The Third Victim (6 page)

And they still owed that thousand. All but eighty dollars, paid back during the first few months she’d been working.

Had her father borrowed that thousand too—as he’d borrowed the first thousand, to send her to New York? She’d never asked. She didn’t want to know.

What would have happened, she’d often wondered, if there’d never been that first thousand dollars? Her life would have been different. She’d never have been at the Thompsons’ party that New Year’s Eve. She’d never have been standing in the middle of that huge converted loft, rapt with wonderment—staring around like a skyscraper-struck tourist. Finally she was in New York. She was
part
of it all. She would
make
it. She’d been
sure
of it.

Kevin had materialized at her side, a whole head and a half taller, smiling down at her. She knew that, whatever happened to her, she’d never forget that first moment. He’d had a beard then, and she’d thought that he looked a little like a pirate—a slim, raffish, good-looking pirate with a style all his own. Even then—even at age twenty three—his smile had twisted sardonically. His quick brown eyes had been bold and knowing. And when Kevin talked, people listened. Because, at age twenty-three, Kevin was a success. While he was in college, he’d written a three-act play that had been produced by the college repertory company. The year after he’d graduated, a small off-Broadway group had staged the play. Kevin’s total royalties had come to less than five hundred dollars, but the play had gotten good reviews. Plainly, a brilliant career had been launched. Kevin was a winner.

When he’d taken her to his tiny apartment after the Thompsons’ party, she’d felt almost suffocated by excitement and anticipation. It had been more than simply a sexual quickening—more than merely an ego trip, leaving the party with its star performer. She’d somehow felt that Kevin was part of her future—someone she’d been expecting. That night, for the first time in her life, she’d pretended nothing—no maidenly misgivings, no coyness. Caressing her, Kevin’s hands had moved deftly and confidently, yet subtly. His whispers had had the cadence of poetry. His body, aroused, had quickly grown taut and urgent against hers. As she’d responded, caressing him in return, she’d followed her own sense of headlong fulfillment, no questions asked.

They’d slept together that night. The next morning, she’d made him breakfast. Almost shyly, they’d exchanged their dreams. He would make films—serious, low-budget art films. She would paint, of course. Success seemed very near—very precious. The prospect had humbled them.

Joanna glanced down at her cup. Surprisingly, the cup was empty. Less than five minutes remained before she was due back at the store. She got quickly to her feet, slipped a dime and six-odd pennies under her saucer, and left the restaurant. Gorlick’s was just around the corner.

Walking fast, she covered the distance quickly. She debated climbing the stairs to the third floor, for the exercise, but finally decided to take the elevator. She pressed the button, then stood back, letting the customers crowd ahead. The second-floor radio-and-TV department was having a summer sale. So the elevator, when it came, left without her.

She walked a few steps away, then stood surveying the first floor. The customer count, she knew, was low. In the furniture and housewares section, July was a slow month.

Her idly roving gaze encountered the slight, sandy-haired figure of Leonard Talbot, the new smallwares stockboy. He’d been looking at her. But instantly his eyes fell. Plainly confused, he was fussing at a display of table settings. She stood motionless for a moment, studying him thoughtfully. He was turned half away, still fidgeting. Something in Leonard’s delicate profile and nervously prominent Adam’s apple touched a distant glint of memory. Had she known him in some other town, some other place?

No. Not this one. But one just like him, long ago. Brucie had been the first name, Hanson the last. Brucie Hanson. In grammar school, Brucie had been the one that all the other children had tormented. And, consequently, Brucie had turned to art. So they’d become friends, she and Brucie. They’d taken “special” art classes, after school. They’d often walked partway home together. But only partway. As she’d drawn close to her own neighborhood, she’d found excuses to walk alone, usually pretending an errand at the grocery store. She hadn’t wanted to be seen walking with Brucie. So, really, she’d been no better than her classmates. They had at least been forthright in their torture tactics.

And here was Brucie Hanson, reincarnated as Leonard-the-stockboy, standing barely ten feet away. Everything was the same: the narrow, timid shoulders, the pale, uncertain eyes. Even the washed-out color of the hair was the same, and the oddly tentative angle of the head and neck, as if the man were still braced against the remembered blows of childhood. Only the face was different. The face across the aisle was coarser than Brucie’s would have been, grown up. Leonard’s face was unarticulated, as if a sculptor had taken oddments of features from several different subjects and had then failed to mold them into a convincing whole. Brucie Hanson, at age twenty-odd, would look all of a piece, however forlorn. This one—this strange, silent stock clerk—was somehow fragmented. He was—

The elevator doors were opening. This time, she slipped between two stoutly corseted bargain hunters. She was already two minutes late.

