Psycho - Three Complete Novels

by Robert Bloch

  Connie lay back. They were about to go now. The cameraman nodded at Leo, he waved to the sound engineer, and the ape got ready to haul his banana into the shot on cue.

  “All set, everybody?” Leo said.

  Connie winked at him. Leo was no Marty Driscoll, but it didn’t matter. What mattered what that she was playing the lead in her first feature film.

  The clown who handled the lights stepped forward with his clapper board—a term she hoped was merely a figure of speech. “Scene one, take two,” he told the camera.

  “Speed!” Leo said.

  Connie smiled.

  “Action!”

  Connie spread her legs.

  To hell with Driscoll. She was a star …

  Marty Driscoll couldn’t see a star.

  Usually the big glass sliding doors leading onto the patio gave him a magnificent view of the Valley below and the sky above, but tonight nothing was visible outside the den except a solid wall of gray.

  The fog comes on little cat feet—

  And so did the quotation. Driscoll grimaced, wondering just what reaction he’d get if he came up with the line in the presence of coworkers at the studio. Not to wonder, really; he was already quite certain of their response.

  Literacy dated you. In an era obsessed with youth, most producers graduated directly from acne to autonomy, and the older group lied about their ages even more than the performers did.

  When Marty Driscoll had reached this realization, his body had already betrayed him. It was too late for hair dye or hairpieces, and any obvious attempt to emulate post-adolescent lifestyles would be futile. The din of a disco dance floor couldn’t drown out his wheezing, and no corset could conceal his flab.

  The only ploy remaining was the one he’d adopted: play it smart by playing dumb. Come on strong, come on crude and loud and vulgar, give them a stereo version of a stereotype—the no-taste, no-talent tyrant. Forget about the degrees from Princeton; they’re not interested in your B.A., what counts is your b.s. And while you’re at it, forget about those early low-budget features, the idealistic efforts born of a desire for quality, only to die at the box office.

  The formula worked. That’s why Driscoll was sitting here now in the den of the big house on Mulholland where—except for a few foggy nights like this one—he could look down on the studio below. And that, he supposed, had been his ultimate gratification, to look down on the studio in every sense of the phrase. Look down on its vacuity, its vanities and venalities, even though he himself shared in them, mea culpa.

  Driscoll shrugged as he considered the success of his deception. As far as the studio people were concerned, he wouldn’t know mea culpa from Mia Farrow.

  For that matter, his own wife hadn’t learned the secret; none of them had. To Deborah he was just a big fat slob with a big fat bank account. She’d taken the kids down to the Springs for the week just to get away from the slob, but she called every day to pay her continuing respects to the bank account.

  Suppose she found out there was no bank account? And that this house and the one in the Springs were creaking beneath the weight of heavy second mortgages plus interest penalties for overdue payments?

  Irrelevant questions. She wasn’t going to find out, not if his luck held. Luck—that was the random factor.

  Bad luck with the last three films. He should have sold them to the Pentagon; with bombs like those, they could destroy the Soviet Union. It was after the release of the third that the mortgaging began.

  Then, good luck again, when Vizzini brought him the development deal on Crazy Lady. And it had all been smooth sailing until this week, when New York heard of Norman Bates’s escape and the murders.

  They want to pull out, Ruben told him. They think the news turns your story into ancient history. Somehow he’d managed to sweet-talk Ruben out of an immediate cancellation, citing George Ward’s conviction that the publicity would be a help rather than a handicap. But the best he got was a reprieve until Ruben and the money people came in for tomorrow’s meeting. That was when the final decision had to be made.

  And Claiborne was an unexpected complication. Until now, he’d been able to handle Roy Ames and his qualms of conscience, but Claiborne was really rocking the boat. Day by day their objections were undermining morale; day by day the interest rates mounted and the prospect of his receiving a healthy producer’s fee on the picture’s start-date sank.

