“What we want you to do,” Warner Echols said, “is drop out of sight for a little while.”
“Drop out of sight?” Fain repeated.
“Until this situation smooths itself out.”
“How long a time are we talking about?”
“Say, a year.”
“A year? Jesus, you’re asking me to disappear for a whole year? I won’t do it.”
Echols tapped the desktop with a forefinger to emphasize his point. “Mac, I am not asking you to do anything. If you’ll read your contract with Federated Artists, you’ll see that the agency has final control over all decisions that affect your professional career. This decision has already been made, and what it is, is for you to vanish. Believe me, this has been kicked around at the highest level, and it’s the best possible move for you, considering the situation.”
“To run away,” Fain said.
“If that’s the way you want to look at it, yes. Any other course would be foolhardy.”
“What about all our plans? My commitments?”
“Let’s be honest here,” Echols said. “Your career is dead in the water.”
“But there’s the book,” Fain protested. “The movie.”
“The book is on hold. Bookstores have canceled orders to the point where it wouldn’t pay to set the thing in type. And frankly, the publisher is not anxious to be associated with your autobiography with all the bad publicity going down. As for the movie, M-G-M is out, and there isn’t a producer in town who will touch you, the way things are.”
“All of this because of what that sleazy SOB Dean Gooch wrote?”
“All he did was break the story. It would have come out anyway. Hell, Mac, you can’t hide what’s happening to the people you worked on. They’re turning into zombies. Dead meat. Carrion.”
Fain looked around as though for a jury to hear his side of the case. “It’s not fair. All I ever did was try to help people.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Echols said.
Fain jammed his hands into his pockets and strode back and forth in the office. Finally, he came to a stop in front of Echols. “I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t run away. There’s got to be some way to fix things.”
“Do I understand that you’re refusing to abide by the agency’s decision?”
“Bingo.”
Echols withdrew a thick number-ten envelope from his breast pocket and laid it on the desk in front of Fain. “In that case, I have to tell you that Federated Artists is severing all professional connections with you as of this date. You’ll find the legal papers to that effect in the envelope. You can sign them when you get around to it.”
Fain’s eyes narrowed to silvery pinpoints. “This is what you wanted me to do, isn’t it. You came all prepared to dump me.”
Echols put out a hand toward Fain’s shoulder. Fain pulled away.
“Mac, I’m truly sorry about this. On a one-to-one basis, I like you, but you can understand that we have to leave personal feelings aside. We didn’t have a long time together, but you weren’t too hard to work with. At first. But over the weeks I’ve watched you turn into something else. And in my heart I started having doubts about the whole project.”
“Just what the hell does that mean?” Fain said.
“Honest to God, I don’t know what you did to those people, and I don’t think I want to know. Maybe it’s a trick; maybe it’s some weird kind of folk medicine. Or maybe it’s magic. Whatever it is my gut feeling is that you should never have started. I’m not a religious man, but I think you stepped across a line that men should stay well back of.”
“I cannot believe I’m standing here listening to a sermon from the same guy who was so eager to jump on the bandwagon when it looked like I would make a bundle.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t take it like this, Mac. I know there are no hard feelings on my part. Speaking for myself and for the agency, I only want to say good luck.”
“Gee, thanks, Warner. That warms my heart.” He picked up the envelope and turned to go.
Behind him, Echols said, “Uh, how soon do you think you can be out?”
“Out?”
“Out of Eagle’s Roost. I mean, there’s no need to keep the place open any longer, and the agency would like to button it up.”
Fain stared at him. “Will this afternoon be soon enough?”
“That’ll be fine, we’ll have a truck here for your personal things. Agency expense.”
“If you do me any more favors, I may cry.”
“It’s a tough business, Mac.”
• • •
The staff of servants and the agency personnel cleared out of the huge old house so fast it seemed to Fain he was watching a time-lapse film. At noon, the Bekins truck came for the things that Fain had brought with him from Echo Park — a pitifully small grouping in the big van. When the driver asked him for a destination, Fain realized he had no idea where he was going.
“We gotta take it somewhere, buddy,” the driver said, licking the point of his pencil.
“Can you put it in storage?”
“Sure. You gotta sign.”
“I’ll sign,” Fain said.
Ten minutes later, he watched all his worldly goods except two suitcases of clothes and personal things roll away from Eagle’s Roost and down the hill.
He felt he ought to say good-bye to somebody, but there was no one left on the grounds that he knew. Warner Echols had disappeared right after giving him the news. He never really knew any of the staff by name. Debbie or Sandi was gone. Only the cleanup crew sent by F-A was on the grounds, and they kept throwing sidelong glances at Fain as though they wished he’d leave.
• • •
Coming out of Eagle’s Roost was more of a shock than Fain had anticipated. Up there he had been surrounded by people who flattered him, agreed with him, protected him. The gate was closed to anybody who might upset him. News from the outside world came to him filtered through the agency. When he left the old stone house and drove down the hill into Hollywood, it was like a bucket of ice water in his face.
