The Professor rose and surveyed me critically. “Watch your posture. Your shoulders aren’t squared, you have a tendency to slouch. And you slump when you sit in a chair. We’ll correct that. You’ll need a wardrobe, of course, but that will come later. Hold your head a trifle higher and emphasize your height. You gain a certain advantage when people have to look up to you during a conversation. You might experiment with a different hairstyle. Those sideburns are all right for a cheap salesman, but I want more dignity. But enough of that for now. We have other work to do.”
“Such as?”
“Reading your book.”
I picked up the manuscript. “I’ll run through it this evening,” I promised.
The Professor shook his head. “Only the beginning. You’ll read it tonight and then you’ll read it again. And again. The content is the key to our whole system. It must be correlated with your other reading. For the next three months you’re going to sit in that apartment of yours and read. I’ll see that you eat, meanwhile.”
“Sounds pretty soft.”
“It won’t be. You’re going to study and sweat. I’ll quiz you. You’ll take tests. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to hold your own conversationally with any occultist, real or phony, and sound convincing.”
“Okay. You’re the Professor.”
“And you’re Judson Roberts.”
That’s how it started. I walked into the office as plain Eddie Haines and I walked out as Judson Roberts, with my book under my arm.
Judson Roberts took his book home and studied it. Then he studied the basic, selected writings of Freud, Adler, Jung, Brill, Moll and Stekel. He subscribed to psychiatric journals.
He read Swedenborg and Isis Unveiled. He read Frazer in bed, Charles Fort at the lunch counter, Briffault in the bathroom. He waded through it all, good and bad alike—Lully, Flammarion, Tyndall, Toynbee, Nietzsche.
At first I couldn’t make sense out of it all. Nothing seemed related. But gradually Judson Roberts made sense of it. For as I read, Judson Roberts took shape. He was born out of the books, weaned on the Professor’s nightly question sessions. Judson Roberts learned to discourse on affects and autistic phenomena. He could give a Rorschach test. He could explain the symbolic derivatives of a matriarchic culture pattern and analyze the inherent masochism of Kafka’s works. Roberts could improvise a relationship between the Sung Dynasty, Appolonius of Tyana, and enuresis.
It takes a few minutes to write down, but it took months of doing. Eight hours of reading a day, seven days a week, plus two or three hours of talk—questions and answers. But wading through theories and ideas, I began to understand people a little better. Motivation and compulsion and compensation. Sublimation and projection.
Meanwhile the Professor kept educating me on the practical level. He took me around to astrologers, palmists, phrenologists, spiritualists—men like Jake on the midway and top operators working out of mansions in the hills north of Hollywood. I saw how they worked, who they worked on. I learned that suckers are all alike, and the methods of handling them basically the same.
And through it all, he kept after me with questions. One afternoon towards the end of the third month, for example: “What are the twelve divisions of normal interest?” droned Professor Hermann.
“Time, personal magnetism, sex and marriage, investments, friends, obstacles, enemies, health, money trouble, changes and trips, surprises, and warnings.”
“What is yoga?”
“Yoga means unity, right action. Yoga is practiced by a Guru, or teacher, and a Chela, or pupil. There are five divisions of yoga.”
“Name them.”
“Raja-Yoga, the development of consciousness. Jnana-Yoga, or knowledge. Karma-Yoga, right action, and Bhakti-Yoga, right religious action. Then Hatha-Yoga, or power over the bodily functions. Govern your body and you govern the universe through Asana, the system of bodily posture, breath control, and the control of the circulation and nervous system.”
“Good enough. Now, define Turiya, Dharma, kalpa, mantavaras. And recite the laws of Manu.”
“Hey, take it easy!” I stood up. “You’ve got me so full of that stuff, it’s coming out of my ears.”
“I know. But there’s no time to waste. We must be ready to act soon.”
“I’m ready now. Ready for Utter-McKinley’s enbalming staff. Have a heart, Professor, I’m only human.”
