NORAH LEFT SOON AFTER THAT, and Joe went back in to watch the rehearsal. They were working on a different scene, and Walter Hamilton sat in one of the chairs along the wall. Joe went over to sit next to him.
Walter whispered, “I’ve been thinking about a job for you, and I know one you can do tomorrow. Someone has to take our placards and posters out to the merchants around town. Would you do that?”
Joe nodded. “I’d be glad to. I suppose, the way Sharon and Larry Puma are getting along, one of them will quit the play.”
Hamilton shook his head. “Larry won’t. And we need Sharon; she does bring the customers in. So we’ll coddle her.” He rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Four years of headaches for a net of forty-eight dollars. Why do we do it, Joe?”
Joe shrugged. “I’m a Johnny-come-lately, so I don’t know, yet. But it’s kind of—oh, magic, maybe?”
“Illusion,” Walter said. “Like any art. Or like—living. I guess we’d all cut our throats if it wasn’t for our illusions.”
Joe smiled. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been a cop too long to have any.”
“I see.” Hamilton looked at Joe and back at the stage. “You seem to have instilled some in Norah. She showed more interest, tonight, than she has in any male for years. She’s a really fine girl, that Norah Payne, Joe.”
Was it a warning? Joe said, “She seems very nice.”
“She is very nice. But she’s the kind of woman who isn’t complete without a man.”
“Like Sharon?”
Hamilton shook his head. “Sharon doesn’t need men; she needs what they can do for her. Do you want to pick up those placards at my house, or shall I bring them to yours?”
Joe rose. “I’ll pick ‘em up.”
“All right. It’s 19040 Bollinger Drive. I won’t be home after eight in the morning, but someone there will give them to you. Welcome to the Players, Joe.”
“Thanks. I think I’m going to enjoy it.”
Walking home, Joe had a sense of belonging to a community for the first time since high school. It was one of those rare freaks of weather for California, a warm night, the wind coming from the desert. He stood for a moment in the little park across from his house and looked out at the lights of the Santa Monica Bay.
He thought of Norah, but the thought of Sharon crowded Norah from his mind. A tramp she might be, but even Larry Puma had to admit her attraction was immense.
And how did he know she was a tramp? A girl with her face and figure is going to be resented early in life by other girls. And if she has any spirit, she is going to learn to protect herself with the weapons women use on others, a sharp tongue.
And Puma could be wrong about her talent. It didn’t figure that a shoe salesman should know more about theatrical talent than MGM. It didn’t figure right to Joe.
At the time.
It was only ten o’clock and he wasn’t tired. He turned on his television set, but there wasn’t a drama to be found. He snapped it off and went into the study.
His new books stared back at him; his record player stood mutely against the north wall. Through the full-length windows he could see his walled and brick-floored patio. He’d have a party out there for the gang when he got to know them better. And no bologna on unbuttered bread; Sharon could help him plan it.
In high school, in his junior year, he’d been pressured by the drama teacher into playing the part of a college football player, a loud and extroverted character who got his come-uppance in the end.
The school paper had called him “more than adequate” in the role. The drama teacher had overlooked him in subsequent productions, but she was a busy woman. And perhaps because he’d protested so much about his initial appearance she did not have the incentive to force him further.
He stood now, seeing his image in the full-length windows, trying to remember some movie cops he’d sneered at through the years.
He took a deep breath and faced his image squarely. “Look,” he said hoarsely, “so she’s a tramp, huh? So she’s mine, too. Just keep your tongue and your hands off her, understand?”
It wasn’t exactly Bogart, but he’d seen worse. Maybe it would be better to underplay it, like those Limeys. He composed his face and lifted his eyebrows sightly.
“I know she’s no angel, of course. But that’s not your concern. Because, you see, she’s mine—all mine.”
No, no, no. He wasn’t thin enough and superior enough to give that any punch. Let’s see, maybe Dana Andrews like, casual and with undertones. He put a hand in his pocket and smiled wryly.
“We understand each other. Morals?” A chuckle. “I’m not concerned with her morals and I’m sure she isn’t. What makes them your business?”
