And, in fact, New Holland did not react well to Tony’s downfall. He was mocked, ridiculed, and pilloried for having embarrassed himself and the town. Harvey Dunnolt, who never did report my moonlighting to Artie Short, wrote a scathing article on Tony in the Gazette two days after mine appeared, holding back nothing. He characterized Tony as a fickle, weak-willed failure who’d pushed away a chance at success with both hands. Many in his hometown agreed. One evening a month after I’d returned home, I overheard a bar full of drinkers and diners at Tedesco’s reveling in their contempt and derision of the once-adored local boy. Some even joked that he’d run off with a rich fairy who made him earn his supper the hard way every evening. They used a cruder term.
“Hey!” yelled the proprietor, Jimmy Tedesco, to silence the talk. “Watch your language. There’s a lady here.”
But long before all the unhappy endings—Tony’s, Gene’s, and even Andy’s—had played out, I still had one last evening left in Los Angeles, and I spent it with my friends Mickey, Evelyn, Nelson, and Lucia. They wanted to take me someplace special, if for one night only. I insisted on dinner at Musso and Frank, and reluctantly they agreed. We drank and gorged ourselves on what I hoped would be Artie Short’s dime. Perhaps not, but I intended to submit the bill as an expense just the same. As things turned out, Nelson Blanchard sneaked away from the table at a certain point and settled the bill without my knowledge. I told him he still wasn’t getting me into bed.
After three hours, a steak Diane, and several glasses of whiskey, I told my friends that it was time to push off home. I was tired.
“You might want to wait one minute,” said Evelyn, grinning like a thief at something over my shoulder.
“Why?” I asked, turning to see what she was smiling at. But there was a large man in a checkered jacket standing directly behind me blocking my view. “Excuse me, sir, but would you mind—”
I swallowed my words and choked. The man in the checkered coat was William Hopper, Paul Drake in the flesh. And he was smiling at me.
“Hiya, beautiful,” he said with a wink. Then he walked out of my life forever.
We nearly laughed ourselves out of our chairs.
“How? Who? When?” I stammered.
“It was Evelyn,” said Mickey. “She saw him at the bar and begged him to come over. She even told him what to say.”
I melted and actually shed tears of happiness. After an emotional, waterlogged two weeks in Los Angeles, during which practically everything had gone wrong, I threw my arms around Evelyn and hugged her tight. She had given me the greatest parting gift I could have hoped for. And it wasn’t Paul Drake.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I’m indebted to my editor, Dan Mayer, and my agent, William Reiss. Thank you to Mary Ziskin, Jennifer Ziskin, Dr. Hilbert, and Dr. Kunda for their feedback and advice; as well as to Jeffrey Curry for his keen eye in editing this book. A special thanks to Paul D. Marks for his generous assistance and expertise.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James W. Ziskin is the Edgar, Anthony, Barry, and Lefty Award–nominated author of the Ellie Stone mysteries. He lives in the Hollywood Hills.
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