Star Light, Star Bright

by Stanley Ellin

  Here the help outnumbered the guests. All were male, appeared to be Latin, and wore that tight gray corduroy with scarlet piping which suited lithe young Pablo so well, but which did very little for them. Two were at the buffet, two hovered over the dining table, two were in the remote distance holding a heated debate in an undertone. Dejà vu again. It could have been breakfast time in the restaurant of the Central Park South hotel I called home.

  At the table while introductions were being swapped, I observed that aspiring screenwriter Scott Rountree was not so much plump as stocky, with a flattish face like an English bulldog; that redheaded, sharp-eyed Belle Rountree was flawlessly made up for the cocktail hour, which still couldn’t conceal the fact that she had quite a few years’ seniority on her husband; that cadaverous, middle-aged director Hoffman had a large bald area in the center of his frizzed hair and dark pouches under the eyes, the one perhaps having led to the other; and that Holly Lee Otis, an Alice in Wonderland type just out of her teens, was a girl who probably knew the score every minute of the game.

  It was Holly Lee, mouth stuffed with Danish pastry, who patted the seat beside her and invited me to join the party. She also advised that in selecting breakfast I stick to corn flakes and Danish, because everything else was so rotten it was enough to make you puke. The coffee was all right, however.

  At the buffet I followed her advice, and a hoverer brought back my order to the table and poured coffee for me. Holly Lee took this opportunity to order another Danish. A cherry Danish this time. “Jesus Christ,” plump Belle Rountree said bitterly.

  Lou Hoffman said to me, “Sharon Quist mentioned that you handled a very tough case for her in London a few years back. Nailed Frankie Kurtz for fraud. Peeled him off her back for keeps.”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  There followed a long meditative silence. I finished my corn flakes, went to work on the Danish. A cheese Danish. The outside was warm, the cheese inside cold. Frozen foods.

  Holly Lee suddenly addressed me. “We saw you with Maggie Riley. What did she have to say about things around here?”

  “Not much.”

  “It must have been more than that,” Holly Lee said. “What do you make of that woman anyhow?”

  “Feisty,” I said.

  “I meant—”

  “And great legs,” I said. “Marvelous legs. Nice posture, too.”

  “Oh, come on, Milano,” Scott Rountree said witheringly. “You know why you’re here. We know why you’re here. How about getting down to cases?”

  “Easy does it,” warned his wife. She was eying the remains of the Danish on Holly Lee’s plate. “Fuck it,” she said. She reached out with knife and fork, cut herself a small piece and shoved it into her mouth. It was a replay of Bette Davis and the piece of chocolate in All About Eve.

  “Belle!” said Rountree.

  “Forget it, Scottie. I am cold, I am hungry, I am waiting for someone to commit a murder. My blood sugar is already up there in the high millions. It wouldn’t even know the difference.”

  I frowned at her. “Do you really believe someone here intends to commit a murder?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve seen enough doggie blood flow to know that some kook among us is a real killer. And our prophet Kalos is asking for it. You put it all together, friend.”

  I said, “Do you mean Daskalos is asking to be killed so he can be resurrected? Or that he’s steamed up somebody here to the point of killing him as a payoff?”

  “And what a lovely payoff,” said Belle.

  Holly Lee was suddenly pinch-lipped and narrow-eyed. Lou Hoffman hastily laid his hand on hers. He said to Belle, “How about a little sensitivity on the subject? Remember you’re not only among those who don’t believe, but also among those who do. And those who are searching.”

  Belle said, “Your prose really sings, Lou. It sounds almost as Biblical as those notes the prophet’s been getting.”

  Holly Lee shoved back her armchair, which wasn’t easy, considering its dimensions. She stood up and looked down at Belle. She said very slowly, “You are a short, fat horse’s ass,” and stalked off with hauteur. Hoffman, looking distressed, immediately followed. The hoverers made a racket clearing away their table settings.

  Rountree pulled out a pipe and some cleaners and with great concentration started a disassembling and cleaning job. His eyes on his work, he remarked to Belle, “Lou was right. You were wrong.”

