Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (26 page)

She had hair the color of ripe apricots. She even smelled like apricots—well, apricot brandy, then. Because she was carrying a load.

She sat down beside me and smiled up with green eyes. They were nice eyes, a bit on the glassy side.

“Hello.”

“Hello, yourself.”

“What’s the angle?”

“Angle? There’s no angle.”

“Come, now—everybody’s got an angle. Are you trying to get Himberg’s eye?” she asked.

“Who’s Himberg?”

“That red-faced character—the producer. You’re trying to break into pictures, aren’t you?”

“Not me, sister.”

“I could never feel like a sister toward you, chum. And you aren’t exactly the brotherly type yourself. So why the big isolationist act?”

“Sorry. I just came to watch the floor show.”

“Well, you might get me a drink. And seeing as how you’re getting so intimate and making advances, my name is Ellen Post.”

“No relation to Emily?”

“I’m going now. I can see I misjudged you. You didn’t look like the kind who’d pull that one.”

“Please, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Let me guess. Would it be bourbon, straight?”

“Extremely straight, if you please.”

“I please.”

“Quit your bragging and run along.”

I went up to the bar and got a straight shot and another highball. Ellen Post watched me as I crossed the room toward her.

“So you’re Judson Roberts.”

“Who told you?”

“A little bird. A little bald-headed bird, with a monocle. A little sparrow, hopping after Lorna Lewis.”

“I see you don’t think much of psychological consultants.”

“Not much.” She downed her shot.

“You in pictures?” I asked.

“No. This is my line.” She tapped her glass. “Prescribe me another, Doc.”

I finished my drink slowly and made my way back to the bar. Professor Hermann was sitting on the terrace with Lorna Lewis. They glanced at me as I passed the doorway, and the Professor winked. I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so I ignored it. Right now I liked apricots better, anyway.

“Here we are.” I gave Ellen Post a glass and clicked my highball tumbler against its rim. “Forbidden fruit.”

“What kind of a toast is that?”

“You be the psychologist and figure it out. It so happens I was thinking of apricots.”

“Apricots?”

“Yes. You—your hair, your skin.”

She chuckled. It was a husky sound from deep within the throat, but it sounded surprisingly feminine.

“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that’s a new approach. I might add that I like it, Dr. Roberts. Or is it Judson? Or Judd?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

She put down her glass, frowned and rose. “Damn it!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m going.”

“Have I said something wrong?”

She shook her head. A scent came from her hair. It was a pleasant scent, but it didn’t match her mood. Her face was strained in the semblance of a smile.

“No—you didn’t say anything wrong. That’s the trouble, they never do. It’s always the right thing, and I have the right answer, and the drinks get good and the conversation gets better. Up to a certain point. And then, it’s no use. It’s just no use. So tonight, I’m going home.”

“Could I—”

“You could. But I won’t let you.” She walked swiftly, a little uncertainly, toward the terrace. “Goodbye, Dr. Roberts. See you in Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“But—”

She moved away, and then I became conscious of another scent behind me. Not perfume, but something more vital than that and heavier. Tiger lily. Not golden, but white. I didn’t have to turn to know that Lorna Lewis was smiling up at me.

“There you are,” she said. “I was coming to rescue you.”

“From what?”

“The Post. Miss Pillow-to-Post. Did she ask you to go to bed with her? She always does when she gets a few drinks in her.”

“What kind of a person is she?”

“Can’t you tell? A lush. One of those rich-bitch society types. She always crooks her little finger, even when she drinks out of the bottle. I can’t stand her, but Mike likes her. He would—he’s a rummy himself.”

Jet-black brows shaped a scowl. More tiger than lily right now. She peered up at me. “You seen him around lately?”

“Your husband?”

“Let’s just call him Mike—if you don’t mind. I suppose he’s upstairs with a bottle. He always goes into that routine when I throw a party.”

“You aren’t very fond of him, are you?”

“Let’s watch that talk, now. I take my troubles to your pal, Professor Hermann. I’ve been talking to him about you all evening.”

“Do I trouble you?”

“You might.”