Kevin braked to a stop, waiting for the traffic to clear. He shifted into low, then returned the gearshift to neutral and shifted again, double-checking. He’d never liked Volkswagens, and was uncomfortable driving Cathy’s car. Without the car, though, he’d spend most of the day in buses. And he’d feel conspicuous walking up the circular driveway to the Golden Calf. Driving a VW, dressed in flares and an expensive sportshirt, he could fake it. He could be an eccentric, with-it sportsman, too rich to care what people thought of the car he drove. But not walking.

The clogged traffic stream suddenly eased. He let in the clutch, swinging the little car into the Golden Calf’s palm-arched driveway. Except for two cut-stone pillars, the driveway was unmarked. The Golden Calf disdained signs. Ahead was the canopied entrance. He left the Volkswagen behind a long silver-blue Cadillac, then strode to the entrance, nodding to the impassive doorman.

Someday, that doorman could be himself.

Graduate of Oberlin. Author of an off-Broadway play. Teacher. Philosopher. Seer-with-a-camera. Presently a seventy-five-dollar-a-week part-time TV continuity writer, local sustaining.

Soon to be a doorman.

But not today. Not here. Not now, striding confidently among the hand-hewn oaken tables, looking for Dick Wagner. The confidence, of course, was bogus: a play-actor’s part, for which he’d meticulously prepared himself. Today—now—he was a young, successful filmmaker. Like Dick Wagner, he was on the way up. As he walked between the tables, he moved his shoulders to fit the part: a relaxed, confident Kevin Rossiter, easy in body and mind. A rising talent. Soft-spoken. For this Kevin Rossiter, it was all together.

Just for an hour. Please God, just for an…

In an alcove, Dick Wagner was half rising, waving to him. Beside Wagner was a red-haired girl wearing a brilliant green blouse with a sparkling white collar and matching Gibson-girl cuffs.

The remains of their lunch littered the table before them.

They’d eaten. Already eaten. Without him. Wagner had never intended to—

“…have you been?” Wagner was saying, gripping his hand. “God, it’s been—how long? Six years? Seven? How’ve you
been,
anyhow? This is Victoria. Victoria Grand. That’s her real name. She’s an actress, but that’s her real name. Here—sit down, Kevin. We’re just having coffee. Or would you rather have a drink?” Gesturing to a chair, Wagner waved for a waiter, at the same time glancing at his watch.

“I’m
really
glad we could get together, Kevin,” he was saying. “Even if I don’t have much time. But when I got your letter, I was determined to—What’ll you have, anyhow?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

“Three coffees, then,” Wagner told the waiter. “And you can bring the check with the coffee.” Wagner’s voice was low and resonant. Over the years, Wagner had worked on his voice. He’d gained twenty pounds and gone partially bald. His speech and his gestures worked smoothly together, perfectly projecting the forceful, knowledgeable communications executive, relaxing over a twenty-five-dollar lunch. On the job, Wagner would pose as the actor’s friend: earnest, understanding, compassionate. But in production conferences, Wagner would tune himself to the whims of the money men.

Eight years ago, when Kevin’s play had been in rehearsal off Broadway, Dick Wagner had been turned down for a walk-on part.

“How long’ve you been in Santa Barbara, anyhow?” Wagner was asking. “And how’s Joanna?”

“We’ve been here a year. She’s—fine.”

“What’ve you been
doing,
anyhow? The last I heard, you were in San Francisco. What the hell’s in San Francisco? For that matter, what’s in Santa Barbara? I mean, if you’re doing scripts, you might as well write them where they buy them, it seems to me.

“Well, in San Francisco, I was working for Kessler and Brand. They do—” He cleared his throat. “They do educational films, mostly. And here—” He raised his hands in vague defense of Santa Barbara. “From here, it’s only a hundred miles to Los Angeles. And it’s—quieter here.”

Wagner’s glance was shrewd now, narrowly speculative. His voice matched his eyes. “When you say ‘educational films,’ what’d you mean, exactly?”