He wasn’t the most objective critic in the world, but even he had to admit he hadn’t quite brought it off. Well, somebody had to sell the doughnuts and take the signs around and wash the coffee cups.
He took the signs around next morning. The signs stated that A KISS FOR KATE, a three-act play by Roney Scott, would be presented by the Point Players at the Playhouse on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, March 5th to March 7th, inclusive. Admission was only seventy-five cents. All seats.
The merchants were surprisingly agreeable about giving him space in their windows. But after covering all the realtors and filling stations, the two jewelers, both weekly papers, the specialty shops, he still had over a dozen cards left.
Four of these he placed in super-markets in Santa Monica. That should give him a maximum of coverage for a minimum of distribution. The others he placed as strategically as possible in Malibu and Topanga. The posters Norah had painted were for prearranged distribution in focal points in these communities.
Driving back from Malibu, he had to stop for some bathers who were crossing the road, walking to the beach from their car, which was parked on the east side of the highway.
The girl was Sharon Cassidy. The man with her was older, about fifty, tall and slim. The car he’d parked was a new one, a big Chrysler convertible.
In his ‘47 Chev, Joe sat quietly, hoping she wouldn’t look his way. Because the chances were she’d snub him, seeing the car, and though it was a thing he knew, it wasn’t a thing he wanted to find out.
She didn’t look beyond the radiator ornament. Driving away, Joe tried to analyze the stupidity of his reasoning. Didn’t he have any pride, any dignity? What the hell was it to him what she thought of him, a girl who judged everything and everybody only by the possible advantage to herself?
She means to me, he thought, just what she probably means to that ageing wolf she’s with. Only oftener, because I’m younger.
He had no illusions about girls like Sharon. He kept telling himself.
But there wasn’t any sensible reason why a man of his means should drive a ‘47 car. It looked silly sitting in front of a fifty-thousand-dollar house. The least he should do was get a new Chev or Ford or Plymouth.
He went into Santa Monica that afternoon and bought a new Chrysler convertible, a duplicate, except for color, of the car he’d seen parked on the Pacific Coast Highway that morning.
When he brought it home, he considered leaving it in the driveway at first. But that, he realized, was infantile exhibitionism; he drove it into the garage.
He was frying some eggs when his phone rang. It was Norah. “Did I see you driving a new Chrysler past our office about ten minutes ago?”
“I’ve got one. Where’s your office?”
“On Sunset. I work for the Point Realty Company. Would you like to buy a house?”
“I bought one. Hey, why don’t we go to the beach?”
“That isn’t why I called. Walter told me you’re taking the signs around, and I wanted you to know the posters are ready.”
“I’ll get ‘em. You don’t want to go to the beach?” “I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to show a house at five o’clock.”
“I see. It wouldn’t be good business to put it off?”
A pause. “They aren’t going to buy, I’m almost sure. And any of the other salesmen could show it. I— That’s certainly an impressive car you bought, mister.”
“Then we could go to dinner,” Joe suggested. “And maybe a show or something? It’s a beautiful day, blondie.”
“I know, I know. All right, I’m sold. Pick me up at my apartment in forty-five minutes.” She gave him the address.
It was an apartment house on Sunset, and she was ready and waiting in front when he drove up. She stood on the curb a moment, admiring the car while Joe admired her.
She had a slim, beautifully proportioned figure and the plain black swim suit she wore was in effective contrast to her wheat-blond hair. Emotion stirred in Joe. Their eyes met and he saw the challenge in hers.
“Beautiful,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
“You, too.” He opened the door on the curb side.
“Stop leering,” she said. “You look like you’re going to eat me.” She slid in and closed the door. “Isn’t it a great day?”
“Unusual. Any place along the beach you prefer, particularly?”
“Uh-uh. You pick one. When did you buy this?”
He swung in a U turn and headed west on Sunset. “About an hour ago. Kind of showy, isn’t it, for a flatfoot?”
“You’re not a flatfoot. You’re a—patron of the arts. Joe you’re not just going crazy, are you? You should have hired a business manager, probably.”
“Probably, but I haven’t gone crazy yet. I didn’t pay the asking price on that house, for one thing.”
“You think. What did you pay?”
“Forty-nine thousand, three hundred.”
