by Peter Corris
'My uncle told me about your visit to the Reverend Moon's church. Nothing happens in the Chinese community that he doesn't know about.'
Plausible again. I could feel myself wanting to believe her, and wanting more than that. If you've ever met an old lover, after a gap of some years, and felt a quick recognition of signals, a quick cut to the chase as they say in Hollywood, you'll know how it was. Not that there was much of a gap—we'd been making love about eighty hours before. I reached across the damp, ash-strewn surface and took her hand. Her long slender fingers entwined in mine and I felt a shudder run through her.
'What happened to you, May Lin?' I said. 'What's this all about?'
17
She kissed my hand and we left the bar. She began to talk, but not about herself. I got some of the story on the walk back to the Bryson and the rest of it in bed. May Lin said that she was an agent of the Chinese Nationalist government and a colleague of Sue Feng, Hart Sallust's wife. According to Sue Feng, Sallust had revealed in a drunken row that he knew details of the plans to secure the Sun, Moon and Stars and the other treasures and he threatened to write about it. Sue Feng swore that Sallust had not learned this from her and she did not know what his source of information could have been. She reported the alarming facts to a committee of Kuomintang supporters in California, one of whom was Singapore Sam.
I listened to this and then explained to May Lin that McVey and I had learned something about these matters from Reverend Moon. I filled her in on that and she became even more willing to talk.
'I was given the job of getting close to Sallust and finding out what he was writing about and what his source of information was.'
'How did you manage that?'
We'd made love after sharing a bath and several glasses of champagne. May Lin wasn't the innocent or the tigress this time, more the languid, yielding kind and the lovemaking had been very good. One thing I had done was check on her neck wound. It was genuine and she had a few more scratches and bruises, as well. We were under the sheets with our bodies just touching. I was still doubtful and alert for any reaction that might indicate an evasion or a lie. She lay perfectly still.
'Joe Herman is a Kuomintang sympathiser. As soon as this trouble started he made the agreement with Sallust. The one you could scarcely believe.'
'Right,' I said. 'Sallust must have thought he'd died and gone to screenwriters' heaven.'
May Lin shook her head. 'No. He was very frightened. Of everything. Anyway, it was Herman who arranged for me to work with him.'
I tried to keep my voice free of complaint or reproof. 'You told us you didn't find out what was going on. Was that true?'
'Yes. Absolutely true. The man was terrified. He talked about a story in the most general terms—heroes and villains, treasures, yes, he talked about treasures, but in a joking way. He referred to the books of Robert Louis Stevenson. He said he was related to him.'
I hadn't read them, but I knew the titles. They were given out as school prizes at Dudleigh and I'd seen the swots and arse-lickers clutching the leather-bound volumes.
'Treasure Island, Kidnapped,' I said.
She gave me a respectful glance and I gave thanks for my good memory. 'Yes. He was drunk almost all the time and terribly afraid. He talked about going to Mexico, but he didn't have a passport or any money until he wrote the script and he was unable to do that.'
'Did he do any writing?'
'No. None. After he'd passed out at night I searched, but I never found anything.'
I'd done some searching too—while she was still in the bath. She had no weapons in her purse or clothes and the door was locked. She was tired and almost asleep. I might not have trusted her completely, but I had no fear of her either.
'May Lin,' I said again, 'what happened to you?'
She told me that the men who'd stopped us on the road had gagged and blindfolded her and taken her further along the coast before turning inland. She'd heard the waves for an hour or so and then the road got rough and she realised she was in hill country. They'd taken her to a house and locked her in a bare basement room.
'It was cold and I was very frightened, but they didn't do anything to me.'
'No questions? No threats?'
'No. Nothing. It must have been a big house but I was below ground level and didn't see anything. I could hear movement above me but a long way off. It was dark and cold and there was only a cot with one blanket to sleep on. They'd taken everything from me. I didn't even have my cigarettes. I banged on the door and yelled for water, but nothing happened.'
I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to me. 'Then what?'
