Before Vincent Price could answer, Mario said aggressively, “Well, that wasn’t my favorite picture. I like those horror films you made. With all the dark, dank castles, and secret passageways, and lots of blood and violence. And the vampire ones were the best of all.”
Price found this amusing, and he stood there speaking to the three in a very warm, natural manner. Then he turned and said, “Miss Deforge, you’re standing on the brink of a wonderful career. I bought two of your paintings. Number 7 and number 22, and I shall get a great deal of pleasure out of them, I assure you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Price. That makes me feel very good, indeed.”
The actor nodded to the three of them, then turned and began to go around the display again.
“Oh, it’s been so exciting,” Prue said. “Paul Newman was here, and Richard Daley, the mayor. I didn’t care for him much, but Mr. Newman was very nice.”
“Have you sold any paintings except for those that Price bought?” Castellano asked.
“I don’t know. Kent takes care of all of that, but it’s been so wonderful. I was scared to death when I came in, but it’s going very well.”
Christie nodded with approval. There was an assurance in Prue, and when she and Mario left—after having bought a painting that Mario had liked—she said, “Prue’s different. She’s lost that awkward, half-scared look she had.”
“She was a homely little thing when she was growing up,” Mario said. “I remember at the reunions she always kept back. A strange girl, I thought, but she’s a knockout now. It’s a wonder she hasn’t married.”
“I think she’s still got a crush on Mark Stevens. She’s always been sweet on him.”
“Too bad he had to go to Vietnam.”
“Yes, and I hope and pray God keeps him safe.”
Prue was sitting at her desk in her new apartment. Her diary was in front of her, and she looked around the spacious room with the enormous windows that looked down on Chicago. She still did not feel as comfortable in it as she had in her small apartment, but at Kent’s insistence she had taken it. “You can afford it,” he said, “after selling eighteen pictures in your first show. I think that’s a record.”
All the rooms in the apartment were large and were painted a pure, crisp white. The ceilings were white, also, and had little swirls etched into them and were adorned with sparkles that caught the glints of the sunlight coming through the large window beside her desk. The desk was made of wood, painted black, and had been placed in a corner behind the large dining area, and a black and brass desk lamp sat perched on the upper left corner. She glanced around the room and took in the black iron and glass dining table, the black chairs, the black-and-white tile floor, and the all-white kitchen, far too modernistic for her taste at first, but Prue had come to like the clean look and feel of the place. Looking to her left, her eyes took in the sunken living room area. It was covered with a red and black carpet and was furnished with red and black furniture. Huge plants in glossy black containers decorated the corners of the room, as well as the entrance to the long hallway leading to the bedroom and the bathroom. Along one wall was a built-in mirrored shelf unit that held Prue’s small supply of books, and here she had placed some of her prized mementos from her home in the Ozarks. The walls had had abstract paintings hanging on them when she had moved into the apartment, but now the walls were filled with an array of pictures that she herself had painted.
She was writing a letter to Mark:
Dear Mark,
I wrote you about the success of my first show. Well, I don’t know how to tell you what I’ve been feeling lately. You may find out sometime, but I’ve become a little bit famous. Isn’t that funny? Gangly, shy Prudence Deforge, a famous artist. It scared me a little at first when the art critics would come to interview me, but I did what Kent said. I just told them the truth. Some of them think I’m putting on a country act, which amuses me, but I had my picture on the cover of a magazine! It was called Art News, and it said under it, “The new genius of the art world.” I thought that was ridiculous, Mark, but it did make me feel very good.
She wrote on page after page, pouring herself out. She hesitated, then wrote:
One thing I don’t like about all this. I’m getting invited out all the time now, and mostly by men who want to date me. You remember Maxine Baker in high school? She was so pretty, and she was elected Miss Stone County, then later became Miss Arkansas. She told me one time that she didn’t know whether men were asking her out because she was Maxine or because she was Miss Arkansas. Well, I feel like that. I had to get a private phone number I was getting so many calls. I haven’t gone out with any of them though. I don’t think they’re interested in me, just in what I do. And that’s not right. People should be admired for who they are, not for what they do.
Her fingers grew tired, and finally she wrote:
I must close. I got a call from Bobby yesterday. He’s going to be in Chicago, and I’m going to his concert. I’m worried about him, Mark. You know what he’s like. He’s real famous, but it hasn’t made him happy.
I never stop thinking about you, Mark, and I’ll never stop praying for you either. Almost every night I think about the last night we had back home when you kissed me—or when I kissed you, I guess would be closer to the truth—back by the creek. I wish we were there right now. We will be someday.
She started to put “With warm regards,” and finally just signed it, “Love, Prue.” As she sealed the envelope, she thought about how many thousands of miles it had to go and wondered if it would ever catch up with Mark. A sense of sadness came to her as she thought of him and so many thousands of young Americans risking death and undergoing tremendous hardships. As she held the letter she breathed another prayer, “Oh, Lord, keep him safe. Bring him home again!”
