The Ticket Out (34 page)

I lay pressed against him and listened. I should have been astonished: he liked me from the first, and I didn't have the slightest clue. But only part of me was listening now. The other part was feeling his physical nearness.

I shifted my leg and felt myself flush up hot. He was still talking; he was saying how frightened he'd been those two nights at the pool house. It barely registered. I reached one hand and slowly unbuttoned the rest of his buttons. He broke off talking but made no effort to stop me. I sat up, pulled his shirt out of his slacks, and pushed it open. I put my hands on his chest and just looked at him.

He was looking at me.

I bent over and kissed the scar under his nipple. It was a long, thin ridge that showed pink against his faded Mexico tan. I kissed the ridge of flesh from end to end, then kissed the skin around it. I closed my eyes and licked along the scar. His breathing speeded up. He ran his fingers in my hair to press my mouth closer. He laid his head back, and I heard him say my name.

W
E NEVER
made it off the couch. He was a wonderful lover, laughing and passionate, and once we got started again, it was way too urgent to think about moving to the bedroom.

We'd almost just fallen asleep when the telephone rang.

I would have ignored it, but I felt Doug stir. I cracked an eyelid. Sun was pouring in the windows; the room was filled with light. Doug reached for the phone on the end table. I buried my face in his neck.

“Lockwood speaking ... Yes, partner ... What time is it now?...I know her. I'll go while you do that.... Good idea, good.”

He hung up the phone. He said softly, “Ann.”

I tightened my arms around him and said,
“Sleep.”
He kissed my ear. “I know, baby, but Lynnda called the station. She's ready to talk.”

I let go of him. He kissed me again and rolled off the couch. I watched him walk into the bathroom. I said, “I'm coming with you.”

He turned. “To Lynnda's or to shower?”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Don't tempt me. I'll fix coffee and shower second.”

He shut the bathroom door. I heard water splash and braced myself to stand up. I couldn't manage it.

Our clothes were thrown all over the floor. I picked up my shirt. I couldn't find the energy to put it on—I just sat there stupefied. I tilted sideways and lay back down...

The sound of laughter woke me up. Doug was standing beside the couch. He leaned over and shook me. He said, “Hurry.”

I didn't move. “I'm hurrying.”

He laughed again and walked into the kitchen. I dragged myself to the shower. I blasted the cold water, got dressed, dragged to the kitchen, and guzzled a cup of coffee that Doug had made strong. The coffee didn't make a dent at all. My head wouldn't clear—I felt bleary and sluggish.

I also had problems working my right hand. Doug doctored it for me. He applied pain cream and wrapped an Ace bandage over top. I thought he might discuss Lynnda-Ellen while he was working; unlike me, he was awake and lucid. He brought up my trouble at the paper instead. I said that his powers of recuperation were sickening, but he wouldn't let me duck the question. So I told him I was temporarily tired of movies—how I'd refused assignments and missed deadlines, and how my reviews had gotten spiteful. I told him it wouldn't be serious except that Barry was blanding out the film section to prepare for a possible sale, with Jules Silverman as the possible broker.

Doug frowned at the new connection. I told him I wasn't worried: Barry was just going through a phase. He'd forgotten why he started the
Millennium
but he was bound to remember sometime.

As if Doug cared whether the paper ran pro-studio fluff, or blew up in a big mushroom cloud.

I said so and he smiled.

We took separate cars to breakfast and to Whitley Heights. When I was alone, I was overwhelmed by a sense of unreality. I tried to absorb the change in our relationship. It was hard. It was hard to adjust to the other Lockwood—the real live man under the official exterior. It was especially hard since I felt so tired and I still wanted him. I didn't feel like the night had ended, and here it was morning and we were up and dressed and back to business.

Doug stood waiting for me at the bottom of Lynnda-Ellen's stairs.

Detective Smith couldn't make it; he'd had to organize a lineup to maintain the fiction that Dale Denney was a carjacking suspect. We climbed the stairs and Doug rang the doorbell. He squeezed my arm without turning his head.

Lynnda answered the door in full makeup and a lacy lounging ensemble. The top was open and her breasts were very evident. They were too perfect and taut; she'd had them enhanced by surgical means. She took one look at Doug and lost her simpery smile.