“You must be more than human for this job. You might apply some of the principles of Hatha-Yoga for exercise.”
“I don’t need exercise. I need a rest, a chance to get out of this damned hot apartment. I haven’t had a drink for months, haven’t seen anybody to talk to but you.”
“That was our bargain.”
“Our bargain was for me to make a million dollars, to have anything I wanted. And what do I get? A little cigarette money and enough studying to kill Einstein. Look—I’m not Judson Roberts all the time, you know. I like a little fun once in a while.”
“So.” The Professor’s fingers caressed the nakedness of his skull. “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”
“What kind of a party—another seance in Pasadena?”
“No. I’m talking about the real thing. As a matter of fact, you’re invited to attend. She’s been inviting you for weeks, but I didn’t tell you.”
“She?”
“Lorna Lewis. She has inquired about you frequently. Yes, maybe that would work out—if you’re interested.”
“Count me in. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“No bells. You’ll be there in a nice, conservative gray Palm Beach suit. You’ll behave yourself and do the job I’ve laid out for you.”
“But—”
“You’ll do one thing and one only. Be nice to Lorna Lewis.”
“That,” I said, “is just ginger-peachy. I might even teach her a few yoga positions.”
Seven
I sat on the sofa at Lorna Lewis’ party and played footsie with myself. When I got tired of that, I just watched the crowd.
The movie bunch is peculiar. There are sets, cliques and a definite pecking-order here. The $500 per week mob doesn’t mix with stock contract players. The $1000 up-and-coming gang has nothing to do with the $3000 celebrities. Producers, writers and directors spend most of their time with the agents and the money men, if possible.
This happened to be the $500 crowd, with a sprinkling of $1000 eager beavers. I could figure that out after a little observation. Everybody was in there with the good old college try—a bunch of former extras who were now extroverts. The clothing was flashy, the conversation loud and brassy.
Lorna Lewis herself was a typical specimen. It was obvious that she had come to Hollywood via the contest-winner route. Probably she had talent, too—if not necessarily the kind that displays itself before a camera. But her language was coarse, her geniality forced.
I watched her race around the big living room and the miniature bar out on the terrace, displaying the incredible whiteness of those famous legs through a slitted black skirt. She was high on excitement, not alcohol.
I sat on the sofa and the sports jackets wove a pattern of tartan and checks before my eyes. I monitored a parade of sandals, moccasins, brogues. I eyed elkskin and surveyed suede.
The Professor had planted me here half an hour ago and then wandered away, after acknowledging a nod from our hostess. I was a little disappointed with that nod. I hadn’t really expected Lorna Lewis to throw herself into my arms and nibble my ears, but even so her cool reception didn’t sit well with me after all the buildup. So when the Professor vanished, I sat and fidgeted. All I’d gotten from that greeting was a distinct letdown.
Plump little Miss Bauer from the Professor’s office had been on hand, too, at first. It was she who had identified the stocky, freckled, curly-haired man who dug his fingers possessively into Lorna’s forearm.
“Mike Drayton. Is her husband.”
“Husband? Didn’t know she was married.”
<
br /> “Yes. He is a professional player.”
“Playboy?”
“No, player. Of hockey.”
“Oh, sure. I remember now.” Lorna Lewis had talked about “Mike” to the Professor in the car, the night of the rigged-up seance. She had some problem with him. Well, he looked like a problem to me. If we tangled, I’d be a dead duck.
But now it appeared I’d never reach the tangling stage. Lorna was flitting around, greeting leisure jackets and evening wraps, offering glasses to Aloha shirts and gabardine slacks at the bar, being kittenish with a tall red-faced man who was obviously a producer and obviously aware of it.
Mike Drayton, the husband, had disappeared. So had Miss Bauer and the Professor. I caught one glimpse of him as I went to refill my highball glass; he was stalking Lorna Lewis on the terrace. Maybe he’d steer her over to me.