  Belle gave me a wry smile and dipped her head in her husband’s direction. “A searcher,” she informed me.

  “An observer,” said Rountree.

  “Oh?” said Belle. Then she said to him in a singsong, “Forgetting that he who observes too closely may get nose bitten off.” She nodded solemnly at me. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  I laughed. “Well, I have to admit that my line of work … Anyhow, I gather that Miss Otis and Mr. Hoffman are Believers.”

  “Not Lou,” said Rountree. “Not anymore.”

  “But the way he talked—”

  “Only because of Holly Lee.” Rountree assembled the pipe and blew through it.

  Belle explained: “Lou used to be one of the faithful. That’s until Kalos steered Holly Lee to him, and he gave her a part in his last picture. It wound up with Lou moving out on the wife and kiddies and in with Holly.” Belle shrugged. “Yet another aging male suckered by the find-your-lost-youth syndrome.”

  I asked, “Why would any of that stop him from being a Believer?” and Rountree answered, “There’s a moral code involved. A very rigid code. Did Maggie Riley tell you anything about it?”

  “The Path? Mrs. Quist did.”

  “Even better,” said Belle. “She’s a charter member. So you should know that according to the prophet there’s not supposed to be any messing around outside wedlock.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “I’m beginning to see Mr. Hoffman’s problem.”

  “It’s really low comedy in a way,” said Belle. “Kalos was just pushing that dopey kid’s career, that’s all. He never wanted her to take off on this tangent. Because Lou’s wife is one of the all-time great Believers, and she’s not buying any divorce nonsense. As far as she’s concerned, lover boy has just rambled off The Path under an evil spell, and she’ll sit tight until he rambles back on. Kalos seconds the motion. Lou says none of this applies, because he’s not a Believer anymore. But of course his wife is and his girl friend is.”

  I said, “You’ve lost me again. You say Holly Lee is a Believer. So she’s holding to The Path. But she’s living with Hoffman.”

  “Separate beds,” snapped Rountree, as if this should be obvious.

  “Well”—Belle studied her fingernails—“somehow I feel that when Lou starts climbing the walls Holly Lee yields the issue. Who knows? Maybe she gets absolution afterward.”

  Rountree said ponderously, “There is no absolution from leaving The Path.”

  “Ah, look,” Belle said to him, “that girl is no Sharon Bauer. If she makes it at all, it’s because of what Lou can do for her. And that’s how she’s playing her cards.”

  Rountree said with heat, “And that part of it doesn’t make her any less a Believer. You know most of Kalos’ followers have this—this need for material success. He encourages it. He uses it to make converts to what is really a strongly moral way of life. It wouldn’t hurt you to acknowledge that much at least.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Belle. Then she said to me, “So just remember, Mr. Milano, that when you look at cutesy Miss Otis you are looking at one of the world’s great theological cockteasers.”

  Rountree was furious. “You really don’t know any limit, do you?” He stood up and shoved her chair. “Let’s go. There’s almost twenty pages of script to work over.”

  Belle got to her feet. She said to me with forced humor, “I’m not only the bane of his life, I’m his typist and ashtray cleaner. We’ll see you around, no doubt.”

  “No doubt. Will Kightlinger and Calderon show up here f
or breakfast?”

  She shook her head. “Mr. K. takes breakfast in his apartment with the Wall Street Journal. Sometimes Daily Variety. Mr. Calderon will roll out of bed about one o’clock for lunch and tennis.”

  I said, “You mean he gets up for those sunrise services and then gets back into bed?”

  Belle said chidingly, “And you a big-city boy. You caught him on the way in. He covers the clubs uptown every night until they lock up. Wine, women, song, and autographs.”

  I said, “Then I’ll just have to catch him between shows.”

  “Sooner or later,” said Belle. “Oh, yes. When you do there’s a question you might ask him. No, make that two questions. Why he was so hot to do this picture. And why he’d like to see the prophet Daskalos drop dead tomorrow at midnight. To put it politely.”

  “All right.” I said. “Why?”

  “He’s the one to ask,” said Belle.

