“Let’s talk about the picture,” Allen said genially. “The word is you’ve got a winner. And now you come up smelling like roses with Tom Leslie.”
“And Laura Spain,” Delahunt added. “How did you ever convince her it was time to act her age?”
“Laura and I are old friends,” Steve said.
“Is she off the soup?” Dow asked.
Steve nodded and picked up a menu. “Laura is doing very well. She’s a real pro.”
Dow laughed. “You sounded smug, kid.”
“Why not?” Jack put in. “He’s working, isn’t he?”
They all had dinner in the grill, and then some others came and they went into the card room.
It was a table stakes game, and the cards were kind to Steve. He didn’t concentrate properly and completely misplayed the best hand he was dealt all evening.
Despite this, when they broke up at three o’clock, he was an even four hundred dollars ahead for the session.
Dow Allen said, “You’re the luckiest and lousiest poker player in the world. Kid, you stink.”
“I’m not usually this bad,” Steve answered. “I just couldn’t get my mind on the cards.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” Delahunt said. “Next to Harry Bergdahl, I think Steve is the best poker player I know.” He smiled. “I would have loved to have been there when you two talked terms.”
“My agent did that,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t dare to cross swords with Harry Bergdahl.”
EIGHT
Sylvan Glade advertised quite honestly that it took the burden of decision from the bereaved relatives of the departed. It had its own interdenominational chapel, crypts, mausoleum, crematorium, casket salesroom, limousines, ushers, social secretary, publicity department and grave-digging machine with skilled operator. And photogenic professional mourners, if required.
It also had fountains, statuary, gigantic murals, wide winding drives and everything else that could contribute to the general bad taste of a town that specialized in bad taste. As one of the directors had boasted in an alcoholic moment, “We put on one hell of a show. But Jesus, a man only dies once!”
A package deal, Steve thought, in the terminology of his trade. He and Laura were driving in his car through the gaping teen-agers and sagging housewives who lined the green macadam drive that led to the chapel parking lot.
“Where’s the ringmaster?” Laura asked. “God …!”
“Easy, girl. This is nothing, compared with Valentino’s funeral.”
“You don’t remember that,” Laura answered. “That was before your time. And mine, too.”
Steve smiled. “It was before mine, at any rate. There were giants in those days.”
Laura shook her head. “There was a sucker audience…. I’m a lousy actress, aren’t I, Steve?”
“No,” he said firmly. “Because you were a star, you never had to learn to act. But you were great yesterday. This picture could start a whole new career for you, Laura.”
“An acting career,” she said musingly. “Well, that would be a change.”
They both laughed, and then Laura said, “Heavens, what will all these cretins think? We had better look sad.”
Harry Bergdahl looked sad. He sat in the second row with a handkerchief in his hand, occasionally dabbing at his eyes.
“Smog?” Laura whispered to Steve. “I didn’t notice it.”
“Shut up,” Steve whispered. “I suppose we’d better go up to view the body?”
“You go,” Laura said. “I never could do that.”
It was going to be a full house. As he returned to sit next to Laura, Steve saw Tomkevic in one of the back rows near the entrance. Mitchell Morton was in a front row. He was apparently one of the pallbearers. Dave Sidney sat next to his uncle, his face perfectly blank, almost bored. From the other side of Harry, Dotty smiled timidly at Steve. In one of the corners a flash bulb flared.
Were these casual onlookers representative of the mourners? Steve saw no genuine tears. Hadn’t Jameson any family? He felt a cold sickness growing in him as he took his seat.
Laura sat rigidly, staring at the neck of the man ahead, while the cleric supplied by the management spoke unctuously of “this untimely departure of a young and brilliant talent.”
There were a few wet eyes when he had finished. In the sixth row a chunky teen-ager sobbed noisily. Steve thought of the waiting kids lining the macadam drive outside and he asked Laura, “Should we go to the grave with the procession?”
“No,” she said. “We put in an appearance. Harry can’t have any complaints if we don’t contribute further to this — circus.”
