The Devil's Due (12 page)

Benny Roth opened his mouth to protest, but a fierce glare from his brother shut it with a snap. He stormed out of the office nearly running into Grant in his rush. He growled something at Grant and shoved him bodily out of the way. Elizabeth was immediately out of her chair and ready to intervene, but Simon put a hand to her arm.

Grant played it off as though it were nothing as Roth stabbed the down elevator button. Benny Roth turned back to glare at his brother, but caught sight of Simon and Elizabeth. His expression was angry and filled with wanting something he couldn't have. There was a wildness in his eyes, a panic Simon recognized. He'd seen it in Ruby's eyes that night at the Biltmore. There was something else in Roth's eyes though. Simon couldn't put a name to it, but it was trouble. Whatever was taking Roth down, he wasn't going to go down easily. If he had to take someone with him, he would without blinking an eye.

Benny Roth grunted as the elevator arrived and he stepped inside. “This isn't over yet,” he said. “I'll find one.” It didn't seem aimed at his brother so much as the entire room, or maybe just himself.

Sam Roth watched the elevator doors close and huffed out a breath. It took him a moment to recover, and then the calm business like façade was securely back in place. “Grant?” he said impatiently. “We got rushes in ten. What are you doing here?”

“So lovely to you see you, Samuel,” Grant said. “I wanted to introduce you to a few friends.”

“You know the rules, Grant. Friendship,” he said pointing at the threshold to his office, “stops here.”

“Yes, of course,” Grant said, clapping an unwanted hand on Roth's shoulder and escorting him into his own office. “They're actually here in search of work. Business, you see.”

Grant waved behind his back, urging them to follow him.

He walked Roth into the middle of his large but utilitarian office. The only real decoration was a pair of massive curved tusks mounted to the floor behind Roth's desk and arching over his leather chair.

“They're…writers,” Grant said with a quick flashing grin. “Gifted scenarists.”

Roth turned to look at them. “Yeah?”

When they'd asked Grant to try to get them work at the studio this was hardly what Simon had expected.

“Talented playwrights from…” Grant started.

“London.” “Texas.”

Roth's brow creased and he pursed his lips.

Immediately they both answered again, but this time in reverse. “Texas.” “London.”

Grant glared at them and then clapped Roth on the shoulder again. “That's a comedic bit they're working on.”

“They need to keep working,” Roth said.

“Yes,” Grant said with a sharp look. “But they are terribly talented.”

Roth was unimpressed.

“And willing to work for peanuts.”

“Circus peanuts even,” Elizabeth added.

Roth's implacable expression was unmoved. He looked at Grant again, seeming to calculate exactly what it would cost him and the net return in having a happy star. The numbers must have fallen in their favor because he nodded. “Have them report to Miller. And fix that bit. S'not funny.”

“Right!” Grant said.

They were just about to turn to leave when a voice from a darkened corner of the office stopped them. “Aren't you going to introduce me?”

The man's face was obscured by cigarette smoke caught in the dim light of a reading lamp. Instead of waving it away, he stood, pushing through it and emerging into the light. The effect was chilling and so was the man. Tall, slender and neatly dressed, he had a handsome enough face, sharp symmetrical features and keen dark eyes. But there was something unnerving about him, about the way he moved, the way his eyes took in the room that sent a shiver up Simon's spine. And yet, the man was familiar. It took Simon a moment to place him. Then he realized this was the man sitting at Grant's table at Musso & Frank.

Sam Roth frowned and picked up a cigar stub from the ashtray on his desk. “Thorn, these are…” he struggled disinterested and preoccupied. He waved a hand at Grant.

Grant's expression was the same as it always was, a casual smile, but there was none of the usual joy behind it. It was forced, tight.

“Perhaps another time,” Grant said, moving to hurry Elizabeth from the room.

“I think this is a most opportune time,” the man said moving between them and the door. He held out his hand. “Edgar Thorn. And you are?”

“Elizabeth Cross.” She shook his hand briefly, but when she tried to let go, he pulled her a little closer. Simon instinctively started toward them, but a warning hand from Grant kept him from intervening.

“You are,” Thorn said, seeming to look for the word in her eyes, “lovely. So…pure.”