“All right.” And I could see that it was. The way she held my arm and looked up, with her teeth flashing. I caught a heavy gust of Scotch. She’d been working the bar, making up for lost time.

I looked around for the Professor, waiting for a cue, a signal. He’d tell me how nice I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do now. But the Professor had disappeared. This meant I was on my own. On my own, with six drinks under my belt, and a girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Maybe I should have remembered that I was Judson Roberts, Ps.D. Maybe I should have figured out how to play it carefully, slowly, cleverly.

Instead I looked down at those white legs, looked into the blue, blazing insolence of Lorna’s eyes.

“It’s hot in here,” I said.

“It might be even hotter, outside.”

“You’re thinking of your husband?”

“Don’t call him that. He hasn’t really been my husband since the Toronto game when somebody hit him with a stick. All he wants now is his bottle, understand?” She leaned close.

I understood, all right. I understood that she wasn’t in love with me, that she wasn’t in need of affection or anything else I could give her except sensation. But she had those legs and she was a movie star, or almost a star. And I was Eddie Haines, a nobody from nowhere. I was Eddie Haines, trying like hell to hold my liquor, trying like hell to remember my name was Judson Roberts.

There was only one answer within me.

“Let’s go outside,” I said.

Dark curls tumbled from side to side. “No, not now. I’m the hostess, remember? Wait until later, when I get rid of this gang. I’ll throw them out and check on Mike.”

“When?”

“Tell you what. It’s after eleven, so you come back about twelve-thirty. Most of these people are in pictures, they go home early during the week nights. Twelve-thirty will do it. I’ll wait for you down at the coach house. You know where it is—on the side, behind the swimming pool.”

“Right.”

“Clear out, now. I don’t want us to be seen together any longer—you understand.”

I understood. She squeezed my arm and rose. I stood up as I saw Himberg’s red face bobbing towards us, then moved away through a maze of low-cut peasant blouses, open sports shirts and drink-spattered jackets.

I made one last attempt to find the Professor. He wasn’t in the big room and he wasn’t on the terrace. Miss Bauer had melted away like an old ice cube.

Ice cube. I could use another drink. But not here. I made for the door. The night air was cool. I breathed slowly, deeply, evenly. But inside my chest, my heart was going like a dynamo. There was nothing to do for an hour and a half. Just nothing to do but wait...and drink.

I walked down the road a way and before I knew it I’d hit a highway. There was a little neon-lighted place not too far up, and I stopped in for a quick one. It had to be quick, because the bars close at twelve. When I found that out I had another, and another.

Somehow I remembered another bar, months ago, where I’d stood drinking the hours away before I went home to meet the Professor for the first time. Only, when I went, I hadn’t expected to meet the Professor. I’d expected to cut my throat. And now, just three months later, I was drinking again. And when I left here, I wouldn’t be on my way to cut my throat. No indeed.

I’d come a long way in three months. And I was going a long way. Money...women...power. Luck had changed for Eddie Haines, now that he was Judson Roberts.

Tonight was important to me. I knew that now. It marked the turning point, the real turning point. I’d find out, once and for all, if what the Professor promised was true: if I could reach out and take what I wanted from a world of suckers.

It was a little after twelve. I’d know very soon, now.

I staggered out, lurched up the road, breathing deep. I got my balance under control quickly, but my thoughts were still spinning.

It was a good night. It was a damned good night. Cool, but not too cool, and very clear. Stars up overhead. Millions of them. They went round and round. Why not? What the hell else did they have to do? That’s what they got paid for. Going around like that. That’s why MGM put them in the sky. I wondered who had the moon concession. Paramount, probably. No, they had stars, too—stars and a mountain. Well, I was also going to have a star.

The house was dark as I approached the terrace. Cars were all gone. Good. I cut across the lawn, went through the shrubbery. There was the swimming pool ahead. Mustn’t stumble and fall into the swimming pool. Show up all wet. Stars in the swimming pool, too. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might—

Well, I was going to.

Coach house. What the hell kind of a business was that, a coach house? Nobody had coaches. Not this little Cinderella, certainly. But here it was. Here it was in the dark, and here was I, and where was the door?

