“That's all, then,” he said to them.
The girls got up and, after a few words, went out. I shook Palomino's hand and thanked him again.
He said, “It was just like runnin’ through a take in Howdy, Stranger, Mr. Scott.”
“Call me Shell. Everybody who keeps me from getting shot calls me Shell.”
“Sure, Shell.” He looked at Feldspen and Valentine. “So long, then.” He went out.
It wasn't until the moment when he looked across the room at Feldspen and Valentine that I noticed his eyes. The pupils were very small, making the irises seem abnormally large. After I got one look at his eyes, he was out the door and gone. It didn't have to mean anything; perhaps it was even normal. And maybe he was used to bravely kicking guns out of outlaws’ hands, too. But that is also the way a man's eyes look when he's popping with a narcotic drug. Like morphine.
I didn't mention it. Instead I said to Feldspen, “Well, this fouls everything up beautifully.”
Valentine said dully. “It's my fault.”
I spoke without thinking. “Telling Rio the three names wasn't the brightest play imaginable.”
He winced. Maybe from the mouse eating its way out of him. Maybe—probably—because of my words. He looked hurt, and penitent. “I ... I know it,” he said. He fingered the cleft in his chin, scratched the neat mustache. “When Mr. Rio and that—that monstrous individual came in, I just didn't even think about not answering his questions. And I had no way of knowing what you'd said to him, anyway.”
“Yeah. That's understandable. Maybe he already knew their names.” I told them what had happened at the gatehouse.
Feldspen said, “They really beat you about the head?”
“Not about the head. Smack on top of it.”
“You realize I knew nothing of his background.”
“Yeah, Harry. But I realize something else, too. Somebody knew who and what he was—but took his dough anyway. And because of that, I've a hunch the trouble's just getting started.” I paused. “Well, exactly what did you get out of Palomino, Suez, and Miss James.”
They'd gotten nothing but denials. All three had been surprised and unpleasantly so, but the very idea of anybody blackmailing them was preposterous. Then Feldspen frowned slightly. “Now that I think back on it, Coral didn't really say anything. We were asking questions, Mr. Rio included, and I guess her silence went unnoticed by us all. Johnny disclaimed any difficulty. Suez said the whole idea was preposterous. But Coral just sat there looking lovely, and listened. She really didn't say a thing until you came in.”
In a couple of minutes I told them I'd be on my way and would check back when I had something worth telling them. It was almost five in the afternoon, and I wanted to talk with Palomino, Suez, and Coral—alone this time. Just before I left, Ted Valentine got up from his chair and walked over to me.
He stuck out his hand and said, “I'm horribly sorry. I've bungled this in ghastly fashion I suppose.”
“It'll work out.”
He shook his head. “I doubt ... well, perhaps. At any rate, I'm glad we met, Shell.”
He seemed quite sincere, and again I felt that warm and pleasant feeling of liking for the man. I said, “So am I,” and meant it. We shook hands and I went out.
Chapter Five
I found Johnny Palomino resting between takes on the Howdy, Stranger set on Sound Stage Three. He had only two or three minutes until shooting would start again, but it was enough. I asked him point blank about those pinpoint pupils, adding, “I've seen eyes just like that before, Johnny. I hate to sound obnoxious, but Feldspen hired me to ask obnoxious questions.”
“Oh, that's all right, Mr. Scott. I mean, Shell.” He grinned widely. “My eyes are real light-sensitive, especially under these here hot lights they got to use making the picture in color. Takes a powerful lot of illuminating. My ophthalmologist prescribed some kind of drops to put in my eyes. Supposed to contract the pupils—let less light in. Okay?”
“Makes sense. You know what kind of drops they are?”
He shook his head. “Some long name like bulbar pneumonia or something, I don't recollect.”
“You want to tell me who your eye doctor is?”
“I don't reckon he'd want to be bothered none,” Johnny said slowly. He was still grinning, but it was bending a little. He added, “Well, Scott, I already told everybody around here three or four times that I'm in no trouble at all. Except I'm a slow study and haven't learned my lines for this next scene yet.”