Thorn regarded Simon for a brief moment, a flash of a smile touching his eyes as their gazes met. Thorn might have been speaking to Elizabeth but it was really Simon he was talking to. It was a strange feeling, but Simon was sure of that. Just as he was sure this man was dangerous. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but every instinct in his body was warning him that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Thorn turned his gaze back to Elizabeth and released her hand. He smiled affably. “Newlyweds?”

“How did you know?” she asked, sounding impressed.

Thorn lifted a long index finger and pointed it at Simon. “He doesn't like another man touching his wife. Only a newly married man cares that much about something so trivial. In a few years, he won't even notice,” he added. “Isn't that right, Sam?”

Sam Roth had been watching from behind his desk. To Thorn's question, he merely grunted in reply, turning the cigar in his mouth.

“You should go,” Grant said, taking Elizabeth by the hand and leading her toward Simon and the door.

Thorn smiled genially. “Of course. So much work to do.” His eyes caught Simon's. “So good to see you again. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon.”

Grant ushered them to the door. “You two go ahead. I'll catch you up downstairs.”

Simon didn't need to be told twice and put his hand on Elizabeth's back to urge her along. The elevator door was open and waiting for them in the foyer. Once the doors had closed behind them, Simon turned to Elizabeth. “Didn't you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

Simon frowned. “Thorn. There's something about that man. I don't like it.”

“I thought he was kind of creepy that night at Musso & Frank, but it must have just been the excitement of if all. Today, he seemed kind of interesting.”

Simon stared at her in disbelief. Of the two of them, Elizabeth was supposed to be the intuitive one. How could she possibly have missed the menace that man exuded? “Interesting?” he asked, incredulous.

Elizabeth shrugged. She seemed completely unfazed and, worse yet, completely unaware of what Simon had perceived.

He turned her so that he could look into her eyes. She didn't look drugged. “Are you feeling all right?”

She shrugged again. “I'm a little hungry.”

“Promise me,” Simon said and waited until he had her full and undivided attention, “promise me that you won't be alone with that man. No dinners.”

“Jealous?” she said playfully, but quickly saw this was no joke. “I promise.”

Simon sighed and the elevator reached the ground floor. As they walked outside, his own feelings on the matter felt a little ridiculous. Maybe it had all been in his head? He just wasn't sure. Now, his reaction to the man felt overly dramatic, but there was a niggling voice in the back of his mind that wouldn't stay quiet.

Elizabeth slipped her arm into his. “Anyway, he didn't seem that bad to me.”

“You would see the good in the devil himself,” he said.

“Nobody's all bad.”

Simon was not so sure.

The few minutes they spent waiting outside for Alan turned into ten and Elizabeth busied herself by trying to figure out what had gotten into Simon.
Don't be alone with him. No dinners.
Where the Heckle and Jekyll had that come from? It wasn't like she was in the habit of having dinner with strange men. She'd had one measly dinner with a gangster vampire and Simon just wouldn’t let it go.

Thorn was a smooth talker and attractive enough, if the silky smooth snaky sort was your type. But really, Simon's reaction to him was odd. She was just about to ask him about it when Alan came out of the building and hurried down the stairs to meet them.

“I'm afraid, I've got to dash to rushes. I'll see you in the commissary in an hour or so. The writer's building is that dilapidated one over there. See a man named Miller and he'll get you studio passes and then you can do what writers do,” Grant added as he started to walk away.

“Write?” Elizabeth asked. “I don't know how to write.”

“Have you read the script for latest film? Hasn't stopped them. Have fun!” he waved over his shoulder and was gone.

They didn't need the job, but having a studio pass that would allow them access to the lot could be valuable. They agreed to put in an appearance and pray they weren't given an assignment.

The writers' building was just across the lawn, but unlike the main building with Roth's offices, it had no pretense. It barely had paint. A group of men played dice in the hallway and Simon had to help Elizabeth step around them. It felt more like a frat house than an office building.

“Miller?” Simon asked.

One of the men on the floor jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling. “Third floor.”

