by Robert Bloch
Suppose he was right? Suppose that by some crazy coincidence he’d actually find himself coming upon Norman, crouching there in the dark behind the door—crouching and waiting?
Claiborne hesitated, deep in internal debate. What are you waiting for? Damn it, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find him?
He mounted the steps slowly. Don’t worry. If he is in there, he’s frightened. As frightened as you are.
Again he paused. He was frightened, admit it; his tightened muscles offered tense testimony. There was a prickling across his scalp, a trickling beneath his armpits.
That was a normal reaction to fear, and he could accept it. But would Norman’s reaction be normal? When Norman was afraid, he lashed out. If he had a weapon—
You’ve faced that problem before. Occupational hazard, it comes with the territory. Only it won’t happen. He isn’t here, can’t be here, not with a million hiding places to choose from.
Claiborne reached for the door.
And heard the sound.
It was quite faint; even here, in the cavernous echo chamber of the sound stage, there was scarcely more than a hint of it. A rustling sound followed by a creak.
But it didn’t come from behind the door. The source was the lighted area beyond.
He turned away, descending the steps before the dressing room. Now there was silence, broken by the soft scraping of his own footsteps over concrete as he started forward. Even this was stilled as he slowed his pace, moving in quiet caution, feeling the fear, straining to detect a repetition of the rustling and the creaking.
Nothing.
He came to the open area at the right of the three-sided set where the light bulb dangled. There he halted, peering forward.
No one moved beneath the light. The set was deserted.
Slowly he started past the walls enclosing him on both sides, into the rectangular room set beyond. Then, as he entered, something changed. Looking down, he saw carpeting beneath his feet. Red and faded carpeting, the kind one finds only in old houses where old people ignore the passage of time.
And he was in such a house now, standing still in a room where time stood still.
Claiborne glanced at the old-fashioned dresser and vanity, their tops littered with mementos of long-ago yesterdays. A gilt clock, Dresden figurines, a pincushion, an ornate hand mirror, glass-stoppered bottles of scent. These objects, and a glimpse of the garments hanging from a rack in an open closet, told him he was in a woman’s bedroom, even before he saw the bed itself.
The bed stood in the far corner at the right, past the high-backed rocker facing the window in the shadows to the left. He stepped forward, surveying the contours of the four-poster, admiring the hand-embroidered bedspread. But as he neared it, he noted that the spread had been tucked in carelessly, so that a portion of the double pillow was visible at the top. On impulse he reached down and pulled the covers back, revealing grayish sheets dotted with brown flecks. And the telltale indentation of recent occupancy—the deep indentation that could only have been made by someone resting here a long time.
Someone.
Some thing.
Claiborne knew where he was now. He’d never seen it, never been there before, but he’d heard and read enough to recognize what it must be.
The bedroom of Norman’s mother.
It was here, of course, that the mummified body of Mrs. Bates, preserved by Norman’s crude attempts at taxidermy, had lain untouched and unsuspected for all those years while Norman preserved the illusion that she was still alive—a crazed invalid, confined to her room. But it was Norman himself who had been crazed, who had assumed her persona when he killed. Wearing her clothing, talking in her voice, here in this room.
No, not this room. It’s only a set.
Claiborne confirmed the reality by contact, pulling the bedspread up again to hide the indented outline. But his scalp crawled as he did so, and he couldn’t hide the thought crawling beneath it.
What had it been like for Norman, living in the real house, sitting in the real bedroom night after night, mumbling to a mummy? Mummy, Mommy—
Then he heard the sound again, the creaking and the rustling.
He turned as the shadows stirred.
The creaking came from the high-backed rocker facing the window.
And the rustling came from the dress as the old woman rose from the chair and glided toward him.
She came out of the shadows with her gray hair gleaming, mouth contorted in a ghastly rictus. Her arms rose, her hands scrabbled upward, the wig came off.
Claiborne stared at the grinning face—a face he’d seen so many times on the screen.
