Vein of Violence

by Gault, William Campbell

  “She called you? And where did she get your number?”

  “In the phone book. Where else?”

  “And how come she remembered your name?”

  My fan had overheard that question, and he answered for me. “Brock (the Rock) Callahan, Miss Bonnet? You’re not serious, are you? The greatest guard who ever played football? You can’t be serious.”

  I tried to look modest, a major effort.

  Jan waved at my fan for silence and continued with her interrogation of me. “There isn’t a — a decent reason I can think of why she should phone you. You weren’t in any way involved in the sale of that property.”

  “I don’t know why she called me,” I said levelly, “and stop thinking of the indecent reason why she might have. My own personal hunch is Wallace Darrow of Darrow, Weldon and Lutz had his fine hand in it somehow, but that’s just a hunch. I was the only famous person at the house yesterday and it’s logical I could be the only name she remembered. She said she didn’t want to call Darrow, because she thought he might guess they were too hungry for the sale and suggest a lower offer to Homer.”

  The counterman nodded, silently supporting my thoughtful explanation. This was one man who had never deserted me.

  Jan looked at him and at me, shook her head, and finished her bear claw. She wiped her mouth daintily with a paper napkin and said, “Why do you hate Wally Darrow so much?

  “I swear to you I didn’t even know he was successful. He struck me as a rather tricky eager beaver, which annoyed me, but I don’t hate him. Or anybody else — at the moment.”

  Jan took out a cigarette and my fan held a light for her. Then he left us and my girl stared moodily straight ahead.

  “Anything else new?” I asked her.

  She sighed. “A party. Homer wants a big party in that — that mausoleum before I start the decorating.”

  “What will he use for furniture? He didn’t buy Mary Mae’s furniture, did he?”

  “No. She’s leaving a few pieces there, enough for the kind of party Homer wants. He doesn’t know many people in town, so he suggested I invite my friends. And maybe some of yours. He wants a lot of young people around, he says.”

  I chuckled.

  “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “I was thinking of your — colleagues,” I explained, “the male members of your profession. I was thinking Homer would be surprised to see a party where boys brought boys. It might confuse him.”

  Jan said coolly. “I planned to invite some of my female friends, for your information, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Great!” I said. “And I’ll invite some Rams.”

  “Some ex-Rams, you mean? The poker players?”

  “Fine fellows, all of them. First class party boys. Old Homer’s kind of people, authentic.”

  She studied me thoughtfully. And then, wonder of wonders, she smiled! “Brock,” she said, “we need a party, don’t we?”

  I nodded.

  “Invite more of those slim halfbacks,” she said, “and fewer of those overweight guards, won’t you?”

  THREE

  IT WAS A heterogeneous group, as the professors say. Because not only did Jan invite her friends, there were also mine and a few of Aunt Sheila’s, one of Homer’s — and a host of Mary Mae Milgrim’s.

  These gentle, faded flowers from a better, lost world were like half-remembered dreams, faces that had once stirred the multitudes but were unidentifiable today.

  Unidentifiable to most, but not to Homer, that ancient cinema fan. He was enchanted, he was in the shadowland of his youth.

  He clapped me on the shoulder and waved expansively. “Look at me,” he said, “little old Homer Gallup from Gila Creek, surrounded by the greatest names in show business. “

  I looked around and nodded agreement, sharing his moment.

  “And from the sports world,” he added generously, “immortals, all.”

  I smiled modestly.

  In one corner, half-screened by a potted palm, Wallace Darrow and Joyce Thorne were laughing gaily together. I said, “All this, and Wallace Darrow too. Homer, you’re a tolerant man.”

  He shrugged. “Can I hate the man who found me this wonderful place?”

  “It was Jan who suggested it,” I reminded him.

  Homer frowned and then nodded thoughtfully.” By golly, it was! I’d forgotten that. She suggested it to Darrow, didn’t she?”

  Jan nodded.

  Homer smiled at her and winked at me. “And now I have a feeling she doesn’t even want to decorate the place.”