Prue had not exaggerated the change in her lifestyle. She could no longer go down to the studio and work under the tutelage of Maxwell as before. Now that she had become a successful professional artist, the students all went out of their way to get closer to her. Somehow they seemed to feel that her success was transferable, that somehow she could make them successful too. Students who had never spoken to her before the show now showed every intention of becoming her good friend. Prue found this disgusting and finally had to stop going to the studio except after hours.
She had complained about this to Kent, who had said, “That’s the way of the world. The crowd worships success, and you might as well get used to it.”
Prue felt she would never grow accustomed to it, and she threw herself into her work. Kent asked her, more than once, if she had changed her mind about marrying him, and she had difficulty answering him. The man had done so much for her, made her a new life practically, and Prue found it hard to hurt anyone.
In her diary she had written: “I wish I could love Kent, but I don’t really, and I don’t know how to tell him so. He’s so lonely, and I’d give anything if he could find a woman he could share his life with—but I know in my heart it won’t be me.”
The fruits of success had been great. She had a bank account now and had bought a car—not the sports car that Kent had urged her to buy but a rather sedate Chevrolet that she liked very much. She had never been one to like clothes very much, but now she enjoyed going shopping once in a while, although her tastes were simple, and she did not have to go to Saks or one of the other expensive stores.
She wrote home to her parents regularly and spent much time with Jake and his family and Christie and Mario. She had a great sense of family, Prue Deforge did, and sometimes the longing to go back home and find the peace and tranquillity of the mountains became overwhelming. She did go back once on a quick visit just for a few days and found that word of her success had preceded her. She was invited to homes that she had never even seen the inside of before, and everyone seemed eager to have her as a guest.
Finally she had said to her father, “Dad, I liked it better before. All these invitations. They don’t real
ly mean anything.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, Prue, and I’m glad to see that you haven’t changed.” Dent’s eyes twinkled and he said, “Except to become rich, healthy, and good-looking.”
“Oh, Dad, don’t say that!”
“Well, it’s better than being poor, sick, and ugly, isn’t it?” He laughed. Then he came over and put his arm around her. His eyes were soft, and he said, “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, Prue. Your mother and I, it’s all we can do to keep from crowing like roosters. As a matter of fact, I do quite a bit, and she has to keep me down.”
Prue hugged him. “Thank you, Dad. It’s always so good to know I can come here, and you and Mom haven’t changed.”
“Have you heard much from Mark?” Dent asked.
“I write him a lot, but his answers come pretty spaced out. I know that he doesn’t have time to write, and I know he’s not telling me the truth about how bad it is over there.”
Seeing the worry in his daughter’s eyes, Dent said quietly, “Well, your mother and I are praying for him.” He hesitated, then said, “You love that fellow, don’t you? I think you always have.”
“Yes, Dad. I guess I have.” She could not lie to her father, for the two were very close. She twisted her hands nervously and said, “I spend a lot of sleepless nights worrying about him.”
“We pray for him every day,” Dent said. “We’ll just have to put him in God’s hands.”
Bobby Stuart grinned broadly as Prue opened the door, and he stood there, his auburn hair long and his eyes sleepy. “Well, it’s my famous relative, Prudence Deforge. The greatest artist since Michelangelo or anybody else.”
“Bobby! Come in,” Prue said. She took his hands, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
“How have you been, Prue?”
The two sat down and talked for a long time. Bobby listened and kept his blue-green eyes fixed on the young woman’s face. She was excited, and there was a difference in her.
“You’re different, Prue,” he said, when she finally stopped.
Startled, Prue said, “You mean because I’ve had success?”
“I guess that’s part of it. Success is a dangerous thing.” A frown clouded his eyes, and he passed a hand over his forehead. “In a way, I think it’s different than drugs.”
Prue stared at him, knowing that he had had his troubles with drugs. It had been well enough publicized. She saw the unhappiness in his face and said quietly, “What’s wrong, Bobby?”
“Same old thing. I’m on a merry-go-round, and I can’t seem to get off. That’s what success does,” he said glumly. He leaned back in the overstuffed chair and closed his eyes. “Everybody loves you. Everybody wants a piece of you, but they don’t really. It’s not you they want. It’s something else.”
“I know,” Prue said quietly. “I’ve had a little taste of that.”
“You’re going to get more. It’s just beginning for you.” Stuart now was past his first youth. He was in his thirties, with years of success in concerts and films, and his records were selling by the millions. He had all that a man could want—but still there was an air of unhappiness and uncertainty. He never showed this, Prue understood, in public, but now in the quietness of her apartment she saw the lines on his face and the twitching of his mouth, which indicated unhappiness somehow.
Bobby sat up, and leaned over, and took her hand, holding it for a moment. “You’re a special person, Prue. You’re not like everyone else.” He hesitated, not mentioning the fact that he had run through dozens of young women and some not so young. They had been readily available, and now he said, “Women seem to lose their minds, or their hearts, or something. They go crazy over rock stars. I’d give anything to find one woman like you that’s real. Prue, you’re good-looking enough to tempt any man. I’m just trying to tell you that right now you’re standing on the brink. You’re going to be tested more than you know.”
