Psycho - Three Complete Novels (37 page)

Something inside her said,
Cool it, you’re out of line.
But if he was screwing up her part—

And meanwhile he was sitting there with that professional smile of his, telling her not to worry. Who did he think he was, giving her advice? The words seemed to tumble forth. “How long have you been out here—two, three days? Since when did you become an expert?”

“I’m not.”
God, he looked smug. And that deep voice of his, that phony medical manner.
“It’s just a question of logic. Changing Norman’s attitude means changing the way you respond to his input.”

“I don’t need a doctor’s diagnosis. What’s your idea of good input—a suppository?”

That broke him up, but she wasn’t playing for laughs. She was playing for keeps. Damn it, she wasn’t playing at all, this was too important. “Let me tell you something, buster—”

“You already have.” He wasn’t laughing now. “I know what you’re saying. You’re protecting your part.”

“It’s not just a part, it’s my whole future, can’t you see that?”

“Nobody can see the future. The only people who want to are the ones who can’t stand to look at the past.” He nodded. “And in your case, with the background you told me about—”

“I’m not a case, I’m an actress! And what the hell do you know about my background anyway?”

“I’d like to hear.”

“Sure you would! That’s how you shrinks get your rocks off, isn’t it? Listening to all those soap-opera stories about teenies from broken homes getting beat up and raped, running away and balling everybody who comes along just to get a break.” She stared at him, watching his reaction. “Well, I’ve got news for you. That fancy theory about actresses is a load of crap.

“You want to know where I come from? Right here in North Hollywood, that’s where. My folks are still alive, out in Northridge. They never got divorced, never even had a real quarrel that I know of, and it was my own idea to go into drama classes after I graduated from Van Nuys High. For the last five years I’ve been making it on my own.

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t rough sometimes—this is a rough business, you fight for everything you get, and maybe it’s even rougher when you don’t have one of those stage mothers or some barracuda agent or producer to open doors for you. Sure, I fool around a little, but that’s how you play the game; it doesn’t mean I’m some kind of a prostitute—”

“Hollywood’s the prostitute,” Claiborne said.

Jan checked herself, frowning. “How’s that?”

“Don’t you see? It’s the syndrome of entertainment. Film itself prostitutes to audiences. The very way in which it advertises is pandering—come rape me, get your kicks, I’m here to rent myself for your enjoyment in the dark, I invite you to unleash your wildest fantasies of lust, murder, revenge. I lure you to identify with sadists, sociopaths, the polymorphically perverse, tempt you with dreams of destruction.” He smiled apologetically. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not putting down entertainment. We all need catharsis, a temporary escape into make-believe. That’s what the audience gets, and when the show is over it’s just a matter of walking out and returning to reality.

“But if you’re one of those who created the make-believe, you stay behind, living with fantasies night and day. That’s the danger, because you have no alternatives. In the end you lose contact, lose the ability to cope with reality. And when it touches your life, it can destroy you.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to run my life?” Jan rose quickly. “Maybe it’s not the greatest thing in the world, maybe I’m selfish and stupid and I’ll fall on my face. But I know what I’m doing. You want to dig alternatives, go talk to Kay.”

“Kay?”

“My kid sister. She’s the one who’s got everything going for her—a damned sight smarter than I am, and a lot prettier too—or was, until she turned sixteen. That was when she got into that real-life scene you’re so big on. Real life, right there in her belly where some stud put it. At seventeen she was a mother, at eighteen she was doing dope and living in a camper with her boyfriend and the baby. Then the guy got busted and they took the kid away and put it in an orphanage. She split, and God only knows where she is now. My folks blew their minds trying to find her, but no use. Maybe she’ll luck out and meet some shrink who’ll tell her not to worry, that what she did was better than throwing her life away on a career.”

Claiborne pushed his chair away from the table. “Stop fooling yourself. You talk as if those were your only choices. But there’s a wide area between those two extremes, and most of us manage to compromise and make a life there.”

Jan turned on him, eyes flashing. “What about you? Didn’t you do the same thing—spend years studying, slaving away, giving up everything just to get where you are today?”