Steve frowned, hesitating.
Laura said, “Please, Steve …? I don’t like funerals. I think they’re vulgar.”
“All right,” he said soothingly. “Let the others get ahead of us and we’ll go directly to the parking lot.”
The parking lot was almost deserted when he and Laura walked over to his car some minutes later. There was a green Pontiac parked two stalls away.
Tomkevic stepped from the Pontiac as Steve opened the door for Laura.
He asked in his soft voice, “Could I have a minute, Mr. Leander?”
Steve closed the door and turned to face the investigator. “Yes …?”
Tomkevic said, “I understand Mitchell Morton is going to have a part in your picture?”
“A small part,” Steve agreed.
“Did you hire him, or Mr. Bergdahl?”
“I talked with Mr. Morton. No contract has been signed. Is there some reason why I shouldn’t hire him?”
“None that I know of. I simply wanted to learn who had hired him. He hasn’t worked in any of your other pictures, has he?”
“No.”
“You knew him personally, did you, before casting him?”
Steve shook his head.
Tomkevic frowned. “Mr. Bergdahl did. I’m surprised he didn’t go to Mr. Bergdahl.”
Steve said nothing.
“Aren’t you?” Tomkevic asked quietly.
“Not particularly. Anything else, Mr. Tomkevic?”
The investigator’s eyes hardened. “Yes. Do you think you need to be as frightened and secretive as you are? You have a sound reputation in this town.” He paused. “Or had.”
Steve said heatedly, “Don’t be insolent. You’re not heavy enough to carry it off.”
The investigator smiled. “I’m not too big, I’ll admit. But then, I’m not frightened, either. I’ll see you again, Mr. Leander.”
“I’m not looking forward to it,” Steve said, and went around the car to the driver’s side.
Laura said, “Well! And what was all that about?”
“I’ve no idea,” Steve said angrily. “He’s an investigator for the company that insured Jameson.”
“I thought this morning’s paper said the police had decided it was an accident?”
“There’s absolutely no reason in the world,” Steve said, “to consider it anything else. Let’s not see any more goblins, Laura. We went through that phase.”
She sighed and said nothing. She said nothing for the rest of the trip. As Steve dropped her he said, “I’ll see you at the party tonight.”
“I’m not sure I’m going,” she answered. “I hate to sit around and watch everybody drink. Do you think Harry would mind very much if I didn’t come?”
Steve shrugged.
“Is Marcia going?”
“She’s out of town. She went up to the kids’ camp.”
A moment’s silence, and then Laura said, “I suppose it would be good politics to go. Don’t worry about me; I’ll get there all right. I’ll want to leave early.”
Steve went home to his big and empty house. The parking-lot dialogue with Tomkevic had unsettled him again. And Tomkevic’s claim that Harry had known Morton was a disturbing item. Harry had made too much of a point of his not knowing Mitchell Morton.
Damn it, Jameson was dead. Dead and now buried. And the po
lice had decided it was an accident. They were the official arbiters.
He lay on the couch in his study and thought of Marcia, and desire grew in him again and his irritation deepened. She had never earned a dime in her life. She had no idea of the savage and incessant competition in the industry. Her duty was to sustain him, not to judge him.
It had been two weeks since their matinée session and he was no benedict and she was well aware of that. She was not exactly frigid herself.
He put on his trunks and went down to the pool. He dived, he swam, he lolled in the sun. He tried to forget Jameson and Morton and Tomkevic and Bergdahl. But the thought of Marcia stayed with him.
At five o’clock Harry phoned. “Dave tells me Marcia’s out of town?”
“That’s right, Harry. But I’ll be there, bright and sober.”
“Maybe I should invite something special for you? About eighteen or nineteen, something stacked?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with one like that. I’m sorry I didn’t — go to the grave, Harry, but funerals give me the creeps.”
“Oh …? I thought maybe it was Laura that didn’t want to go.”
“No,” Steve lied, “it was my idea. Tomkevic was waiting for me on the chapel parking lot. He won’t give up, will he?”
