The Sweetman Curve

by Graham Masterton

  ‘That’s right,’ said John. ‘Did you catch him?’

  The cop slowly shook his head. ‘We went back up the highway there and checked the car out. But there ain’t no sign of the driver. The car was stolen from a used-car lot in Santa Monica round about a week ago, so there’s no way of tracing who it might be. Do you want to give a description?’

  ‘Detective Morello of the Los Angeles Police Department has a full description,’ John said. ‘All I can say is that it was the same guy who shot my father, and shot at both of us earlier this week.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  John took a deep breath. ‘When someone kills your father, officer, and then tries to kill you, you don’t mistake his face.’

  The cop smiled sympathetically. ‘I guess you don’t. Anyway, you’d best come downtown and make a statement about all this.’

  *

  It was almost three o’clock by the time they drove past the University of San Diego campus along the Pacific Highway, and into San Diego. The afternoon was hot, and the deep blue sky was streaked with horsetails of cirrus cloud. Overhead, a seaplane droned as it circled into the Coronado amphibious base.

  They hadn’t talked much on their drive down from Oceanside. They were both tired, shaken, and depressed by what had happened. Although the ocean was sparkling and the breeze was rustling softly through the palms, their fears of the Sweetman Curve and the men who were using it made them feel chilled. The both knew that it wasn’t any use trying to pretend that America was being swept away by an epidemic of random shooting, or that some lone psychotic was flying daily from city to city, picking off all the good-natured liberals he could find. If they hadn’t worked out the truth of what was going on, if they weren’t a threat to the killer in mirrored sunglasses and the blond-haired man who had probably fired John’s house in Topanga Canyon – then why were they being so doggedly pursued?

  ‘Professor Sweetman lives on Fairmount Avenue, close to the state university,’ said Mel, consulting his map and the scribbled notes he had made the night before. ‘If you take a left on Mission Valley Road, that should take you there. Then right on Fairmount.’

  John turned the Lincoln at the next intersection, and they made their way along the hot sunny streets towards the San Diego State University campus. Mel said, ‘I hope the old boy’s home today. I’d hate to have gone through this trip for nothing.’

  John signalled a right, and turned into Fairmount Avenue. ‘I’d hate to have been through any of this for nothing,’ he said. ‘If I woke up tomorrow and found out that there wasn’t a Sweetman Curve, and that Vicki and my father had both died for no reason at all, then I think I’d go bananas.’

  They found the house easily. It was an untidy three-storey Spanish hacienda, painted in flaking pink, with a red-tiled roof. It had a small front yard with a patch of crisp burned grass and a driveway of cracked concrete. The front door was solid oak, studded with black nails. One of the downstairs shutters was hanging off its hinges, and the whole house looked as if it needed fresh paint and good cheer.

  John parked the car and he and Mel got out. He stood in front of the house, looking it up and down, trying to see if there was anyone at home.

  ‘Well,’ said John, ‘here goes.’

  He walked up to the front door. There was an unpolished brass plate that said ‘Aaron J. Sweetman, Ph.D.’ In the centre of the oak door was a tiny window of yellow hammered glass, but it was impossible to see anything through it except a faint light from the hallway. A wind ruffled the creeper around the door.

  John pressed the bellpush. He could hear it ringing somewhere inside the house. He turned and looked at Mel, and Mel, who was wiping his glasses, gave him a quick, nervous smile.

  The door opened quite suddenly. Standing in the doorway was a tall, old man in a light grey suit and a crumpled cream-coloured shirt with no tie. He had silver hair that had been cut very close, and his skin was the yellowish colour of people who have lived in sunny climates for so long that they don’t bother to keep up their suntans. He had a large fleshy nose in which were imbedded the marks of spectacles, although he wore none at the moment. His eyes were china blue.

  He said, ‘Yes?’ in a dry, testy voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,’ John said. ‘I’m looking for Professor Aaron Sweetman.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the old man. ‘Then you have come to the right place.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘I am he.’

