By the time Stallings threw the .25-caliber semiautomatic out into the ocean and returned the Rice house keys to Phil Quill, the actor-real
estate man, it was 2:47 P.M. He got in the Mercedes 500SL and drove to the Budget office in Beverly Hills, where he handed the car keys over to Gloria Ransome of the perpetually sunny disposition.
She greeted him with her usual warmth and together they went out to make sure the $100,000 car didn’t have a crumpled fender or a broken window. On the way back to the office, she asked him how his movie deal was progressing.
“We’ve got a picture,” said Stallings, who vaguely remembered somebody quoting somebody else as saying that.
After she said “wow” and “terrific” and “that’s wonderful,” as if it were happening to her instead of to him, Stallings said, “You work tomorrow?”
“I get weekends off.”
“Want to go to Tahoe?”
“You kidding?”
He shook his head. “What time d’you get off?”
“Six?” She made it a question as if fearful it might be too late.
“I’ll pick you up then. Maybe we’ll charter a plane and fly up tonight.”
“Oh-my-God!”
“See you at six, Gloria,” Stallings said, smiled and left. Outside, he crossed the street and walked down the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard until he came to a park bench, where he sat down next to a man in his late sixties or early seventies who said he was a retired film cutter. Eventually, they talked about the government and the economy and compared the just-ended gulf war with Korea and Vietnam and World War Two. The retired film cutter seemed very well informed and not at all optimistic.
When the man rose to go, he looked down at Stallings and said,
“You’re not retired yet, are you?”
“Not just yet,” Booth Stallings said.
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