“He don’t scare me,” Harry said. “Well, there’ll be a lot of broads here, kid, so don’t drink too much.”
“I’ll be careful. See you, Harry.”
“Wait …” Bergdahl said. “That Mitchell Morton — he’s okay, he’s clean. I checked him.”
“Glad to hear it,” Steve said. “He’ll be another small plus for the picture.”
How did Dave know that Marcia was out of town? He had left him at the front door yesterday and not talked to him since. And when they had parted, even Steve hadn’t known Marcia wasn’t home.
Perhaps Dave had learned it from Laura. Or perhaps his amateur detective work had extended into the private life of the Leanders.
• • •
The rear patio was lighted by gay Japanese lanterns, and the concrete badminton court had been waxed for dancing. The bar was built-in near the huge, used-brick fireplace. Small wrought-iron and glass tables were set back around the wide deck of the pool.
Next to Steve at the bar, Mitchell Morton said, “Simple suburban living. I wonder if I’ll ever make it.”
Steve laughed. “Not unless you can get into a position to use a capital-gains gimmick. Not on salary alone, not any more.”
From the other side of Morton, the girl he had brought said, “Okay, Mitch, don’t I meet the important people, too?”
She was a thin girl with her black hair in a Hollywood version of a Dutch cut. Her voice was low and pleasant.
Morton performed the introduction and then Dotty Bergdahl came over to tell him coyly that there were “oodles of people just gasping to meet Steven Leander.”
He met four of the oodles, three women and one man, and then Dotty led him to the badminton court, where Tom Leslie was dancing with a spectacular blonde.
“I want to talk to you,” she explained, “and I don’t want Harry to think I’m pumping you. Let’s dance.”
Steve frowned. “Pumping me …? About what?”
“About a rumor I heard, that Jameson was planning to have an accident in his car.”
“Dotty, in this business we hear ridiculous rumors every day.” He moved her along the edge of the court, aware of her fine body, of her firm breasts tight against his chest.
“I know that,” she admitted. “But what is Harry so nervous about? Why is that insurance detective bothering him all the time?”
“I have no idea.”
“He’s been going out practically every night. Why?” Steve smiled sadly. “Honey, how in hell would I know?”
“Men …!” she said. “And you and Marcia had a fight, too, didn’t you? And there’s some big, mysterious secret about that.”
“She went up to see the kids. Marcia and I have fought before, Dotty. We’re not newlyweds.”
She looked up at him beseechingly. “I know there’s something horrible going on, Steve. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
He said gravely, “If there’s anything horrible going on, I swear to you, Dotty, that I don’t know what it is. Horrible things are going on in this town every minute.”
“Not things Harry’s involved in.” She took a deep breath. “I know what you think of me — a peroxide nitwit. But I’ve been good for Harry. I brought these young people around, and he’s put out some pictures with vitality and youth in them. If he’s in trouble, don’t be too sure I can’t help him.”
“Dotty, I never thought of you as a peroxide nitwit. I can’t seem to think of you as anything but about the most seductive female in the county. And if Harry’s in trouble, he hasn’t told me about it.”
She moved closer and desire quickened in Steve. She asked softly, “Is it about Hart Jameson?” Her voice was even quieter. “Or is it a girl? Tell me, please, Steve.”
“I don’t know. So help me, honey, I don’t know. You’re closer to him than I am. He’d tell you things he wouldn’t tell me.”
“Not if it’s about a girl,” she insisted. “And I think it is.”
Steve didn’t have time to answer. A genial voice at his elbow said loudly, “Get one of your own, Leander. This one’s mine.”
Steve smiled and relinquished Dotty Bergdahl to her leering husband.
He went back to the bar. Morton’s black-haired girl friend was talking with Dave Sidney there. Morton was at one of the tables, talking with Laura Spain and the dialogue director.
Dave said, “Jean thinks you dance very well for an older man.”
The girl grimaced. “I didn’t say anything about an older man. Dave’s trying to blight my career.”