The highballs were good. After my long layoff, the second drink took hold. I had a third, but I was too nervous to enjoy it. What was I doing here? Obviously the Professor had a plan—he always had a plan. But what was it?
A trio of Filipinos wandered around making noises on mandolins and ukeleles—very corny. But most of the guests seemed to be far past the third drink and they shouted requests. A small group gathered around a blonde who kicked off her shoes for a hula. Another group sat on the stairs and talked shop. Through an archway I saw a fringe of bald, partially bald and gray heads huddled over a card table.
It looked too typical, too pat and according-to-formula for me. Too much like the Hollywood party you read about. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—certainly anything but this. And on top of it, I was all alone, ignored. I sat off in a corner with no Lorna Lewis to finger the lapels of my Palm Beach suit.
I thought I’d better get drunk in a hurry and forget it. I thought I might as well get out of here. I thought...
She had hair the color of ripe apricots. She even smelled like apricots—well, apricot brandy, then. Because she was carrying a load.
She sat down beside me and smiled up with green eyes. They were nice eyes, a bit on the glassy side.
“Hello.”
“Hello, yourself.”
“What’s the angle?”
“Angle? There’s no angle.”
“Come, now—everybody’s got an angle. Are you trying to get Himberg’s eye?” she asked.
“Who’s Himberg?”
“That red-faced character—the producer. You’re trying to break into pictures, aren’t you?”
“Not me, sister.”
“I could never feel like a sister toward you, chum. And you aren’t exactly the brotherly type yourself. So why the big isolationist act?”
“Sorry. I just came to watch the floor show.”
“Well, you might get me a drink. And seeing as how you’re getting so intimate and making advances, my name is Ellen Post.”
“No relation to Emily?”
“I’m going now. I can see I misjudged you. You didn’t look like the kind who’d pull that one.”
“Please, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Let me guess. Would it be bourbon, straight?”
“Extremely straight, if you please.”
“I please.”
“Quit your bragging and run along.”
I went up to the bar and got a straight shot and another highball. Ellen Post watched me as I crossed the room toward her.
“So you’re Judson Roberts.”
“Who told you?”
“A little bird. A little bald-headed bird, with a monocle. A little sparrow, hopping after Lorna Lewis.”
“I see you don’t think much of psychological consultants.”
“Not much.” She downed her shot.
“You in pictures?” I asked.
“No. This is my line.” She tapped her glass. “Prescribe me another, Doc.”
I finished my drink slowly and made my way back to the bar. Professor Hermann was sitting on the terrace with Lorna Lewis. They glanced at me as I passed the doorway, and the Professor winked. I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so I ignored it. Right now I liked apricots better, anyway.
“Here we are.” I gave Ellen Post a glass and clicked my highball tumbler against its rim. “Forbidden fruit.”
“What kind of a toast is that?”
“You be the psychologist and figure it out. It so happens I was thinking of apricots.”
“Apricots?”
“Yes. You—your hair, your skin.”
She chuckled. It was a husky sound from deep within the throat, but it sounded surprisingly feminine.
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that’s a new approach. I might add that I like it, Dr. Roberts. Or is it Judson? Or Judd?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
She put down her glass, frowned and rose. “Damn it!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m going.”
“Have I said something wrong?”
She shook her head. A scent came from her hair. It was a pleasant scent, but it didn’t match her mood. Her face was strained in the semblance of a smile.
“No—you didn’t say anything wrong. That’s the trouble, they never do. It’s always the right thing, and I have the right answer, and the drinks get good and the conversation gets better. Up to a certain point. And then, it’s no use. It’s just no use. So tonight, I’m going home.”
“Could I—”
“You could. But I won’t let you.” She walked swiftly, a little uncertainly, toward the terrace. “Goodbye, Dr. Roberts. See you in Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“But—”
She moved away, and then I became conscious of another scent behind me. Not perfume, but something more vital than that and heavier. Tiger lily. Not golden, but white. I didn’t have to turn to know that Lorna Lewis was smiling up at me.
