‘I’ll pay my way while I’m here,’ Mason said.
‘You damn well will,’ Davey returned, tamping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He stood stock-still, looking sullenly out of the window.
Betsy flashed Mason an apologetic glance. ‘Davey is on edge,’ she explained. ‘He spends his entire life on edge. That’s because he’s a writer, and all writers are just so self-absorbed it makes them gloomy company.’ Davey’s eyes narrowed, but he refrained from being drawn in.
‘Betsy tells me you’re writing screenplays. What kind of things are you writing, Davey?’ he asked.
He grunted. ‘It’s not real writing, but it’s a way of earning a living while I’m here.’ It strongly implied he wasn’t intending to stay long. ‘Motion pictures are facile, superficial amusements churned out for the masses. They won’t last. It’s a passing fad.’ He looked across at Betsy, his gaze lingering on her meaningfully.
‘Ignore him,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know the meaning of having fun. He’s always been such a serious man. Mother said when he was born he didn’t so much cry as complain. He’s complained ever since.’
‘You never knew our mother, so how come you know?’ he sneered. ‘There’s no sin in being serious. Someone has to be serious for the both of us. So, Betsy, are we about to take in any more crippled little actors who can’t fend for themselves, like you used to do with every injured dog, cat or bird you came across?’
‘That’s enough, Davey!’ she said. ‘You’re becoming tiresome again. Tiresome and rude with it. You’ll give Rick the wrong impression.’
‘So where are you from, Mr Mason?’ Davey asked unexpectedly. ‘You have something of a foreign accent.’
‘It’s Slavonian,’ he explained. ‘My mother and I came over from Slavonia before the war. I can’t seem to shake the accent off.’
‘Slavonia? So where’s that?’
‘It’s a part of Croatia, in the Balkans.’
‘Ah, the Balkans – where the war started, huh? Planning on going back home?’
‘This is my home,’ he said, feeling himself getting hot under the collar. ‘I’m an American citizen. I cut off ties with Europe when I passed through Ellis Island.’
‘Don’t mind him, Rick,’ Betsy said, sensing the atmosphere in the room getting all charged up like the sky before a lightning storm. ‘Aren’t you going to ask how my audition went, Davey?’
‘How did your audition go, Betsy?’ he said in monotone.
‘It went shit,’ she said.
‘Your language has sunk to levels I don’t approve of since you started mixing with people round here,’ he said.
‘Tough. Rick here is going to ask his agent to help me out,’ she said. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
Davey looked across at Mason. ‘Does your agent make a thing out of collecting the unemployed? Hardly seems to make good business sense. Still, you will have it your way, Betsy,’ he said. He plucked his coat from a hook and left the apartment. They heard his boots clumping in the corridor as he headed for the stairway down to the street below.
‘He’s not as bad as he paints himself,’ Betsy said. ‘He’s trying to do his best to look after the two of us; to look after me while I find my feet in Hollywood.’
‘I rather think we hit it off bad,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t like me one little bit.’
‘That’s tough,’ she said curtly. ‘He doesn’t own me and I can do just as I please, see who I please. So, you think your agent might be able to help me out?’
‘Joking aside, if anyone can help you Victor Wallace can. He’s a good man. He pretends to be a mean-hearted bastard, but he’s as soft as melted butter inside. I’ve just had a run of bad luck, that’s all. He’ll get me something, I know he will.’ He stared at her face. He couldn’t make up his mind whether she looked like your average girl-next-door or a worldly-wise saloon woman. He couldn’t fathom her at all, which made her seem all the more attractive. So unlike any woman he’d ever met. ‘Why do you put up with Davey?’ he asked. ‘He’s like a damp cloth over a fire.’
‘Davey’s all I’ve got. And I’m all he’s got, too. End of story.’
‘So I’m guessing you haven’t got any sort of romantic attachment to anyone?’ he asked tentatively.
‘You mean have I got a fella somewhere? No, there’s no one special that I’m seeing. Is there a Mrs Mason?’
