Lone star

“I want to test my theory.”

“I can’t do that.” He shook his head.

“Of course you can.”

He looked surprised. “True, I can but…”

“If I’m right, I could save you some embarrassment.”

“And if you’re wrong, I seem the procrastinator.”

“It’s less embarrassing than mud in your face. Detective Cotton, you may be the detective in this case…”

“I’m glad you noticed.”

“But it seems to me it’s my detecting we’re entertaining now.”

“An amateur’s luck.”

“Sir, a veteran writer’s keen eye.”

“Miss Ferber…”

“Detective Cotton.”

He had trouble smiling. All right, he nodded. “You have till midnight tonight.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’ll be in bed by ten, sir.”

A short time later, as Mercy and I were leaving the dressing room, I spotted Jimmy. He wasn’t happy- agitated, jumpy, constantly pushing his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “That goddamn Cotton,” he yelled. “He’s here, and I said…you know what he said?…he…said…ah…don’t leave town…like…”

“Jimmy.” I took his arm. “Stop. Don’t let this get to you this way.”

He looked at me, almost uncomprehending, and then walked away. “Jimmy,” I called after him, but he kept going.

Much later, walking out of the building, Mercy and I stopped, transfixed by an odd tableau on the sidewalk by the front gate: Jimmy, in animated conversation with Tommy and Polly, with Nell standing some ten feet away, nodding, that infernal cardboard box at her heels. For a minute the two women watched as Tommy seemed to become more and more agitated, swaying his body, still unfortunately clad in that red jacket, and spitting words at Jimmy. Jimmy, himself antsy, cupped his eyes, staring through the blinding sunshine at his friend. When we got near, the talk shifted, as Polly moved between the two men. “Stop this,” she pleaded, one of her hands on Tommy’s chest.

Tommy’s face got closer, and a purplish color spread across his features. “You used Polly,” he screamed.

Jimmy looked at Polly, tucked between them like a swaying lamppost, a woman taller than both men. She stepped back and held her hands up in the air. “Stop this.”

Jimmy said nothing.

“You used Polly.”

Jimmy looked at Nell, standing apart. “You told him?”

“I didn’t know it was a secret.”

Jimmy shook his head, grinned. “That was a bedroom confession, Nell.”

Nell, filled with the confidence of a Greyhound ticket in her bag, yelled back, “What kind of man tells a girl he’s sleeping with that he enjoyed sleeping with his good friend’s girlfriend. Crowing about it.”

Jimmy stared at her, confused. “I gotta stop getting drunk,” he mumbled to himself. “I fall into bed with strangers.”

Nell seemed ready to leave, twisting her body away, but at that moment she caught my eye. She folded her arms over her chest, reminding me of a sullen Buddha, and the look in her eyes was hard, deliberate. “I’m not sorry,” she said, bluntly.

Jimmy spun around, looking helpless. He took a few steps back, glancing back at the studio entrance, then looked toward the parking lot. I realized he wanted to get away. He didn’t want to be here, not because he disliked drama, certainly, but because this somehow no longer mattered to him. He’d already moved past this. Past Tommy. Past Polly.

“You don’t deserve…” Tommy faltered. Then, in a swaggering gesture, he indicated the building behind him. “This.”

Jimmy, quiet, swung his head around, following the direction of Tommy’s arm, and started to walk back to the studio. But his face registered alarm, and I looked. There, in the doorway, stood Detective Cotton, watching. Jimmy’s face got beet red, and he faced Tommy. “You’re a small man, Tommy.”

Polly reacted. “Jimmy, stop it.”

“I mean it,” Jimmy sputtered. “Small.” And he actually laughed. “And that’s the problem here. You know, you’re tiny inside.” He caught his breath, intoxicated with the new word. “Tiny.” He stressed the word. Said, the word hung in the air like a curse, awful but true. I noticed him glance back at Cotton, and the look was different now: triumphant, sure.

Tommy’s body shook. Jimmy stepped closer, waiting. Nell muttered something-to me it sounded like a grunt-and Tommy suddenly lunged forward, socked Jimmy in the jaw. Jimmy reddened, fell back, but then rushed forward, shoving Tommy back a few steps. In seconds the two were grappling with each other, wild, off balance; and with one calculated and powerful thrust of his muscled arm, Jimmy hit Tommy squarely on the side of his head. Tommy slumped to the ground and lay there, gasping for breath. Jimmy rubbed his still-clenched fist, contemplated his bruised knuckles, and, spotting Mercy and me, forced a thin, what-can-I-do smile, and walked away. Then he stopped, turned to face Cotton, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Facing the detective, he mumbled, “If I felt I belonged someplace.”

Slowly, almost jauntily, he walked away.

Mystified, I looked to Mercy, who whispered, “His character in Rebel says that . Big scene, climax, really.”

I shook my head. Hollywood: the place where people speak in someone else’s lines.

Nell looked like she was going to follow Jimmy but then thought better of it. She saw me looking at her with censorious eyes, and, throwing back her shoulders in an arrogant gesture, grabbed her meager cardboard box, cradled it in her arms like a heavy child, and walked toward the parking lot.

I turned to Mercy, “Now that’s an exit worthy of De Mille.”

Stretched out on the ground, Tommy was moaning. Polly knelt down and cradled his head in her lap. She whispered, “You don’t need him, Tommy. We’ll leave Hollywood. He’s always used you-us. He used me, too. You know that. He uses any girl. You know how he is. It didn’t mean anything to me, what he did. It’s you and me…” On and on, still cradling his head and rubbing his temples with her fingertips. She looked shattered, pale as dust; and she swayed back and forth, rocking Tommy.

I turned to walk away, and Mercy followed. Mercy whispered, “I’ll never understand that relationship.”

I muttered, “What relationship?”

When I glanced back, Polly was still holding onto a whimpering Tommy, whose eyes were closed now, but Polly was staring down toward the end of the lot. I followed her gaze. Jimmy stood there, leaning against a car, smoking a cigarette, his body rigid. From a distance, he could have been a young Jett Rink, surveying his worthless Texas acres, his Little Reata, God’s forlorn land.

I looked back at Polly. She was rocking the sullen, immobile Tommy now, but she was looking at Jimmy-not with disgust or hated or even pique. No, I realized, the look was one of desperate longing.

Chapter 21

Mercy and I walked to the Smoke House across the street. Neither of us spoke, which was the way I wanted it. Echoes of Jimmy and Tommy’s silly squabble still rang in my ears. But, more so, I was baffled by Polly and Nell. Why had Nell chosen to tell Tommy of Polly’s one-time infidelity with Jimmy? Mercy was shaking her head. I was glad she was there-someone I could talk this out with, someone levelheaded, smart. A woman with fire in the soul,