Hard Case Crime: Fade to Blonde (10 page)

“Well,” she said brightly, “aren’t you the politest old boy.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things. But I think that’s a new one.”

“You let
all
these nice people ahead of you. Even the ones who came in after! Now, you sure you weren’t just trying to get me alone so’s you could make a pass?”

“I wish I were that bright.”

“Well, as it happens, cuz, you’re in luck. Because I believe I might have something right here for you this very afternoon. Ever done a wrestling picture?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not a speaking part, you know.”

“It wouldn’t be. Look, Miss Bellinger, I’m not an actor, or not any more. My name’s Ray Corson. I’m doing some preliminary casting for Republic.”

“Is that a fact. And you came
all
the way over here your own self? Now I call that nice. Got a business card?”

I shook my head. “I’m not on the payroll, really. I just sort of do odd jobs. A little writing, a little reading. Piecework. Morris Severin asked me to flesh out a treatment
for him. He thinks it’d settle his thinking if he could see it cast. It’s a Musketeer kind of thing, sword-fighting, swinging from ropes, the bit, and we need a young guy who moves well, a fair, handsome guy. And I have to tell you, we need him cheap.” She inclined her head understandingly. I shook mine. “I mean cheap even for Republic. I’ll be frank. If this one can’t be made for a nickel, it won’t be made. And I’d sort of like to see it made. It would be — Well, I might get a business card out of it. We’re looking for guys other people might’ve taken a pass on, and someone mentioned a TV actor called Larry Halliday.”

“Lance Halliday.”

“That’s it.”

“And you’re working for Severin.”

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“What if I called him up?”

I nodded. “That’s a good idea. It’s so easy to get through to him, and he just loves phone calls.” I glared at her from under my eyebrows and croaked,
“Explain to me again, young lady, why somebody gave you your job.”

She laughed. “I guess you do know Morrie. I don’t know why I’m not trusting you. Mostly they have us send the shots over. We don’t get many walk-ins.”

“Well, I’m new at this. Probably I’m doing it all wrong. Maybe you could give me a little coaching.”

“Easy, cuz,” she said. “Stick to the menu, and don’t order what you can’t afford.” She got up, smoothed down her dress — it was already smooth — and turned to open the inner door. I followed her into Gellar’s office. It was empty. “Mr. Gellar is in conference,” she said. “Deep, deep in conference.”

One wall of the room was file cabinets from floor to ceiling. She fetched out a file, perched on the corner of Gellar’s desk, and crossed her legs. They were worth
crossing. “What does the L. R. stand for?” I asked.

“Why don’t we stick with Miss Bellinger for now? All righty. Mr. Halliday is not what you’d call an active file. He hasn’t done any adventure, really. He hasn’t really done much of anything. Except screen tests. Mr. Halliday has tested for every studio in town. He was a swim coach in
Million Dollar Mermaid
. I guess you could say that was his career high. He stood around in a swimming suit, which he does
very
well, and said ‘Hello Annette’ to Esther Williams. I wish I could say we got him that one. We did get him a toothpaste commercial. That old boy has teeth you simply would not credit.”

“I suppose teeth won’t hurt us. Can he fence, dance, anything like that?”

“Mr. Corson, do you really not know what Lance Halliday does these days?”

“No. What?”

“He’s, ah. He’s moved over into production. Sort of like yourself, Mr. Corson.”

“He can’t be making much of a success of it, or I’d have heard. Anyway, maybe he’d like another crack at the limelight. If you don’t represent him now, how would I go about getting in touch?”

“Mr. Corson. What do you really want?”

“It would be my life’s dream if you cared what I really want.”

“And here you promised me you wouldn’t make a pass.”

“No, I just promised you I wasn’t that bright.”

“I’ve figured it out,” said Miss Bellinger. “You’re a detective on the case. One of these super-sleuths. You’re hot on the trail. Well, Mr. Corson, I’m going to teach you a little trick you can show all your gumshoe friends,” She pulled a phone book from the shelf, flipped through it, and turned it to face me. She tapped the page with a slim
forefinger. I saw a listing for Halliday Productions, with an address on Cahuenga, out on the other side of the hills.

“Thanks,” I said, getting out my steno pad.

“Show you another trick,” she said. She flipped through the book and turned it to me again. This time she pointed to a listing for L. R. Bellinger.