'I slept for a while. When I woke up there was some food and some milk. I was ravenous. I ate it all and drank the milk. Then I went back to sleep almost straight away. It must have had something in it. I woke up with a terribly sore throat and a headache. There was someone banging on the door. A voice outside told me to put the blindfold back on. He said if I didn't or tried to cheat he'd kill me. I did it.'
'So would I,' I said. 'Did you recognise the voice?'
She thought for a minute before shaking her head. 'No, not exactly.'
'What do you mean?'
'I know they were Chinese. You can tell. When I had the blindfold on they came in and took me up some steps and out of the house. I could tell that it was daylight but the blindfold was very thick and they tightened it. I couldn't see anything. I could tell that we were in the woods. There were good smells, some I sort of recognised. Flowers, maybe. But I don't know anything about flowers, and I was still very scared.'
'What was being said?'
'Nothing. I was just prodded and pushed. Not too roughly. It's funny—I got the feeling that they were afraid of hurting me but would if they had to. That was scary, too.'
She stopped to light a cigarette. She'd had a pack at the bar, but no purse and no money. She could see that I was looking for holes in her story but she didn't fly off the handle. 'Ask,' she said.
'How did you get back to LA?'
'They dropped me in Venice, near my uncle's place. They gave me five dollars. I don't know why.'
It was all weird enough to be true, but I was still unconvinced. 'You didn't go to Sam's though,' I said. 'You haven't changed your clothes or anything.'
'No. The first thing I did was buy cigarettes. I'm a terrible smoker. Not so heavy, but very hooked.'
'Me too.'
'I was afraid to go to my uncle's.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. Just a feeling that it was not safe. I get such feelings sometimes and I always trust them. My uncle wanted me to come to him but I refused. I asked him about you, and he told me you and Mr McVey had been to see Reverend Moon. I phoned your agent. This was all from that bar. I phoned you and I had no money left.'
It all sounded kosher or, if it wasn't, I was too tired and too sexually contented to care. I smoked another cigarette and drank the last of the wine. I gave up thinking about Tan and Moon and Hart Sallust and the Sun, Moon and Stars. I had nothing new to think about on the matter anyway. May Lin snuggled down close to me and her breathing became regular and soft. I drifted off to sleep, holding her slender, sweet-smelling body in my arms.
I came wide awake about five hours later with my mind clear and a piece of information I'd forgotten firmly slotted back into place. I sat up and stared at the ribbons of light forming around the window.
'His sister!'
May Lin grabbed at the sheet I'd pulled up with me and came awake too. 'What?'
'His sister. Hart has a sister. She's a librarian. He used to go to her place to try to dry out. Chandler told me that if Sallust wanted to hide anything he'd do it where he hides the booze.'
'Chandler who?'
I told her about Raymond Chandler. She wasn't impressed. I guess she had a reason to feel jaundiced about writers, but she was still keen to press on with her job and glad to have a lead.
'Where does she live? We must check this out.'
<
br /> I scratched at my stubble. 'Truth is, I don't remember where she lives. LA someplace. And I don't even know her name. I guess she's Sallust's half-sister. She's got a different name. I've heard it, but I don't remember.'
She thumped the pillow angrily. 'You must! It's important.'
'I know. I'll try. But I can't do anything about it today.' I told her about South Pacific Showdown. I didn't tell her that the whole thing was a charade. I pointed to the bound script that was lying on the floor. It had been on the bed before we put the bed to better use. I explained that I had appointments all day—costume, script discussion, medical examination. She picked up the script and leafed through it.
'Not very good,' she said.
I shrugged. 'Farrow wrote it and he's the director. I guess he can do what he likes with it in the shooting. They say Casablanca didn't really have a script at all.'
'Do you want to do this, Richard?'
'Sure. It's good money. You don't think I usually live in the Bryson, do you? I had one room with a Murphy bed in the Wilcox until today . . . yesterday.'
'I see. So I must go on with this alone?'