He laughed. ‘No Mrs Mason. When I got my contract at Prima there were a couple of attractive women wanting to become Mrs Mason, but strangely, since Dust of the Sahara did a nosedive, I haven’t seen any of them since. Weird, eh?’ He pushed away his dish of half-eaten soup. ‘Tomorrow we’ll take a trip to see Victor.’ He took a silver cigarette case out of his jacket pocket. ‘Never use this. It was a gift from one of my prospective wives. This should get us the fare there and back, but something had better come up soon because I’m running out of things to take to the pawnshop.’
She shook her head. ‘Are you always so cheerful, even when you shouldn’t be?’
‘Life’s a bowl of cherries, Betsy, and even cherries have pips you have to contend with. All you gotta do is spit the pip right on out and start on another cherry!’
‘And what if you empty your bowl of cherries?’
He smiled. ‘Then you have to fill it back up again with new ones,’ he said, as if it were a foolish question she should have known the answer to.
‘You really are weird, Rick Mason,’ she said.
‘And you really are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,’ he said.
Her attention had already shifted to the window and she didn’t quite catch his last comment. ‘Do you think motion pictures are a fad? Do you think it’s worth taking all this trouble to be a part of it?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can tell? You have to take the ride while you can, see where it takes you. You can always jump off later down the line and hitch a ride on something else.’
‘But you could be dumped miles from anywhere,’ she said, ‘with no means of ever getting back.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t ever go back. What’s the matter, are you getting cold feet?’
It was her turn to shrug. ‘My ambition scares me at times. Davey says I’m too passionate, too focussed on what it is I want for myself, sometimes at the expense of others. And in truth I have few options; my cherry bowl’s quite empty.’
‘Davey doesn’t like actors, or this entire acting game, for some reason. There’s something deep down that’s eating him.’
Her eyes flickered with concern. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, the eyes; the cold expression, the way he doesn’t want to look at you when he’s talking to you, like he’s scared he might give something away if he did; or the way he resents strangers, openly distrusts me without even knowing me. What’s eating him, Betsy? What’s he scared of?’
She rose from the table, cleared away their dishes. ‘That’s enough about Davey,’ she said quickly.
‘Have I upset you?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I said something that…’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine.’
But he knew she wasn’t fine at all and the rest of the day he suspected she regretted agreeing to him entering their close-knit little world. Davey came back in later, went to his room and closed the door. Later that night, as Mason lay uncomfortably on the sofa in the dark, half-asleep, he heard someone talking. He listened intently. The sound came from Davey’s room. He realised the man was rambling in his sleep. He appeared to be having an argument in his dreams, the words unintelligible. Then there was an almighty scream from him and it went deathly quiet.
Moments later, Betsy’s door opened. Mason thought it best to pretend to be asleep, but through the corner of his eye he saw her go over to Davey’s door, quietly open it and stand there looking for a while. She listened for a minute or two, then closed the door and went back to her room.
* * * *
6
A Man of Property
Victor Wallace was sweating again, and getting himself all wound up, Rick Mason thought. ‘Victor, this is Betsy Bellamy,’ he introduced.
The tiny waiting room was stifling and Betsy’s cheeks had flushed with the heat. Wallace swiped a handkerchief across his creased forehead and around his neck. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said dismissively. ‘I got news for you. Come through, Rick,’ he said, putting a meaty hand on his shoulder.
Mason told Betsy to wait a while, take a seat while he talked to his agent. The two men went through into Wallace’s office. He had two fans working overtime, their blades noisy, their effect minimal.
‘So who’s the dame?’ he asked.
‘The next actor on your books,’ Mason said.
‘I’ve got enough goddamn actors on my books – take her somewhere else.’
‘She’s special, Victor. I tried her out. Got her to act out a scene. She really has got talent, not just a pretty face.’
‘Well it takes more than breasts and legs to make someone special, Rick.’ He looked at him from under his heavy eyebrows. ‘We’ll discuss the dame later. First, I’ve got some good news at last. I spoke to Conrad Jefferson yesterday.’