“Oh, it's you.”

He said, “Yes, so you can put those away.”

Her mouth turned down. Closing her top, she tightened the belt and jerked her thumb at me. “Who's this?”

Doug said, “Miss Whitehead is a witness. I thought her presence would be useful.”

Lynnda stepped aside to let us in. Her living room was like her—a bunch of money spent on gaudy effect. It had a wet bar and a grand piano, and we sat down on pom-pommed, faux-leopard-skin chairs.

Lynnda had a lace hankie; she started dabbing her eyes with it. The backup act, I guessed: from sex to light tragedy. Doug got out his notebook and pen. I forced myself to pay attention.

She said, “It's all been such a terrible shock. I thought I knew Greta but I've discovered things about her that have surprised and saddened me.”

She hadn't talked like that yesterday night. Her delivery was stilted and the formal phrases sounded phony.

Lynnda balled her hankie. “Arnie Tolback only told you part of the story. You said yourself that he has a bone to pick with the Silvermans—that's why he only told you part. He didn't say that Greta and him conspired to embarrass the Silvermans and extort money from them.”

Doug started writing. Lynnda said, “Arnie
did
bring Greta to me in secret. She did help with the shows, and I did ask her to come live here. But Arnie didn't tell you that him and Greta planned the blackmail together. Arnie told her about Mr. Silverman's visits, because he had an interest in embarrassing the Silvermans.”

Doug didn't look up. “What was Mr. Tolback's interest?”

“Amies a user. He used Hannah to get Mr. Silverman's help in the movie industry. But Mr. Silverman's a smart man—he always knows when he's being used and he wouldn't help Arnie. So Arnie conspired with Greta to embarrass the Silvermans and extort money from them.”

She was recycling her pat phrases. Doug said, “What was Miss Stenholm's interest in the scheme?”

“Greta was broke—”

Doug cut in. “You still pay your people shit, Lynn?”

Lynnda had her hankie and wasn't going to be baited. She sniffed. “Greta and my's arrangement was she worked in exchange for rent. Looking back in retrospect, maybe it wasn't quite fair.”

Doug said, “So she needed money. Why would she want to embarrass the Silvermans?”

“She hated the Silvermans—Hannah worst. Hannah stole her boyfriend and has a good position in the Industry. Greta was a nothing going nowhere.”

Doug said, “You deny any knowledge of her murder.”

Lynnda dabbed her eyes. Her hankie was dotted with mascara, not moisture.

“I admit that Dale delivered the money for the Silvermans—people of their level don't dirty their hands with details. But I didn't send a second man to threaten Greta. She'd taken off, I didn't know where. Naturally I did what I could to repair the damage. I fired the actress who appeared in the pictures, and I provided Dale to deliver the money. Dale screwed—pardon me, mishandled—the delivery, but he's assured me he will rectify that situation. If you want my opinion, Arnie did her. I think they had a fight and he did her.”

Doug reviewed his notes. “Let me get this straight. It is your belief that Mr. Tolback and Miss Stenholm conspired to...”

He let the sentence dangle. I saw the trap; Lynnda didn't. She finished the sentence. “...to embarrass the Silvermans and extort money from them.”

I burst out, “Who wrote your lines?”

Lynnda ignored me and looked at Doug. Doug said, “Answer the question.”

Lynnda twisted her hankie. “I'm sure I don't know what she means.”

I said, “‘Surprised and saddened'? ‘Dirty their hands with details'? ‘Rectify the situation'? Did Hannah write that stuff or did her lawyer?”

Doug stood up and walked to the telephone. Lynnda lost her fake-o dignity. She jumped up, shrill.

“Arnie did her! He whacked her! She was a greedy bitch! They were screwing! They planned it together and the deal went bad!”

Doug punched a number. Lynnda said,
“What are you doing?”

Doug spoke into the telephone. “Partner, it's me. Let's try tax evasion—call your contact at the IRS. Denney says there's maybe four hundred grand a year in unreported income—”

Lynnda shouted,
“No!”

Doug said, “Hold on a minute,” and covered the mouthpiece. Lynnda was white. She said, “I need to make a call.”

