by Robert Bloch
“But I’m in that scene too. Couldn’t we do it together?”
“That’s what I suggested. He says he prefers to work alone.”
“I get it,” Jan said. “The star treatment.”
“Star, no. Treatment, yes. Just between us, he is very unsure of himself. Playing a transvestite, he has to go against his image. It is important that I help him.”
“What about me?” Jan did her best to conceal her irritation. “I’ve got some questions about my own part—”
“They will be answered, I promise you.” Vizzini perfumed the air with his gesture. “We will schedule another reading later in the week. I’ll have Linda check and let you know when to set it up. Perhaps by that time you will have a better grasp of the character.” He led her to the door, patting her shoulder, and this time she didn’t flinch away from his touch. “Believe me, if you get up in your lines there will be nothing to worry about. I trust my instinct. When I selected you for the part, I knew you would come through.”
Not for you, buster, Jan told herself. Stuff yourself.
But when she drove back up the hillside to the apartment in the humid heat of late afternoon, she did decide to have another go at the script.
Connie was gone, out on a casting call for a commercial, so there were no distractions. Once she’d changed into slacks and settled down on the living room sofa, Jan opened the pages of Crazy Lady and addressed herself to the sides of dialogue she’d carefully underscored in vivid green.
The trouble was that she couldn’t stick to her own lines; before long she was reading the entire script straight through. And once again she was disturbed by the impact and import of the subject matter. This was no whodunnit, it wasn’t structured like a routine suspense film, and it didn’t rely on what they called “pop-ups” for its shocks. The thing read almost like a documentary; its fright was factual. And what disturbed her most was that Roy Ames had written it.
Once again she recalled his outburst the other day. That was disturbing too—not just what he’d said or the way he’d said it, but the realization of how completely it had caught her off guard. Up until then she’d had a thing about Roy, and it wouldn’t have taken much more to turn her on. But now—
Now the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“That’s a great line. Mind if I steal it?” said Roy Ames.
Speak of the devil.
But she didn’t hang up. She listened to his apology and accepted it. And when he came out with an invitation to dinner at Sportsman’s Lodge, she accepted that too.
“No, don’t pick me up—I’ll meet you there,” she told him. “Eight o’clock’s fine. See you.”
Jan put the phone down, but the burden of doubt remained. Had she made the right move? The words of an old proverb emerged from memory. He who sups with the devil must have a long spoon.
Maybe so. But whoever had invented that one-liner was speaking of men, not women. And she’d made sure the spoon was long enough, by not inviting him here to pick her up.
Besides, he wasn’t a devil, but merely an opponent in this hassle about the film. So the right thing had been to accept, to try to win him over.
Jan shelved the script on the bookcase. No more time to rehearse now; this evening she had another part to play.
She dressed for it carefully and considered her role. Roy had handed her the right cues. His apology amounted to an admission that he was the heavy, and the dinner invitation indicated he’d be doing his best to make amends for past behavior. All she had to do was remember to play the injured party and steal the scene.
By the time she arrived at Sportsman’s Lodge, Jan had her act together.
She came into the lobby a few minutes before eight, but Roy was already waiting for her; a good sign. He had two martinis before ordering dinner, and that was good too. Meanwhile he kept chatting her up with a lot of small talk, indicating that while the drinks had loosened his tongue, he wasn’t really relaxed. And he never said one word about the picture; obviously he intended to avoid the subject entirely.
But it had to be discussed if she meant to end his opposition. Jan half listened to him over her fruit cocktail, and by the time their steaks arrived, she’d found the lead-in.
“I hate to admit it, but I’m glad I canceled my other date,” she said.
Roy put down his salad fork and looked up. Jan met the question in his eyes with a smile.
“Vizzini wanted me to have dinner with him and discuss the picture.”
“That creep.” Roy’s reaction was even better than she’d hoped for. Or worse. “Don’t get yourself involved. I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“Right. It’s mine.” Jan retained the smile as she interrupted. “I agree he’s a creep, but he also happens to be my director. And it could be important, having him on my side.”
“He’ll be on something more than just your side if you aren’t careful,” Roy said. “You know how he operates. The stuff that went on at his place in Nichols Canyon, the dog-and-pony act with the rock groupies. Sure, it was all hushed up, he was right in the middle of shooting that twenty-million-dollar turkey, and the money people couldn’t afford to see him indicted. But you don’t need trouble. Not with a kink who’s that far into S-and-M and violence.”
Roy slashed at his steak as he spoke, then paused as Jan caught his eye.
“Look who’s talking,” she said.
“Sorry.” His motion slowed, his knife and voice lowered selfconsciously. “Maybe it’s contagious.”
“I know,” Jan murmured. “I caught some of it today, going over my script. Scary.”
“Guess I was in shock when I wrote it. But you wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“Stop and think.” Roy pushed his plate back. “I’ve done spooky stuff before, mostly teleplays, but that’s why Driscoll handed me the assignment. Writing about vampires and werewolves is like writing fairy tales. It never got to me because I knew the monsters were just make-believe.