I wrote down the number and address. “What does the L. R. stand for?” I said.

“Lisa Rae,” she said.

“Pretty name,” I said.

Halliday’s office was in one of those modernistic buildings that look old six months after they’re built. It had a two-story lobby with a streaked glass wall in front and a steel and terrazzo staircase in back. Everything was covered in dusty green bathroom tile. It was trying hard not to seem cheap. It looked like Rebecca’s boarding house in a ten-dollar suit. As I climbed the stairs, I was getting my story straight. I’d be an out-of-work actor too stupid to know what Halliday Productions did. If Halliday was there, I’d come round to say we’d got off on the wrong foot last night. As it happened, nobody was there. I knocked, rattled the knob, and went down the back stairs, pulling some surgical gloves from my pocket. I had a carton of them from an OR nurse I knew with more freckles more places than you’d think was possible.

I got the gloves on, came back up quietly, and took a strip of celluloid from my wallet. It was a four-inch length of 35-millimeter film snipped from a Republic quickie
called
Aloha Samoa
. It used to show a sleepy lagoon jeweled with sunlight, but I’d worn most of the emulsion off. I had three of these strips. A single thickness was too limp for the lock, but two did the trick, and I leaned my shoulder into the door and cuddled it open almost silently. I locked it behind me and looked around. It was a single room with a single desk. I didn’t like it. I walked to the window and opened it. A ten-foot drop to the asphalt parking lot in front, in full view of the road. I liked it less. I drew a finger across the seat of the chair, hoping for a film of dust. There wasn’t much. That chair was getting sat in, though not every day. I decided, the hell, if Halliday showed, I’d shoot him and collect my money.

In the kneehole drawer I found two big checkbooks, the sort with three checks per page. One book was for Halliday Productions, the other for something called Prestige Enterprises. According to the stubs, the Halliday checkbook wasn’t used for much but paying the office rent and phone. The Prestige book was working harder: film stock, processing and duplicating, some equipment rentals, editing-room time, lights, and the occasional projector. Both showed regular cash deposits and irregular cash withdrawals, probably to pay the talent. I suppose that sort of thing’s a cash business. I was aware of the tiny noises any building makes, of the swish of cars passing on Cahuenga, of the big window at my back. I kept having the idea that if I turned around, I’d see someone outside the window making faces at me. But the nice thing about nerves is, all you have to do is ignore them. There was an address book on the desk by the phone, which seemed to be full of the same suppliers from the checkbook. In the back were a few pages with first names and phone numbers, no last names or addresses, in no special order, and most of the names
crossed out. That would be the talent, and I copied down ten at random, half of them crossed-out, half current. There was nothing else in the top drawer except a roll of stamps in the pencil trough. I was out of stamps and I took a few.

In the top right-hand drawer were two boxes of letterhead, one for Halliday, one for Prestige. The addresses were the same. I took a half-dozen sheets of each, folded them carefully, and tucked them in my pocket with some matching envelopes. There was a little packet of business cards held together with a rubber band. The cards bore no name or phone number, just an address out in the valley somewhere. I heard footsteps coming up the front stairs, put the cards down, and got out my gun. The footsteps came closer and then got fainter, and I heard a key going into a lock down the hall. I waited until I heard the door shut. I put my gun away, slipped out one of the cards, and tucked it in my wallet.

I opened the bottom right-hand drawer and found a carton of flashbulbs and a carton of .38 bullets. I closed it. There weren’t any left-hand drawers, so I went over the filing cabinets. The first was all receipted bills to Prestige. I went back, got out the Prestige checkbook, and compared a few bills with the check stubs. The amounts matched up. I put the checkbook away. The next three cabinets you could have entertained yourself with a while. They contained packaged sets of photographs of the sort that are called either Artistic or Specialized. The Artistic ones were all bathing beauties who’d forgotten their suits. None of them appeared to have noticed it yet, and you’d have felt like a heel for telling them. They wore big smiles that seemed to say
Isn’t this fun?
except for a few who were on the phone and seemed to say
Be with you in a minute
. The Specialized ones were all of people I didn’t know, doing things
to each other that I was roughly familiar with. The Specialized people all seemed to be very tan or very pale. They had a stunned look, like trophies on a rec room wall.

