Hollywood Gothic (33 page)

“What the hell are you doing here, Toby? The coppers just—”

“Yes, yes,” Graydon said. “I’ve told them.”

“Well, pay attention,” Hacker growled. “You’re hot and getting hotter, Toby … and you, young lady, you’re keeping bad company.” The smell of leather filled the room. “I wanted to show Herbert my new boots … I’ve got a young fella in Tuscon makes ’em for me, see the iguana hide here on the toe and heel. Best boots money can buy.”

“They’ve come about Priscilla Morpeth, Tully.” Graydon puffed deeply and sank back into his chair. He sipped Glenlivet while Chopin filled the silence; then Hacker sat down on the edge of the couch and whistled.

“Shit, Toby, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Morpeth … for Christ’s sake. You’ve got more urgent things to worry about. Morpeth …” He opened his jacket. He wore a specially fitted harness and the immense weapon that became the symbol of movie tough guys and private security men all over the world. Challis’ knowledge of guns could have been engraved in triplicate on the head of a pin, but he was a screenwriter and every screenwriter knew about the Ingram M-10 LISP. Tully Hacker looked at the faces staring at him. “Excuse my gun, but I’m about to put these boots on and I can’t lean that far down with this thing on.” With a loud, solid clicking sound he ripped the gun from the harness and placed it, black and shining dully, on the couch beside him. “And where does Mrs. Morpeth fit into your worries, Toby? … Christ, I worry about you.” He slid his foot into the soft, supple boot and hooked his fingers into the straps, tugged.

“All part of the big picture, Hack. I’m still trying to dig my way out of the hole, but I just keep getting in deeper.”

“Morpeth is deep, all right,” he said.

“I talked to Simon Karr this morning. He told me you were the one who covered up the Morpeth murder.” Challis tasted his Scotch, rolled it on his tongue, waited. Hacker got the first boot on.

“More or less,” Hacker said. “Kept the lid on. No big deal … just kept Maximus out of the papers. Over the years it all adds up, a favor here, a favor there. Then one day you’ve got enough tucked away to buy an avocado ranch.” He started on the other boot. “Which is just what I did. But what it’s got to do with you and Goldie and now Donovan … well, I’ll be damned if I know.” He gave a final tug and stood up, stomping his feet down into the boots. He picked up the machine pistol, hefted it as if calculating its weight to the ounce, and carefully fitted it back into the harness. “Toby, I can’t make you do anything. I can’t do anything but give you my opinion … and that’s too bad, because you could still, just maybe, get out of this in one piece. Mr. Roth, Solomon Roth, is very worried about you, Toby … he has everything you need to get out of the country—passport, and transport ready when you are. He thinks of you as blood kin. You should already know that, Toby. He wouldn’t put it on the line for many people.” He buttoned the loose jacket and the gun disappeared. “He felt this way all through the trial, too. He likes you, Toby, he doesn’t want you to rot in a cell.”

“Does he think I killed his granddaughter?”

“I’ve never heard him say. I guess that that doesn’t really enter into it.”

“Well, Hack, you’re a real sport. But we’ve got to get moving. Come on, Morgan.”

“Sir,” Herbert Graydon said. “Why don’t you put yourself in Mr. Hacker’s hands?” His voice was soft, almost tentative, as if he feared he was overstepping the bounds of propriety.

“I’m beginning to forget, Herbert. Maybe I’d be lost without the search … I’ll know when it’s time. Thanks, Herbert. I mean it.”

“Take care of him, miss,” Graydon said, reaching for her hand.

“I’ll see you out, Toby,” Hacker said. Herbert watched from the doorway as they went, puffing billowing smoke, brows furrowed.

In the foyer they saw Daffy pacing against the gray glow of the windows overlooking the terraces. She looked up, stared at them for a few seconds, then resumed her pacing without speaking. “As Herbert would say,” Hacker said, holding the front door open, “Mrs. Roth has the wind up. Aaron is wrapped up in the Laggiardi thing at the studio … big party this afternoon to introduce young Howard around … and Solomon is gone half the time and she doesn’t know what to say to him anyway. God, these boots feel like I’ve worn ’em all my lift;—the kid’s a genius.” They reached the car. “You know, Toby, they’re figuring it out, the coppers … they’re closer than you think, they know damn well you didn’t die on the mountain, they told us to be ready for you to contact us … so poor Mrs. Roth doesn’t know what the hell to think. Toby, think about Sol’s offer. You’re never going to get a better one. Stop and think what you’re doing, and tell me who cares what you find out, what good it’s going to do. If they don’t get you for Goldie, they’re going to get you for Donovan. No way out.” He held the Mustang’s spotty door. “It isn’t just Mrs. Roth. I’m nervous myself. I don’t get nervous much, but I’m nervous as a cat. It’s like I can almost hear sounds coming at me from the future, from out there in the dark. It’s funny, Toby. It’s like something’s building up out there in the future.” He chuckled self-consciously. “Pretty soon everybody’ll be able to hear it … or they’ll come and pack me away somewhere. Remember what Sol says, Toby. Be smart. …”