“But this time was different. What I wrote about was based on something that really happened, and Norman Bates was for real.” Roy nodded. “He got to me.”
“How?”
“You’re an actress. You know what’s needed when you play a part, the way you try to get a handle on the character’s motivations?” Roy gulped coffee. “A writer does that upfront, too—his job is to find that handle. Doing the script, I had to somehow get inside Norman, figure out how he thought, how he felt, what made him tick until he exploded.
“It wasn’t easy, but somehow I managed, and it worked. But when I finally managed to get into that sick head of his, all I wanted was to get out again, finish the script so I’d be finished with Norman.
“What I forgot is that Norman wasn’t finished with me. At least when I was writing the character, I could control him, just like the real Norman was controlled back there in the asylum. But now—”
Jan put down her fork. “I know how you feel. He freaks me out too. But scrubbing the picture won’t change anything. Besides, Norman’s dead. You saw the paper this morning; they’re almost positive now he died in that van explosion.”
“Almost positive.” Roy leaned forward. “Suppose they’re wrong?”
“You said the same thing yesterday at the studio.” Jan spoke softly. “Why? Do you know something we don’t?”
“It’s not what I know.” Roy paused and Jan had the feeling his usual glibness had deserted him; he was fumbling for something deep inside that couldn’t be captured by a phrase. “All I’ve got is a gut instinct that Norman is still alive. Alive and waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” Roy grimaced. “How can I expect you to understand when I can’t even understand it myself?”
He’s hurting. Really hurting. Jan’s resentment vanished with the realization. This was no adversary, merely a deeply troubled man tormented by something he couldn’t exorcise or express.
She
’d forgotten about her role-playing, but now she needed its help if she wanted to come to his rescue. Perhaps the best way was to laugh it off.
And so Jan smiled her I’m-putting-you-on smile and said, “Sounds bad. Maybe you ought to see a shrink.”
Roy nodded. “I will.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you know?” Roy leaned forward. “Driscoll called me tonight just before I left. He’s set up a meeting for tomorrow morning with Norman Bates’s psychiatrist.”
— 17 —
Jan lucked out at the studio gate on Wednesday morning.
She arrived early, her Toyota wedged into a queue of cars conveying regular employees, and when the guard saw the new sticker pasted on the windshield, he waved her forward.
No one asked her if she had an appointment, and that was a break because she wasn’t expected.
Certainly, Anita Kedzie was surprised when Jan showed up in Driscoll’s outer office. The moment she appeared, the insectoid eyes behind the bulging lenses began a quick scan of the ruled notepad resting on the desktop between the intercom and the telephone.
“I don’t seem to have you down here,” said Miss Kedzie. “What time did Mr. Driscoll say for you to come in?”
“He didn’t.” Jan’s smile was casual. “I just happened to be on the lot and thought I’d stop by for a moment.”
Miss Kedzie’s pursed lips revealed her reaction. Stop by? But nobody sees a producer without an appointment. It’s like dropping in at the Vatican to have a surprise quickie with the Pope.
“I’m afraid he’s tied up,” the secretary said. Her brisk tone didn’t indicate whether Driscoll was bound and gagged or merely suffering from constipation. “If you like, I can tell him you’re here.”
“Don’t bother,” Jan told her. “It’s really not important.”
But it was important. She glanced at her watch. Nine-forty-five. Roy hadn’t mentioned a specific time for the meeting and she hadn’t risked arousing his suspicions by asking. She’d guessed it would probably be scheduled for ten and had made her plans accordingly. Barge in early, give Driscoll some excuse about coming on the lot for wardrobe fittings, and just happen to be on hand when this Dr. Claiborne arrived.
She didn’t expect an invitation to stick around, but at least she might have a chance to say hello and size him up, maybe even get some clues as to why he was here. Of course, Roy would be furious, but after last night Jan had decided it was no use trying to turn him around. What she needed to know right now was whether Dr. Claiborne was on her team or the enemy list.
Too late now—she’d blown it.
Jan was already turning away when Anita Kedzie called after her.
“Miss Harper—”
“Yes?”
“Would you do me a favor? I want to go down the hall, just for a minute. Mr. Driscoll doesn’t like for me to leave the office unless someone’s here to take calls.”
“No problem. I’ll stick around.”
“Thank you.”
The secretary rose and scurried into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
Jan smiled. She wasn’t too entomology, but apparently insects had bladders too. Let’s hear it for Miss Kedzie’s kidneys.
Now, if there was only some way to take advantage of her security leak—
The desk intercom offered the obvious solution. Keeping a wary eye on the outer door, Jan stepped over and flipped the unit’s audio switch.
Driscoll’s voice. “Okay, Doc, let’s put it this way. I’m already committed. The deals are made, the contracts are signed, the sets are going up. You got any idea what the interest charges are on even one day’s delay? I’m talking facts and figures now. All you’ve got is this hunch—”
“But it’s not just a hunch.” Roy Ames. “It’s a professional evaluation.”
“What about Dr. Steiner? He doesn’t go along with it, he told me so himself. Neither do the police.”
