Star Light, Star Bright

by Stanley Ellin

  It was now Daskalos, I observed, not Mr. Daskalos. An official demotion.

  I said, “It seems to me that some of those strings would pull right back.”

  “So what?” Araujo leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands spread wide. “Look, I’ll tell you my position. Everything is happening by schedule, whoever arranged that schedule. And for whatever crazy reason. So by midnight it should be all over, because that’s how the schedule reads. Then tomorrow the sun comes up, and everybody pretends none of this ever happened. A big joke. Right?”

  “A pretty bad joke.”

  “Very bad. Now, the job is not to let it get worse. Pin everybody down tonight; make sure they stay pinned down.”

  “How?”

  Araujo said with satisfaction, “My idea, and the boss went along with it. He’ll be showing one of Mrs. Quist’s movies after dinner. That takes us right past the deadline. And everyone will be sitting there except Daskalos.”

  “And Calderon.”

  “He’ll be there. The boss already had it out with him. With all of them. Drinks and toilet privileges provided. Meanwhile you’ll keep Daskalos close company. One problem with that, of course. He won’t like it.”

  “Possibly not.”

  “Then what if I joined you? It might help cool the temperature.”

  I shook my head. “You shouldn’t be pinned down there.”

  “I can easily—”

  “No. I’ll handle Daskalos; you keep an eye on the others. Which reminds me. Your man at the entrance to the main building wasn’t around when I got back there last night. What happened to him?”

  Araujo grunted with what might have been weary resignation. “During the blackout, Mrs. Quist got him in to help the boss out of the Jacuzzi. When that was settled she just told him to clear out of the building. No more job at the door there.”

  “And Quist let her get away with it?”

  “I told you how she was about that kind of thing. Visible security. But the boss was only being diplomatic. This morning he let me know in private that when the movie is on I’m to have a man right there at that door. Diplomacy, you know?” Araujo grinned broadly. “When I was a kid there was a very big calypso song. Big even in the Havana joints. ‘Always marry a woman uglier than you.’ Good advice, hey? Especially if you don’t want to spend all your time being diplomatic with your woman.”

  “Very good advice. Did you follow it yourself?”

  He laughed. “Hell, no. What man does?”

  Not Andrew Quist. That was for sure.

  When I came into the main building company was straggling down the hallway from the dining room. Calderon, decked out for tennis, a couple of rackets under his arm, the other arm around Holly Lee’s waist—evidently, if Sharon’s wasn’t handy, any available female waist would do—and behind him Kightlinger and Lou Hoffman in close conversation, with Belle Rountree and her Scottie bringing up the rear.

  As the procession filed out the door, Belle pivoted and headed back in my direction. “I want to talk to you, Sam.”

  “Sure. My apartment is your apartment.”

  “No, it’s just for a minute.” She had put on her make-up carelessly; its line of demarcation was clearly visible along her jaw. She looked me over. “So it seems the prophet finally met his match.”

  “Daskalos?”

  “Uh-huh. Seems like he got on his high horse with you last night, and you belted him right off it.”

  “Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Oh, from King Andrew himself. When he was laying down the ground rules for tonight’s fun and games. You do know he’s leaning toward the idea that the prophet is our guilty party, don’t you? Which, it so happens, is the direction the rest of us now lean.”

  “Including your husband? And Holly Lee?”

  “Scottie, despite a bent for the mystical, does have his logical side. Holly Lee is wavering. It all adds up to a very big score for you, Sam. Andrew let it be known that from the time you showed up here you had the prophet dead in your sights.”

  I shook my head. “The most dangerous mistake right now—” and Belle flashed out, “Oh, stop playing it so goddam cagey. Kalos is the one, and you know it. In fact, you personally know that son of a bitch a lot better than you’ve been letting on.”

  “You’re way ahead of me, Mrs. Rountree.”

