Shooting Star/Spiderweb

Shooting STAR

&

SPIDERWEB

by Robert Bloch

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Shooting Star

Spiderweb

In The Land of the Blonde, The One-Eyed Man Is King

A famous movie star found dead on the set of his latest picture...

Drugs hastily disposed of at the scene of the crime...

It’s the stuff of Tinseltown scandal—and could ruin the investment Harry Bannock made in the dead man’s library of films.

For help, Bannock turns to Mark Clayburn, a one-eyed private eye with his own history of scandals. But can Clayburn uncover the truth about Dick Ryan’s murder before time runs out for Ryan’s co- stars...and for Clayburn himself?

“Robert Bloch is one of the all-time masters.”

—Peter Straub

Robert Bloch was the legendary author of PSYCHO and a true Hollywood insider, writing scripts for numerous movies and TV shows including ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS, Boris Karloff’s THRILLER, and the original STAR TREK. You haven’t see Hollywood’s dark side till you’ve seen it through Bloch’s eyes...

SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange

THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather

LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block

ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill

THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer

THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis

BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod

SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas

FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich

KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall

SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block

MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

ZERO COOL by John Lange

Shooting STAR

by Robert Bloch

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

(HCC-042)

First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008

Chapter One

My private eye was a little bloodshot this morning.

I focused it on the mirror, then wished I hadn’t. There was somebody in the mirror I didn’t care to see: the tall, thin guy with the graying hair; the man with the bloodshot eye. He bothered me. I didn’t like the way he looked today. He’d shaved and dressed too carelessly, and with that black eye-patch and the ridiculous little mustache, he bore a mocking resemblance to the man in those shirt ads of a few years back. Besides, his good eye was bloodshot.

We nodded at one another in the mirror though, just like old friends. Why not? I knew all about him and he knew all about me. Maybe I didn’t approve of my own reflection but, who knows, perhaps my reflection didn’t approve of me, either. We were even on that score.

Maybe my reflection remembered the days when I had two eyes. The days before the hair started to turn gray and the collars began to fray a little at the edges. The days when I was Mark Clayburn Literary Agency, with an office on the Strip.

Well, I remembered those days, too. Perhaps that’s why my eye got bloodshot—from too much remembering, from drinking too many toasts to the past. But it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck with my reflection and my reflection was stuck with me. Me, Mark Clayburn, still a Literary Agency, but not on the Strip any more.

I thought about that for a moment, thought about the long road leading from the Strip to Olive Street in downtown L.A., and of the things I’d lost along the way. The eye went in the accident, and most of my savings were gone by the time I got out of the hospital. Then I found my clients had disappeared, and my help, and the big office.

So here I was, starting all over again. Just a part-time tenpercenter, really, with a typewriter, a telephone, and a couple of small clients. Plus a license as a Notary Public and another one as a Private Investigator. Anything to make a buck. Not a very fast buck, either.

My bloodshot eye did a fast pirouette around the office. Nothing much to see there: a desk, files, a few chairs. No beautiful bra-breaking blonde secretary, no top-shelf rye in the bottom drawer. It was just a walkup office, the kind nobody ever comes to unless they’ve been kicked out of all the better places first.

I went over to the desk and sat down. This was no time to feel sorry for myself. Save that for tonight. Right now I had work to do: a science-fiction yarn to send to Boucher, for a client; another to try on a confessions mag, and a true-detective job to revise.

That was still my meat—the true-detective yarn. I picked it up and started to read it over, wondering for the ten thousandth time why so many people are interested in crime and its solution. How many of them identify themselves with the detective and how many of them identify themselves with the criminal? Yes, and how many of them subconsciously identify themselves with the victim? Come to think of it, you could divide all society up into those three classes: the potential investigators, the potential criminals, and the potential victims. Might do an essay on it some time, stressing the fascination people have for reading about murder. Call it Five Little Peppers And How They Slew.

But right now, my job was to read the manuscript, read it and correct it, sitting in the dingy little office that nobody ever visited. I picked up the pages, bent my head, then jerked erect.

The door opened.

He stood there, big and bluff and blond, bulking in the narrow doorway so that his tweeded shoulders almost touched either side of the frame. His eyes and teeth and rings sparkled and he said, “Hello, Mark. Long time no, si?”

“Harry Bannock! Come on in!”

“I am in.” The big man walked over and pumped my hand. First he looked at me and then he looked down. They all do if they haven’t seen the eye-patch before. “Great to see you! You’re looking great. How’s