  This afternoon had been the worst. Labeling Santo Vizzini as mentally unstable hardly qualified as a late news bulletin, but that didn’t prove him guilty of arson. One thing was certain: he hadn’t started the fire.

  Driscoll paused at his desk long enough to light a cigar, then wished he hadn’t. The flaring match was a painful reminder.

  Rereading the production-insurance contract the other day, he’d discovered the disaster clause. Everyone would be paid off in full in the event of demonstrable accident, the death or serious injury of stipulated principal performers, destruction of facilities due to water or fire damage—

  Good luck again. Why risk further problems or gamble on persuading New York to let the picture proceed? He could get his money now—not just the upfront fee but the whole sum, guaranteed, more than enough to bail him out. And nobody could fault him for an act of God. He’d have another project in the works long before he ran short of cash again.

  It had all seemed so simple once he worked out the details. Luck held when he carried the gasoline can onto the set unobserved. His mistake had been to ignite the bedspread before spreading the gasoline around; the flicker of flame had alerted the guard, and there was just enough time to shove the can under the bed and get out through the side door.

  Good luck had borne him back to his office without being discovered, but bad luck had aborted the fire. And all he could do now was hope that Claiborne bought his story about the set dresser. In a day or so the shrink would leave, and by then the meeting with Ruben and New York people would be over. It was going to take some doing to convince them that George Ward was right about the publicity helping Crazy Lady; he’d really have to make a pitch tomorrow. But rough, gruff Marty Driscoll, that hard-nosed slob, would hardball it through. He had no choice now.

  He paced before the glass doors, staring out into the night. The fog blurred the lights, but they’d shine again tomorrow, bright and clear. Better get some rest so that he’d be bright and clear too, come meeting time.

  One more day, that was all he needed. One more day to get the final okay. And then to hell with them all: the neurotic writer, the loud-mouthed shrink, the stupid girl, that crazy director, and his over-the-hill star.

  Don’t worry, he told himself. You can handle them. But it won’t be a picnic …

  — 28 —

  “This really is a picnic,” Paul Morgan said. He gestured toward the nude males crowding behind him at the dressing table’s three-paneled mirror. “I mean, look at all those buns and weenies!”

  Robert Redford giggled. “Speak for yourself, dearie. Whenever I see naked bodies, it just reminds me that God didn’t know very much about anatomy.”

  “Let’s not be blasphemous.” John Travolta peered at his image intently, teasing his eyelashes. “Why are you always putting down religion?”

  “Because my grandmother was raped by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t your grandfather?”

  Everybody let out a shriek except Clint Eastwood. He glanced up from the chair in the corner, where he sat waxing his legs. “You’re a fine one to talk—you and your group-gropes!”

  Sylvester Stallone elbowed his way to the mirror, pursing his mouth as he applied lipstick. “Personally, I detest the action at orgies. It’s like opening a dozen beautifully wrapped Christmas packages and finding them all empty.”

  “But isn’t that what we’re doing here?” Robert Redford asked. “We’re peddling illusions, not just the bare necessities—”

  Clint Eastwood rose. “It’s getting late. You’d
better stuff your bare necessities into your jeans and get downstairs before Queenie throws a snit fit.”

  Burt Reynolds tossed his powder puff into a tray on the dressing-room table. “Oh my God, I forgot! That party of Iranians is coming in again tonight—”

  “Not again!” John Travolta made a face. “Iranians suck.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” asked Paul Morgan.

  There was a hoot, and Clint Eastwood moved up beside him, nodding appreciatively. “That’s telling them, hon. Don’t pay attention to what they say. I know it’s your first time here, but there’s nothing to get uptight about. Just remember, Queenie’s here to protect you.”

  Paul nodded, reaching for his Jordaches and peek-a-boo blouse. The others were dressing frantically now, jostling in front of the mirror panels and making last-minute inspections. He was grateful for their self-preoccupation and equally grateful for Eastwood’s reminder.