Elizabeth looked for the elevator, but didn't find one. There was, however, a broad open staircase. As she looked up, two men and a tiny woman with short dark hair were deep in conversation as they walked down the last flight.

Elizabeth's elbow jabbed Simon in the stomach so hard he let out a yelp. “What on earth—”

“Dorothy Parker,” she whispered, pointing at the woman's back.

Simon turned to try to catch a glimpse of her, but a boy with a stack of papers leapt down the stairs and nearly collided with him. “Sorry, mister,” the boy said and ran down the hall.

Elizabeth mouthed a “wow” and squelched a delighted giggle. Simon gestured for her to start up the stairs.

Miller's office was a jungle of paper. Piles of scripts teetered on the edge of toppling over. An attractive, busty woman in a tight skirt and even tighter sweater sat perched on the desk filing her nails. Her platinum blonde hair was nearly blinding. She popped her gum and stared at them blankly. Two cigarettes burned in the ashtray next to her.

Standing behind the desk was a tall man, or one who would have been if he ever straightened, but he seemed permanently bent. His graying hair was in disarray, his suit as rumpled as his face.

“Are you Miller? Simon asked.

The man squinted.

“Roth sent us,” Elizabeth supplied. “We're writers.”

Miller didn't look so sure. “Scenarists or dialogue?” he asked using his cigarette like an index finger, punctuating each question with a stab of it. “Are you funny? Can you tell me a joke? Tell me a joke.”

Elizabeth looked anxiously at Simon. Although she would have paid good money to see Simon tell a joke, she cleared her throat, spread her feet to shoulder width and started. “A guy walks into a bar with a duck on his head-”

Miller waved it away. “You'll do.”

He narrowed his eyes at Simon. “You a team?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said excitedly. She knew they weren't actually going to write anything, but it was still thrilling.

“Does it talk or is it just through you?”

“I'm quite capable of speaking for myself,” Simon said.

“English,” Miller said with a sour face. “That's all I need. All right, I got plenty of crap that needs punching up. What about that jungle thing with Grant, that uhm—”

“
Through the Dark Continent
?” Elizabeth answered. That was exciting and a little troubling.
Through the Dark Continent
was the last movie Grant ever made. After it, he just dropped off the map. The movie was unfinished and never released.

Miller slammed his hand down on the desk and frowned in distaste. “That's the one. Do something with it. Fix it.”

Elizabeth was stunned. “Really?”

“We were told we'd need studio passes. Where do we procure those?” Simon asked, bringing her back on point.

“Procure them?” Miller said and then looked up to his ceiling. “Why'd it have to be an Englishman?” He glared at Elizabeth. “You're American, right?”

“Texan.”

“Close enough. Now get out.”

He waved them away. The woman on the desk smiled amiably at them, handed them a few wrinkled forms and blew a bubble with her gum. “Downstairs. 201,” she said with another loud pop of her gum.

After wandering through the halls, they found room 201 and the main writers' room. It wasn't that hard actually, thanks to the sound of a dozen or so Underwood typewriters banging away and the rumble of loud voices. Half a dozen desks held a dozen men and a few women. Some worked away hunched over their typewriters, others were talking animatedly and one was throwing a rubber ball against the wall. A cloud of smoke hovered above them almost obscuring the pincushion ceiling where dozens of pencils dangled down.

Simon introduced himself and Elizabeth to the haggard-looking man who seemed to be in charge, if anyone could have said to have been. He took the papers Simon had, crumpled them into balls and threw them into an enormous pile of balled up paper in the corner. He gave Simon fresh paperwork to fill out and Elizabeth used the opportunity to see what she could find out about Ruby or Roth.

Most people were in heated arguments or busy working. One man was asleep on his desk, curled up like a small child between his pencil sharpener and typewriter.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” a man said from behind her. He looked like a fox. His nose was long and sharp, his eyes small and dark; he even had tawny hair. “It’s better upwind.”

He escorted Elizabeth away from the sleeping man toward his desk. Another writer, with owlish glasses and a round face looked up from his work, which Elizabeth realized was blacking out teeth on movie star headshots. “Ohh, a girl,” he said with a grin, forgetting his drawings. “Show me your legs.”

“Charlie,” said Mr. Fox.