Dean Gooch’s series was continuing in the Times. He had covered the three original people Fain had brought back and was now into the bizarre stories of the later ones. Other newspapers had picked up the story and were playing it big, along with television and radio.
There was talk of an official investigation of his activities as soon as it was decided which governmental bureau had jurisdiction. The religious community, unusually silent during the weeks Fain was a hero, were now after him like a pack of hounds. Editorials from all points of the political compass were unanimous in condemning the man they hailed as a near Messiah a couple of weeks earlier.
Fain parked on Hollywood Boulevard and wandered the tacky street like a drugged alien. He bought a Times, a Herald, and a USA Today and read of the disintegration of his people and the calls for his own punishment. He began to feel as though he might be seized at any moment and dragged off to some dank dungeon.
He returned to his car and drove up near La Cienega to a small, expensive hotel where celebrities stayed who did not want their pictures taken. It was done in California mission style with a central patio containing outdoor tables and a small sparkling pool. Fain parked on the street out in front and went into the small, tasteful lobby to register.
The clerk read the card he filled out and looked up at him in surprise. “McAllister Fain?”
“Yes. You do have a room?”
Still staring, the clerk nodded and handed him a key. “It’s number fourteen, through the patio and on the right. Do you have luggage, Mr. Fain?”
“I’ll bring it in later. Right now I just want to relax.” He took the key and headed for the glass doors leading out to the patio. He could feel the eyes of the hotel staff on him. He went outside and crossed the small patio to reenter the hotel on the far side. His room was the first one off the hallway on his right.
The furniture was in soft earth tones and of excellent quality. Restful framed prints hung on the walls. A sliding glass door gave out on the patio and pool area. This was now curtained by heavy drapery.
Fain double-locked the door, peeled off his jacket, and dropped into a chair. It was still early afternoon, but he was bone-weary. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift.
Some fifteen minutes later, he jolted out of a light doze to the sound of a disturbance in the courtyard. It was a subdued babble of voices and the rustle of people moving around. He got up to part the draperies and look outside.
He recoiled at the sudden sight of faces looking at him. A crowd of maybe twenty people had gathered outside his room on the patio. When Fain pulled back the curtain, they surged toward him, pointing and calling out to one another. Their words came clearly to him through the glass.
“There he is.”
“Is that really him?”
“Sure, he looks just like his picture.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Is somebody dead in there?”
“If he’s staying here, I’m leaving.”
For a frightening moment he thought they were coming right in through the glass after him. He whipped the drapery back across the window and backed away. The voices were louder outside now; there were shouts and heavy footsteps as more people came to see what the excitement was.
Fain snatched up his jacket and bolted from the room. He dashed up the hallway and sprinted across the courtyard to the hotel’s lobby. He ignored the goggling clerk as shouts rose behind him, and he heard the sound of running feet. The sound of the crowd had changed from curiosity to anger. For the first time in years he knew cold physical fear.
Out in front of the hotel he leaped into his car, fired the engine, and peeled away as the crowd spilled out under the canvas marquee and pointed toward him. Not until he had made half a dozen fast turns and was sure no one followed did he slow down and relax.
He pulled into the lot of a Thrifty Drug Store on Western Avenue and sat in his car for several minutes while his heartbeat returned to normal. He pushed down the panic and began to make plans. With an idea at last of what he was going to do, he went into the store and bought a Dodger baseball cap and a pair of nearly opaque sunglasses. Outside he put them on and checked his reflection in the plate-glass show window. With the cap pulled low and the glasses concealing his eyes, he was not so recognizable.
He drove off again and this time chose a seedy motel near Western Avenue. He paid the bored clerk in advance for a room and was relieved when his Dodger cap and shades drew no more than a passing glance.
The bed was narrow, with a ragged brown spread over what appeared to be army blankets. The vinyl furniture was spotted with cigarette burns, and the whole place smelled of deodorizer. But at least for the moment he was secure.
He knew it would not last. Too many people in Los Angeles knew him on sight, and the cap and glasses would not hide him for long. The best move, he decided, would be to get out of town and let things cool down. For that he would need money, but that was something he had plenty of. It was time to collect some of his earnings. He used a pay telephone in the tiny lobby to call Federated Artists.
When he got past the switchboard, a familiar voice said, “Mr. Echols’s office.”
“Hi, Victoria,” he said. “Put Warner on.”
“May I say who’s calling?”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s Mac Fain.”
“One moment, Mr. Fain. I’ll see if he’s in.”
Soft tinkly music came out of the telephone. Fain ground his teeth.
Victoria returned. “Mr. Echols is out of the office. May I take a message?”
“Oh, for — No, forget it.”
He slammed the receiver back into the cradle. A week ago a call from the star client would have had the agency falling all over itself to accommodate him. So much for fame.
He returned to his seedy room, put on the cap and shades, and left for the Sunset and Cahuenga branch of the Bank of California, where the agency had opened an account for him. He took out the leather-covered virgin checkbook and wrote his first check. He made it out for a thousand dollars and took it to one of the tellers. She looked at the check, smiled at Fain, and excused herself. She went away with the check and returned a minute later with a smooth-faced Oriental man.