  “I want to,” Jan said, and glanced at me. “I consider it a challenge, Homer.” She met his gaze, her chin high.

  In the ballroom, the musicians had started and I took my semi-honest girl friend by the hand and led her that way.

  “Money,” she murmured, “money, money, money, money — ”

  “It makes the wheels turn,” I consoled her. “It affords employment and supports the scholarships. Don’t brood; it’s a party night.”

  “Damn you, Brock Callahan,” she said. “Why does it have to be you?”

  I didn’t answer. I took her into my arms and moved with guardlike grace onto the immense and glistening floor. Some of my contemporaries were there, dancing with their wives. And some of my wifeless contemporaries stood alongside the floor, waiting for the proper shapes to appear.

  “Rams,” Jan said. “The joint is jumping with ex-Rams and former cinema stars. The place is haunted with yesterday’s heroes.”

  “The music is soft and the booze expensive, “I whispered in her perfumed ear. “Relax, Jan Bonnet. It’s a night for romance.”

  “Romance — ” she said. “To you, that just means sex!”

  “To me, too,” a voice said. “How about cutting in?”

  It was Scooter Calvin, a former Ram, a hundred and eighty pounds of scat-back, handsome, rich and single.

  Jan blushed and I said, “Later, Scooter. Not right now. This is our first dance and we’re in love.”

  He shook his head. “A girl like that — with a lousy guard.” He went away.

  In my arms, the fine body of Jan Bonnet was tense and rebellious. She is a fairly complex girl, loving both beauty and money, and it is not easy for her to adjust to our present civilization. She is a girl of many moods, but I love her in all of them. She is the beginning and the end. She is Jan; what can I say?

  Some of her tenseness left and she moved closer to me. “Do you realize,” she asked quietly, “that this makes two times this week we’ve danced together?”

  “We’re young,” I explained, “and courting. After we’re married, I’ll put an end to this nonsense.”

  After we’re married…. We’d never be married. She didn’t like my job and she couldn’t live on the salary a high school coaching job might bring me. And what else could I do?

  An aged couple swept past us, the man in antiquated tails, the lady in faded black velvet. Their heads were high, their steps firm.

  “Do you think they’re still courting?” Jan asked.

  “It’s possible,” I said, “that they’ve both been married a dozen times and are again courting. This is a romantic town, in some ways.”

  I thought Jan shivered. I know she moved closer.

  Beauty and money she loved. Kids and Cadillacs. Poor Jan.

  She said, “This looks like one of the Arthur Murray shows on TV. You know, the gold medal winners — ”

  “You need a drink,” I said.

  “And how,” she answered.

  I only drank beer, myself, except on rare occasions. And only Einlicher, if I could get it. Homer, because of his great regard for me, had stocked all four of the temporary bars with Einlicher, the finest beer in the world.

  While I drank the beer, Jan gulped a double Scotch. And then Randy Roman came over. In the old days, Randy had played tackle to my guard and was now a coach at a Valley high school.

  He wanted to dance with Jan and I gave them my blessing. Randy
was a pretty good dancer, for a tackle, and I watched them in admiration.

  Then next to me, a thin and sallow man said, “Einlicher, eh? Mr. Gallup has a discerning taste.”

  “I told him about it,” I said, and tried to remember where I had seen him before. “My name is Brock Callahan,” I added.

  “Of course,” he said. “I have seen you with the Rams, many times. But you don’t remember me, do you?”

  I frowned. “Sort of-”

  “Enrico Rivali,” he said.

  Now I knew him. He had been a writer-director here before Italians were in vogue, during the Hungarian regime. He had come to fame on the rise of Mary Mae Milgrim.

  I said, “Of course. Miss Milgrim’s favorite writer and director.” I shook his thin, strong hand. “You’re in television now, I suppose?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I could never adjust to the medium. No scope, no time, no attention to the important detail, a frivolous and degraded art form.”

  “Have an Einlicher,” I said, “and tell me about it.”

  He smiled bleakly. “What is there to tell? I was once important. I no longer am. I once functioned. I no longer do. This area has known a million stories with the same plot.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “have an Einlicher and let’s look at the girls. You may not be famous, but you’re still a Latin.”