“This man was Norman Bates’s therapist. He’s the only one in a position to know. He came out here at his own expense.”
“Believe me, I appreciate it! But there’s no point arguing now. Look, Doc, I’m sorry you had to waste your time—”
“Maybe it isn’t wasted.” George Ward’s soft murmur. “Remember your idea about sending Roy to Fairvale before he did a final polish on the script?”
“Yeah. But Steiner turned me down.”
“Dr. Claiborne is the man Roy should talk to. And you’ve got him right here. If you put him on as technical advisor for a few days—”
“Now you’re talking!” Driscoll, cutting in. “Make a good story—”
“But I’m not interested in promoting your film.” The firm, resonant voice had to be Dr. Claiborne’s. “I’m warning you—the only publicity the press will get from me is a statement that this picture should not be made.”
And there goes the ballgame. Jan snapped off the intercom. Smug bastard sounds like he means it, too. If he goes public he could raise enough stink to get the PTA and all the other pressure groups into the act.
Behind her, Jan could hear footsteps approaching in the other hall. Probably Miss Kedzie, returning.
Jan didn’t wait to find out. She moved to the door of the private office and flung it open.
The occupants of the room stared up in surprise as she entered. Presumably the big smile on her face was for all of them, but Jan zeroed in on the tall man standing directly before Driscoll’s desk. That would be Dr. Claiborne.
“Hi,” she said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Driscoll scowled. “What do you want? We’re in a meeting—”
“So I heard.”
“Heard?”
Jan gave him her no-big-deal look. “Somebody must have left the intercom on accidentally.”
“Where the hell is Kedzie?”
“She went down the hall for a minute and asked me to hold the fort.”
Driscoll reached for the unit on his desk, and Jan gestured quickly. “Please, don’t chew her out. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have listened.”
The producer was still scowling, but his hand drew back. “Okay, so you listened. What do you want?”
Roy and George were scowling too, but Jan ignored them. And she ignored Driscoll as she turned to face the tall man standing before the desk. He was younger than she’d expected—not handsome, but with a cool, laid-back look that contrasted with the nervous frowns of the others. He eyed her steadily.
“Dr. Claiborne?” she said. “I’m Jan Harper.”
He nodded, his stare softening as he returned her smile. “I’ve seen your photograph.”
“Then you know I’m playing Mary Crane in the picture.”
“Yes.”
Driscoll’s voice boomed. “What the hell is this, boy meets girl? Look, if you’ve got anything to say—”
“I do.” Jan swivelled her smile, then focused again on Dr. Claiborne’s face. “I need your help.”
His eyes flickered momentarily. “What’s the problem?”
“You.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“It’s the picture I’m talking about. I need your cooperation. We all do.”
“I’ve already stated my position—”
“I know. But you could change your mind.”
“For what reason?”
“Because this film must be made.” Jan was winging it, and as his stare challenged her, she met his question with another. “Have you read the script?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.” The voice was firm and assured, but the stare dropped, and Jan felt confidence return. She’d caught him off guard, and now she had her cue.
“Then you should. Because it’s a marvelous piece of writing.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Driscoll and Ward watching. They wouldn’t interrupt now, they’d let her run with the ball. Roy had stopped scowling too, and that was good. But she wasn’t here to stroke Roy; she was playing to Dr. Cl
aiborne.
“I’m not talking about technique,” she said. “It’s the concept. This isn’t just another one of those horror flicks with a crazy heavy chewing the scenery. Norman Bates comes off as a human being—an ordinary man with hopes and fears and desires we all share, but caught in a compulsion he can’t cope with. What he does is horrifying, but we see the reason and in the end we realize he’s more of a victim than any of the others. The real heavy of the story is our own society.”
Dr. Claiborne was smiling now. “That’s quite a speech. How long did you rehearse it?”
“I didn’t.” Jan eyed him earnestly. “If I had, I’d give you the business about how much I want my part, how many people’s jobs depend on making the picture. But there’s more to it than that.”
She waited a beat, then modulated her voice. The words came easily now. “You’re a doctor. You worked with Norman Bates, know his problems. Haven’t you ever wanted, just once, to tell people what it’s really like—get them to understand and share the problem?
“Well, here’s your chance. Our chance. Read the script. Tell us what’s right and what’s wrong, so we can tell the world. You owe that much to yourself and to your patient.”
Dr. Claiborne hesitated, his eyes searching, challenging, then submitting.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “As far as you go. But it’s not that simple. What I’ve been trying to say to Mr. Driscoll and the others here is that Norman Bates may still be alive. And if so, going ahead with this project could place you all in a potentially dangerous position.”
“I agree,” Roy said. “Look, Jan—”
“I agree too.” Jan cut him off quickly, but her smile never wavered. “But Mr. Driscoll has already decided to go ahead. And that’s all the more reason we need Dr. Claiborne here with us.”
She turned to face the tall man again. “Now I’ll speak for myself,” she said. “If you’re right, if Norman Bates is still alive, I’d feel a lot safer knowing you were here.”
Dr. Claiborne was silent for a moment. And when he spoke, it was not to her but to George Ward.