I thought about Hank and his rifle and Charles Tan and his pliers. May Lin had got to me. She looked fresh and lovely first thing in the morning, which is a rare thing in a woman. She depended on me and I didn't want to let her down—a rare feeling for me. I kissed her and threw the script across the room. 'You don't have to do it alone. We'll do it together. It'll just take a bit longer because of all this movie stuff, but I'll find the time.'
'What about Mr McVey?'
'Bobby Silk's fired him. He's not interested in Sallust anymore, he says. But Pete's still working on it in Frisco. When he gets back, we'll talk to him.'
She asked me what Pete was doing and I remembered—he was in Frisco to look for Sue Feng. I told her. May Lin shook her head. 'She won't tell him anything, even if he finds her. Which I doubt. The sister is a better lead if you can come up with her name.'
'I'm confused,' I said. 'I need a shower and a bucket of coffee.'
We took the shower together. I started to make the coffee while May Lin got a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. She confessed that cooking was one of her passions and that she made the best scrambled eggs in California.
'That's great,' I said. I put some money on the bench. 'Maybe you'd like to poke your head out just long enough to get something for dinner. I want to have it here with you.'
I was stunned by my own actions and what my words implied and so was she. We were in the breakfast nook. The space was filled with sunlight; May Lin was wearing one of my shirts and I had an old silk dressing gown with a faded Chinese pattern wrapped around me. I dropped the filter paper into the sink and she broke an egg all over the serving bench. We both got clear of the small table and embraced fiercely.
'Do you realise what you just said?' I could feel the movement of her lips against my chest.
'Yes,' I said. 'I love you, May Lin.'
18
It was true, God help me. Everything about her delighted me and I wanted to learn still more and get closer to her in every way. I hadn't had a lot of luck with women and they hadn't had much with me. This was different. This was mutual, and the dangerous business we were involved in only helped to stoke the fire.
We abandoned breakfast and went back to bed.
Later, Loren Duke phoned to say that he was coming by to pick me up for a series of meetings and appointments that would keep me busy for the whole day. I thought it would be tricky explaining to May Lin why I couldn't tell Duke to get lost, but she didn't seem to care.
'I'll stay here and get some rest,' she said. 'I wish I had some clothes, though.'
'Where do you live?'
'Venice. I've got an apartment near my uncle's club. But I can't go there. I'm . . . afraid.'
I got the address from her and she told me there was a key under a potted cactus by the door. I said I'd go by and pick up some clothes. I also said I'd try to remember about Hart Sallust's sister.
Suddenly, May Lin snapped her fingers under my nose. 'What's her name?'
I smiled and shook my head. 'Sometimes works, but not this time. Hart did some movies for Paramount.
Maybe if I talk to some people on the lot the penny'll drop.'
May Lin looked puzzled. I explained the expression. She laughed and kissed me. 'I'd like to go to Australia,' she said.
'It's being talked about in connection with this picture. Maybe you could come.'
'I have some relatives who went out there in the gold rush days,' she said. 'When did your people go.'
'Earlier,' I said. 'In the convict days.'
That day at Paramount and around Hollywood in the company of Loren Duke was pretty much like the day before. I was in something of a love haze and didn't take a lot of it in. I remember being fitted for a uniform and an Australian named Bruce advising the wardrobe people about the medals and insignia General Broderick Wilson would wear. I had lunch in the Brown Derby on Vine Street. Bette Davis was at the table but I didn't get to talk to her. She hardly talked to anyone in the room. She was constantly being paged and the telephone kept appearing and she did her talking to it. Still, the impression was created that we were involved in a project together and impressions were what this job, and the Brown Derby, were all about.
Back at the lot there was a session with some East Coast journalists and then I pleaded a headache. Loren Duke looked at me sceptically. 'How old are you, Browning?'
Our relationship had deteriorated steadily so that we were now scarcely on civil terms.
'Older than I look,' I said. 'I want to go to the commissary for a cup of tea.'
'You a juicer?'
I stared at him and didn't answer.