  There was a matching pair of guards at the entrance to the Annex, both of them heavyset, swarthy, and cold-eyed, with guns strapped on outside their uniform jackets. One of them led me by way of a gargantuan gym and a labyrinth of steam rooms and rubdown rooms to a pool which could have floated a fairsized yacht.

  Quist, naked, was swimming in the pool, using only arm and shoulder power, legs trailing. A man in trunks stood by, keeping an eye on him. Spotting me, Quist held on to the edge of the pool for support and invited me in for a swim. I put up a mild argument against it and lost. When I joined him for a couple of lazy turns back and forth he said, “How about a little race?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not that much of a swimmer.”

  “From the look of it, you’re lying. One hundred dollars. You can use a diving start.”

  I said, “Make it one dollar, and we’ll start even.”

  “One dollar it is.” Then, as if reading my mind, “And you’d better do your damnedest, John. If you don’t, I’ll know it.”

  I didn’t do my damnedest at first. Then he looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “Move, you bastard!” so I did. To my surprise he beat me by several lengths, easily making up on the straightways what I gained on the turns. Bracing himself on the pool’s edge as he watched me come in blowing hard, he looked as jubilant as any kid who ever hit a winning homer in playground ball. He said, “Now how about a return match?” and I had just enough wind left to refuse the offer with thanks.

  We adjourned to a steam room. The attendant helped plant Quist on a tiled shelf and seemed glad to get away, closing the door behind him. Sitting there in that fog swathed in a bath sheet, Quist looked more than ever like a Roman senator. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose, and he thrust out his lower lip to blow it away. He said, “When Virgilio told me he’d guarantee competent replacements for the regular staff these few days I should have realized he meant competent in the Cuban sense of the word. On the other hand, we can at least count on tight-shut mouths.”

  I said, “What did he do, sign on his family?” and Quist looked startled. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No. It was intended as a joke.”

  Quist said with amusement, “That’s how close a joke can come to the truth. There’s probably quite an aggregation of cousins and nephews on the job here, but most of these people belong to an organization he heads. Cuba Libertad. A Cuba freedom movement.”

  “That he did tell me about. I have to admit none of it sounded too realistic.”

  “It’s not.” Quist’s bald head was running rivulets. He worked it over with a towel from the stack between us. “The second generation of emigrés aren’t Cubans any more, they’re Cuban-American. To them, Virgilio and his movement are history book stuff. But don’t ever try to tell him that. He and his hard core have scores to settle. Most of them were at the Bay of Pigs.”

  “Araujo too?”

  “Wounded there and held prisoner for a long time. His brother was killed there.”

  I said, “Talk about scores to settle. Still, his idea of putting together a private army, this time without CIA backing, and raising the millions of dollars it would take—”

  “I know. A sad old Don Quixote. But he’s not really counting on millions. He’d gladly settle tomorrow for, oh, say, five hundred thousand. Seed money, you might call it.”

  I said, “Now, what gives me the feeling he’s asked you for that five hundred thousand?”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed. But I’m a businessman, John, I might back Sancho Panza. Never Don Quixote.” He held up a warning hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Off hours, Virgilio may have his dreams of glory. On the job, as a specialist in security he’s as good as you can get.”

  “Possibly. But so far I’ve seen one man on duty at the main gate, two at the door here, and that’s all. I’d call that pretty thin security.”

  Quist said, “Because you haven’t made the rounds with him yet, have you?” and when I admitted I hadn’t he said, “Then you couldn’t know there’s a man in the boathouse keeping an eye on the beach area. And the cottage close to Daskalos’ isn’t really unoccupied. Since Saturday, there’s always someone out of sight in there keeping close watch.”

  “Why out of sight? I’d say highly visible security is what’s called for under these conditions.”

  Quist, forgetting where he was, drew a deep breath, sucking in a lungful of steam. He coughed hard, then winced. “Damn. You cough and it goes right down to the ankles.” He pointed. “That’s a cold-water tap. I could stand a dousing.”