“Oh, Bobby, I don’t think—”
“I know. You think you can handle it. I thought I could too. But it’s strange about power, and money, and fame. They get in your blood just like heroin or alcohol. You don’t ever intend to get caught up in it, but you do. How many Hollywood stars do you know who are still plain, simple folks?”
“Well, there’s Jimmy Stewart—”
“That’s one. Now name ten more. Five more for that matter.” He shook his head and grinned ruefully. “You can’t, can you?” He sat there quietly, and the two talked long into the night. Prue had known he was unhappy but had never plumbed the depths of his misery. He was overweight now, and hard living had marked him. She noticed that his hands began to tremble after about an hour, and when he got up and said, “Well, I’ve got to go,” she knew he was headed for a bottle or drugs of some kind.
“Bobby,” she said, standing up and moving before him, “isn’t there some way you can change your life?”
“Did you ever know anybody to change their life, to throw away millions of dollars and everything the world has to offer?” His voice was bitter, and he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. He hesitated, then said, “Don’t change, Prue. Please don’t change. It’s too late for me, but I’d hate to see anything happen to you. I think too much of you—and of Mark.”
He turned and walked away abruptly, and Prue understood that drugs had created a craving in him. When the door shut, she felt the tears rise in her eyes, and for a long time she felt miserable and defeated. The thoughts of Mark fighting in Vietnam came to her, and she whispered aloud, “Mark’s not in any more danger than you are, Bobby.”
18
MEN OF HONOR
The segment of the Los Angeles Police Department that housed the vice squad was busy, as always. The large space, which most of the detectives used for their work, was cluttered with desks, chairs, computers, and telephones that seemed to ring incessantly. Some officers wearing their guns and shoulder holsters would speak in a staccato voice over their phone, slam the receiver back into the cradle, then plunge into the debris of paperwork that covered their desk. A constant hum of voices would, at times, lift into what amounted to a roar, but the officers had become so accustomed to it that they paid it little heed.
From time to time, informers and witnesses would appear, stepping through the large door on the east end of the room, and Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti had long since noticed that no matter why they came, a look of guilt and fear usually leaped into their eyes. Scarlotti had stepped out of his office, just momentarily, and his hard, gray eyes swept the room, ticking off his squad, making notes somewhere deep in his brain for future reference. His very presence was enough to cause a furor of activity on the part of several officers who had been standing at the water fountain, laughing and telling jokes. They scurried back to their desks trying to look serious, which was not difficult. All of them had heard Scarlotti peel the potato of several of the vice squad’s detectives, and they knew that it was not his policy to call a man to one side. He read him off where he caught him, even if it was in the middle of the squad room, and his voice could carry for two country miles.
“Sergeant! Come into my office!”
“Yes, sir.” A tall, thin officer with a Russian nine millimeter in a clipped holster on his belt rose with alacrity and kicked his desk chair back in a sudden motion. He had light blue eyes, a crown of brown hair leaving most of his scalp bare, and a thin mustache over a rather narrow mouth. Otto Krugman knew his superior well, and he wasted no time crossing the room toward the door.
“Time for the boss to straighten you out, Otto.” Larry Taylor grinned. “You’ve been gettin’ out of line lately. Tell him to go chase himself.”
“I’ll let you tell him that, Larry,” Krugman said. “You had a pretty full life, I guess.” Reaching the door, he stepped inside the office that, unlike the squad room, was completely uncluttered. It was a room not more than twelve feet square, the furniture being a single desk with a straight-backed chair behind it and another strai
ght-backed chair placed exactly in front of it. The desktop contained an in-and-out basket, double stacked, a gold Cross pen and pencil lying on a pad in front of Lieutenant Scarlotti, and nothing more.
Keeps that desk stripped for action, Krugman thought as he came forward and sat down opposite the chief of the vice squad. He was the only man in the unit who faced Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti without apprehension. The two of them had been partners for a long time—both having served together as uniformed officers in a patrol car. Being a uniformed patrolman in the city of Los Angeles tended to either make men hate each other or trust each other completely, and so it was with Krugman and Scarlotti. They did not socialize, for they were almost completely different in their habits and lifestyles. However, each of them could remember times going into dark alleys when the other had held his life, and a firm bond of trust had been formed.
“I’ve been working on the Anderson case—”
“Never mind that, Otto.” Scarlotti shook his head. “That’s not what I want to talk about.” Scarlotti was forty-one years old, and his dark hair was cut short, and his eyes, almost black, were capable of practically burning holes through steel—at least through criminal and recalcitrant police officers! He was a bulky man with a weight lifter’s build, and as he placed his hands flat on the desk, Krugman noticed automatically the hard edges along the little finger and the cutting edge of the palm. He well knew that Scarlotti could bust a two-inch oak board with those palms, and he remembered several times when human flesh had broken easier than the oak. He waited silently, knowing his man. Scarlotti took counsel from no one but let plans formulate in his mind until they were complete. Then he would call in his detectives, one at a time, and give them a complete program ready to execute.
“Otto, I’m not happy with the work we’ve been doing on drugs.”
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