The face of Paul Morgan.
— 21 —
Claiborne sat at the bar in the Tail o’ the Cock, still nursing a beer as Morgan ordered his second drink.
Wearing skintight jeans, the V-neck of his shirt spread to reveal the gold locket nestling against a hairy chest, Morgan bore no resemblance to the hunched old lady on the darkened set of the sound stage.
“Sorry about that,” he was saying. “I didn’t mean to shake you up.”
“Forget it. You don’t have to keep apologizing.” Claiborne shifted on his bar stool. “Actually, I had no business being there in the first place.”
“Neither did I.” Morgan reached for his glass as the bartender set it down before him. “It was Vizzini’s idea.”
“The director?”
“I’m not used to this kind of jazz. He wants me to really sell those scenes in drag. Not just wearing the dress and wig—it’s the walk, the gestures, the whole bit. I figured doing it on the set would help me get used to the feel, dig?”
Claiborne smiled ruefully. “Well, you certainly sold me.”
Morgan raised his glass and drank, obviously pleased by the verdict.
Claiborne wondered just how pleased Morgan would be if he knew about his unspoken reservations. Morgan was indeed convincing when disguised as the old woman, but playing Norman would be an entirely different matter. Without makeup, he was imprisoned in his own image, instantly identifiable.
As if to prove the point, a girl rose from a group of three seated in one of the nearby booths and came over to the bar. Petitely pretty, she had shiny auburn hair and brown eyes that were accentuated by the outfit she was wearing; white slacks and open blouse emphasized both the baby fat and the plump, budding breasts. She was probably a tourist and undoubtedly not a day over sixteen.
Ignoring Claiborne, she moved up alongside his companion. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Paul Morgan?”
The actor put down his glass and turned, flashing his familiar grin. “What do you think?” he said.
The girl’s eyes dropped before his gaze and her hand came up clutching a small book, bound in imitation leather, and a ballpoint pen. The hand trembled almost imperceptibly, but the tremor in her voice was quite evident. “If you don’t mind—could I have your autograph?”
Morgan’s gaze zeroed in on the front of her blouse. “You can have anything I’ve got,” he said. She flushed and his grin softened. “Come on, honey, don’t be nervous.”
She relaxed, reassured by his change of expression.
“Where you from?” he murmured.
“Toledo. My girlfriends and me, we’re out here on a tour.” She smiled shyly, glancing back at the booth. “They dared me to come over. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem.” He reached for the book, opening it to a blank page, then took the pen from her hand. “What’s your name?”
“Jackie. Jackie Sherbourne.”
“Want to spell it for me?”
She did so, and he scribbled across the page in a bold, florid script, winking at her as he wrote. “There, that ought to do it.” Closing the book, he handed it back to her along with the pen.
“Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure.”
The girl went away and Morgan turned to reach for his glass again. Claiborne watched the girl as
she and her companions moved, chattering, to the exit.
Morgan swallowed his drink. “Anything wrong?”
Claiborne shrugged in denial. But the gesture was meaningless, because he’d seen what Morgan had written in the autograph book. To Jackie Sherbourne, who gives good head.
A shabby trick, and for a moment Claiborne was tempted to call him on it. He promised himself that he would, later, when the time came. But not yet. Now he needed allies. The script—
“Stinks, if you ask me.” Morgan was talking about it. “Don’t think I’m too dumb to know what Ames is up to, throwing all those scenes to the girl, building up her part. But she can’t hack it. Why the hell Driscoll signed her I’ll never know, he must have been out of his tree.”
“I get the impression the director is responsible for casting the role,” Claiborne said. “After all, she does look like Mary Crane. He’s trying for realism.”
“Then where do I come in, playing a gay?”
“Not a gay, a transvestite.”
“But Norman thinks he’s his own mother—”
“His fugue doesn’t necessarily involve homosexuality, except on the subliminal level.”