  “Am I? Than shift into high and catch up. Daskalos isn’t any stranger to you. Because three years ago you handled a very hush-hush case for Sharon Bauer and you must have run into him then. And sized him up for what he was. That’s why, as soon as you walked in here you had his number. So all this private-eye performance you’re putting on is just going through the motions, isn’t it?”

  “Some of it,” I said. “Not much.”

  She was momentarily at a loss for words. Then she said, “Honest John Milano himself. All right, how about an honest answer to this one?” Her voice hardened. “Are you covering up for Daskalos? The Sharon Bauer effect maybe? She’s sold on him, and you don’t want to bring tears to those pretty eyes?”

  “Mrs. Quist and I—”

  “Oh, don’t give me that Mrs. Quist shit. Sid Kightlinger said that before she hooked Quist she had a name for humping everything in sight. And there you were, personally hauling her out of God knows what kind of mess. Are you saying she missed a mouthwatering dish like you on the way around?”

  “I appreciate the compliment. I don’t think Mrs. Quist would.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  I said, “Then how about trying the question on Mike Calderon? He was more than available to the lady when they were making their picture together. Weren’t you the one who told me it didn’t do him any good at all?”

  “Because he probably turned her stomach. I know he turns mine. So that’s still no answer.”

  I said, “Look. What you want me to do is pin the rap on Daskalos. Then the movie-making proceeds without his spell being cast on it. Right?”

  “With an extra little touch, Sam. From what I heard, last night you almost laid him away yourself. That gives me the feeling that you hate his guts as much as I do. So why not tell Quist to dump him right this minute? Why wait? Nothing’s going to happen tonight while you’re with him. Nothing can.”

  “And tomorrow he’d only be dug in here deeper than ever.”

  Belle said with satisfaction, “Now you’re zeroed in, Sam.”

  “Just in time to zero out, Mrs. Rountree.”

  Always leave them laughing. Or, at least, with their mouths hanging open.

  In my bedroom, I headed straight for the cognac on the dresser but was pulled up short by a note on the desk. An awkward penciled scrawl: Mr. Milano, please call Miss Glass N.Y.

  I called, and when Shirley answered I said, “This is John Milano, Miss Glass,” the formality being the Watrous Associates’ method of warning that there might be other ears tuned in.

  Shirley said, “I wanted to check on when you’ll be back, Mr. Milano. There’s those Monday appointments I put over. Should I definitely set them up for tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you then, Mr. Milano. Oh, by the way”—she was burlesquing secretarial dignity—“your sister sent us another I.D.C. this morning. For the usual three-hundred-dollar fee. And Mr. Watrous was very nice about it. Had no objection at all to our handling it.”

  “Thank him for me,” I said. “But not passionately.”

  I put down the phone, went over to the dresser, and finished the cognac, chugalug. Then I hefted the empty balloon glass and measured the distance to the far wall. I caught myself in time. From the feel of it, look of it, and sound of it when I pinged it with a fingernail it was Baccarat.

  Instead, after brief reflection and with the cognac taking hold nicely, I gathered together the glass, the book on Jack the Ripper, and Quist’s senatorial terry-cloth robe and carted the load down to Maggie’s office. She was typing away busily but stopped to take account of me and my cargo. �
��You didn’t have to bother with that, Milano. One of the help would have taken care of it.”

  “No bother.” I deposited the glass and robe on a table, then put the book back in its place on the shelves. The shelf below, the travel book section, had gaps in it. I asked, “What happened to that new book about Bligh and the Bounty?”

  Maggie’s fingers were poised over the typewriter. “If it isn’t there, Andrew may have it. He’s napping now, but later on—”

  “No.” I made myself comfortable in the chair across the desk. “I could probably write that book myself. First grownup book I ever read that turned me on was the old Nordhoff and Hall Mutiny on the Bounty. After that, I read everything I could about Bligh and his merry men. Won an essay prize at New Utrecht High putting it all together.”

  “Bully for you. Now, if you don’t mind—”

  I said, “Saw both pictures half a dozen times each. The Gable one and the Brando one. Want to know something?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the Brando one got panned, but it was a bum rap. It was a lot more authentic than the Gable one.”