The last cabinet was locked, and I got out my picks and muttered bad words at myself for ten minutes. I left scratches, too, for anybody looking close. I stink at that stuff. Inside was nothing but two books. One of them seemed like a list of steady customers, with addresses and phones. None of them would know anything useful and I put it away. The other was a scrapbook. There were a few different head shots of Halliday, and then a production still from a picture called
Dusk on the Danube
, showing a ballroom full of dancing couples. I finally picked out Halliday in a hussar’s uniform, standing by a column. The next page showed Halliday saying hello to Esther Williams, and there was another still of just him in his old-time bathing suit, down on one knee holding a whistle on a lanyard around his neck, and smiling into the distance. There were a dozen pages of publicity stuff from
Million Dollar Mermaid
, none of it mentioning him. Then a toothpaste ad, with Halliday smiling and holding a brush. The rest of the book was empty. I put it back, locked the cabinet again, shut the window, locked the office door behind me, and went down the back stairs, pulling off my gloves.

It was getting dusk but I wasn’t sure I felt like dinner yet. I had that sickish, sort of metallic feeling inside, like nothing I ate would taste very good.

What had I scraped up so far? A handsome little hood named Halliday who peddled smut because they wouldn’t let him be a movie star. What did he want? To be a bigger hood. To burn girls’ faces who turned him down. To say hi to Esther Williams again.

Then there was a bigger hood named Scarpa who’d
been told off to keep an eye on Halliday. What did he want? To not be bothered with little punks like Halliday and me.

Then there was a great big hood named Burri who’d done the telling. What did he want? A nice civilized drink and some little dry cookies. He was an old man, and wanted everything nice. What would he do to someone who kept things from being nice?

Halliday was too ambitious for Burri, too podunk for Scarpa, too bughouse for Rebecca. It was nice to know he was everybody’s problem, not just mine. There ought to be a way to make that work for me. It was right there staring at me, if I had any brains.

That was a big if.

I took La Brea down to 10, headed west, turned off on National, and cruised through Palms. There were some nice little houses there, but nothing I’d picture a crime boss in. Halliday’s was at 3235 Shippie Avenue. It was a small two-story mock-Tudor with a half-timbered front, and the lawn was kept nice. The driveway was full of cars, and there were cars parked solid all up and down the block. There was someone standing in the driveway watching the cars go by. He watched me drive up, and he watched me keep driving on past. I wondered again what Halliday wanted with so many guys. I took the next left and thought about circling the block. Maybe I could park somewhere and find a way to work in close to the house. Maybe there was some way to hear what was going on inside. Maybe I could creep down the chimney like Old Saint Nick. The cars hadn’t looked nice enough to be capos’ cars. There hadn’t been enough light and noise for a party. It might have been Halliday rounding up his people for some kind of staff meeting. What kind? I drove around for a while, thinking thoughts. But only one of them turned out to be useful: I thought if I went down
to Annie Jay’s and ordered a bloody ribeye, mashed potatoes, and apple pie with cheddar, it would be pretty good. And it was.

The pool at the motel is pretty nasty-looking and not many people use it. I’ve never been in myself except when I’m cleaning it, and I don’t clean it often. The next morning, though, I woke up to the sound of splashing. I peeked through the curtains and saw a little heap of clothes on the concrete and a woman in the water, swimming laps smoothly and very rapidly.

I couldn’t see her face, but she wasn’t wearing a cap and the hair streaming down her back was dark gold. Her arms and legs went on a long way. I put some pants and a shirt on and came outside. She didn’t seem to need to breathe. It took her two strokes to cross the pool the long way, and I had the idea she was shortening her stroke so she could fit two of them in. Each time she reached the end, she rolled smoothly under like a seal and reappeared moving fast in the opposite direction. I thought of how birds are awkward when they walk, but graceful in their own natural element. I thought a lot of the crap you think when you’re falling. I went inside and found a clean towel. When I came out again, Rebecca was climbing out of the pool, wearing a blue one-piece racing suit. Her hair hung in dark gold ropes down her face and neck. I handed her the towel and she dried her face and arms. She looked healthy and carefree and about fourteen. “I came snooping by the other day and saw you had a pool,”
she said. “We don’t have one at home. I wish we did.”