Play It Again

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  “Listen,” R.J. said, “I don’t want you stuck in a hotel room somewhere. Hotels aren’t safe.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’ve stayed in hotels before, R.J.”

  “Not with a maniac trying to kill you,” he said. “There’s a thousand ways to get at you in a hotel, and I can’t cover them all.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You have a better idea?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I do.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “What’s the matter?” asked R.J. “You don’t like it?”

  Casey stood just inside the door to his apartment, looking it over with pursed lips.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “For you.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t get the decorators here this late in the day. Come on. You take the bedroom, I’ll bunk out here on the couch.”

  She threw down an armload of shopping bags. They had stopped several times for her to get a few essentials, things she needed to replace the ruined wardrobe in her apartment. “I’ll take the couch,” she said.

  “Oh, Christ,” said R.J. “Here we go again.”

  She put both hands on her hips. “I’m not a delicate blushing flower, R.J. I’m a grown-up human being.”

  “A grown-up human being who’s stubborn as two mules.”

  “Listen,” she said. “This is your place—”

  “No argument there.”

  “So why in the hell should you sleep on the couch in your own place?”

  “I like the couch,” he said. “The couch is very comfortable.”

  “Good. Then I’ll sleep very well on it.”

  “Like hell you will. It’s my couch, I’ll sleep on it.”

  “Then I’ll go stay in a goddamned hotel!” she yelled at him.

  “You’ll stay right here!” he yelled back.

  They were toe to toe at this point, hollering into one another’s face.

  “I’m outta here!”

  “You’re staying! And you’ll sleep in the goddamn bed!”

  “Not alone, I won’t!”

  “Fine!” he said, and kissed her.

  It was a short kiss. After just a few seconds she pushed him away, glared at him. “Fine,” she said, and, putting a hand behind his head, she pulled his mouth down onto hers.

  After a minute, he broke the kiss. “Don’t think you’re getting away with anything,” he said, and kissed her again.

  “I’m compromising,” she said. “Which is more than you’ve ever done.” Her voice was thick and heavy. He moved her over to the couch.

  After that, neither of them said anything for a good long time.

  For the first time since his first time, R.J. was swept away by a rising tide he could not control, could barely match.

  They fell into each other on the couch, clawing and gasping like two wild animals. As R.J. worked to remove her battered business suit, he found Casey was ahead of him. She had his belt undone and his pants shagged down to his ankles while he was still puzzling out her buttons. She was with him, or ahead of him, every step of the way.

  He decided to cut corners to catch up. Her pantyhose were already torn from her run-in with the wild cab. R.J. got a finger into a run at her knee and ripped upward, tearing the flimsy garment from her legs.

  She bit his neck. He swore softly and bit her neck too. She moaned. He pulled at the neck of her shirt; buttons popped and he slid the blouse off her.

  “Son of a bitch!” she gasped. “That was my only blouse!” She reached for the lapels of his shirt, in the center of his chest, and yanked; now his buttons flew off.

  He popped the snaps on her bra and buried his head in her breasts. They were firm, nipples taut, and he crushed his mouth into them.

  He heard her cry out softly and then felt her hands in the elastic band of his shorts. She yanked them down as far as she could, and her cool fingers found him.

  R.J. twisted and slid his shorts and trousers to the floor, pushing them off with his feet so he could keep his hands on her. Then he slid his right hand down and worked her panties off, and they were both naked.

  Their battle raged on. For a while she held the upper hand. R.J. saw everything through a red film; he thought he was going to bellow and ram his head into the wall.

  Then, at just the right moment, she was suddenly soft and yielding, and as he entered her she dug her fingers into his back and arched forward to meet him.

  Neither of them noticed when they slid off the couch and onto the hardwood floor.

  Long minutes later, as they lay together, gasping for breath, R J. realized they were eight feet away from the couch, in the middle of the room.

  What have I got myself into? R J. wondered. He felt himself falling headfirst into something beyond his experience. He didn’t know where it was going or what it would do to him, only that he couldn’t stop now.

  He looked at Casey. One arm was behind her head, supporting it. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even, and there was a small smile on her face.

  A thin sheen of perspiration covered her face, neck, and breasts, adding a light gloss to the flush just beneath her skin.

  I’m in deep shit, he thought.

  But he had never seen anything half as beautiful before.

  * * *

  He sits across town in a quiet bar, a quiet man in a conservative business suit sipping his drink and thinking that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

  The way she had looked up at him, right before she died. Oh, she had seen him then. She had finally noticed him. He didn’t seem so ordinary to her now—no, the face of your own death is never ordinary, is it?

  She hadn’t looked at him like that the first time, those many years ago. His big break. Yes, it actually had been his big break, come to think of it, but at the time—

  It was a wonderful thing for a young actor, to win an audition for Belle Fontaine’s new movie. To audition with Miss Fontaine in person.

  He had gone into the studio office feeling important, worthy, for the first time since his parents’ death. Past the guard at the gate. Past the secretaries. Into the conference room.

  And she was there!

