“Sorry, Toby.”
The gun came up and aimed for my chest. I thought about leaping into the darkness, and I might have made it that far, but I didn’t have the strength to crawl away after that. He’d just walk over and shoot me.
“Don’t be a sap, Hatch. With me gone, there’s no one to blame the killings on. The cops will find you.”
The gun leveled. I had been beaten, screwed, shoved in a closet and shot in the back by various members of the Beaumont family. Now one of them was going to kill me, and I was still trying to help them. Maybe my brother was right.
Then I heard a sound. It was inside the building but far away, a kind of squeak and swish. Hatch didn’t hear it. He took a step toward me to make sure he didn’t miss.
In the light behind Hatch, I could see something moving quickly from the ceiling. It got bigger and in my woozy state, it seemed to be moving in slow motion.
It was a man swinging down behind Hatch on an equipment rope. The man was Errol Flynn, in a billowy white shirt. I made the leap into darkness as Hatch fired and missed and turned to watch as Flynn’s flying feet hit him squarely in the back.
Hatch lumbered forward hitting the sofa I had just been sitting in. My gun flew, and Flynn dropped neatly to the ground.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said brightly.
Hatch made a lunge for him, but Flynn was too fast. The actor moved to the side and threw a fist to Hatch’s head. The big man went down in a heap.
“Please don’t get up again, old man,” Flynn said sincerely. “I really don’t enjoy hitting you.”
Flynn picked up my gun and moved to my side to help me up. He handed me the gun. I managed to hold onto it and aim it at Hatch, who struggled to his feet.
“Heard the whole thing,” Flynn said shaking his head. “Hatch, Toby told you the truth. I never saw your granddaughter before yesterday.”
“Errol,” I said, “you heard the deal I offered Hatch. Is it all right with you if it stays open?”
Hatch looked hopefully at Flynn.
“Of course. It also keeps my name out of this and the studio happy.”
“Thanks,” said Hatch.
I asked Flynn to take the money and leave the torn negative in Spade and Archer’s wastebasket. He supported me with one hand, and Hatch walked in front of us.
“What were you doing here?” I asked Flynn.
“Ironic, my friend, truly ironic,” he replied. “Fate is a wondrous thing. As I told you, I had decided that I had had enough of hiding. I would not spend another night cowering in that hotel. I came here to tell Hatch not to bother to stand bodyguard duty. I came in just as you chastised him for a few murders. Then I got the brilliant idea of using the rope. I shall always remember that moment, savor it, actually.”
“You saved my life,” I said.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” His grin was broad.
Hatch made the call from a phone in Flynn’s dressing room. I gave him my brother’s number. Flynn got on the phone and suggested that they also send an ambulance for me.
My brother must have asked who was talking because Flynn said:
“Errol Flynn. I’m an actor.”
Flynn poured himself a drink, and one for Hatch, who took it. I declined. We let Hatch call Brenda and arrange for a lawyer to meet him at the station.
Our march to the gate was a ridiculous sight. Flynn half carried me, and Hatch marched glumly in front of us.
Just before we reached the gate a big black car stopped next to us, and a little man jumped out. His hair, what there was of it, was black. So was his suit.
“Flynn,” said Jack Warner, “is that man drunk?” He pointed at me.
“No, Mr. Warner, he’s sick.”
Warner gave Flynn an unbelieving look, sure that he was being made the butt of a silly practical joke involving Flynn and one of his drunken friends.
“Does he work for me?” Warner asked.
“Not exactly,” Flynn replied.
“Good,” said Warner, getting back in his car. “Then get him off the lot.”
That was exactly what he had said four years ago when he fired me.
I let out a laugh and slumped against Flynn. Warner gave me a last look and a shake of his hea and pulled away.
I passed out and woke up four days later.
15
The day I got out of the hospital, the first thing I did was call my sister-in-law to find out how my nephew was. She said he was fine. I didn’t talk to my brother.
Flynn had paid my hospital bills. Part of the expenses, he said. He also paid me my fee for every day I was in the hospital. I took it.
With towing, taxi fares, parking, ruined clothes, phone calls and broken window thrown in, the fee was $464.90.
Hatch had confessed. The story he concocted was part self-defense and part insanity. It was so confused and complicated that it might convince a jury. He had kept out all mention of Lynn, Flynn, me and Warner Brothers.
My arm was still in a sling. I had a steak at Al Levy’s Tavern on Vine and took a Yellow cab to the studio. Sid Adelman was expecting me.
Esther was still reading her magazine, and F.D.R. was still on the desk. The Warner boys were on the wall, and a new writer had moved into Bill Faulkner’s office.
“What happened to Faulkner?” I said.
“Didn’t work out,” Sid answered. “What can I do for you?”
“You got your $5,000 back, and the negative was destroyed. You owe me two hundred bucks.”
He got up and moved for the refrigerator.
“You want a beer?”
“No,” I said, “I want two hundred bucks. You were willing to pay thousands for that picture, and I got rid of it for you. Now you’re arguing about a lousy few hundred bucks.”
Sid straightened his jacket and nodded, always the man to accept a good argument.
“You’re a schmuck,” he said, pulling out his wallet and handing me two hundred dollar bills, “but I always said you were honest. You want your job back here?”
“No thanks,” I said. “Mr. Warner and I don’t get along.”
“You’re not the only one,” he said, “but that doesn’t keep them from working here and getting rich.”
I pocketed the money and started for the door when the phone rang. Sid answered and caught me as I touched the knob.
“For you,” he said.
I took it. A woman’s voice, frightened, musical and familiar answered.
“Mr. Peters,” she said. “Thank goodness I found you. I called your office, and Dr. Minck said I could reach you there. Errol Flynn said you might be able to help me. I need help.”
“Who is this?” I said, reaching for a pencil on Sid’s desk, “and where can I meet you?”
“My name is Judy Garland, and you can meet me at M.G.M as quickly as you can get here. Please hurry, Mr. Peters. I …”
Something or someone cut her off in mid-sentence. I ran for the door, without saying goodby to Sid Adelman or Warner Brothers.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-0aa531-4816-d14e-20ae-a3f0-bcc4-87020f
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Bullet for a Star tp-1 Page 14