T
HE HIGH TAN WALLS, THE
palm trees, the elaborate black iron—all you could see of Maximus Studios from the street was meant to look good in the sunshine, but in the rain the joint looked like hell. From Mulholland Drive you could look down and see the red-roofed soundstages looking like a bunch of Pinks’ hot dogs waiting for chili and onions. Once you threaded your way down the canyon to the valley, you couldn’t see the red anymore and there was nothing left but the tan concrete streaked with rain, the fancy gate, the palms drooping disconsolately. Maybe a factory, like any other. Then a glimpse of the parking lot with the acre or so of 450SL’s, the Rolls-Royces, the limos and Mark V customized convertibles. And on the gate, fashioned in wrought iron, the original Maximus log. The Roman warrior’s shield strapped on the brawny arm, the word
“MAXIMUS”
in some forgotten studio designer’s idea of Roman script spread across the shield, the massive clenched fist. Solomon Roth’s idea: Challis had seen the original sketch framed on the wall in Sol’s office. Why not? It was Sol Roth’s studio. Somehow, from beyond the grave, it would always be Sol Roth’s studio.

The guard gave the Mustang a faintly horror-stricken look, consulted his clipboard. “Come on, man,” Challis yelled past the rain and wind. “Regis Philbin’s in there doing Howard what’s-his-name, your new TV honcho, and we’ve got all of Philbin’s notes, background … Miss Dobson here is his secretary, she must be on your list—we gotta step on it, man.”

“Okay, okay, it’s the Executive Building—”

“Right, gotcha,” Challis said, heading down past Sound Stage One toward the yellow painted parking stripes, the reserved spots, where as Aaron Roth’s son-in-law he’d always parked with impunity. “Okay, now stick with me,” he said to Morgan. “You’re my witness.”

“To what?”

“Damned if I know. I just know I want a witness. Let’s go.”

Everything about Maximus had been redone in the thirties, the interior design and decoration and furnishings. Then Sol Roth had seen to it that the clock stopped. Anywhere you looked there was Hollywood-modern blond wood, large rounded curves, the black and chrome and glass, the layered pastels and ornately trimmed archways of Art Deco classicism. Walking into the Executive Building was like entering a tomb, but the sounds coming from the reception room were somewhat livelier if every bit as ritualistic as what had gone on during an Egyptian entombment. The crowd meeting Howard Laggiardi was staying on following the one o’clock luncheon. The press had been joined by the studio execs, the casts of movies and television productions, assorted managers, agents, publicity men, and starlets; lunch had been served from a buffet of Rangoon Racket Club chili and curry; an ice sculpture of a swan melted, champagne and caviar warmed as the afternoon wore on. A well-known television macho hero made a discreet play for one of the waiters and an agreement was struck. A blond actress with huge nipples bulging through a clinging silk shirt opened to her waist hung groggily on the producer, his identical shirt open almost as far, who had used her in an S/M porno film ten years before and had engineered her career ever since. A week hence, he was telling everyone, she would be on the cover of
People.
Her new contract called for $40,000 per week, which would keep her in cocaine and pay for the inevitable reconstruction of her nasal passages.

Challis and Morgan took champagne from a passing tray and looked for Aaron Roth. It took ten minutes in the glut of freeloaders. They finally saw him standing with Howard Laggiardi and one of the trade papers’ columnists. Aaron smiled distantly in the role of Laggiardi’s shepherd. Howard himself was pale, tall, and thin. He wore an expression of sincere interest which perfectly complemented his sincere gray flannel suit, a white button-down shirt, a red-and-blue-striped rep tie, black wingtips, a gold watch with a round face and a leather strap. He was an Eastern clone among Western clones, a product of money, good schools, and moderation in all things. His wife stood next to him, a large slightly horsey woman with a friendly face; she looked like she had a couple of kids and a master’s in English from Smith.