“Joe—no!”
He glanced at her wonderingly. “Norah, yes. Why?”
She shook her head. “It has been going begging for three months. At forty-one thousand dollars.”
He said, “And a cop buddy of mine was a participating agent in the deal.”
“And you talked to the principals, the sellers?”
“The realtor owned it. I bought it from him.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, indeed. He bought it as soon as he knew you were hooked. And made himself a quick eight thousand dollars on top of his commission. That was Deutscher, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the man. He’s in the Swarthmore Patio Building.”
“I know him. And I think you’ll be getting a refund, Joe. Or Mr. Deutscher will go up in front of the Board. That’s highly unethical, you know.”
They were at the foot of Sunset now, and Joe turned right on the Pacific Coast Highway. He said, “I should have hired you as my business manager. You’d have saved me eight thousand, right off.”
Cars were parked on both sides of the highway here. They drove on to where the parked cars were sparser. And there, on the bend, was the Chrysler. Joe slid his car in behind it.
It was after three now, and the sun was hidden by the cliff towering above them. But the beach was in the full glare of it and the red hair of Sharon Cassidy like a beacon on the white sand.
They had to wait for traffic before they could cross the road, and Joe noticed Norah’s roving glance pause for a moment when it came to the red hair. Her eyes narrowed.
“Isn’t that—Sharon, there?”
“Sharon? Sharon who—? Oh, you mean that redhead?”
Norah turned to face him. “Cut it out. Look, mister, you didn’t plan a— No, of course not. How could you?”
“We can get across now,” Joe said mildly. “Unless it is Sharon, and you don’t want to stop here?”
“Don’t be silly. It was a random, senseless suspicion I had. I know you’re not sly, Joe.”
He took her arm. “Thank you.”
The thin man was lying full-length on the sand; Sharon sat next to him, eating a hot dog. A Theatre Arts magazine was open in her lap. The thin man, they saw as they drew closer, was asleep, the peak of a jockey cap shading his eyes.
Sharon looked up and smiled. “Well, welcome to the sun. I could use some company. My—friend finds me dull, I guess.”
Norah spread the blanket she’d brought. “Put him in alcohol; he’s the only specimen of his kind I’ve ever met.”
The thin man mumbled in his sleep.
Norah asked, “Is he the assistant director at MGM?”
Sharon shook her head. “He’s a producer at Paramount. Bruce Dysart, his name is. If he’d wake up, I could introduce you.”
“I can wait,” Norah said. “That hot dog reminds me I missed lunch. How are you fixed for funds, Joe?”
“I can swing it,” Joe said. He looked at Sharon. “Could I get you something?”
“Another Coke, if you would. And a candy bar, if there are any that look reasonably new.”
“And a comic book?” Norah suggested. “You’ve made your point with that Theatre Arts, now.”
“I’ve read this magazine since I was twelve years old, Miss Payne. You can believe that or not; I don’t give the tiniest damn, either way.”
“I’ll get the stuff,” Joe said, and got out of there.
When he came back with a box full of Cokes and sandwiches and candy bars, Dysart had joined the living. He was reclining on one elbow, and he acknowledged Sharon’s introduction with a casual wave of his free hand.
Sharon was saying, “Bruce thinks like Larry Puma does; all I have is the body. Only Bruce tells me bodies are eight cents a dozen in Hollywood.” She looked at Joe. “What do you think of that?”
“There are a lot of beautiful bodies without attraction,” Joe said. “At least they don’t attract me. But I think you’ve got what—well, Jean Harlow had. Nobody’s had it since.” He paused. “For me, anyway.”
Dysart yawned. “You might be right. And you might not be. Nobody in the industry is spending speculative money right now. And let’s face it, Sharon, you would be highly speculative.”
Norah munched on a sandwich and looked smug. Dysart reached out for a Coke. Joe sat facing them, his back to the water.
Sharon said, “I wouldn’t be speculative in a small part in a picture already scheduled to be shot.”
Dysart closed his eyes. “Where do you get your information? You’re talking about Week End Widow, aren’t you?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” Sharon looked at him candidly. “That isn’t scheduled for production—yet. Who told you about it?”