“That’s just it.” Claiborne spoke softly. “I’m telling you this because I went the route. And where I am today is in limbo. Nowhere at all. No home, no family, no personal life. Being a workaholic isn’t living. By now it’s too late for me to change, but you still have a choice. Don’t throw it away.”

Jan listened, her anger ebbing. Maybe he wasn’t a phony, maybe he really believed what he was saying. Poor bastard, living in a hospital and busting his butt over the problems of a lot of crazies, just one long downer twenty-four hours a day. The thought flashed suddenly
—I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a woman.

And with the thought came the warmth building within her, a warmth she couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t a sex thing, it wasn’t just sympathy either, but more like a mixture of both, and somehow that made it even stronger. Without realizing it, she found herself moving toward him, her hands reaching out, and then—

The chimes rang.

She turned, frowning, and moved to the front door.
Now who—

Roy Ames.

And at a time like this. So he was jealous; since when did that give him the right to crash?

“What do you want?” she said.

He brushed past her into the room. “I tried to call, but your line was busy.”

Jan’s frown deepened. “This phone hasn’t rung all evening.”

Roy glanced toward the end table. “So I notice.”

She followed his gaze. “Connie made a call earlier, before she went out. She must have left the receiver off the hook.”

“Right.” He nodded at Claiborne. “You’re the one I wanted to reach. Let’s get going.”

Claiborne rose. “Where?”

“Coronet. Driscoll phoned me at home. Come on, we’ll take my car.”

“What’s the rush?”

Roy turned and headed for the door. “Somebody set fire to the studio.”

— 23 —

R
oy drove swiftly, hunching toward the left to make room for Jan and Claiborne on the seat beside him.

Cornering hillside curves, speeding across the boulevard below, he listened for the sound of sirens. But there was nothing to hear and—as they wheeled into the entrance—nothing to see. The studio beyond loomed flame-free in the night.

“False alarm?” Claiborne murmured.

“Can’t be,” Roy said. “Driscoll called me himself.”

And Driscoll himself was at the gate, standing beside a guard.

They pulled up just past the entrance as he hurried over to them, scowling at Roy and gesturing toward his passengers.

“Where the hell did they come from?” he said.

“Dr. Claiborne was having dinner with Jan,” Roy told him. “Under the circumstances, I thought he ought to know—”

“Screw the circumstances!” He turned to Roy’s companions. “Okay, you’re here. But remember one thing. Keep your mouths shut, both of you.” He started off, not waiting for a reply. “Come on.”

“Aren’t you going to tell us what happened?” Claiborne asked.

“You’ll see. There’s been an accident.”

Halfway down the studio street, Roy realized their destination. One of the sound stages at the left was open, and parked before the entrance he saw the shiny red hatchback used by Frank Madero, head of the studio fire patrol.

Inside, Stage Seven blazed with light. Driscoll led them past a row of dressing rooms to the set beyond.

Roy recognized it as they entered; the décor was immediately identifiable. This was the bedroom of Norman’s mother, just as he’d described it in his script. Or almost so.

Two men were waiting there: stocky, mustached Madero and old Chuck Grossinger, one of the night-duty security guards, talking together over in the corner next to the four-poster bed.

Roy blinked in the brightness; at first glance the set seemed untouched. But there was a pungent odor in the air—the smell of burnt cloth.

Then he noticed the bedspread—the charred ends, the scorch marks across the pillow cases, which extended beyond the headboard to darken the wall of the set behind it.

“Caught it just in time,” Grossinger was saying. “The door was open just a crack when I come by, and I seen the light, kind of flickering from inside. Then I smelled the smoke. I run in and here was the bed on fire, so I grabbed the extinguisher off the wall—”

“And damned near got yourself barbecued.” Frank Madero shook his head. “Thing like this happens, you’re supposed to call me.”

“Hell, the whole place could go up before you guys got the equipment out of the garage. If that gasoline had exploded—”

“Gasoline?” Driscoll was scowling again as he moved toward Madero, who stooped down on the far side of the four-poster, below Roy’s range of vision.

“Found this under the bed just now,” he said. And held up a five-gallon drum.

Driscoll reached for the can and shook it. “This hasn’t even been opened.”

“Cap’s loose,” Madero told him. “Somebody was all set to use it, but he got interrupted.”