  His smile was less bleak. “Ah, yes — the girls. They have helped to make these recent years bearable. Except for them, I’m sure I would have gone back to Italy, back to the farm.”

  Scooter Calvin was dancing with Jan now. My eyes searched the crowd and I saw Horse Malone moving ponderously around the floor with Joyce Thorne in his arms.

  “That Thorne girl’s a stunner, isn’t she?” I asked Enrico Rivali.

  He shrugged. “I guess. She bothers me. I can’t figure that girl.”

  “So–?”

  “She gives the impression she is devoted to Mary Mae and working for almost nothing, but I happen to know she is very well paid.”

  “From Mary Mae you heard that?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Who else?”

  I withheld comment. Mary Mae was the one I couldn’t figure. I remembered what Jan had told me about the apartment house, the office buildings and the business property. I thought of the servants’ cottage she had insisted on keeping, rent free. But Homer would be paying the taxes on it.

  Enrico Rivali said thoughtfully, “I wonder if Mr. Gallup would be interested in financing a really artistic picture.”

  “Starring Miss Milgrim?” I asked.

  He nodded, a speculative look in his eyes. “He admires Miss Milgrim, doesn’t he?”

  “Yup. But, Enrico — lay off Homer Gallup.”

  His sallow face stiffened and his dark eyes were hard as he stared at me. “Are you his manager?”

  I shook my head. “I’m his friend. He’s a sentimental man and I’ve appointed myself his guardian in this particular jungle.”

  Enrico smiled cynically. “Do you think he needs your advice? He’s a millionaire. Are you?”

  “Nope. I’m just Homer’s friend. Now, you’ve been warned, Enrico. And the subject is closed.”

  He said something in Italian then, something pornographic, and walked abruptly away from me. I was sad; we’d started off so well.

  I finished my beer and went over to cut in on Horse Malone, still dancing with Joyce Thorne.

  I’m no Astaire, understand, but I’m pretty good at my own particular dance, which I refer to as the one-step-glide-and-hold. Joyce followed perfectly.

  She looked up, after a few seconds, and said, “Savior.”

  “Was that Horse rough on you?”

  “Maybe it was my fault. I was trying to dance to this orchestra and he was apparently listening to some other one I couldn’t hear. What were you and Enrico talking about?”

  “About girls. Why?”

  “I wondered. He’s a — a schemer. He’d still be pressing olives if it hadn’t been for Miss Milgrim.”

  And what would you be doing? I thought, but didn’t say.

  “Weren’t they married at one time?” I asked.

  “Never!” she said sharply. “And their much publicized romance existed only in the publicist’s idiotic mind.”

  “You don’t like Enrico, I gather.”

  “I don’t like any kind of parasite,” she said.

  Well, well. The pot and the kettle. Her body was slim and responsive, her perfume distracting, her grace reassuring. I tried an extra step without hesitation and she didn’t falter. I added a tricky side step.

  Over her head, I could see Jan dancing with Homer, and Jan’s gaze was steady and suspicious. I waved.

  “That’s the girl you came with, isn’t it?” Joyce asked. “Miss Bonnet, isn’t it?”

  “Right on both counts,” I agreed, “but don’t let it discourage you. She’s broad-minded.”

  I was putting her through a rather intricate reverse turn when Meat Kowalski, another ex-guard, tapped my shoulder.

  I relinquished her and went back to the bar.

  Wallace was there, talking with Aunt Sheila. It didn’t seem to be friendly, party talk, so I went into the living room, to another bar.

  Again, a familiar face was here, a rather distinguished face, with a high forehead and an aquiline nose, a matinee idol face, now aged and gray.

  He turned and smiled at me. “The great Brock Callahan, I believe?”

  I had to come through and my memory didn’t fail me. I smiled in return and said, “And the immortal John Davenport.”

  “My friends call me Jack,” he said as we shook hands.

  He had been one of the biggest names of the silent screen, sending the females into swoons from coast to coast and beyond these shores. He had been big, big, big….