“Then what the hell does it involve?” Morgan frowned. “Skip the two-dollar words, give it to me straight. What was Norman Bates really like?”
Claiborne shrugged. “Very much like you or me,” he said. “If we were stripped of identity, reduced to a numbered case history, confined to a room that’s really a cell, subject to orders, surrounded by sickness and aberration—”
“I know about all that.” Paul Morgan spoke softly. “I’ve been in a flake-factory.”
Noting the involuntary flicker of surprise in Claiborne’s eyes, he continued quickly, “Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t whacko. Voluntary commitment, a couple of years ago—stayed for a month, just to dry out.” Morgan picked up his glass and downed the ice-diluted residue. “Didn’t work.”
His tone was sardonic, but there was no trace of the attitude in his face as he leaned forward. “Neither did I,” he said. “You want the truth, I didn’t work for damn near a year and a half. That’s one hell of a long time in this business, and once the word is out, you can’t even get arrested.”
“But Vizzini wanted you for this part.”
“He didn’t want me—just the name. And he got it dirt cheap. That’s the only reason Driscoll went along with the deal. He told me so to my face, the scumbag bastard.”
Morgan’s hand tightened around his empty glass. “Son of a bitch keeps riding me, thinks he can give me the needle, but he’s got a surprise coming. If he’d been alone with me on the set this morning instead of you—”
Conscious of Claiborne’s stare, the actor broke off with an abrupt laugh. “Forget it,” he said. “Have another drink.”
Claiborne slid off the bar stool, shaking his head. “I’d better get back to the motel.” He hesitated. “Sure you’re all right?”
Morgan nodded. “Just had to blow out my exhaust. But it’s okay now. I goddam know I can cut the part, so there’s nothing to sweat about.” He summoned the all-purpose grin. “Remember, I’m Paul Morgan.”
Driving away, Claiborne remembered. The disturbing vision of Paul Morgan in drag on the set—the casual cruelty of Paul Morgan with the autograph seeker—the bitterness and anger of Paul Morgan at the bar. And it wasn’t until he reached the motel that he asked himself the question:
What is Paul Morgan really like?
— 22 —
It was almost seven when Jan opened the oven door to check on the roast.
She frowned. Still not done. Closing the door, she turned the oven up to four hundred. Give it another fifteen minutes while I do the salad. With luck, maybe he’ll be late. He doesn’t know these hills.
But as she tossed the lettuce she caught herself listening for sounds of a car approaching outside. All she heard was the endless repetition of a nightbird’s two notes, defiantly defining its territory. And inside, Connie’s slamming things around in the territory of her own bedroom, getting ready to go out for the evening. Here’s hoping she’s gone before he arrives.
Jan drowned the thought in a mixture of oil and vinegar. She poured it over the salad, and then it was time to take another look at the roast, turn off the oven, give it a final basting, and let it brown a bit more—
Domesticity, you can have it. Strictly for the birds. Suddenly she was aware that the nightbird’s call had ceased. And she’d never even heard the car drive up, but now the door chimes sounded, followed almost immediately by the buzz of voices. That bitch Connie answered the door herself. I told her—
Too late now. Jan untied her apron, flung it over the back of a chair, and freed her hands to smooth her hair. Why hadn’t she had the sense to hang some kind of mirror here in the kitchen, just a little one for emergencies like this?
And it was an emergency, anytime she’d let herself get stuck in the kitchen with this cozy little dinner-for-two routine—
Hastily she grabbed a tissue from the open box on the counter and patted her face and forehead. At least she wouldn’t make her entrance with a shiny nose. Once she lit the candles on the dining room table, it wouldn’t matter so much. Dining by candlelight, a nice intimate touch, work the conversation around slowly over a few drinks, find out just what he and Roy came up with when they huddled this morning. Damn it, this was all Roy’s fault—him and his weird notions about shutting down the picture. If he’d done a selling job on Claiborne, it was up to her to un-sell him, fast. Or slowly—with the candles, the drinks, the salad, the roast, and whatever else seemed necessary.