She rushed out of the living room. Doug uncovered the mouthpiece. “It worked. I'll call you back ... Yeah, they're magic.”

He put the phone down. I said, “What's magic?”

“The letters
IRS.
This might take awhile—you should go look for your film script.”

I stood up and headed for the door. I suddenly remembered my sister and that damned San Andreas trip. I stopped, frowned, and checked my watch. They'd probably left hours ago. Father liked to get an early start.

Doug read my mind. He said, “You missed your family.”

I lowered my voice. “Making love with you.”

He kept his face deadpan. “First things first, Miss Whitehead.”

I said, “Detective—first things
always
first.”

 

I
TURNED OFF
Robertson and swung down the alley behind Progressive Properties and Artists. I'd been tossed out last time I came by; I wasn't going to attempt the front entrance.

I had gotten a second wind. I'd heard about herbal speed from the hippie who wrote the
Millennium
health column. Vivian had tried it for fun and told me it worked. So I'd stopped at a health food store and bought a bottle of pep pills. I also bought arnica for my hand, and washed everything down with organic espresso. By the time I hit Beverly Hills I felt awake and lucid as hell.

I called my sister at home on the off chance she didn't go. There was no answer; and there was no answer at Father's hotel.

PPA's parking lot was just a tight place between dumpsters. The parking slots were labeled by name: Leonard Ziskind and Jack Nevenson were in. They both drove BMW sedans. A BMW ragtop stood in the visitor's space. There was no other parking, so I left my car on the hash marks reserved for garbage trucks.

The alley door was locked; it had a buzzer and an intercom. The window beside the door was cracked an inch. I checked around for people, removed the screen, pushed up the sash, and climbed inside. Breaking and entering had become routine.

I paused on the carpet to orient myself. PPA was a small operation—a few offices off a main hall. I saw the front reception area, and the receptionist with her back to me. I heard voices closer by. They came from the office adjoining Jack Nevenson's.

I tiptoed down the hall toward the voices. When I got close enough to hear distinct words, I ducked into a paneled niche. The receptionist couldn't see me there if she turned around.

I peeked in the office door. Len Ziskind sat behind his desk; he was tapping his teeth with his glasses. Jack Nevenson and Hamilton Ashburn Jr. sat facing him. Ashburn was dressed for the set, except for parka and mitts.

Ashburn was talking.

“Neil is no friend of mine, Len, not after that stunt he pulled in the trades. But he asked me to relay the message, so I'm doing it. He wants credit on the script and half the money.”

Ziskind spread his hands. “We didn't agent the sale. We never saw a finished screenplay.”

Ashburn turned red and looked at Nevenson. Nevenson nodded. “I've told Neil we thought Scott Dolgin had the property and was developing it himself.”

Ashburn said, “Not Scott—Greta and Neil hated him.”

Ziskind said, “Hate him? Why?”

Nevenson cleared his throat. “Lens considering Scott for a client.”

Ashburn said, “A client? I don't think you want him as a client.”

Ziskind tapped his teeth. “Why not?”

“Scott turns people off, and if he had any talent, he'd be somewhere by now. You don't want PPA associated with Neil or Greta either. Everyone says that Greta peaked at film school, and Neil blew it with
The Last Real Man.
He showed me his rewrite on
GB Dreams Big,
and I think he's lost it.”

Nevenson read a dismiss signal from Ziskind. Nevenson stood up. “Thanks for coming, Ham.”

Ashburn took the hint; he stood up and shook hands with Ziskind. He said, “You know my agent, Joel Rothman. Joel heard you're packaging features for cable, and we'd love to talk to you about it. I'm currently directing my third HBO movie.”

Ziskind was cool. “Have Joel call me.”

I ran down the hall, squeezed through the window, put the screen back, and waited for Ashburn in the alley. The ragtop had to be his. I thought of Penny Proft on the subject of Ashburn, Greta's death, and Phillips's aborted career: “The Hamster must be thrilled—he's the last man standing.”

The back door opened and Ashburn walked out. His mouth was clamped shut. He saw me and kept walking.

I followed him. I said, “Neil sure sent the right guy to plead his case.”