  And she had looked him over, thoroughly, from head to toe, in just five seconds. And in that thrilling, velvety voice had said, “Get that horrible drab little creep out of here before I puke.”

  And he had been outside on the sidewalk, hypnotized by that wonderful voice, before he realized what she had said.

  This had been before he came into his own, of course. Before he discovered the power he had, the greatness. And he had suffered.

  Oh, how he had suffered. The years he spent inside a whiskey bottle. The growing desperation, even going to the AA meetings with those sad, pathetic weaklings hearing all about him. Hearing about his weakness. Listening to him, nodding.

  Forgiving him.

  Unforgivable. That they should judge him—hear his weakness and forgive him for it, like he really was just a drab, ordinary little rabbit—just like them!

  He takes a long sip of his drink. That was so long ago. And he has found a way to pay off that debt too. Has found a way, at so many AA meetings, all over the country. A way to let the weaklings know he is not one of them. Not at all.

  And that has passed many years, but still there has been the Big Debt, and the fact that he could do nothing about it had made him suffer.

  All those years, all the suffering, all paid in full at last. In one glorious scene. Like all great moments in theater, it had just the right blend of sex and violence. By God, it had been good: the gun in his hand, Belle spread before him, the handsome coward trembling under her. It was his best so far, no doubt about it….

  So far….

  Because this next one will be better.

  CHAPTER 18

  R.J. woke up in his own bed with a feeling of strangeness to everything. The familiar surroundings just made it worse.

  For a moment, between waking and sleeping, he couldn’t understand what was
different. The feel of the bed under him was right, was his. The smell—

  He opened his eyes. Casey lay beside him, still asleep. The sweet, clean smell of her had drifted over to him, bringing him awake in a haze of desire without time or place.

  Christ almighty, he thought, looking her over. She had kicked the covers off and lay there completely naked. R.J. felt himself growing hard and shook his head. All night long, and I still want her.

  He ran his eyes over her, marveling at her flawless skin and silky contours. He had worked his way down to her toes and halfway back up again when he became aware that she was awake.

  “You going to do something about it, or just look?” she said.

  “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “R.J., there’s one way you can always wake me up.”

  He reached a hand out and cupped her breast.

  “Yup, that’s the way,” she said, pulling him down.

  * * *

  When R.J. woke up the second time she was gone from the bed. He heard the shower running.

  He lay with his hands behind his head, thinking things over. Sure, she was smart, attractive as hell, fearless, competent, and terrific in the sack. Why should that make him feel like his brains had turned to mush?

  Maybe he was just vulnerable now, with his mother’s death to deal with. That would explain how she had gotten so deeply into him so fast: His defenses were down, something like this could blindside him, get under his skin. That was probably it.

  But whatever it was, it was bothering him. He should have it out in the open with her, see what she was thinking, and get on with it.

  A few minutes later, Casey came out of the bathroom. She had wrapped his bath towel around her and had another towel turbanned around her hair.

  She moved quickly through the room and out into the living room. R.J. heard her rustling through her packages, fishing out new clothes.

  She came back in and began to dress.

  “Hey,” he said. “Casey. Come here.”

  She looked up and flashed him a neutral smile. “I’m in kind of a hurry, R.J. Running late.” She shrugged into a handsome, conservative business outfit.

  “Listen,” he said, “I was thinking—”

  “R.J., I have an interview at the World Trade Center in forty-five minutes. Save the thought, all right?” And she moved back into the bathroom, clutching a hairbrush and her new makeup kit.

  “Sure,” he said to her back. “It’ll keep.”

  The change in her was so complete she might have been a different person. Now she was all business, a hard-shelled career woman with no time for tenderness.

  And maybe that’s the real her, R.J. thought. Maybe last night she was feeling vulnerable after her brush with death. Maybe she wasn’t at all like the woman he was falling for, and for her it had just been a way to thumb her nose at death, something that didn’t mean a thing in the light of day.

  So maybe it ended here.

  The thought left him cold and empty. There had been a lot of women in R.J.’s life, but none had ever taken him over like this, and after only one night. He already needed her; not just for sex, although that had been great, about the best ever.

  He needed her for more, for things he couldn’t even put into words. He needed her, and it made him uncomfortable as hell to need somebody like that.

  I really am in trouble, he thought.

  He dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen. Casey was standing with the refrigerator door open, looking dubiously at the contents.

  “Time for coffee?” he asked her.

  “Uh, no, not really. Do you have any juice?”

  “There’s some Tang in the cupboard,” he said helpfully.

  She shuddered. “Thanks, I’d rather not.” She closed the refrigerator. “I’ll get something on the way downtown.”

  She started for the door.

  “Hang on a sec,” he said to her back.

  She turned around with an expression of impatient politeness. “Yes?”

  “You’ll need a key. For tonight. In case I’m not here.”

  “All right,” she said. He went into the bedroom and found his spare keys. She didn’t ask him where he was going to be.

  “Here you go,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” He leaned forward to give her a kiss, but she had already turned and was out the door.

  R.J. dragged himself through a shower. Casey had used up most of the hot water, so the shower was not as long as he would have liked. When he got out, there were no towels left either. He blotted himself half dry with a towel that was heavy with water and Casey’s smell.