  Because it was his first time, and he was edgy. He thought of Queenie’s blonde wig, the beaded gown, the artificial breasts, and wondered why he never bothered to shave off his beard. Now he visualized the scene downstairs—big fat Queenie playing madam in his grotesque outfit, surrounded by all those gorgeous studs. No wonder customers came into Queenie’s parlor from all over the world to be serviced by just about every top male star in the business.

  As Robert Redford had said, they were peddling illusions, and perhaps Queenie’s beard was a not-too-subtle reminder that what came down here was fantasy.

  Everybody knew the studs weren’t actually stars, but only lookalikes—gay guys, playing macho. But most of them took their work very seriously, copying voices, mannerisms, and schticks. With the prices Queenie charged, his clientele wasn’t about to make it with ordinary beefcake.

  Well, some of them would be getting filet mignon tonight, and more than illusion.

  Paul sat at the mirror pretending to work on his eyebrows when the others trooped out, their chatter echoing down the hallway as they headed for the stairs. Nothing remained of their past presence here except for a peculiar scent compounded of powder, perfume, and jock-sweat.

  Thank God that part was over! Talk about illusions—he’d managed to fool them completely. None of them had guessed he was for real, not even Queenie himself, when he’d stripped down for the interview. It almost cracked him up when he’d heard those words of grudging approval.

  “You’re a little old to do Morgan, but the delivery isn’t bad. And once the word gets out that you’re hung like a horse, you ought to get quite a play. Some of my regulars are into quantity, not quality.”

  So why was he sitting here now with the shakes? Queenie had assured him there’d be no trouble. “No bondage, S-and-M or leather freaks, no tearoom acrobats. This is strictly a straight gay house.”

  But I’m not gay. That’s the problem.

  Sure, there’d been exceptions, like that time on location in Morocco with that little Arab gofer—what was his name, Abud, Abdul?—and the Jap kid, the gardener, that afternoon when he was so smashed. But you couldn’t count such things, and if it weren’t for Vizzini, he wouldn’t even have remembered crap like that. Jesus, there was as real kinko for you, Vizzini, giving him the business. Telling him he had to psych himself into the role.

  “Let’s hear it again from the top. And this time forget the balls. I don’t want Paul Morgan, I want Norman Bates. You know what I mean?”

  Paul knew exactly what he meant. Play gay. Wearing the dress and the wig had helped, but not enough.

  What had Queenie said? You’re a little old to do Morgan. And that was the nitty-gritty. If he wanted to stay alive in the industry, it was time to segue into character parts, like Newman and Peck, time to make the switch.

  Switch.

  He raised a hand to smooth his hair, hoping the gesture would brush the word away, but it hung there in midair between his face and the mirror, blurring his image. All he could see was the trembling of his fingers.

  Maybe he should have taken a few more belts to calm himself down before coming here. Or maybe he shouldn’t have come at all. It was belting drinks that gave him the crazy notion in the first place, made it seem like a smart move. Okay, so Claiborne told him Norman wasn’t gay, just a transvestite. But what did that dumb shrink know about the Method?

  All these years he’d steered clear of that Actor’s Studio jazz, but he needed it now if he was going to stop jiving and really play the character. He had to do more than just work in drag if he wanted to get the feel of the part. Even if it meant that in a few minutes some stranger, some garlic-breathed old oil-peddler, would be getting it off feeling his parts. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bug out—

  He forced himself to stare into the mirror again and this time the image was clear. He didn’t see Vizzini, or Queenie, or the lousy teenagers who thought he was over the hill. What he saw was Paul Morgan.

  So quit rattling the cage; crashing this scene was his own idea. And there was no sense in splitting now. Vizzini was right, he had to play for real because this was his last chance at the brass ring. That’s why he was—

  “Here, now!”

  He looked up as Queenie peered around the side of the dressing-room doorway, his bearded lips framing a pout.

  “What’s keeping you, sugar? We’re jammed downstairs, simply Jump City—”

  Paul pushed back his chair and rose. “Okay, I’m coming.”