“A birdie. A little birdie.”
Dysart was looking grim. “A big birdie with horn-rimmed glasses. You’ve been spending some time with him, haven’t you? I’ll take care of him.”
Sharon smiled. “Who’ll take care of me? Just because you’re trying to beat down the price of the book, you want to keep it a secret. Think of the poor author.”
“Think of him if we don’t produce it. Nobody else will, nobody worth-while. Only because his agent’s a highway robber, we’ve had to play this kind of game. And loose talk could ruin it all around—for all concerned.”
Sharon yawned. “I suppose. I’d better shut up about it, huh? Isn’t there even a teenie part you haven’t cast?”
Dysart studied her for seconds. “Is this—blackmail?”
Norah said, “Hasn’t anyone something pleasant to say about here? This is awfully grim talk for such a beautiful day.”
Dysart looked at Norah and smiled. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I apologize. Sharon brings out the—worst in me.”
“That’s the attraction I meant,” Joe put in. “She’s got it.”
Norah and Dysart laughed. Sharon’s laugh came in a little later and she looked at Joe speculatively when she’d finished.
Then Dysart rose to a crouch and started to pick up his towel and sun glasses. He stood up and slid into his loafers. “Well, we’ll have to be leaving you people. I’ve an important engagement at five o’clock.”
Sharon rose, too, her manner distant, her face grave and thoughtful. Then she seemed to shake the mood, for she smiled at Joe and Norah. “See you at rehearsal. Be good.”
Joe stood, watching them walk off. Then he looked down to find Norah watching him.
Norah said, “You like that, don’t you?”
Joe shrugged. “I like you. What do you think of this Dysart?”
“Fine man. He lives in our little village, you know, not too far from the clubhouse. He’s the wrong man for Sharon to cross. He could blacklist her in every studio in town.”
“Not if he’s a fine man.”
“Because he is. He really owes it to the industry. Let’s not talk about Sharon this afternoon. Incidentally, you didn’t know she was here, by any chance, did you?”
Joe didn’t hesitate before shaking his head. “How would I know that?” He flopped down on the sand next to her. “How come a girl of your all-around charm is single?”
“I was divorced seven years ago from a man who preferred Cedar Rapids.”
“Seven years ago? Were you old enough to be married seven years ago?”
“That line is phony. We’ll take it again from where you dropped to the sand.”
Joe picked up a handful of sand and studied it. “You’re so—oh, comfortable.”
“Thank you. I forgot my knitting this afternoon, and my bifocals. Is that the best you can do?”
“Well, you’ve got a beautiful figure and a lovely face and a quick, interesting mind.”
“But I don’t bring out the worst in you, eh?”
“Not yet. Do you want to?”
“Not yet.” She rummaged in the box he’d brought. “There’s a dog left and a candy bar. Take your choice.”
“I’m not hungry. That Dysart sure looked grim when he left here. I wonder who the man with the horn-rimmed glasses is, the one who leaked the story?”
“I don’t know. Whoever he is, the ax will fall, I’ll bet.”
“Sure. That’s some jungle, that movie world. I had plenty of cases among that gang.”
“You saw the wrong end of it, working for the Department, Joe. There are a lot of fine people in the industry. Only they don’t get the publicity the café brawlers and legalized sex addicts do.”
“You sound like Gerta Gabbler, now. I read her column, too.”
“I don’t. Let’s not fight. It’s too nice a day. You wouldn’t have a cigarette on you, would you? I seem to have come away without mine.”
Joe laughed and she laughed and the sun was there and the quiet, shining water; they relaxed. It was a pleasant afternoon and they topped it with a fine meal, later, at a steak house in the Santa Monica Canyon.
It was too nice a night to waste indoors; they drove up the coast, after that, and had a few drinks at Pierre’s Pier, beyond Malibu.
Joe let Norah drive, coming home, and she was like a kid with a new electric train. When she pulled to the curb, in front of her apartment building, she told him, “As your business manager, I think you made a wise investment. Thanks for a wonderful day.”
“Thank you.” He stared at her in the glow from a street lamp.
She stared back mockingly. “Save that look for Sharon. I’m not that easy.” She patted his cheek. “Don’t forget those posters tomorrow.”