  “Immortal — ?” he said. “Not quite. Wouldn’t ‘lucky’ be a better word?”

  “It’s luck that you’re immortal, sure. Luck and talent did it. Are you retired now?” I ordered an Einlicher.

  “Not quite,” he said, and ordered a Scotch and water. “I’ve found a few bits here and there, since my agent deserted me.” He lifted his glass. “Monstrous people, agents. Scrambling, absurd people.”

  “Even real estate agents,” I agreed. “But I suppose God had some purpose in mind.”

  “Let’s not be sentimental,” he said, “about agents. This freak who represented me kept insisting I was too big. Too big for this bit and too big for that walk-on. In his cretin mind I was apparently too big for anything but starving. Finally, I was so big he dropped me.”

  “And your position improved?” I asked.

  “Immeasurably. You see, I don’t need much. I eat very little and drink only when someone else is pouring. But I must act. I either act or I die — it is that simple. I am a ham. I come from a great sugar-cured tradition. Today, I am again alive.”

  “You must have a lot of friends in the industry,” I said. “You should do all right on your own.”

  “In this industry,” he said firmly, “nobody has any friends.”

  “How about Mary Mae Milgrim?” I asked him. “She invited you to the party, didn’t she?”

  “To add tone,” he explained, “and for some reason which I will probably learn later. You know, for years Mary Mae tried to get me for her leading man.” He shrugged. “But-”

  “You were too big,” I guessed.

  “I was too smart,” he corrected me. “She dominated every picture she was ever in. Rivali saw to that, that — schemer.”

  I sipped my beer and thought about this and that. I asked, “When was the last time, before tonight, that you’ve seen or heard from Mary Mae Milgrim?”

  “It’s been years,” he said. “This invitation was out of the blue. That’s why I’m worried.”

  “But you came,” I pointed out.

  He lifted his glass. “I explained about that. I will eat well, drink only her best — and be prepared for any eventuality.”
/>
  “It isn’t her booze,” I said. “It’s Homer Gallup’s. And I have a hunch Rivali thinks he can con Homer into producing another Mary Mae Milgrim picture.” I lifted my glass. “With you in the secondary lead.”

  “I’m ready for it,” he said. “I’m sure I can protect myself in the close-ups.”

  We drank solemnly, thinking our separate thoughts. Mine were defensive; I owed it to Homer to protect him from these hungry ghosts. In this motley group, there were undercurrents, Hollywood inspired.

  Aunt Sheila came from the ballroom, her eyes stormy. She came to the bar and ordered a double bourbon. She drank it in three gulps, ignoring Mr. Davenport and me.

  She ordered another, and I said, “Easy now. The night’s young.”

  She turned to look at me. “You know what I learned today?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I heard this house was in escrow six months, but something went wrong.”

  “So–?”

  “It was in escrow at a purchase price of eighty-five thousand dollars!”

  “And-?”

  “And? We paid a hundred and forty thousand. That’s a difference of fifty-five thousand dollars, idiot nephew.”

  “Don’t call me names,” I told her firmly. “I didn’t sell it to you. And much as I hate to come to the defense of Wallace Darrow, he suggested that Homer offer a lower price. And Homer refused.”

  “But did Darrow tell us about that earlier escrow?”

  “Not in my hearing.”

  “Do you think it would have been more ethical if he had?”

  I gave it some thought. “It would depend, I suppose, on whether Wallace was representing you or Miss Milgrim.”

  “It would, would it? Who dreamed up that fine distinction?”

  I didn’t get a chance to answer. Homer appeared at my shoulder, and Homer said soothingly, “Now, Sheila, don’t spoil the party.” He smiled at John Davenport. “Right, Mr. Davenport?”

  “My friends call me Jack,” Davenport said. “It’s a fine party, Mr. Gallup.”

  “My friends call me Homer,” our host said. “By gad, I think I saw every picture you were ever in.”

  “Pure masochism,” Davenport commented. “Have you had the pleasure of speaking with Enrico Rivali this evening?”