  I filled the plastic bucket under the tap and doused him, then doused myself. It eased the pounding of the pulse in my temples a little. Quist showed no signs of heavy going at all. He said, “Visible security? Forget it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Daskalos doesn’t want to be protected from whoever’s threatening him. Saturday morning, Virgilio put a man at his door. Ten minutes later, the man reported back. It seemed Daskalos had come outside in a tearing rage, told him that God would put a curse on him if he didn’t go away and stay away. A highly impressive performance. Especially to somebody who believes in that kind of God.”

  “And that’s when you had your talk with Daskalos about clearing out?”

  “Mrs. Quist spoke to him first. When she made no headway she asked me to step in.” Quist slapped a hand down on the wet tile. “Incredible. Here he was, said he, and here he would stay. And no one was to get in the way of his murderer, whoever that was.”

  “I suppose he gave you the same fancy reincarnation line he gave me.”

  “At great length.”

  “Do you believe he means it?”

  Quist cocked his head at me. “Yes.” It looked and sounded like a challenge.

  “But you know his record.”

  “More than that. I met him when he was still at his astrology racket some years ago. Corinthian Productions was having its bad spell then, it was up for grabs, and I thought it might be a good buy. I was on the West Coast involved in some useless negotiations on it for a couple of weeks, and twice Daskalos—Kondracki then—turned up at house parties I attended. A striking-looking man, very smooth, very charismatic, and obviously, to me at least, a total fake. Amazing how those people kowtowed to him.”

  “Amazing,” I said with malice.

  Quist’s lips twisted into the suggestion of a smile. “I know what you mean. But that was Kondracki.”

  “Then he turned into Daskalos and a miracle took place.”

  “As for that—” Quist said. He stopped there. Then he said abruptly, “This isn’t a change of subject. I want you to bear with me a moment.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well”—he seemed to be searching for the words—“when Mrs. Quist suggested—advised—that I call you down here, it was because in London you had handled a certain matter for her with complete success. What she emphasized was that to you the word confidential means confidential. In blunt language: when you deal with a client’s very private concerns you know how to keep your mouth shut about them.�
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  “It goes with the down payment,” I said. Whatever he intended to reply was cut short by a painful grimace. He shifted the position of his legs with an effort. I asked, “Is there something I can do?”

  “Not in the way of therapy. All I want from you is your assurance that when you leave here you will not, under any conditions, head for some newspaper editor or book publisher. I think that what I’ve paid you—”

  “Understood,” I said.

  “I hope so. Because to explain why I’m certain Daskalos believes in his peculiar calling, I’m going to risk telling you the circumstances surrounding my marriage. I was at a gathering some associates had arranged in my honor. That was in Acapulco about three years ago. Among the guests were screen star Sharon Bauer, and as her partner for the evening, Daskalos. As a matter of fact, this must have been soon after you handled that matter for her in London.

  “Anyhow, I had seen her films and was very much an admirer from a distance. Now I seized the opportunity and asked for an introduction. She came over, introduced herself and—thank God there weren’t any ears that close—she simply and directly proposed marriage. Drunk? Drugged? She didn’t seem to be. So it had to be some kind of tasteless joke, and that’s how I treated it. Until she told me with the most enchanting seriousness that, no, it wasn’t a joke. That our marriage was ordained by her spiritual guide, Kalos Daskalos, and it might be best if I spoke to him about it.” Quist motioned at the far wall. “That valve is the steam control. If you turn it down a bit, we can start to decompress. This heat isn’t getting to you, is it?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. I turned the valve down more than a bit.

  “Well then,” Quist said. “I didn’t speak to Daskalos at the time, just to this extraordinarily beautiful and very strange girl. And spent the next afternoon with her, learning that she was without doubt the most ingenuous creature on God’s earth. If there was a conspiracy of some sort going on, she certainly wasn’t part of it.

  “But that evening I made a point of paying Daskalos a visit. Remember, I had known him as Kondracki, an astrologer who lived in Beverly Hills, drove a Rolls, dressed like a peacock. In Acapulco, he occupied a shabby little two-room flat in the native quarter—Sharon Bauer, believe it or not was settled in one of the rooms—and he gave every indication of really being some sort of pauper sage.