“Don’t butter him,” Dave said. “He’s the last local bastion of integrity.” He looked around the yard. “I wonder where my giddy companion has disappeared to?”
Jean yawned. “You could check the bedrooms and the bushes. That one belongs on a leash.”
Steve asked the bartender for a Scotch and water and turned to watch Harry dancing with Dotty. Harry was talking to her very earnestly, and Dotty’s face looked grim and stubborn.
The conversational murmur was higher now and more people were coming in. Dave said, “I love Uncle Harry’s idea of a cast party. He means the casts of all his pictures and all the people they ever met.”
Above the swaying lanterns the stars were clear and the moon full. Steve drank slowly and thought of Marcia.
Dave said, “Ah, here comes my lovely now.”
Jean said, “She’s looking petulant. Somebody must have said no to her.”
Steve saw a girl in a white sheath dress coming toward them, walking carefully, as though on the edge of drunken oblivion. Her full breasts were almost emerging from the top of the tight dress, and its tautness emphasized the functional, rounded beauty of her behind. She had large brown eyes and a sulky, full-lipped mouth and a tangle of dark brown hair. Dave had brought a tigress.
Then Laura beckoned to him and he went over to her table. As he sat down she said, “I’m here to keep you out of the clutches of females like that one you were ogling. It’s the least I can do for your absent and mistreated wife.”
Steve smiled. “All woman, isn’t she? I had no idea Dave was that virile.”
Morton smiled. Laura said, “I had no idea you were. Heavens, the way you were leering at her …”
“My party look,” Steve explained. “She probably considers me a licentious old man.”
Laura raised her eyebrows. “Old …?”
Morton said, “Not her, not Pat Cullum. The adolescents can’t afford her.”
“An actress?” Steve asked.
“She likes to think she is,” Morton answered.
It was almost the same phrase he had used about his friend, the night he had phoned Steve. Steve looked at him searchingly now.
&n
bsp; Morton met his gaze and said, “I use that expression too much. I suppose it’s because of envy. I really only know the girl by hearsay.”
Laura stared at her admiringly and murmured, “I often wonder how far I could have gone with a larger cup size.”
Steve laughed and rose. “Why don’t we dance, Laura, and dream of better days?”
She sighed. “What a romantic approach! Let’s go, gallant.”
They had danced together before and discovered they were well suited, and they enjoyed it now. The music was continuous, fed to the yard through speakers from a record player in the house.
They had danced without speaking for perhaps three minutes when Laura said, “I think the young actors coming up are more serious than they used to be.”
“Morton, do you mean?”
“For one. And Tom Leslie for another. They’re more thoughtful, more analytical about their profession.”
“And less colorful,” Steve added. “Though they’re certainly easier to work with, except for the sweat-shirt gang.”
“If we ever come into the age of reason in this business,” Laura asked, “what’s going to happen to men like Harry Bergdahl?”
“In any age, men like Harry are going to survive, Laura. They’re adaptable. Harry’s not stupid.”
“No. That’s right.” She sighed. “I keep thinking of him as a murderer. But he wouldn’t be that stupid, would he?”
Steve didn’t answer. Dave Sidney went by, dancing with Pat Cullum, and the girl didn’t look drunk now, flawlessly following the intricate pattern of Dave’s steps.
“I wish I were twenty-four,” Steve said.
Laura chuckled. “I’d settle for thirty-four. But you’re that now, aren’t you?”
“Thirty-seven,” Steve answered, “but tonight I mean to howl.”
“Not I,” Laura said. “A funeral and an orgy in the same day are too much for me. I’ve made my token appearance at both shows and I’m ready for my hot Ovaltine.” She grimaced. “I need all my strength for my new career.”
She left soon after that and Steve went to the bar again. Harry was there, talking with the black-haired Jean. Though the night was cool, Harry’s forehead and neck were wet with perspiration and his tongue was thick.
He put a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Met Jean yet, kid?”
Death Out of Focus Page 6