I took the hint and left. Well, I'd learned one thing: He'd gone back to calling me Scott.
Suez was in her dressing room on the sound stage adjacent to this one, through for the day and getting ready to go home. She answered my knock wearing a pink satin robe that looked enough like pink skin to give me quite a start, and with a start like that I was almost ready to finish it.
“The grizzly,” she said with apparent pleasure. “Come on in.”
I went inside the small room and she shut the door, pointed to a wooden chair for me and sat down facing me, on a small wooden bench before her dressing table, her back and long black hair reflected in the big mirror behind her. As she'd turned and walked from the door to the little bench, the air had swirled around me and a sweet odor filled my nostrils.
It was different from the smell of powder and makeup in the room; I liked it. “That's nice,” I said, pulling in a lungful as I sat down.
Suez crossed her legs smoothly and said, “The scent?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jasmine. All the time I wear it. Love it. You get a whiff of jasmine, Shell, you look around for Suez.”
“I'll do it.”
She leaned back, elbows behind her on the dressing table, legs crossed, robe pulled tight over her deep breasts and long smooth thighs. She surprised me a little by saying, “I suppose you want to ask me again about who's blackmailing me.”
“That's close enough.”
“Nobody. So what'll we talk about now?”
I looked at the pink robe, the way it rested without a ripple on her skin, smooth over the firm full thigh and sweeping curve of her hip. It was plain enough that either nothing was under it, or there was so little there that it would make almost no difference at all.
It must have been pretty obvious what I was looking at, because she said, “No, let's not talk about that.”
I looked up, but she wasn't angry or even mildly irritated, apparently, just matter-of-fact. I said, “Well, we might talk about Lou Rio. I hear he's interested in you.”
“He is. But I'm not interested in him. Okay?”
“That's great with me.” I grinned at her. “I understand he put on quite a campaign to have you starred in Sins of Messalina. Instead of Coral James.”
“He did, at that—but not a campaign. Just a few words where it counted. Didn't count enough, though. And I didn't know what a wild man he was until today. That's a fact.”
“You mean you didn't know anything about his extra-legal activities?”
“Whatever that is. Anyway, I didn't know a thing about him except that he could do me good—and it wouldn't cost me anything.” She paused and added with slight emphasis, “Not anything.” She moved, shifting that wonderful hip, and the satin slid softly, whisperingly over the bare skin beneath. And now I knew it had to be bare skin. The robe fell open another inch at the top exposing a softly gleaming curve and a pool of shadowed darkness. I could feel a pulse ticking in my throat.
She went on slowly, “I wanted the part pretty bad. But later I got Night Wind, my first big part, so it worked out. But I still think I'd have made a good Messalina.” She flashed the white teeth at me suddenly. “A good bad Messalina.”
“She was bad enough. But beautiful. I think you'd have been great.”
“Thanks.” She paused, looking steadily at me from those big black eyes, “Listen, Grizzly. Don't you worry about Lou Rio. He goes for me, sure. But I don't go for the fat-slob type.”
&
nbsp; “That sums him up pretty well. I don't go for him either, so we have something in common. There's nothing more common than Lou.”
“I go more for the big, rough husky-slob type.” I was searching for something dazzling to say, but she went on before I could think of anything dazzling enough. “I've got to get dressed. And, much as you'd like it, I'm not going to do it while you're here.”
“How do you know I'd like it? I would, of course.”
“You plainly telegraph it. Mister. It comes in like Mayday. A lot plainer than Esperanto.”
“And I'll bet we speak the same language.”
“It could be, maybe. If it was time for conversation. Who knows?” She paused. “We might have a long, long talk sometime.” She smiled slowly and paused again, for quite a while, then went on. “But not right now, honey.”
I got up. “You almost made me forget, but I am working for Feldspen. Maybe for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just in case any trouble should fly your way—out of all this mess today—let me know. If you want help, that is.”