Moving across the kitchen, she heard the voice-buzz fade, then the final punctuation of the front door slamming. Connie must have left; sure enough, her clunker was rattling away as it backed out of the carport.
Jan paused at the kitchen doorway to give her hair a final pat, then started forward. Okay, kid, you’re on. Break a leg.
Funny about showbiz: everybody in the profession has stage fright, even the biggest. She remembered the stories she’d heard about Al Jolson on Broadway, how Jolson used to run the dressing-room water faucets full force before his performances, drowning out the sound of applause for the act preceding him. It didn’t matter whether you were doing live theater, films, or television. There was always that terrible moment before you went on—the glands pumping flop-sweat, the stomach turning into a netful of butterflies. But when the curtain rose, the director yelled, “Roll ’em!” or the monitor blinked red—that was when everything changed. That was when you changed, took over, delivered. There’s no business like show business; it’s the greatest orgasm in the world.
Jan was enjoying the foreplay now, welcoming her guest and lighting the candles, pouring the ready-made martinis from the pitcher on the bar.
What she hadn’t anticipated was enjoying Dr. Claiborne himself.
She remembered finding him attractive, and she’d always been a sucker for men with deep voices, the virility thing. But most of the actors she knew had similar qualities. What made Claiborne different was that he didn’t ego-trip. He had that calm, reassuring approach—if it was his bedside manner, it might be worth finding out about—and didn’t talk about himself.
Over drinks, he complimented her in a way she hadn’t expected—not on her appearance but on the looks of the apartment, the table-setting, the candles. And during dinner he even ran a number on Connie.
“Your friend is an actress too?”
Jan nodded.
“Hard to believe. She seems so reserved. What sort of roles does she play—character parts?”
“Meaning you don’t think she’s pretty.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re right, in a way. She is a character and she does parts. Mostly hands and feet.”
Claiborne eyed her across the candle flame. “I don’t follow.”
“Connie’s always working. You must have seen her a hundred times in TV commercials or th
eatrical features, but you wouldn’t recognize her because they never show her face. They use her for inserts—tight closeups—doubling for stars whose hands or feet aren’t right. There’s a lot of that going on out here. Some people just dub vocals or loop lines of dialogue, but the big call is for bodies. A casting director can find whatever he needs from checking pictures in a catalogue—legs, thighs, breasts, anything he wants.”
“Sounds like picking out cut-up chicken parts at the supermarket.” Claiborne smiled, then sobered. “No wonder she’s shy. There must be a tremendous feeling of inadequacy and resentment, knowing that others take the bows while she’s doomed to anonymity.”
“True.”
“At least that’s not your problem,” Claiborne said. “Obviously you don’t need doubling or dubbing, and you don’t have to worry about rejection.”
“How do I take that?” Jan smiled. “Is it flattery or just analysis?”
He pushed his plate aside, reaching for his coffee cup. “Which would you prefer?”
“I get enough stroking in this business—everybody does. But you have to make it big before you can afford analysis. Or need it.”
Claiborne leaned back in his chair. “Maybe so. Then again, if more people understood their own motivations at the start, they might not end up in therapy.”
“You offering me a freebie?”
“Hardly that. I couldn’t even take a stab at it until I knew more about you.”
“Ask.”
“All right. First, a generalization. Seems to me most actresses come from either of two backgrounds. One is the broken home—father died, divorced, or just drifted away when the child was young, and the mother took over. Aggressive, ambitious, using her daughter as a puppet, forcing her into the limelight, but always keeping a tight hold on the strings. Sound familiar?”
“Right on,” Jan murmured.
“The second group evolves from a slightly different situation. Again no father, but the mother is missing too—dead, perhaps, or sometimes psychotic. The girl is orphaned. Finding no security in a foster home, she often rushes into an early marriage, but that solves nothing. So she seeks out men in power who use her, just as she uses them to further her career.”