“How do you know?” Driscoll bent forward, peering under the four-poster. “Look, there’s paint cans here too, and brushes. Lazy bastards stow this stuff away when they knock off work, instead of taking it back to the stockroom. Maybe one of them caught himself a nap, dozed off with a cigarette in his mouth. The bed starts to burn, he panics and splits.”

Madero shook his head. “Take my word for it, this is a torch job. We’d better call—”

“Hold it.” Driscoll turned to the guard. “You talked to Talbot yet?”

Roy recognized the name; Talbot was head of studio security.

Grossinger shifted uneasily under Driscoll’s stare. “I didn’t have a chance. You know where he lives, clear out in Thousand Oaks. I figured by the time he got down here—”

“Never mind what you figured. Anybody else on the night shift know about this?”

“No. Jimmy’s on the gate, Fritz and Manhoff are covering the back lot.”

Driscoll faced Madero. “What about your people?”

“Perry and Cozzens are on duty, but they were upstairs sleeping when Grossinger called in. He told me no sweat, the fire was out and anyway it looked like an accident, so I just hopped in the car and ran over here alone.”

“So nobody else knows what happened here except us.”

“And the guy who did the job.” Frank Madero gestured toward the gasoline drum in Driscoll’s hand. “I know what you’re driving at, but this is arson—”

Driscoll stepped back, shaking his head. “You’re wrong. It was an accident.”

Madero’s face reddened. “Since when are you giving orders around here?”

“Since Barney Weingarten left for Europe,” Driscoll said. “Ruben took off for New York, and that leaves me minding the store. Why the hell do you think I was still here at the office tonight when you called? I’ve got enough headaches without somebody trying to tell me how to run my job.”

Madero’s voice rose. “Maybe so. But if you try a cover-up, we’re going to be in big trouble—”

“Shut up and listen! You want trouble, go running to the cops. Write up your reports, both of you, just the way you told it to me. And when Weingarten comes back and finds out how loose security was tonight—when he hears about those clowns on fire-duty sleeping through a blaze that could have burned down the whole goddam studio—I guarantee you’ll both be out on your canastas.”

“You’ll never get away with this.” Madero’s voice was no longer strident; he was asking for reassurance.

“Trust me.” Driscoll faced Roy, Jan, and Claiborne. “All I want from you is to button up. Anyone wants to know why you’re here tonight, it’s a production meeting.”

Grossinger moved forward. “Aren’t you forgetting something? The evidence—”

“What evidence?” Marty Driscoll tapped the side of the gasoline drum. “This I’ll toss personally.” He glanced over at the four-poster. “You and Madero strip that bedspread and get rid of it. Tomorrow I’ll tell Hoskins the design was too busy, he should get me something in another pattern.” The producer glanced up. “Find something that will take those smudges off the wall. Turn on the air conditioning and get this smell out of here.”

Madero shrugged. “Okay, but if anything goes wrong—”

“It won’t, if you keep your nose clean.” Driscoll smiled. “Just do what I said and tomorrow you’re home free.” He started to move off the set. “Okay, that’s it. I’ll check with you first thing in the morning.”

Roy trailed his companions out onto the darkened studio street, frosted by silvery slivers of moonlight. Jan and Claiborne hadn’t spoken, but he knew what they were thinking:
Cover-up. Accessories after the fact.

He quickened his stride to catch up with Jan; her eyes seemed almost glazed, and moonrays emphasized her pallor. It was too late to see Claiborne’s face, because he’d already moved forward beside Driscoll.

“I’ve got to talk to you,” he said.

“Go ahead.”

“Privately.”

The producer shook his head. “Look, we’re all in this together. You got anything to say, let’s hear it.”

As Roy and Jan approached, Claiborne fixed his gaze on what Driscoll was holding in his hand.

“That gasoline drum,” he murmured. “I saw one last Sunday, when Norman burned the van.”

“Oh Jesus, not again!” Driscoll’s balding forehead wrinkled in protest. “You going to tell me Norman started this fire?”

“I warned you he’d try something,” Claiborne said. “Who else has a better motive?” He nodded toward the can. “As for method—”

“Coincidence. Anytime somebody wants to pull a stunt like this, gasoline’s the first thing he thinks of.”