“Now, what kind of help could I want?”
The way she said it, a man could read almost anything into that line. She stood up then, gracefully, and as she rose from the bench that pink robe fell completely away from one leg bearing the calf and thigh and even the beginning curve of her hip as she turned away from me. Facing the big mirror, she put both hands up to her long black hair and said, “'Bye now. You be here tomorrow? On the lot?”
“If I live. I may not live to get out the door.”
It was half true. The robe had fallen back together now that she was standing, but it wasn't tied and it had not fallen completely closed. It was separated only about an inch, not any more than that, but it was an inch like a yard and a half anyplace else. It was an inch clear up and down the robe's center, and that was also the center of Suez.
Watching me in the mirror, she said, “You mentioned getting out the door, honey. So go on, now.” She gathered the robe together in one hand. It helped a little. Helped the robe, that is; it didn't help me a bit. I said, “But ... but I just thought of some dandy dialogue.”
“I'll bet you did. ‘Bye, honey.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah.” And with that brilliant exit line flopping loosely from my lips, I staggered about and went out the door.
I walked toward Bungalow Ten, which I figured would be my next and last stop, and my thoughts were swirling around in a very dizzying fashion. I knew my temperature must be about 102 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was pretty sure that an extra five or ten gallons of blood were being pumped around in me every minute, and I think I needed a cold bourbon-and-water right then more than anything else in the world—except one thing of course.
And then out of Bungalow Ten stepped Coral James.
I had walked past the commissary and around the corner to the row of neat, spacious bungalows there. Feldspen had told me that Miss James’ bungalow was number 10, and I'd been on my way there, hoping to catch her before she left the lot. So I was prepared to see her, expecting to.
Even so, she hit me again like the first time, and the second time. Even after my five minutes with Suez, five minutes which had virtually frazzled me, the sight of Coral, that fiery hair and heart-stopping face and heart-starting body, washed all over me like thick warm air. You could breathe it in like faint perfume. You could drown in it.
She saw me and waved, walked toward me, a faint smile on her red lips. And I thought, It's too much. The afternoon had been too much. It had started with the exhilarating sight of Coral outside Feldspen's office, then I'd been clubbed and clobbered, gotten all charged up during the party with Rio and Gangrene again in Feldspen's office, and then had been charged clear up to Tilt by Suez. And now Coral again, and she was really the best and worst of it all—she was, all by herself, the most a man could expect to experience in one day.
And maybe that, I thought, is what's wrong with Hollywood. There's too much stimulation, too many assaults upon the nerve endings, all of the nerve endings. Your nerves get all giddy, as if they were made into a harp with long red fingernails plucking jazz from its delicate strings. There's too much going on at once in every direction, too many lovely women, and muscular gleaming-toothed men, too many powdered breasts and thighs—and gleaming derrieres. Too many brains pumping thoughts, too many frustrations—and opportunities. Yes, that was it. Hollywood was too much—almost.
Coral had reached me—in fact, now as well as by the other channels—and we stopped on the sidewalk facing each other. She said, “Hello, Shell. You look a little...”
She searched for the word and I supplied, “Dazed?”
“That will do.”
“It's probably because I was hit on the skull this afternoon. From both sides. Outside, and inside.”
“Were you looking for me?”
“All my life.”
“Seriously.”
“Yes, I was. You leaving?” She nodded and I said, “Do you drive your own car?”
“I don't drive at all. If you're offering me a ride, it will save me cab fare.”
“It's saved.” I offered her my arm, she took it, and we walked back to my Cad. On the way I said, “You know why Feldspen hired me. So I might as well tell you now that I've already checked with Palomino, and Suez, both of whom claim nobody ever blackmailed them because there's nothing in their past that black. I further admit that the same reason, my job, is the minor reason for my hunting you up just now. So what's your answer, and we'll have that out of the way.”
“No answer.”
“What does that mean?”
