on this one. I broke my back, and also a few heads, and the doors all stayed closed. Nobody would touch a sexy Western. The cowboy kisses his horse, maybe, but that’s all. So Draw Hudson looked like a dead duck, but I know Hollywood, so I kept at it. I kept at it, and every time a new Stewart novel was published, I started all over again. Do you know what all this cost me, Blake? Have you got any idea? This isn’t half-ass New York stuff, you know, where you submit a manuscript and maybe exchange a few phone calls or buy a few drinks. This is Hollywood stuff, where you’ve got to sleep with some sonovabitch’s wife, or escort his daughter around, or maybe sleep with him, too, if the wind blows that way. When I say I broke my back, I mean that, brother. I worked like hell.”
“So?” I said.
“So. So nothing. So you two shrewd operators step in, and maybe you have an agreement, and maybe you haven’t. But you’re screwing up the plum pudding because I’ve finally got a guy ready to sign on the dotted line, with tons of money behind him, and all solid stuff. Becker has a list of credits as long as my arm. He produced for all the big studios, and now he’s an independent who can get more money than God. He’s anxious to do Draw Hudson. He’s so anxious, he can’t sleep nights. But you step in and louse up the china closet with your goddamned alleged agreement, and Becker gets the D.T.’s.”
“He didn’t seem too frightened a few minutes ago,” I said.
“Is he here?” Rutherford asked.
“He’s getting into something dry,” I said.
Rutherford didn’t question this. “If he’s not scared now, it’s because I’m a shrewd bastard, too, Blake. I didn’t get into this business yesterday. I’ve been at it a long time now. I talked Becker blue in the face after I spoke to you yesterday. I told him if you had an agreement, you’d show it. I advised him to go ahead, and lawsuits be damned. That’s the trouble, Blake. When two smart-angle boys are up against each other, it’s every man for the rowboats, and the women and children be damned. This deal is going through. If you’ve got an agreement, let’s see it. We’re calling your bluff, and the ante’s high.”
“I’ve got an agreement,” I said half-heartedly.
“Fine. You can bring it to the party.”
“What party?”
“Tonight, Blake. Right here. In honor of the contract-signing.”
“What?”
Rutherford nodded. “There’ll be some real bigwigs, Blake. And the press, of course. We’re going to get a million bucks worth of free publicity, and Becker’ll announce that the first novel he’ll film will be Gunsmoke. Come along—and bring your agreement.”
“You’re not behaving very shrewdly,” I said.
“No?”
“No, Rutherford. I’ll be here, all right, with the agreement, and maybe with my lawyer.”
“Fine,” Rutherford said. He extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”
“None whatever.”
“I didn’t think there would be. We understand each other.”
Cam had been silent all this time, staring out at the pool, seemingly above all this bickering for her brainchild. She turned to me now, and her lashes were sooty, and the wind lifted her hair from her shoulders. She smiled me that lazy smile and said, “Do come, Josh. There’ll be plenty to drink, and stuff.”
“You couldn’t keep me away,” I said.
Cam smiled again, and this time Rutherford smiled with her.
8.
The drive back to the city was a pleasant one. With the top down and a fresh breeze lapping at my face, I was comfortably cool. I kept thinking about that party, though, and the goddamned missing agreements, and that spoiled the pleasantness for me. When I hit the city, the furnace consumed me. It was hotter than I’d ever known it to be. By the time I reached the office, I was dripping wet.
I walked into the reception room and nodded at Jeanette, who looked crisp and cool, thank the wonders of air conditioning.
“Oh hello, Mr. Blake,” she said.
“Hiya. Tim in?”
“Yes, sir. He’s marketing, I believe.”
“Good.”
I walked through the reception room and then I knocked on Tim’s door.
“Come in,” he called.
I went into his office, where he sat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie yanked down. A pile of manuscripts was on the desk in front of him, and I heard the hum of the air-conditioning unit. A smoldering cigarette was in a tray near his right elbow. He was studying a green card tacked to one of the manuscripts, and he looked up when I walked in, and then smiled.
“Man, you look beat,” he said.
“That’s not the word for it, Tim. How’s it going?”
“Fairly smoothly.”
“Any sales?”
“A rewrite request from Fawcett. That’s it.”
“Anything else of interest?”
“Some checks. I left those on your desk. Mostly sales we knew about. One surprise, though.”
“Which?”
“A short short to Volitant.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Who?”
“O’Donnell.”
“Fine. That should stop his screaming for an advance.”
“Yeah. He’s about due, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “Look, Tim, I’ll be locking in for a while. Tell Jeanette, will you? As far as anyone’s concerned, I’m not here.”
“Right.”
“On second thought, I’ll tell her myself. I want her to get someone for me.”
“Okay.”
“Keep at it, boy.”
Tim nodded and turned back to his marketing, and I left him and went into my own office. I glanced at the checks he’d left on my desk, looked at a few memos he had put there, and then buzzed Jeanette.
&n
bsp; “Sir?”
“Jeanette, would you get Roy Parsons for me, please? His number is in the book.”
“Yes, sir. Sir?”
“What is it, Jeanette?”
“About Lydia…”
“Yes?”
“The police were here again this morning, asking all sorts of questions. It’s a shame, isn’t it, sir? I mean, she was such a lovely girl.”
“Yes. Was Sergeant Di Luca here?”
“Yes.”
“That figures. All right, hon, will you make that call, please? And after this, I’m not in to anyone, savvy?”
“Yes, sir.”
I clicked off and studied the ceiling, leaning back in my chair. In a few minutes, Jeanette buzzed with my call, and I lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Josh. What goes?”
“Nothing much. How’s your end?”
“Can’t kick. You got troubles?”
“In a small way.”
“Shoot. I’m ears.”
“What do you know about David Becker?”
“Becker, Becker. Big man, Josh. Lots of hits, a few Academy Awards. Why?”
“What about his money?”
“What about it?”
“Has he got any? He’s an independent now, you know.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So what do you want to know, Josh?”
“I want to know if he’s using his own dough on his latest venture, or if he’s being backed.”
“I can check. Is this that Cam Stewart deal?”
“Yes, but keep it under your lid.”
“I’m a clam. I’ll call you back, Josh.”
“Right. Thanks a lot, Roy.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He hung up, and I sat back and waited, and then realized it might take a little time. Roy was public relations man for one of the big movie-industry trade journals. If there was anyone who could find out anything about someone in the industry, he was the boy. I’d done favors for him in the past, and he owed me one—but he’d have helped even if he had no obligations. I got restless just then and decided I could use a walk to the john down the hall.
I felt in my pocket to be sure I had the key, walked around my desk and across the room, and then out into the reception room.
“I thought you were in,” the voice said. I didn’t recognize it, but I looked up quickly. At first, I didn’t even recognize the voice’s owner, but then it registered.