  Eleven

  The arrival of Anthony Seiden at Twentieth-Century Fox studios that Friday morning followed the usual dramatic and unexpected style. His long black Fleetwood with dark-tinted bulletproof windows swept through the entrance gate, swung around the corner by the administration block, and pulled into a parking space marked G. Wilder. The rear doors of the car opened, and two crew-cut men in lightweight suits climbed out. They quickly checked the parking lot for suspicious faces, and then Anthony Seiden himself, a small man in a green T-shirt and glasses, was allowed to get out of the car and hurry across to the double entrance doors:

  He went up in the elevator to his third-floor office, flanked by the two crew-cut men, who said nothing. His secretary, a pretty young Californian with sun-blonde hair and big white teeth, said, ‘Good morning, Tony, do you want some tea?’ and took his briefcase for him. He said, ‘Good morning, Trixie. Sure. And a piece of that raisin bread if they have some.’

  The two crew-cut men sat themselves down in the outer office and produced dog-eared paperback books from their inside pockets. They would wait here, silent and patient, until it was time for Anthony Seiden to leave the office again. They appeared to be engrossed in their books, but every time the door opened, their eyes would flick upwards to check out who it was.

  Anthony Seiden sat behind his huge desk, and reached for a cigarette. He lit it, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and then sifted quickly through his mail. Trixie came back with a glass of Russian tea and a piece of raisin bread, and said, ‘Here’s the sustenance. Is there anything there you want to answer straight away?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing that can’t wait. I have to see those last rushes this morning, and then I’m going to go straight back home and catch up on some sleep.’

  ‘Is Dana home now?’

  He sipped his tea, and nodded. ‘She decided to stay last night. I think she’s coming out to Palm Springs tomorrow, too. I guess we’ve more or less decided to make another go of it.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ smiled Trixie. ‘I think the whole of Hollywood felt sad when you and Dana split.’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘When you live under the kind of pressure that we were living under, separation isn’t much of a surprise. You can take so many pills and so much booze, and then the whole thing falls in on you. But I’m real happy to have her back. The moment she walked through the door, I remembered just what it was I married her for.’

  The phone rang, and Trixie picked it up. She talked for a while, and then she put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Daniel. He says the cuts are ready to show.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes.’

  Anthony Seiden was wrapping up the final takes of Number Seventeen, a political thriller about corruption in government. There was already talk in Variety and the Hollywood Reporter that it was his most abrasive movie yet, and when it was released he didn’t expect to be able to pay off his bodyguards. His picture Secret Nights, an exposure of bribery during the election campaign of a Republican candidate, had brought so many threats of murder and kidnap that the studio had helped him to pay for round-the-clock protection. It was part genuine fear and part publicity stunt, but it was done professionally and rigorously. He never left his house in Bel-Air at the same time in the morning, and he never drove to the studio by the same route two days running. His bodyguards always checked the streets before he was allowed to leave his car, and they kept him sandwiched between them in stores and restaurants. Even on the set they weren’t far away, reading their paperbacks assid
uously and keeping their cold eyes on everyone who came and went.

  Anthony wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed being guarded. He was quiet, warm, and persuasive, and he liked to think that America was a land in which you could say that you wanted without fear of reprisals. He didn’t believe that free speech was an inalienable right, but a right which a man earned through suffering. His father, Dan Seiden, had been one of the finest lighting cameramen that Hollywood had ever known, but his career and his health had been wrecked during the Communist witch-hunts of the 1950s. These days, Anthony hoped things were different. But it was only by keeping intolerance and extremism in check that they could stay that way. Maybe McCarthy himself was gone, but there were too many of the old guard left, too many friends and sympathizers of McCarthy, too many rich bigots. Anthony Seiden knew their names and directed the cutting edge of his movies against them.

  The men he hated were men like John Walstrom, and Carl X. Chapman. The old enemies from two decades ago, who still wouldn’t lie down.