  Maggie removed her hands from the typewriter. “Milano can’t you see I’m trying to work?”

  “All right,” I said, “no more conversation. I’ll just sit and yearn for you in dead silence.”

  “No, you will not.” She squinted at me. “Are you stoned?”

  “Not too much. Just enough to make me feel at ease in company.”

  “I thought you looked fuzzy around the edges. Well, stoned or otherwise, you’re not making me feel at ease.” She sounded really angry about it. “So just go away. Right now.”

  She went back to her typing with a will, I went to the door with regrets. The typing suddenly stopped. “Wait a second, Milano. About dinner tonight. Do you want to be next to Belle again?”

  “Under no conditions.”

  “Oh? The romance over already?”

  “Far from it,” I said. “I just want to wind it down before it gets out of hand. I have other fish to fry. Other Kentucky chickens, too.” But, lips set, she was already banging away at the typewriter again.

  To eliminate those fuzzy edges I took a cold shower—one loud yell and the worst of it was over. Then, Japanese style, I ran a tub hot enough to steam up all the glass in the bathroom. For want of reading matter I settled on the automobile map of the Miami area provided by the house and was admiring the unlikely names of some of its communities—Opa-locka especially—when I became aware that I was not alone.

  I lowered the map, and there in that steamy atmosphere, like Venus risen on the half shell, was Mrs. Quist.

  And in no mood for preliminary sparring. “Did you read my letters, Johnny?”

  I said, “Jesus, didn’t it strike you that if you could come waltzing in here like this, somebody else could?”

  “I locked the outside door. Did you read them, Johnny? Especially that first one?”

  “Yes.” If she was going to be removed, it would have to be with a firm hand prodding her on. I got out of the tub and went to work on myself with a towel. “We’ll talk about it later, Sharon.”

  “No. And you’re not really worried about someone walking in. Only about the way things are between us. You know what I said in that letter makes sense, and you don’t want to admit it.”

  “About my being elected to father your child? Sharon, it doesn’t make sense. It just makes bad comedy.”

  I went into the bedroom and started dressing. She followed and sat down, hands clasped in her lap. Immovable. She said, “You don’t know anything about biology, do you?”

  “Biology?”

  “I’m twenty-six. Pretty soon it’ll be too late for me to have a baby. And I want one. But it can’t be by Andrew. It has to be by someone I want to share it with. I’m not asking you to get married, am I?”

  Sufficiently clad, I went into the sitting room and unlocked the hallway door. Sharon came right along. Again she perched herself on a chair, hands clasped in lap. Still immovable.

  I said, “Look, let me spell out our relationship in very simple language. I am handling a case for your husband. That is our relationship.”

  Her eyes got very shiny. “I don’t believe it.” Her voice, even more husky than usual, now had that box-office little croak in it. “I know you hated me when I freaked out in England. But now that you understand about it, you don’t any more. You’re just afraid it might happen that way again. It won’t, Johnny.”

  “It won’t get a chance to. But forget England. Just get it into your head how I feel about being maneuvered down here so cleverly. About being put into this screwball situation. About Araujo being told to keep his security people far away from you, so that you can work out your future with me in private. And what about your guru? You’re ready to kiss him off, but not as long as he’s an excuse to keep me here. Hell, I told Maggie you weren’t manipulative, but now—”

  I put on the brakes too late. Sharon said stormily, “You talked to her about me?”

  “No more than you talked to her about me.”

  “It’s not the same! She doesn’t feel the way I do about you!”

  “For chrissake, cool it,” I said, “or they’ll hear you down in Key West. I’m here on a job. Anything I talked to Maggie about had to do with that job.”

  “Including me? Is that why you took off with her this morning? So you could take her to some motel to ask if I was the one who killed that dog? And hit that man over the head?”