‘The Conrad Jefferson? Metropolitan Studios-Jefferson?’
The one and the same,’ Wallace said, his face beaming at Mason’s reaction. He made himself comfortable in his desk chair.
Metropolitan Studios were big, and growing. Conrad Jefferson had started out in partnership with the Dillon brothers when they set up Prima back in ’15, but they had an almighty row and parted company acrimoniously to say the least, Jefferson insisting on getting his share of the fledgling Prima and nearly causing it to go under in the process. The Dillons never forgave him and there had been bitter rivalry between them ever since. Jefferson used his share to help set up Metropolitan Studios and had since done well for himself. Unlike Prima, Metropolitan concentrated on big-budget features as their primary output, with a small amount of adventure-based shorts that the public lapped up. They owned a fair amount of theatres through which they distributed and screened their films, and they planned to invest in more. Because of their growing success they attracted bigger names and bigger investment. Rick Mason had been turned down by the producers at Metropolitan, so to hear that Wallace had got a look-in with the head man himself was thrilling news.
‘Well don’t leave the damn thing hanging in the air, Victor. What did he have to say?’
‘I put the feelers out, like I said I would, and next thing I know, out of the blue, Jefferson’s contacting me,’ said Wallace, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He still couldn’t find a light for it. ‘Just like I said, seems he heard about your public spat with Luke Dillon at the Palm Club. He liked the idea you had balls enough to go up against the man and say what you did. He heard Prima dumped you, says the stuff they forced on you was shit, no fault of yours. Says you deserve another chance.’
Mason plonked himself down in the chair opposite Wallace. ‘You kidding?’
He shook his head. ‘Do I look like I’m kidding? He says he wants to meet with you personally.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow, at his place.’
‘Jesus!’ Mason gasped. ‘Conrad Jefferson wants to meet me.’
Victor Wallace was grinning. ‘Maybe now you’ll start to pay your way and make all the trouble I’ve gone to with you worth the effort.’
‘You’re a genius, Victor!’ he said. He rose, leant across the table and grabbed Wallace’s head in both hands, planting a wet kiss on his forehead. Wallace batted him away, wiping the spot with his handkerchief. ‘Did he give any details what it’s all about?’
‘The conversation was short and I didn’t push it,’ he admitted. He pointed hard. ‘Don’t you screw this up, Rick! There’s a time for opening your big mouth, but this meeting ain’t it. And don’t agree to a thing without running it past me first, OK? He’s a wily old devil.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he agreed.
‘Hal Bremner’s going to be there, too.’
‘The producer? Christ, Victor, this just gets better and better.’ Hal Bremner was hot property; he’d produced some of Metropolitan’s highest-grossing movies.
‘I really could do with being there alongside you, but they insist on seeing you first. Maybe they’re sizing you up. But whatever you do, don’t you go loud-mouthing this to anyone yet. Remember, you’re officially still on Prima’s books until you accept their severance offer, and if the Dillons get wind of this they’ll pull back from the deal and make you see out your contract, by which time Metropolitan’s interest might have gone cold. Keep this one very much under your hat till you’ve met with Jefferson and Bremner.’
‘So what about Betsy?’ said Mason.
‘So what about Betsy?’
‘She needs a good agent. As a favour to me, Victor. I won’t forget it.’
He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ll do a deal with you – clinch this with Metropolitan, up my percentage another four percent and maybe I’ll consider it.’
‘Three percent and no maybe about it,’ he countered.
‘OK, I’ll give her six months, but if she bombs then I’ll ditch her.’
‘Deal,’ said Mason, and shook his hand. ‘You’re an OK guy, Victor.’
‘Don’t let that get out. It won’t do my reputation any good.’ Then he remembered something. ‘With all the excitement over Metropolitan, I almost forgot.’ He opened a drawer and took out a calling-card. ‘An old guy came into the office yesterday, looking for you. He was foreign. Said he was the Hungarian equivalent of a lawyer, or something.’