  He got dressed in a worn pair of brown corduroys and a tan chamois shirt from L.L. Bean. The shirt stuck to his damp back.

  He combed his hair and went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As the hot brown liquid started to move through his veins, R.J. could feel his brain coming awake.

  It was after ten o’clock. There was nothing he could do about Casey, not right now. So he put her out of his mind and concentrated on the killer.

  He knew damned little about the guy. Just that he was slick and quick and good at disguises. He could add to that a couple of guesses: Casey’s hunch about the guy acting things out, for instance.

  He thought about that for a minute. Was it possible that the guy wasn’t acting out—but acting?

  He turned the idea over a few times. It made sense. It explained his skill with disguises. And it could be a connection to Belle, the way he knew her, the reason he had wanted to kill her. She hadn’t been any kind of angel, especially in her early career in Hollywood. She’d been drinking a lot back then, maybe trying to keep up with his old man, and she was a mean drunk.

  Maybe she’d said or done something to the killer back then, something that festered and grew into a psychotic need to kill her. Actors were flaky at best; who knew what might push one of them over the edge?

  An actor; why not? It would explain the makeup and the motive. It also gave him a place to start.

  R.J. rooted out his battered telephone directory from the small table in the living room where he kept his phone and answering machine. He thumbed through, looking for one particular number. Yup. He still had it.

  Arthur Drake. His mother’s old agent in Hollywood. Arthur had retired years ago, but if anyone had a line on who might have a reason to come out of the past and kill Belle, it would be Arthur. His memory for names and faces was legendary. And he’d always had a kind word and a piece of hard candy for young R.J. too.

  He dialed. After eleven rings, a man picked up.

  “Hello?” came a weak and quavery voice on the far end.

  “Hello, Arthur, it’s me. R.J. Brooks.”

  “Who is it?” said the old voice.

  “R.J. Brooks. Belle Fontaine’s son.” He was almost shouting.

  There was a long pause. R.J. could hear the old man fumbling with the receiver. “Is it R.J.?” he finally said.

  “Yes, that’s right!”

  “Oh,” said Arthur. “Well, how are you, my boy?”

  “I’m fine, Arthur, how are you?!”

  “You don’t have to shout,” Arthur said, and R.J. could hear a faint echo of the man’s old-time urbanity in his voice. “I can hear you perfectly well now.”

  “Oh. Well, great, how are you, Arthur?”

  “I’m old and deaf, but otherwise as well as can be expected,” he said. “Please let me offer my sincerest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” R.J. said.

  “Your mother was a wonderful woman, R.J. I know you did not get along famously of late, but never forget what a remarkable talent she was. Truly remarkable, and we shall all miss her terribly.”

  “I know, Arthur. Thanks a lot.”

  “Well,” said the old man briskly. “By my best recollection, it has been thirteen years since I’ve spoken to you. To what do I owe this call?”

  “It’s about Belle’s murder. I need some help.”

  “
Indeed.”

  “I got an idea that the killer might be an actor. Somebody who knew her professionally.”

  “Ah-hah.” R.J. could almost hear the gears whirring in the old man’s head, a stack of cards dropping into the slot. “Have you anything more than that?”

  “No, I’m sorry, that’s it. There’s nothing definite, but it would make a lot of sense if that’s how it was.”

  “All right then. How can I help?”

  “Arthur, you were her agent for a lot of those years out there.”

  “All the good ones, my boy. And some not quite so good.”

  “I remember,” R.J. said. “I was wondering if anything stuck in your mind, any incident where somebody might have wanted to hurt her. It wouldn’t have to be anything definite, just somebody who got mad at her, or whatever.”

  “Well, R.J. I can think of ten or fifteen very specific death threats Belle received.”

  “Jesus Christ!” R.J. exploded. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes,” the old man assured him. “Your mother was very demanding, like so many great creative artists. That led to an awful lot of friction. And as I say, at least a dozen times it led to somewhat more.”

  “Who were they, Arthur?”

  The old man laughed. “Almost a Who’s Who of Hollywood, old chap. Names you wouldn’t believe if I told you. Of course,” he said, a note of regret creeping into his voice, “most of the really interesting ones are dead now. So many dead.” He sighed.

  “This could be important, Arthur. Can you check and let me know of any that might still be alive? And maybe still holding a grudge?”

  “Of course I shall, dear boy. I would do a great deal more for your mother, or for you. And in fact, with your illustrious bloodlines, which I believe show strongly in your looks, if you should reconsider your career options I can still—”

  “No thanks, Arthur. Not for me. But I’d appreciate it if you can find something on this thing.”

  “Like winged Mercury from great Zeus, I go,” said Arthur.

  “Thanks, Arthur. I’ll call you.”

  “God bless you, my boy,” the old man said and hung up.

  Ten or fifteen, R.J. thought. Holy Christ. He’d been worried that he would find just another dead end, and he guessed he should be grateful there was a chance of a lead, but this… He shook his head. It was looking like a miracle she’d lived as long as she had.