'You Aussies lace your tea with rum, don't you?'
I thought about tea-drinking in Australia—the ladies of Mosman and Brighton, the wowsers in every city and town. 'Where the hell did you get that idea?'
'I read some books by this guy Upfield. Great books about the outback. The guys are always spiking their tea with rum. Even in the morning22.'
'That's what comes from reading books,' I said. 'I want to go to the commissary. Fact is I hate tea, but if I'm going to Australia to play this bloody general I'm going to have to get used to it again.'
Duke couldn't argue with that. He had a quick conference with Patty King and they found me a free hour. What I really wanted to do was drop in at the writer's table in the commissary. This was in a small ante-room to the main feeding area and I'd seen it in operation when I'd been a bit player at Paramount. The writers had long lunches there, sometimes extending into the late afternoon. There was a lot of laughing and horsing around and I remember Hart Sallust saying that he got some of his best ideas and best lines right there.
I got rid of Duke and went to the commissary by myself. The place was very quiet, a few people sitting around talking quietly over coffee and cigarettes. There were four men in the writers' section—one was Harry Tugend, who was renowned for his gossipy sense of humour; two others I didn't know, and Billy Morgan. Billy was a pale, plump Brooklynite who'd worked as a rewrite man on Kid Galahad, a writing odd-job man as I'd been an acting odd-jobber. We'd had a few drinks and poker games together. He was going nowhere at his own good speed and didn't care who knew it. He was a boozer, a sports fan and a poker fiend, occupations also indulged in by Hart Sallust.
You only went into that room if you were invited, and you only got invited if someone thought you might have something witty to say. I wasn't renowned for my wit but it must've been a slow time because Billy beckoned me in.
'Say, Dick,' he said, 'they tell me you got a lightweight out in Australia could take Beau Jack. That so?'
Sporting news was one of the few things I kept up with. I nodded hello to Tugend and the others. 'That's right,' I said, 'name of Vic Patrick.'
Morgan's pale eyebrows went up. 'Irish, eh?'
'Yeah,' I said. 'Like Jack McGur
n. His real name's Lucca23. He's an eye-talian.'
It wasn't very funny, but it was enough to get a snigger from Tugend and a glance from the two men he was talking with. I sat down next to Morgan. 'Listen, Billy,' I said, 'have you seen anything of Hart Sallust lately?'
Morgan shook his head. 'Naw. He owe you money?'
'Not exactly. How well do you know him?'
'Well enough to ask that question. Hart's okay except that he can't hold his liquor. He's flopped at my place a few times.'
'Did you ever meet his sister?'
'Sure. Swell woman. She picked him up one time, took him to her place to dry out.'
'Wouldn't happen to know her name and where she lives?'
He shook his head. 'Was a while back. I might remember if you give me time. Tell me about this Patrick.'
Morgan was playing the old Hollywood game of scratch my back. Maybe there was a match being set up between Patrick and Beau Jack and he was hoping to get some money down at the right odds. I told him that Patrick was welterweight and lightweight champion of Australia, that he was a southpaw with a long jaw and a punch that could stop a man cold.
'Don't like the sound of the jaw,' Billy said.
'He's had over forty fights and won nearly all of them by KO. No-one's tagged him yet.'
Billy nodded, got out a little black notebook and scribbled something, then he flicked over a few pages. He grinned and read, 'Beatrice Trudeau. Phone number in Pasadena, 6598.'
I snapped my fingers. 'That's it. Hart called her Beat, and he said his mother married a Frenchman after his Dad kicked.'
'That right? Well, she's not exactly your type, Dick, less'n you've got religion lately.'
'What do you mean?'
Tugend and his companions pushed their chairs back and Morgan did the same. I guess he didn't want to be the last writer to go back to work. I grabbed his sleeve. He looked alarmed. He might write about tough guys beating each other up in the alley, but even the smell of the real thing worried him. He pulled his arm away. 'Take it easy.'
'Billy, tell me what you meant. There could be a buck in it for you.'