‘Hungarian lawyer?’ said Mason. ‘What the hell does he want with me?’
Wallace shrugged. ‘Search me. Turns out he’s been trying to track you down for some time. Came all the way from some place I never heard of to meet with you. Said it was very important you meet up with him.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Just that it was very important family business that needed to be taken care of.’
‘I have no family,’ he said. ‘The only family I had was my mother and she’s dead. Maybe it’s someone having a joke.’ He studied the name on the calling-card: Franz Horvat.
‘This guy didn’t have a sense of humour – he’s a lawyer. He had all the warmth of a week-old corpse. He says he’s staying at the Adelphi Hotel five blocks down – the address is on the back of the card. I told him you’d be in contact. He said someone had died, and in my book that generally means money, so if I were you I’d drop round and see him while you’re here.’ He leant across the desk, elbowing papers out of the way. ‘If you take my advice, Rick, you’ll ditch the broad. Now’s not the time to get hung up on some dumb country hick. You need all your wits and concentration behind you. There’ll be plenty of time for that kind of thing, and all the dames you’ll every need if this deal with Metropolitan pans out.’
‘Ever thought I might not need another woman?’
‘You’ve fallen for her? How long have you known her?’
‘All my life,’ he replied. ‘I’ll let you know the results of my meeting with Jefferson as soon as I can. In the meantime I’ll poke my head into the Adelphi hotel to find out what this lawyer-guy wants.’ He flicked the calling-card with his index finger. He went to the door, stopped and turned. ‘You know, Victor, I really mean it when I say I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I won’t ever forget that. You’re more than just my agent.’
‘Get your ass out of my office before I start to weep,’ he growled, his creased forehead creasing still further. He waved his hand as if he were slapping at a mosquito.
Mason smiled and went outside.
‘What’s he say?’ Betsy asked.
‘You’re going to be just fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you on the way to the Adelphi hotel.’
‘Why are we going there?’
<
br /> ‘Someone died,’ he said.
The Adelphi was the kind of place you stayed when you didn’t have much money. The sort of place they often rented out rooms by the hour to guys with so-called wives they had to pay to spend time with. It wasn’t seedy, thought Mason, as he and Beth sat in the hotel lobby, but it wasn’t exactly grand either. It attracted a lot of hard-up hopefuls new to the area, who stayed long enough to get disillusioned and then packed their bags to head someplace else. It was the hotel equivalent of a railway station, he thought, some people headed on to Hollywood, others on their way back out, with many just passing through Los Angeles and hardly pausing for breath.
He saw an old man coming across the lobby towards him, a tired-looking leather briefcase in his hand. He wore black, from his black Homburg to his black suit and black shoes. Mason thought he looked like a funeral director. He was small, hunched slightly, wore round spectacles on his sharp nose, lenses sparkling in a dark tortoiseshell frame. His expression never altered from profoundly serious, almost near-grave, even when he came up to Mason and introduced himself.
‘Good afternoon. You are Rick Mason?’
‘That’s right.’ They shook hands. The old man’s was cold and bony, the contact firm, brief and perfunctory.
‘And who is this lady?’ he asked crisply. His English was good, but his accent had a heavy Hungarian flavour.
‘This is a friend,’ Mason explained.
The old man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but this is for your ears only, sir. Please leave us alone, miss.’
‘She’s fine where she is,’ objected Mason.
‘I insist,’ he said bluntly.
Mason passed her an apologetic glance and Betsy nodded, leaving them alone together. The man sat down and bade Mason do the same. He snapped open his briefcase and removed a handful of papers wrapped in a cardboard file fastened with red ribbon.
Mason looked on, perplexed. ‘What’s all this about, and who are you?’ he said.
The old man studied him intently from over the edge of his spectacles. ‘I do see a strong resemblance,’ he said quietly. ‘It is quite uncanny. I could have easily picked you out as the man I was looking for in a crowd of people.’
SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense) Page 4