Psycho - Three Complete Novels (40 page)

“Just what am I supposed to believe? First you tell me Norman is alive, now you say he’s dead and Vizzini started the fire.”

“I’m not sure about Norman, and I’ve no hard proof of Vizzini’s responsibility. But one thing’s certain. He does identify with Norman Bates, and that’s why I warned you about identifying with Mary Crane.”

Jan reached down to pet the kitten as it rubbed against her ankle. “I identify with kitty here, too. And with all sorts of people, all sorts of things. Maybe because I’m an actress—”

“Most of us tend to identify, to a degree.”

“Most of us?” Jan straightened. “But not shrinks, I suppose. They’re above such weaknesses.”

“Rao.”
The kitten nodded in seeming approval.

But Claiborne frowned. “Stop beating me over the head with a label,” he said. “Shrinks aren’t above or below anything. It’s just that experience tells us complete identification with anyone, whether it’s Jesus Christ or Adolf Hitler, is dangerous. We can still empathize, though, and relate—”

Jan’s eyes challenged. “And just who do you relate to?”

“Everyone.” Claiborne shrugged. “At least, I try to. Norman, of course—I share his resentment of confinement and restraint. I understand Marty Driscoll’s drive for success because there’s a little of that in me too. I can see Roy Ames’s position as a writer trying to tell it like it is; I wanted to tell the truth about Norman in a book.”

As she listened, Jan found herself recalling the other evening here with Claiborne, and her own sudden unexpected surge of feeling. Seeing him now, she felt the same reaction starting to build; it wasn’t what he was saying, but the sound of his voice as he said it. This wasn’t professional put-on, he really wanted her to understand, just as she wanted to reassure him that she did. It was all she could do to restrain herself from reaching out in response, reaching out physically—

She checked the impulse quickly. Words were safer. “Paul Morgan?” she said.

Claiborne nodded. “I don’t like what he does—the petty cruelty, the autograffiti thing. But I can share his insecurity, the doubts about one’s self-image. And the same with Vizzini. Perhaps even more so. I know what it’s like to be an orphan.”

“You?”

His voice was soft. “Yes. I don’t know who my parents were, or my real name. The only difference is that I didn’t run away from the orphanage.” He paused. “When you told me about your kid sister, it hit home. For all I know, my mother was in the same bind, and your sister’s baby and I are twins.”

Claiborne looked up at her with a smile. “Are you beginning to see what I mean? You don’t have to completely identify in order to relate; if you just look deeply enough, you’ll find something of yourself in everyone.”

Jan nodded. “That’s exactly how I feel about Mary Crane. Only it’s closer, somehow, because there’s the physical resemblance too. Sometimes I can’t help thinking that if I play the part right, it could almost be like bringing her back to life again—”

“Even if it means ending your own?”

He leaned toward Jan, taking her hand. His voice deepened. “I know how much this means to you. But it’s only a role, just remember that. Mary Crane is dead and you’re alive. What happens to you is what’s important now.”

She met his gaze, and his eyes told her more than his words.
He cares. He really does care.
She could feel the warmth and pressure of his fingers, the throb of his pulse matching hers. He was turning her on and that was good, because it turned off the thoughts. Even though she’d kept her cool, the fear was there and she didn’t want to think about it. Maybe he was right and she was wrong, but what did it matter? What mattered was here and now, the touching and the throbbing. That was what she wanted, that was what she needed, because it was real.

Jan moved into his arms, eyes closing, mouth seeking and opening against his own, and now their bodies were touching and throbbing together, soft fingertips grazing hard nipples, hips arching as hands went to her waist—

And thrust her away.

She opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Jan, listen to me.” His voice was gentle. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t help. Your safety is what matters, not just the threat to your career. Buying me off like this won’t solve anything.”

She rose quickly. Startled, the kitten sprang to its feet, stubby tail curling.

“Buying you off? Why, you smug bastard—”

“I’m sorry.” He was rising, facing her. “I didn’t mean it that way. You know I want you. But not like this, on these terms—”

The impact of her hand against his cheek halted him. “Terms? You’re the one who’s making terms. But not anymore. Just get the hell out. Out of here, out of my life!”

Jan turned, striding to the front door, and flung it wide. The kitten was mewing in fright somewhere on the floor below, but she couldn’t see it.

“Don’t be a fool,” Claiborne said. “You’ve got to realize—”

The sound of his voice blurred; everything blurred as he came toward her across the room. Sensing that he wanted to touch her, she edged back.

“No—get out!”

His hand fell and he moved past her. Then she slammed the door and leaned against it, shaking. It was only when she heard his car start up and pull away that the blurring sensation ebbed and she could see and hear clearly again.

But now there was nothing to hear, not even the frightened mewing. And as she stared around the living room, there was nothing to see.

The kitten was gone.

— 27 —

T
wo hours and two scotches later, Jan was still wide awake in her bed.

Alone, damn him!

She plumped the pillows, then settled back again.
While you’re at it, you might as well damn yourself.

It was her doing. She was responsible for everything; losing her temper, losing Claiborne, even scaring the kitten out into the fog. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Only he hadn’t scorned her. All he’d done was tell the truth. She did want him, but that wasn’t her only reason for turning him on; doing so was also a way of turning him off about the picture.
Crazy Lady
—a good title to describe herself. She must have been crazy not to see that he was really anxious to protect her.

But from what? Hints and guesses didn’t add up to proof. Was there something more, something he hadn’t told her?

Maybe Roy would know.

Switching on the bedlamp, Jan reached for the phone atop the nightstand. She dialed Roy’s number, then listened.

No answer.

And no answer to her question.

She replaced the receiver, turned off the light, pulled the covers back up around her shoulders. Now, oddly enough, she felt relieved that her call hadn’t been completed. Roy would probably just have said the same things, tried to talk her out of doing
Crazy Lady.
Maybe she was crazy after all, but not
that
crazy. Unless he and Claiborne came up with something besides conversation, nobody was gong to make her back down. Not after all she’d gone through.
Five years. Face it, you’re not getting any younger. This is the heavy trip, so hang in there. You don’t want to end up a nothing, like Connie. Poor Connie . . .

Poor Connie was having a ball.

Or was the ball having her?

It didn’t matter, really. Either way, she was balling. Or about to be balled, as soon as that smartass cameraman stopped fiddling with the focus on her crotch. Probably got his funsies peeking at her, but she was dying here under the lights.

Dying, but living.

Because for once nobody was ignoring her. There were seven others in Leo’s rec room, and everyone of them was concentrating on Connie, or some part of Connie. The clown with the hand-held camera had staked out his claim between her legs, the body-makeup girl was rubbing pink goo on her munchies, the klutz handling the lights flooded her face, framed by the black pillowcase. The boom man positioned the mike above her head, and the sound man squatting behind his controls was concerned with her voice level, and Leo himself—the producer, director, and production designer responsible for erecting this set in his own pad—was eyeballing her approvingly. The sixth person, if you could call that hairy, naked ape a person, was also responsible for some erecting of his own. And when the others finished, he’d begin.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly rose-garden time, holed up in a Boyle Heights bungalow to moonlight a porno flick. But who cared?

I care, that’s who. Me, Connie. Because for once they’re looking at me.

They were looking at her now, and the audience would be looking at her up on the screen. Not just her hands or feet or ankles, but all of her. So what if the audience was just a bunch of dirty old men with hats on their laps; at least she’d be
seen.
And nobody was complaining about the size of her boobs or trying to keep her face out of the shots. For this kind of film they could make do with a Japanese sex-doll or even a model of Godzilla, but Leo had picked her personally because he recognized talent when he saw it.

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—