  “Later.” Queenie tittered. “I’ve spread the word to some of my specials and they’re just frantic to meet a new face.”

  Paul trailed Queenie’s waddling bulk down the hall, hearing the babble rising from the stairwell. Shrill voices, shrill laughter. Jesus, what was the matter with him—he’d known a lot of gays in the industry over the years, and most of them were decent dudes. But you wouldn’t find that kind here, camping it up in a male whorehouse.

  Suddenly the shakes came back. He wanted to turn, turn and run, but he couldn’t because a hand was squeezing him. A huge, invisible hand, pushing him forward, pushing him down. Vizzini’s hand …

  Rose out of the fog and popped a ’lude into his mouth. Then it descended, lost in the mist that swirled about him like thick steam.

  For a moment Vizzini had a vision of dead, boiled bodies and peeled, fleshless faces bobbing amid the bubbles of a hot-tub.

  Imbecile. No hot-tub here. Wherever here might be. Here was lost in the fog and so was he. Fog, not steam. Cold, not hot. Prowling the hills, walking ten feet above the ground, he knew he should have stayed clean, should have stayed home, put down the thoughts that came with the fog and the night. But the thoughts had driven him to the pills and the pills had driven him from the house.

  No, not thoughts. The memories, that’s what he was trying to run away from, the memories of the dead.

  Mama mia—

  Yes, Mama mia, that day when the soldiers came to the village and she took his hand and they ran to the town square where they used to sit at the long picnic tables on Sunday afternoons while the band played Verdi. Only today the bandstand’s shell was cracked like an egg from the bullets and there was no music, only the shrieks and the thud of boots on cobblestone as the soldiers came spreading out across the square. They had gotten into the wine and now they were getting into the women, and when Mama saw them she tried to turn back but it was too late because they saw her too. She had just enough time to grab him by the collar and push him under one of the tables and then they caught her; there must have been five or six of them, maybe more, or maybe the others came later.

  He couldn’t be sure because he was crouching under the table, listening to himself crying and the soldiers laughing and Mama screaming.

  Then came the creaking and a louder sound—bam, bam, bam—shook the table above his head. The table was pounding and his head was pounding too. No more laughing, no more screaming, just the pounding. And the moans. Mama mia, moaning, and the boots scuffling in a line that stretched back away from the table, then moved up slowly, one pair at a time
, to replace the ones that had stood closest just before. The boots were dirty, caked with mud and slime, and the fifth pair—or was it the fifteenth?—was speckled with spatters of red.

  He knew what it was, but he had to look. Better to look at the boots than to hear the moaning and the grunting and the gasping that was worse than the pounding in his head.

  That was where it was, that was where it always would be, the pills couldn’t cut the sound, the fog couldn’t deaden it. Bam, bam, bam.

  Finally it stopped, all but the echo that never stopped. They were laughing again, moving away, and he crawled out from under the table, stood and stared. Five years old and the first naked woman he ever saw was his own mother. They’d ripped her dress off and torn her underthings and he saw her under thing with the blood oozing and there was blood trickling from the bruises all over her body and face and from her mouth as it opened and she whispered, “Santo.”

  The word was a big pink bubble bursting between her lips and that was his legacy, the last memory he had before he fainted. Maybe she died then or perhaps that came later; he never knew because when he woke up he was in the hospital ward at Catania. No one could or would tell him how he got there or what had happened at Vizzini and he never returned to the town that had given him his surname.

  Vizzini—that was what they called him at the orphanage because he didn’t remember his real family name. For a long while he didn’t remember much of anything, and the good sisters scolded him for being a dunce and neglectful of his lessons.

  But he did remember the pink bubble. Santo. Why did those doe-eyed Sicilian mothers insist on burdening their sons with such appellations—Angelo, Salvatore, Santo?

  What’s in a name?

  When he ran away to Palermo at thirteen, an Angelo took him in and trained him as a thief. The man was his first real teacher, educating him in the ways of the streets, but surely he would never be mistaken for an angel.