He showed no surprise at the baseball cap and dark glasses. This was, after all, Hollywood. “I’m Benson Kano, Mr. Fain, operations officer. May I help you?”
“Yes, you can cash my check.”
The operations officer clicked a professional smile on and off. “I’ll be glad to, Mr. Fain, as soon as you get the other signature.”
“What other signature? It’s my account. I’ve got more than a hundred thousand dollars in the account.”
“Yes, sir, it’s all in order, but the account was set up so that in addition to yours we require the signature of Mr. Nolan Dix of Federated Artists.”
“I don’t believe this,” Fain said. “Is there someone else here I can talk to?”
“Of course, sir,” Kano said politely. “I can take you in to see our manager, but I assure you — ”
“Ah, never mind.” Fain was already drawing curious looks from the bank employees. He did not have time to get into an argument with the manager. It would be easier to get the agency attorney to sign the required check, or several of them.
The offices of Federated Artists were housed in an English Tudor-style building along the most fashionable stretch of Sunset. Fain left his disguise in the car this time and entered the building.
He breezed past the Miss Universe receptionist and strode to Warner Echols’s office. Victoria Clifford sat at a desk outside his door, talking on the telephone. She flicked her eyes up at Fain with no sign of recognition. He waited a full minute for her to hang up.
“Tell Warner I’m here,” he said.
“Mr. Echols is still not in, Mr. Fain,” she said with icy courtesy.
“When will he be in?”
“I really couldn’t say. Probably not for the rest of the day.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
He stepped past Victoria’s desk, ignoring her protests, and pushed open the door to Echols’s office. It was empty.
“I told you,” Victoria said, arching one of her perfectly shaped brows.
“So you did.”
He left the plush suite of offices where the agents entertained clients and entered the more conservative legal department. Nolan Dix’s secretary, unlike those in the rest of the suite, looked as though she could really type. She smiled at Fain, apparently not recognizing him.
“I’d like to see Mr. Dix,” he said.
“May I say who’s — ” she began.
“Never mind,” he cut her off. He understood by now that his name would not get him past any doors here. He walked unannounced into the attorney’s office and found Dix at his desk, studying a boating magazine.
“Well, hello, Fain,” he said, seeming not terribly surprised.
“I just came from the bank,” Fain said.
“Yes?”
“I was told I need your signature on my checks to draw out any of my money.”
“That’s customary,” Dix said smoothly. “It’s done primarily for the protection of our clients.”
“I fail to see how that protects me,” Fain said, “but don’t bother to explain.” He lay the checkbook on the glass desktop in front of Dix. “Just sign half a dozen of those for me and I’ll be on my way.”
Nolan Dix ran his manicured fingertips across the leather checkbook as though savoring the texture. He said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Fain stifled an impulse to pound the desk and yell at the smug attorney. In a tightly controlled voice he said, “Why … not?”
Dix looked up at him. His small eyes were cold under the heavy lids. “There is litigation involved here.”
“What’s the bottom line, Nolan?”
“Just this — I have been informed this morning that you, and by implication Federated Artists, have been named in two lawsuits, with others imminent.”
“Somebody is suing me? Who? Why?”
The attorney slid out a desk drawer and produced a folder. He opened it and read from the top sheet. “The family of Sharon Isaacs is charging misrepresentation, fraud, practicing medicine without a license, and causing great pain and suffering to their daughter.”
“Pain and suffering? She was dead, for Christ’s sake. A suicide. Those people begged me to do something for her.”
Nolan Dix went on as though Fain had not spoken. “Mr. and Mrs. Alberto Ledo have contacted the Latino Legal Assistance League and filed essentially the same charges on behalf of their son, Miguel, now missing.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“So it may be, but I have advance information that the families of Ada Dempsey, the hit-run victim, and Barney Quail are preparing similar suits.”
“Barney Quail was a goddamn transient,” Fain said. “A bum. He didn’t have a family.”
“It seems one turned up,” Dix said. “And I very much doubt that these will be the last. “So you see, it’s really impossible to free up your funds at the present times, considering the upcoming legal problems.”
Fain started at him as the words sank in. “Nolan, I have exactly” — he took out his wallet and counted the bills — “exactly a hundred and forty dollars. I can’t show my face anywhere in town without inciting a lynch mob. I need money to get away.”
Nolan Dix spread his hands. “I’d like to help you, but there’s nothing I can do.”
The intercom unit on his desk beeped electronically. The attorney touched a key and said, “Yes, Miriam?”
“There are reporters out here, Mr. Dix. And a television cameraman. They heard somewhere that Mr. Fain is with you.”
“Oh, shit,” said Fain.
Dix pointed to a door at the rear of the office. “There’s a hallway out there that will lead you to the rear entrance,” he said. “I don’t suppose you feel like dealing with the media just now.”
Fain gave him a long look but, with the rising clamor in the outer office, swallowed his anger and slipped out the back way.