HE LEFT THE GUN WITH BARBARA in room 4A, although he got her to empty the cylinder and shove the thing back the drawer where he’d found it. Down in the hallway, the day’s mail had arrived inside a rusted wire box hung on the back of the door. He sifted quickly through it. There wasn’t much for anyone, and only one letter addressed to Daniel Lamotte. The envelope, smooth and heavy and slick, had yet to absorb the must and damp of Blixden Apartments.
Inside were two invitation cards and a compliments slip from the office of Mr. Timothy Townsend, Senior Production Executive at Senserama Studios. Scrawled in a big, eager hand, the slip read:
See you both tonight!
In gold swirls and curlicues, the embossed cards beneath informed him that Herbert Kisberg requested the pleasure of Daniel and April Lamotte’s company that night at his Beverly Hills address. It seemed odd to see both those names written out like that. As if they were still real and alive.
He stood for a while on the sidewalk on Blixden Avenue, heard clock chimes through an open widow—it was ten already—and set and rewound his Longines watch. Then, fishing for change in his pockets, he headed for the phone booth. The air inside was fetidly hot. The heel of his shoe skidded on a used rubber on the concrete floor. Fishing for the newsprint advert for Nero Securities in his pocket, a strange chill came over him. What exactly was he doing? There was a steel mirror screwed in behind the phone set, but it was far too scarred with gum, grime and spittle to make out anything more than the vague and anonymous outline of a man’s face.
He checked the number he had for Nero Securities against the telephone listing, just to see if it was current. It was, and the operator put him through without question. Once again, the line just rang and rang.
The sudden sound of the change rattling into the tray as he pulled down the cradle made him shudder. He told himself to forget. Concentrate. Stay in character. What would a writer who worked in this city do on the day after his wife had supposedly committed suicide? Go on a long walk? Have a shot at some In Memoriam poetry? Drink himself stupid? Most likely all of those things. But first, he’d call his agent. If, that was, she didn’t happen to be his dead wife as well. He took a long breath and looked at his watch again. Then he checked the phone number on the compliments slip from the letter he’d just opened.
What sounded like the same glossy Senserama secretary who’d greeted them the day before put him straight through to Timmy Townsend’s office.
“Dan? Jesus—Dan. Is that really you?”
“Yeah, Tim. Have you heard—”
“Fuck. Jesus. It’s right here on my desk. How are you feeling ol’ buddy? How the fuck could a thing like that happen?”
“I just don’t know. It’s…” For a moment, he felt genuinely blocked-up. “… The police came to find me at Blixden Avenue right after you’d seen me yesterday.”
“Must have been awful. God, I’m sorry. Where are you now?”
“Still Downtown.”
“And you got that invitation I sent you for tonight?”
“Yes…”
“… Guess it seems ridiculous, right now, eh, Dan?”
“Guess it does…”
The pauses down the line were growing longer.
“Look, Danny boy. I know this is the worst possible time to suggest such a thing… Well, you know, maybe not… Fact is, Dan, the big Indian chiefs here at Senserama have read today’s report too. And here’s me, I mean I’m just some fucking squaw. Terrible thing to say, I know, but my balls are just the teeniest bit on the line here. And, let’s face it, you have been out of the loop for a while, credits-wise… Well, push come to shove, the smoke signals I’m getting are they want to know that you’re still the guy who’ll produce a working script with a shooting schedule this autumn.”
“Writers write, Tim. It’s what they do. Nothing’s going to change about that.”
“Great to hear you say that, Dan. And I believe you. But it might just be the teeniest bit helpful… Jesus, I feel such a shit for having to say this…”
“You want me to show my face at the party this evening? Show them that Daniel Lamotte’s still up to it?”
“Sounds like crud, I know. But yeah.”
He took a long breath. “Okay. Message received, Timmy. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Dan, you’re an absolute—”
He put the earpiece back in the cradle, thought for a moment, then jotted down the number of the booth. The kid Roger and his mates were clustered around the post box up the street as he came out.
“Hi there,” he called as the rest of them scattered and Roger shoved something into the back of his pants. “Thanks for that message last night on the windshield. It meant something. Never happened to actually see my wife, did you?”
“Never saw your wife, no.” The kid spat. “Never will now, by the look of it.”
So much for sympathy. Although the kid’s mini-hardman act was a million times better than Timmy Townsend’s balls-less squaw. “And thanks for keeping an eye on the car.”
“Yeah.”
“Another dime help?”
“Wouldn’t do no harm. But a half buck would do even better.” The kid took the two quarters, rubbed them as if they might be fake, palmed them into his pocket. “You in trouble? I mean, what with the police and your wife and that.”
“Wish I knew.”
“Well, if you don’t, pal—”
“Yeah, I know. Nobody does. But I got another little job you could do for me…”
Wary as a bird, the kid cocked his head and stood one-footed.
“… It’s no big deal. But assuming you’re around here as often as you seem to be, you could maybe listen out for that phone?”
“And do what?”
“There’s a girl up in those apartments I got doing some, ah, research for me that I might need to get a message to. You know her? Name’s Barbara Eshel.”
“You mean the kike?” The kid gave a grinning wink. “You got something sweet’n’sticky going on with her?”
“Where’d’you learn to talk like that?”
“Probably the same place you did.”
“Sure.” Clark gave up; the kid was still grinning, and sharp as a razor.
“I’ll see what I can do. Another fifty wouldn’t hurt, though, buddy.”