  His campaign hadn’t done much for Anthony Seiden’s marriage, nor for his well-being. His wife Dana, a statuesque Norwegian actress, had left him six months ago after saying she was sick and tired of living under glass. Anthony himself had taken to nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels wherever he went, and he had directed a crucial scene in Number Seventeen in a state of drunken paralysis. But the movie was almost finished, Dana had taken a chance on coming back, and he was gradually getting himself back into shape again.

  He was a slight man, with a serious, good-looking, dark stubbled face. His eyes were grey and alert. He spoke softly, with engaging self-confidence. He liked wearing casual French sweaters and Italian slacks, and his favourite moviemaker of all was Bo Widerberg.

  Tire phone rang again. Trixie picked it up; it was Adele Corliss. Anthony took the call.

  ‘Adele, honey, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘A little off-balance, but fine.’

  ‘Off-balance?’

  ‘I have a new lover,’ she confided. ‘He’s alternately childish and threatening.’

  Anthony smiled. ‘I thought all lovers were.’

  ‘That’s what you know. But then you’ve been faithful to Dana for all these years.’

  Anthony blew out cigarette smoke. ‘You know she’s decided to stay? She’d like to come to the party tomorrow.’

  ‘I did hear it on the grapevine,’ said Adele. ‘I’m very pleased. In fact, we’re all very pleased. You two are the nicest couple I know.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ Anthony told her. ‘You’re certainly the nicest person we know.’

  Adele laughed. ‘If we can finish this mutual self-congratulation session, perhaps I can tell you why I’m calling. I know you’re a busy, busy movie director, but I am a little worried about tomorrow night.’

  ‘What for? It’s just a party, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, sure, Tony. But that’s the whole point. I don’t want it to turn heavy. Are you sure that you’re going to be able to get along with Carl and Hilary and the rest of that crowd? It’s not going to turn into a doorslamniing and shouting drama, is it?’

  ‘Why should it?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘Why should it, he asks! Carl X. Chapman is only super-conservative, and you’re only super-liberal! What happier formula can you think of for a nice, friendly party?’

  ‘Adele,’ insisted Anthony, ‘they’re your friends. Carl was a fan of yours way before you knew me. You can’t give him the cold-shoulder from the biggest party you’ve held all year, just because of his politics. Anyway, it’s the type I’m against, his politics, not him personally. I expect he’s a wonderful husband and father, and gives generously to sickle cell anemia.’

  Adele sighed. ‘He’s having a rough time with Elspeth, he doesn’t have any children, and the only thing he regrets about sickle cell anemia is that he didn’t invent it.’

  ‘Come on, Adele, he’s not that bad. I hate his guts, but he’s not that bad.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘and that’s the trouble. There are times when Carl has been so thoughtful and caring that I’ve wondered why I didn’t marry him when I had the chance.’

  ‘You had the chance? Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, it was the wrong time. For a movie star to have married Carl X. Chapman in those days would have been like the Pope’s sister marrying Attila the Hun. But he did ask me. Elspeth doesn’t know, which is probably just as well, and I guess she’s made him a better wife than I ever could. He’s not actually the kind of man you marry, to tell the truth. He’s more like a father than a husband.’

  Anthony waved to Trixie to bring him some fresh tea. His first glass had grown cold, as it always did. He said, ‘Adele, if you feel that way about Carl, then I’m sure we’re not going to have any trouble tomorrow night at all. In any case, I think it’s good ironic publicity. The arch right-winger arrives to celebrate the making of a left-wing movie. Let’s face it – if he hadn’t wanted to come along, he would have declined your invitation, sent you a dozen red roses, and ordered up The Green Berets for his home movie camera on Saturday night.’ Adele sounded uncertain, but she said, ‘If you don’t mind, then I guess it’s all right.’

  ‘Adele, of course it’s all right,’ said Anthony. ‘I’m a liberal, right? And that’s what liberalism is all about, being liberal. If you want Carl to come, who am I to say that he can’t?’

  ‘And Hilary?’