I found the door and it opened and somebody was waiting for me. Sure enough, I could see her: she was waiting. She came forward. What was I waiting for?

“Everything all right?” I asked.

“Sure. Mike was upstairs. Out cold.”

“You’re not cold.”

“You’re not sober.”

“Do you mind?”

“What do you think?”

Then she laughed. I wanted to stop that, so I did. My mouth closed down on hers, and her mouth came up to mine, and all of her came up to me. Through the doorway I could still see the stars. Then the stars turned to buttons, and I began to give them my attention. And then—

“Wait a minute. What’s that?” she said.

“Forget about it, honey.”

“No. I hear something outside. Somebody’s coming.”

Now I heard it too: the crunch of gravel, then the fumbling and the sudden squeaking of the door.

“Mike!”

He stood there in the doorway, going round and round. I tried to focus my eyes on him. He was a big man, and it was hard to see him clearly or separate his bulk from the monstrous, menacing black shadow on the wall—the shadow of an ape.

He stood there and cursed us. He cursed us in a low, steady, monotonous voice, ripping his words off back-alley fences, off privy walls. He said other things, too.

“ž’N now I’m gonna kill ya. I’m gonna rip out ya guts an’—”

He was in the light, I was in the dark, and now was the time, if ever.

I went up to him and he reached out those hairy-ape arms of his. I weaved under them, straightened, and hit him hard. But not hard enough. He backed away and then he came up with one on the side of my head. I felt it, soft and far away, and I wobbled as he hit me again. He turned and knocked me outside.

Then we were both in the moonlight and Lorna said, “No...stop...please...” But it was nothing but cheap dialogue; it was a corny scene, a couple of drunks fighting over a tramp.

That made me mad, so I hit him again. He swung, not to hit this time, but to gouge at my eye with his thumb. He was good at it. I pushed my knuckles against his mouth, hard. He grunted and tried to tackle me.

All the while he was growling deep in his throat, and he kept coming in. Coming in for the kill. He had meant what he said—he wouldn’t stop now until he killed me. And I was beginning to realize he could do it.

Mike was heavy, Mike was strong, and he pushed me back towards the edge of the pool. I could see him gritting his teeth in the moonlight, and the blood running out of the corners of his mouth looked bright and heavy as quicksilver.

His knee came up suddenly, found its target. My loins lanced with pain. His thumbs sought my eyes. I pushed him off, but only for a moment. He growled louder.

Then everything went away, and I felt something tightening around my throat. He had my neck, he was choking me, trying to tear my windpipe out, trying to tear my head from my body.

Lorna whimpered and he growled louder, but I could only gasp from far away. Everything was far away, including life. It was oozing out of my body, my breath was going, my sight and senses. He was killing me.

I kicked up and in. It was a last convulsive movement, but something happened. The tightness suddenly relaxed. I could get to my feet, slowly. There was time to breathe now, time to fight off the pain and regain my awareness, time to watch him. He stood doubled-up at the edge of the pool, waiting for his pain to ease. Then he’d come in again and finish killing me.

I couldn’t wait. I moved towards him. He was getting ready, now. He spread his big hands and poised there, crouching to spring. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and swung from the waist.

My hand hurt. I stood unsteadily, rubbing my fingers, watching him fall backwards into the pool. It took a million years before he hit the water, another million years before the splash came, another million before he disappeared.

Lorna stopped whimpering. Everything got very quiet. I could hear my panting subside. I could hear a little bird chirping a mile away. I could hear the stars going round and round on their courses. I walked over to the pool and looked down. There was nothing to see in the pool but bubbles. Pretty little silvery bubbles, gleaming in the moonlight.

The water stabbed me with novacained needles. I gulped, paddled, then dived. Silver pressed my eyeballs, but I could see through silver. I could see something dark and huddled, bobbing down there at the bottom of the pool.

I reached for it, tugged at it. Heavy. Heavy as the weight inside my lungs, my head. I went up for air, got it. Then I dived again, tugged again. This time I could lift. We came to the surface together, live and dead weight. Dead weight. He couldn’t be— I had to get him out.