“I won’t. And you don’t need to keep your guard up. I’m kind of a gentleman.”
“It’s gentlemen I’m vulnerable to. Good night, Joe. Watch your money, won’t you?”
He nodded. “Good night.”
Driving home, he reflected that he’d had a very enjoyable day. All because he’d stopped to have a drink at the bubbler next to the playground clubhouse yesterday afternoon. He’d never been a joiner, except for a brief membership in the American Legion, but joining the Point Players had certainly been a bright move.
He thought of Norah and wondered what the husband from Cedar Rapids had been like and the dilettante who’d driven his Jaguar over the cliff. It didn’t seem likely those had been the only men in her life.
He fell asleep thinking of her, but dreamed of Sharon.
In the morning, in the Chronicle, Gerta Gabbler had it in her column:
Though the author may not know it, Bruce Dysart Productions is all ready to go on the shooting of Dial Forest’s best seller, Week End Widow. Though negotiations are still going on over the purchase price of the book, Dysart has made some private commitments regarding the casting of it. Shenanigans?
Joe thought of the scene on the beach yesterday, and wondered if Sharon had given Gerta this beat. This column was probably written before yesterday afternoon, though; if Sharon had planned to use the information as a weapon, she wouldn’t have given it to Gerta before yesterday afternoon.
If there’d been one leak, there could be others. Including the big bird with the horn-rimmed glasses.
He ate breakfast at the drugstore and took the posters around to the key points in the village they were assigned to. Then he stopped in at the Point Realty Company and Norah was there, at a desk in the rear of the huge room.
She waved him over.
He took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of her desk. “Did you read Gerta Gabbler this morning?” “I never read Gerta Gabbler.”
“Well, that business is in there, about casting the show without letting the author know. You remember—”
“I remember. And who cares?” She slid a check across the desk toward him. “I’ve been doing a little blackmail myself, this morning.”
It was a check for three thousand dollars, made out to Joe Burke and signed by August Deutscher.
Deutscher was the participating realtor in the sale of the house he’d bought. Joe looked at the check and back at Norah. “What gives?”
“Augie claims they bought the place for forty-three thousand, three hundred and he split that, and the commission, with this friend of yours. This would be half, but I think he’s lying.”
“And what have you got on him?”
“Enough to lose him his license. I’ll get after your friend, too.”
Joe shook his head and shoved the check back. “So they pulled a cute one on me. I should pay for being that dumb, for not checking with the original sellers and not finding out about real-estate values out here. I deserved to get stung.”
“Joe Burke, don’t be so stupid. Of all the nouveau-riche vulgarities I ever heard, that was the dullest. Take this check. And deposit it.”
“If you’ll take half, for collecting.”
“I won’t take a dime from you, Joe Burke. Don’t patronize me.”
He grinned at her. “Proud, aren’t you? Norah, what Augie pulled goes on all the time. I know.”
“Not in the Palisades. That, I know.”
He picked up the check. “All right. But couldn’t I buy you a lunch, at least? It’s about that time.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “All right. But try and act like a nice, stupid Irish cop and not some loud and vulgar millionaire.”
“Easy, lady. You want Nixon to investigate you?”
“That’s better. Do you like Chinese food?”
“Mmmm-hmm,” he lied. “Let’s go.”
The restaurant was only a few doors from the Point Realty office and there was American food on the menu. But Norah wanted the Special and if two ordered that, there were added dishes.
He was glad he’d been a gentleman. For though the food was standard Chinese fare, the cooking of it wasn’t. He had egg fooyoung and sweet, sour pork, fried shrimp and fried rice and chow mein and spare ribs. Every mouthful was a delight.
She smiled as he finished. “I’ll ask you again—do you like Chinese food?”
“I do now. I was lying before.”
“I knew it. You’re a transparent liar. And don’t lie to me, Joe. Not even about a silly thing like this.”
“Don’t sound so serious, blondie. Is it that important to you, my lying?”
“It is. Joe, you are one of the most—genuine people I’ve met in a long time. Stay the way you are.”