  ‘Well, Hilary’s not exactly sweetness and light combined, but why not? Perhaps she’ll dress up like a woman for a change, instead of a British gamekeeper. I think Dana quite likes her, in a feminist kind of way.’

  Adele laughed, still marginally uneasy but more relaxed than before.

  ‘If you think you can take them for what they are, then I’m sure we’ll manage all right,’ she said.

  They kissed over the phone, and promised a kiss for real on Saturday night, and then Anthony spent a busy ten minutes going through his mail. One of his letters was a threatening letter, and Trixie had attached a note which said: ‘This is just a Xerox. I have called Detective Prince and he is sending officers around later today Lo collect the original. Nil desperandum!’

  The letter read:

  ‘Stinking traitor Seiden, this is your last day alive, tomorrow you’re going to be wiped off the face of the earth like the maggot you are.’

  Anthony held the letter in both hands for a while, staring at it. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it into his wastebasket. Even after hundreds of threats, and dozen of anonymous telephone calls, these fierce illiterate ramblings still gave him the creeps. Some day, some misguided lunatic was going to catch him unguarded, and then God knows what would happen. There was a revolver in his bedside table drawer, but he didn’t have much faith in it.

  He dictated quick replies to two of his most urgent letters – about financing and promotion – and then collected his bodyguards and went across the studio to the screening theatre to see the results of yesterday’s takes. They didn’t amount to much, just a few seconds of conversation between two minor characters in a White House office – but Anthony had insisted on re-shooting the scene twice to capture the nuances of political conspiracy. Political movies were always the hardest to shoot. Whatever the implications, there was nothing visually exciting about middle-aged men in shiny blue suits talking to each other on the telephone.

  Anthony was surprised to see Hilary Nestor Hunter there, sitting down at the front of the theatre with three or four sulky-looking girls. Hilary was looking as haughty and disdainful as usual, in a severe black suit and a black turban hat, and a jet brooch. Anthony said, ‘Good morning, Daniel,’ to his assistant, Daniel Kermak, gave a friendly salute to his executive producer, Joel Ford, and then came down the aisle to where Hilary was sitting.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m honoured.’

  Hilary crossed her legs, slender and shiny in black stockings. She gave him an indulgent, scarlet-lipsticked s
mile.

  ‘I twisted Joel’s arm,’ she said. ‘He said this was your most marvellous movie ever, and I couldn’t resist a peek at it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought my pictures were quite your cup of tea,’ Anthony said, in an even voice. ‘Ideologically speaking, that is.’

  One of Hilary’s girls, an exquisitely beautiful dark-haired girl, gave him a feral grin. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Hilary fed her young ladies on raw meat.

  Hilary said, ‘You mustn’t get the wrong impression of me, Anthony. I’m not a political bigot. In fact, I’m not really very political at all. I’m what you might call a student of sexual opportunity, but not much else.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought there was much sexual opportunity around here,’ Anthony answered,in a gently sardonic tome. ‘You know what the movie business is like.’

  ‘I know that it’s very influential. Steven Spielberg only has to make a flying-saucer movie, and suddenly everybody’s watching the skies. Anthony Seiden only has to make a political graft movie, and suddenly everybody begins to wonder if Karl Marx may have been right, after all.’

  ‘I’m not a Marxist,’ smiled Anthony. ‘I’m not even Leninist. I’m a few degrees left of centre, that’s all.’ Hilary smiled. ‘I’m not criticizing you, my darling. I love your movies. I thought Secret Nights was positively orgasmic.’

  Daniel Kermak called: ‘We’re ready when you are, Tony.’

  Anthony waved back. He said to Hilary, ‘I’ll be surprised if you get an orgasm out of this one. But you can try. The scene we’re showing now is when two White House chisellers get together to oust the Secretary of the Interior so that they can pull off a land deal that’s going to make them a couple of million dollars each.’

  Hilary raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds like fun.’ Anthony gave a small, appreciative nod. ‘Four things in life are always fun. Sex, politics, money and revenge.’