  I said wearily, “You know better than that.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know. That I didn’t maneuver you down here. That Andrew and Virgilio kept talking about somebody who could investigate what was going on here and still keep his mouth shut, and I finally mentioned you, that’s all. And I don’t want any guards standing around watching me, because I’ve had enough of everybody watching every move I make.” She laid the edge of her hand across her throat. “I’ve had it right up to here, do you understand? And I’ll tell Kalos I can’t be a Believer any more when it’s time. And it is not time while somebody is trying to kill him.”

  I said soothingly, “Yes, of course. It makes sense that way. It really does.”

  She looked doubtful. “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes. It’s just that this place is a pressure cooker right now. We’re all emotionally shooting from the hip. But talking things over rationally, some other place, some other time—”

  “Tomorrow. In New York.”

  I had to draw the line somewhere. “No, that’s irrational.” Those eyes signaled stormy weather again. I said, “Be fair, Sharon. You’ve never asked me about any personal commitment I might have in New York, and you should have. Because there it is, and it can’t be untied on one day’s notice. Or,” I added pointedly, “on ten minutes’ notice, the way it’s done in merry old England sometimes.”

  She looked shamefaced. “You don’t know how many times I thought about that day, Johnny. But no more. Please don’t ever talk about it any more.”

  “It’s a deal. Your part of it is not to say anything or do anything that could make things difficult for me right now. I’ve got this weirdo case here, I do have that commitment in New York—”

  “Only in New York? You’re sure there’s nothing going on here with one of the natives?”

  “Nothing. So help me.” I took her hand and eased her up from the chair, carefully avoiding body contact. I steered her to the door. “Remember,” I advised her, “it’s not how fast you travel, it’s only the direction you travel that counts.”

  She gave me a smile. “Now you sound like Kalos, Johnny. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Ten minutes later the phone rang. Maggie. She said coldly, “Thanks a lot, Milano.”

  I didn’t have to ask the question. I asked it anyhow. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I was just put in my place by someone who dropped in on her way home from the detective works. From now on, Milano, whenever you see me coming giv
e me all the room you can spare. You can count on my returning the favor.”

  “Ah, come on,” I coaxed, but I was coaxing a dead line.

  There was a barely visible moon showing when I went down to the oceanfront to catch Daskalos’ sunset performance. A sparse audience this time: Holly Lee, Lou Hoffman, Scott Rountree. Nor did they join the messiah on the beach, but huddled together at the head of the stairway, watching from there.

  Despite this poor box office, Daskalos, the old pro, put his heart into his work. Clad in the same minimal costume, he faced us—and the flaming horizon to the west—and went into the bonecracking simulated crucifixion, closing with thanks to the sun for having done a good job this day. The moon was clear, the stars bright by the time he wound up the act.

  The audience did not disperse, however. It huddled even closer together and engaged in some muttered talk while Daskalos stood watching from the tideline. Suddenly, Holly Lee moved down the stairway. Hoffman was after her at once, grabbing her arm and pulling her to a standstill. Rountree promptly followed, and there was another low-voiced conference. During it, the two men took turns glancing my way. Either my presence, even at a distance, disturbed them or I was an item on their agenda. Meanwhile, Daskalos waited.

  He could have saved himself the wait. The conferees—Hoffman still with that grip on Holly Lee’s arm—finally walked up the stairs and headed toward their cottages.

  Daskalos went his way.

  I went mine, back to Apartment 28, to do some meditating of my own before dinner.

  Meditation, however fruitless, makes time fly. The fruitful part came when I joined the dinner party a few minutes late to find that Maggie, in rearranging her seating plan, had delivered Holly Lee right into my clutches. ESP maybe? I hadn’t asked for it, but here it was. Belle Rountree was now Quist’s lefthand partner at the head of the table; Holly Lee, in Belle’s former seat, was planted between Lou Hoffman and me.

  Cool to me at the outset, presenting her animated side to Hoffman, she warmed up a little when I commented on the food we were being offered. No Cuban special this time, it was French cookery of fair quality. Holly Lee nodded wisely and leaned toward me. “Catered,” she said in an undertone.