He offered her a cigarette. “You’ve sort of taken me over, haven’t you? Worrying about my money, and all. Warning me against poor little Sharon and tackling Deutscher. Is it the mother instinct in you?”
“It must be,” she said. “Well, I’ve a house to show at one-thirty. I’d better get back.”
“It’s not even one o’clock, yet.”
“I know. But I’ve some other work to do first.”
He stood up. “You lie even worse than I do. Let’s go.”
He walked back to the office with her and then drove over to the local branch library.
The librarian said, “I haven’t seen you for quite a while, Mr. Burke. Did you give up your planned reading program?”
He nodded humbly. “I wasn’t getting anywhere with it. What have you on the theater, amateur theater?”
She took him over to a shelf behind her desk. “Quite a lot for a small library. And if there are any you’d like, let me know and I can order them from the main library.” She seemed about to say more but evidently decided against it.
She’d been eager to co-operate in his reading orgy of a few months back; Joe sensed that a word from him would start her all over again.
He picked three volumes from the shelf she’d shown him and checked them out. At the desk, she said, “We have Hemingway’s latest—The Old Man and the Sea. Remember, you did like Mr. Hemingway.”
Joe grinned at her. “Okay, I’m sold. Is it a good one?”
“His best. And there’s a new— Oh, I mustn’t rush you. I’ll tell you about that when you’ve finished the Hemingway.”
He finished the Hemingway around four o’clock. For once, he could agree completely with the librarian. This was the kind of powerful, clean, and simple language he could understand. This was one man he’d have to rank above Max Brand.
He didn’t open the other books; he put on a pair of trunks and went down to the beach for the scant hour of sunshine that was left.
He took a shower when he came back and fried himself a couple eggs and then lay down for a nap. It was after eight when he wakened, and rehearsal was scheduled for eight-thirty.
When he came around the walk from the parking lot, ten minutes later, he could see Norah, Sharon, and Walter Hamilton in the kitchen. He headed for that door.
As he came in, Sharon was saying, “—and he seems to think I’m responsible. So I told him I’d be here tonight, and he said he was coming over to talk to me.” She looked toward the door. “Good evening, Joe.”
“Hi. Are you talking about Bruce Dysart, by any chance?”
“That’s right. The man’s gone insane. He threatens to get revenge on everybody who had anything to do with the leak. Bruce isn’t what I’d call a really reasonable man.”
Joe closed the door and nodded at Walter and Norah. “We’ll protect our star, won’t we?”
Norah looked at him blankly. Walter said, “If he isn’t armed. I’m no good against a gun.”
Sharon laughed. “I’m sure Bruce wouldn’t know what to do with a gun.”
It was at that moment the report came. It sounded like the deafening blast of a high-caliber weapon.
All of them stood there a moment, staring at each other, and then Hamilton said, “That sounded like a gun.”
“It came from the direction of the tennis courts,” Norah said. “But I’m not going out to look.”
Hamilton rose. “The switch is right here for the back yard. It could be that—” He went over to throw the switch as Joe went out the door he’d just entered.
The tennis courts were below and not in use. Between them and the clubhouse there was a steep slope and Joe was staring down into the darkness of this slope when the lights went on.
There was a man lying about halfway down, a tall, thin man. Joe hesitated only a second before going down that way. There was no other human being in sight.
Hamilton came out to stand on the sidewalk above. “Be careful, Joe. We don’t know—” He broke off without finishing the sentence.
Joe took one look at the mutilated face beneath him. He could smell burned powder in the air, but it wasn’t that that was turning his stomach.
He called to Hamilton, “Phone the police immediately. It’s Bruce Dysart, and he’s been shot right in the middle of the face. He’s dead.”
He stood there on the slope, looking all around, but there was no sign of human activity anywhere but on the playground, and they were all kids. And three hundred feet from this slope.
There was no gun in Dysart’s hand; there was no gun in sight on the flood-lighted slope. There was a partial page from the Los Angeles Times lying about eight feet from the body but that had about as much significance as the banana peel a few feet from it, or the dead leaves littering the slope.
A little lower down a piece of bright yellow cardboard caught his eye and he went down to pick it up.
It was torn across the middle and there was a single word in black script on it. The word was Smith.