“There you are,” she said. “I was coming to rescue you.”
“From what?”
“The Post. Miss Pillow-to-Post. Did she ask you to go to bed with her? She always does when she gets a few drinks in her.”
“What kind of a person is she?”
“Can’t you tell? A lush. One of those rich-bitch society types. She always crooks her little finger, even when she drinks out of the bottle. I can’t stand her, but Mike likes her. He would—he’s a rummy himself.”
Jet-black brows shaped a scowl. More tiger than lily right now. She peered up at me. “You seen him around lately?”
“Your husband?”
“Let’s just call him Mike—if you don’t mind. I suppose he’s upstairs with a bottle. He always goes into that routine when I throw a party.”
“You aren’t very fond of him, are you?”
“Let’s watch that talk, now. I take my troubles to your pal, Professor Hermann. I’ve been talking to him about you all evening.”
“Do I trouble you?”
“You might.”
“All right.” And I could see that it was. The way she held my arm and looked up, with her teeth flashing. I caught a heavy gust of Scotch. She’d been working the bar, making up for lost time.
I looked around for the Professor, waiting for a cue, a signal. He’d tell me how nice I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do now. But the Professor had disappeared. This meant I was on my own. On my own, with six drinks under my belt, and a girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Maybe I should have remembered that I was Judson Roberts, Ps.D. Maybe I should have figured out how to play it carefully, slowly, cleverly.
Instead I looked down at those white legs, looked into the blue, blazing insolence of Lorna’s eyes.
“It’s hot in here,” I said.
“It might be even hotter, outside.”
“You’re thinking of your husband?”
“Don’t call him that. He hasn’t really been my husband since the Toronto game when somebody hit him with a stick. All he wants now is his bottle, understand?” She leaned close.
I understood, all ri
ght. I understood that she wasn’t in love with me, that she wasn’t in need of affection or anything else I could give her except sensation. But she had those legs and she was a movie star, or almost a star. And I was Eddie Haines, a nobody from nowhere. I was Eddie Haines, trying like hell to hold my liquor, trying like hell to remember my name was Judson Roberts.
There was only one answer within me.
“Let’s go outside,” I said.
Dark curls tumbled from side to side. “No, not now. I’m the hostess, remember? Wait until later, when I get rid of this gang. I’ll throw them out and check on Mike.”
“When?”
“Tell you what. It’s after eleven, so you come back about twelve-thirty. Most of these people are in pictures, they go home early during the week nights. Twelve-thirty will do it. I’ll wait for you down at the coach house. You know where it is—on the side, behind the swimming pool.”
“Right.”
“Clear out, now. I don’t want us to be seen together any longer—you understand.”
I understood. She squeezed my arm and rose. I stood up as I saw Himberg’s red face bobbing towards us, then moved away through a maze of low-cut peasant blouses, open sports shirts and drink-spattered jackets.
I made one last attempt to find the Professor. He wasn’t in the big room and he wasn’t on the terrace. Miss Bauer had melted away like an old ice cube.
Ice cube. I could use another drink. But not here. I made for the door. The night air was cool. I breathed slowly, deeply, evenly. But inside my chest, my heart was going like a dynamo. There was nothing to do for an hour and a half. Just nothing to do but wait...and drink.
I walked down the road a way and before I knew it I’d hit a highway. There was a little neon-lighted place not too far up, and I stopped in for a quick one. It had to be quick, because the bars close at twelve. When I found that out I had another, and another.
Somehow I remembered another bar, months ago, where I’d stood drinking the hours away before I went home to meet the Professor for the first time. Only, when I went, I hadn’t expected to meet the Professor. I’d expected to cut my throat. And now, just three months later, I was drinking again. And when I left here, I wouldn’t be on my way to cut my throat. No indeed.
Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb Page 20
