“Good. What does the Hanged Man mean?”
“That you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“Aw, I never thought I was as smart as I think I am. My turn for a question?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Why would you care what I do with my nights off?”
“I don’t. But if Halliday’s making some bonehead play, I got to care.”
“What’re you, his babysitter?”
“Yes, friend,” he said grimly. “That is exactly what I am.”
“Why would he take that, from a rival organization?”
He made a sharp sound between his teeth. “He thinks he’s got an organization. He thinks he’s a rival. Lance Bejesus Halliday. For my sins. Some bottle-blonde rube from Porter, Michigan.”
“Porter, huh? You’ve been doing some studying.”
He shook his head. “A guy like Halliday, you wind up knowing all kinds of things about him you wish to God you didn’t know.”
“I don’t think the hair’s a dye job.”
“Great. Now that’s another thing I know.”
“Why does Burri put you to the trouble?”
“Grandpa Burri,” he told the ceiling, eyes closed, “is a nice old grandpa who loves children. He wants them to learn. Me, I’m a bachelor.”
“Why don’t you give me a job? I could use one.”
“Friend, a Mau-Mau like you is the last thing I need. But after last night, I’ll tell you. You ever wanna pick up the gloves again, let me know. You ain’t too old.”
“How do you know I used to fight?”
“I told you,” he said. “This town’s full of little punks you wind up knowing things about. This is your stop.”
I peered out through the black window. We were back in front of the Harmon Court. I got out and said, “Well, don’t be strangers. Now that you know the way.”
I shuffled off, leaving the door open. It was childish, but I was tired of being hey-you’ed by hoods.
The phone was ringing as I came up the walk. It stopped as I was opening the door. The clock said 9:25. I always sleep later than I think I do. I picked up the phone, called Mattie Reece, and said, “Listen. I need a favor from your cop friends. Halliday’s from Porter, Michigan. I don’t know what name he had back then, but a guy late twenties, his looks, tailback on the high school team, you think you could see what they’ve got? Can’t be that big a place. Why don’t you talk to Mc Donald? He knows a few things, and doesn’t mind telling what he knows.”
“Why would I bother?” Mattie said.
“I’ll tell you how it was with Rebecca.”
“Jesus, don’t. I got to go home to my wife,” he said, and hung up.
I sat there a while, thinking about the Hanged Man. Then I got out a sheet of paper and wrote down Scarpa’s license plate number, before I forgot.
The phone started ringing again as I got into bed.
I let it.
It rang an hour later while I was shaving, and I ignored that, too. When it came to breakfast, I found there wasn’t a damn thing left in the house. There were five pieces of bread, some old meatloaf, and ketchup. I had two meatloaf sandwiches and a piece of bread, and that was that. I called Joanie Healey at the courthouse and gave her the number of Halliday’s Lincoln. I looked over my suit. It wasn’t bad, and I put it back on. Then I took it off and put on just the jacket over a yellow polo shirt, my shoulder holster, and slacks. A sports jacket would have been better, but I don’t have one. I got out my .44, cleaned and loaded it, and adjusted the holster until it sat right. I put on sunglasses. They weren’t the right kind, but I looked like just enough of a damn fool, and I tucked a steno pad in my pocket and drove over to the Cellar Agency.
Alban Cellar had made his bones as a cameraman at UFA and gone on to work with Pabst. I’d seen some of his old stuff. He had a pretty good eye. He was one of these painterly guys. He’d gotten out of Berlin while the getting was good and then had to think fast when he hit L.A.. One thing, he was flexible. Cellar was Viennese, originally, and in Vienna everyone’s supposed to be about half an artist. In L.A., everyone’s supposed to be rich. He didn’t know any rich cinematographers. What, he must’ve asked himself, would I be if I wasn’t a cameraman? A pimp, probably, but he didn’t know any rich pimps, either. Still, he’d always helped get little parts for little honeys, and now he started to work at it, and take a commission. Twenty years on, Ollie Cellar had a tidy little office on DeLongpre and a fourteen-room house in Beverly Clen. He had no stars in his stable, and no serious actor would go near him, but the TV and B movie folks called him first to get someone who wasn’t too expensive or too good. He was as honest as anybody else, and better organized than most, the way you have to be when you’re selling cut- price goods in bulk. Every has-been, thick-tongued beauty queen, and non-actor in town was in his files. I was in there myself, assuming he hadn’t gotten around to throwing me out.
Lately Gellar had left the actual work to a series of little honeys, each one cute as a button and sharp as a knife. When I came in, the current incumbent was sitting at the reception desk, behind a plaque reading L. R. BELLINGER. She was fox-faced, with curly russet hair. She didn’t have much upstairs or down, but she did have self-confidence, and I guess she deserved to. She had one other thing, something you don’t get much out here, and that’s an accent. It was pure Georgia honeysuckle, and most girls would’ve gotten rid of it in case Darryl Zanuck might not like it.
She wasn’t stingy with it, either, and there was a whole waiting room full of hopeful actors who got their share. They all wanted to see Ollie, and they all got told he was in conference. Some had appointments with him. He was still in conference. Most of them handed over a small sheaf of glossies, answered half a dozen quick questions, and were back on the street before they could get their charm out of first gear. One matronly woman got a dozen questions and a minute of finger-drumming, then was told to call back that afternoon. One courtly old gent with silvery temples got dead silence and a stare. He put his head shots away and left without arguing. Near noon there was a lull, and I got up and went over to the desk.
“Well,” she said brightly, “aren’t you the politest old boy.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things. But I think that’s a new one.”
“You let
“I wish I were that bright.”
“Well, as it happens, cuz, you’re in luck. Because I believe I might have something right here for you this very afternoon. Ever done a wrestling picture?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a speaking part, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be. Look, Miss Bellinger, I’m not an actor, or not any more. My name’s Ray Corson. I’m doing some preliminary casting for Republic.”
“Is that a fact. And you came
I shook my head. “I’m not on the payroll, really. I just sort of do odd jobs. A little writing, a little reading. Piecework. Morris Severin asked me to flesh out a treatment for him. He thinks it’d settle his thinking if he could see it cast. It’s a Musketeer kind of thing, sword-fighting, swinging from ropes, the bit, and we need a young guy who moves well, a fair, handsome guy. And I have to tell you, we need him cheap.” She inclined her head understandingly. I shook mine. “I mean cheap even for Republic. I’ll be frank. If this one can’t be made for a nickel, it won’t be made. And I’d sort of like to see it made. It would be — Well, I might get a business card out of it. We’re looking for guys other people might’ve taken a pass on, and someone mentioned a TV actor called Larry Halliday.”
“Lance Halliday.”