“Well, they were—” He watched his hands once more moving in a flip-flopping gesture of wan defense. “You know—thirty-minute shots, mostly.”

“You mean like for audio-visual aids? Classroom stuff?” The prospect of a negative judgment was plain in the other’s tone.

“Yes. Right.” Again he cleared his throat. Across the table, the red-haired girl was glancing around the dining room, fidgeting. He’d forgotten her name. In the brief silence, the waiter served their coffee and presented the bill. Wagner signed the American Express chit with a small, decisive flourish.

“What about you, Dick? How long’ve you been with N.E.T.?”

“I just started with them. I’ve got a year’s contract. I mean, it’s a good spot right now, with this goddamn recession. That foundation money keeps flowing, you know, no matter what. I’m going to give it a year—see if I can’t stir things up a little. Those foundation guys, you know, are pretty precious. Someone kicks their ass, he does them a favor. And in a year money’ll be looser. Then I’m going to give Hollywood a shot. Sooner or later, you’ve got to see whether the big boys are going to let you play in their game. And, what the hell, I’ve made the New York scene. Marty and I—Do you know Marty Feldman?”

“I—No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, we put together three pictures in five years, which isn’t too bad. They weren’t exactly classics, of course. But we learned the ropes: how to buy the properties right, and how to put the package together. So now I know how to package. With this N.E.T. thing for a credit, I figure to try and do the whole thing: package the deal, get the financing, do the shooting. I’ve already got a tentative commitment from a director—a
good
director—provided I can show him a decent property. That’s half the battle right there. If you get the director, you can get the money. Then you’re in business.” As he said it, Wagner drained the last of his coffee, turning inquiringly to the girl. “You ready?” His voice was flat, plainly possessive. The girl had been bought and paid for.

She nodded, gathering up her things. Now Wagner turned back to him. Dropping his voice to a lower, heartier register, Wagner said:

“It’s
really
been good seeing you, Kevin. I promised Chat Fisher I’d look you up. I’ll be seeing him in Chicago day after tomorrow. When he heard I’d be here, in Santa Barbara, he said to be sure and look you up.”

“Wh—what’s Chat doing now?”

“He’s in advertising. J. Walter Thompson. Christ, he’s a V.P. He’s
really
doing it. He went up through the creative side, which is unusual. TV commercials, actually. Didn’t you know?”

“No. I haven’t seen him for three years, at least.”

“Yeah. Well…” Wagner considered. Then, in still a different voice, boardroom-brusque, he said: “Well, that’s the trouble, you know, with being stuck in a place like Santa Barbara. I mean, Santa Barbara is great if you’re a retired millionaire, for instance—or if you’re a big enough talent that the checkbook boys come to you, instead of vice versa. In fact, Santa Barbara’s got to be one of the most beautiful spots in the country. Santa Barbara or Carmel. But, Christ, you just don’t
see
people. You’re off the beaten track. You don’t see them, and they don’t see you. They forget about you. Take me, for instance. I wouldn’t even
be
here, except that I have to kiss ass with some foundation director. Who, as it happens, is a retired millionaire.” Wagner rose, extending his hand. “But anyhow, it’s been great seeing you, Kevin. I always remember how, when it looked like you were going to pick up all the marbles, you never let it go to your head. Really. You never fell in love with yourself. And in this business, that’s pretty rare. Can we drop you anywhere?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a car.”

“Right. Is there any message for Chat?”

He realized that he was smiling. “Just tell him not to drop any of the marbles. It’s a drag, picking them up.”

Cautiously, he raised his eyes. He’d seen her come into the store. To the minute, he’d know when she’d come. To the second—the split-splintered second. He’d willed her presence. And she’d come. Ipso.

Now she was stepping back from the elevator, allowing the customers to go first, filling the elevator. Her pale blue eyes were idly circling the showroom. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her face was turned half away. In her bold harlot’s stance she stood with one leg thrust forward, hips obscenely aslant. She wore a beige rib-knitted sweater, molding her breasts. Even the nipples, unclean, plainly protruded through the—

Her eyes had suddenly found him. He was helpless, impaled. And now those mockingly innocent blue eyes were widening. The painted red mouth was curving upward, forming itself into the slow, secret obscenity of a smile.