They worked their way closer, approaching Aaron from the rear. He had been joined by a large man whose face looked like a bag of exploded veins. Aaron said, “Let me make my stance perfectly clear, Harvey. I’m interested only in the 1870 Château Lafites, nothing else. As many bottles as you can find, and you may go as high as one thousand dollars per bottle, not a penny more. And anyone getting that price for bottles in a single lot should thank his lucky stars and take it before I change my mind.”

Challis stepped close, spoke into Aaron’s ear: “Why not have Vito’s assassins simply steal them … and you can spend the money to buy Kay’s diaries from me.” Aaron turned slowly, the silver-dollar spectacles momentarily opaque in the light. His soft, sensual mouth hung open for a moment. He said, “Harvey, will you excuse us, please?” He looked tentatively at the columnist, Howard, and Howard’s wife. They were chatting quietly, and Aaron turned slowly away, back to Challis and Morgan. “You … you …
”
he murmured, swallowing. He was keeping his voice quiet, precise. He smelled of sandalwood. “Come to my office.” They all moved slowly through the crowd, which itself was functioning in a kind of champagne slow motion. Across the room, down the hall, through the unmarked door which led directly to his office, missing the secretary. The Venetian blinds were immaculate, the draperies a putty color with a faint mauve pattern. The room was as carefully faithful to the past as the rest of the building. The mauve pattern was repeated in the carpet. Art Deco glasses and decanters sat on a glass-and-chrome tray which decorated a sideboard. Two lamps in the shape of early propeller-driven airliners flanked the marble pen set on Aaron’s desk. Challis half-expected William Powell and Myrna Loy to follow them into the office. The desk was a vast blond affair with swooping curves at the sides, which somehow became bookcases. You had to keep remembering who you were, what year it was. There was something terribly wrong with the scene. It ought to have been shot in black and white.

“Who is this woman?”

“Morgan Dyer. She’s my witness.”

“Toby, you aggravate me more than I can tell you. Now, what in God’s name are you doing … what did that tasteless crack about poor Kay’s diaries mean?” He took a cigarette from a chrome box on the desk, lit it with a matching lighter. It was almost gray in the office. The only light came from the strips of window and the glowing, plump airliner. “Surely they’re going to catch you and tuck you back in prison at any moment …” He let the thought drift away on the cigarette smoke. “What do you want?”

“It’s come-clean time, Aaron. Nobody’s going to send in the clowns this time. I’ve got Laggiardi’s torture masters and the police closing in on me. … You’re a liar, Aaron. At the very least. You lied about the diaries, you lied to your father, and just for the hell of it, you lied to me, and my life is at stake. I’ve read the diaries, I know that Kay’s not the disgrace in the family—it’s you, the smudge on the old Maximus shield.”

Suddenly Aaron seemed to choke, his face turning red. The coughing jerked his body like electric shocks. Behind the glass circles his eyes bugged, watered. His hands clawed for a water pitcher. He poured a fat glass of water, hands shaking, water dribbling onto the desktop. From his pocket he pulled a pillbox, levered it open, and washed two small white pills down with water. Several pills spilled, rolled across the desktop. Aaron sank back in the chair, slipped the spectacles off, and held a white handkerchief to his eyes. Challis applauded.

“I’ve never seen it done better,” he said. “Cut. Print it.”

“Toby …” Morgan gave him an appealing look. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Aaron croaked, trying to clear his throat. Challis turned away, looked at the framed movie posters. They were all old, growing brittle behind the glass. “You wretch,” Aaron said to Challis. “You are a swine … you’d have let me choke to death.”

“It’s better than you deserve.”

“Oh, God,” Morgan said, standing between them.

“So I’m the disgrace, am I?” Aaron’s small, finely manicured hands were flat on the desk before him, as if he needed to hold on. The color was leaving his face. His sloping forehead was covered with sweat. “Well, what does that mean? And what makes you think so?” His voice was dry, his tongue sticking. He sipped water.

“The diaries. You stole from Kay, you drove her off the edge, you misused her in every way imaginable … and in the end you put her in Vito Laggiardi’s bed to save your own neck. You leave a trail of slime, Aaron. You stink of fear and corruption. You were afraid of Goldie because she had the diaries, and the diaries told the truth about you and Kay, they made it clear which one was the monster—no wonder she hated you, always hated you. She knew the truth, and finally she had the proof—”