We'd reached the Cad. I held the door for her and she climbed inside. As I slammed the door she said, “Just that I'm not going to say yes or no, or anything. I won't say one way or another, not just yet.”
“You didn't say anything in Feldspen's office, either.”
“I thought nobody had noticed.”
I walked around to the driver's side of the car, wondering what this conversation added up to. The next few minutes of talk didn't tell me. As we left the lot I looked very carefully around, checking the rear view mirror frequently, but I didn't see any sign of Lou Rio's Rolls, or anybody who looked like Gangrene. And nobody shot me, so it seemed probable that neither of those characters was around. Not yet, anyway.
We drove to Hollywood Boulevard, down it to Locust and then up to tree-lined, shaded Redwood. Coral pointed. “The little white house there.”
“Ah, you live there alone?”
“With my mother.”
“Oh.” Dully.
“Who is visiting relatives in Vermont.”
“Oh?” Brightly, this time.
She invited me in. I spent half an hour. We talked, and I didn't learn anything about the case. Mainly because she refused to discuss it. I wondered why. I learned a little about Coral, and she learned quite a bit about me in the conversation. She was from Vermont, had been in Hollywood for four years, and done a dozen minor parts before the big one, Sins of Pompadour. Now, with Sins of Messalina, she felt that her career was really established on a solid foundation, and life was wonderful.
I said, “You're beautiful enough to play anyone, Coral, including Messalina—if they'd ruin your hair —”
“Thank you; I wear a long wig.”
“— but I'm sure you're not bad enough. She was evil, and there can't be an evil bone in your body.” I grinned. “In fact, it's possible there aren't any bones at all in your body.”
She laughed. “They're there.”
“Well hidden then.”
“Besides, how do you know I'm not bad? Maybe I'm more evil even than Messalina. Maybe I've betrayed my own Claudius, and Asiaticus, debauched dozens of lovers in my own Gardens of Lucullus.” She smiled. “It wouldn't have to show.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, but it sure sounds like fun. Seriously, it would show eventually.” Eventually, yes, I thought; but for just
a moment I wondered if this bright and lovely woman could possibly, inside, be different from the loveliness I saw. Like Rio's eyes, those gentle eyes of a brutal man. Perhaps, just as Rio's eyes would change eventually to mirror what looked out of them. Coral's face and body would change, become ugly and twisted to shape themselves around the woman inside ... It was an ugly, twisted thought, and I simply didn't believe it.
Especially not when Coral was smiling at me, as she was now. She said, “This conversation is what I get for playing Messalina. If you're right about me, the fact that I'm so good in the part is proof I'm an excellent actress.”
“I'm right about you.”
“Thank you, Shell.”
After the first attempt to draw her out about Magna and the problem Feldspen had presented to me there, I let the subject drop until just as I left Coral's house. For the last ten minutes or so before leaving, though, I just sat and talked quietly to Coral, looked at her and listened to her.
It could as easily, and pleasantly, have been a day instead of ten minutes. This was a pause in the battle, surcease from saps, balm for all wounds. The voice was like the rest of her, clean and beautiful and unique. For a while I closed my eyes and listened, not looking at her. It was a voice that fell sweetly upon the ear, like the sounds of morning, like the music of spring winds in grass. Low and cool and soft, almost lazy, a voice that washed liquidly over me and caressed my ears and made me feel good just listening to it.
Finally, though, I got up and went to the door. I had to get some lines out among my informants, get on with the job. But this lovely could almost have hypnotized me out of the notion.
And the thought of the job to be done caused me once again to say to her as we stood at the door, “Coral, there's this one point I didn't mention earlier. Somebody—with or without a valid basis, I don't know for sure yet—is trying to squeeze a million clams out of Magna. The money isn't as important as the misery that might come out of this mess if that egg who called really has some dirt on Magna people. Right?”
“Agreed.”
“O.K., if you know anything at all important that you haven't told me but could tell me, you'd be partly responsible for whatever happens.”
Slab Happy (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 5