Nobody here in Hollywood would ever be guilty of making Orpheus’s mistake. Because in Hollywood, no one looks back. What you did, what you were yesterday, doesn’t count. Nobody cares if you won the Academy Award last year; the big question is, who’s going to win
I raised my glass and drank a silent toast to Mr. Orpheus, who’d never get in the Musician’s Local out here. I knew just how he felt.
I spotted three or four familiar faces down the bar, including a man named Wilbur Dunton who was still working out at Culver City on the strength of a contract I’d landed for him when he was in my stable.
Nobody looked at me. The freeze was on. Everybody was talking about tomorrow, and I belonged to yesterday. And so did Dick Ryan. Nobody wanted to look at him, either, or talk about what had happened.
I ordered another drink and wondered about Dave Chasen. Did he ever look back, now? Did he remember the days when he played stooge for Joe Cook in all those wonderful shows—
How long ago was that? Less than twenty years. And now Cook was ill and forgotten, while Chasen was a big man out here on the Coast.
There was a moral somewhere in all this, and I was just looking for it at the bottom of my glass when I happened to see Polly Foster come in.
I’d seen her on the screen several times, of course, and that had been enough to make me look forward to this evening with a certain mild anticipation. Recognizing her now, my anticipation changed immediately from mild to wild. Polly Foster in the flesh was quite something else again. Nor is that “in the flesh” merely a figure of speech. The figure she cut had nothing to do with speech.
White-gold hair over white-gold shoulders; her dress was robin’s-egg blue, and where it left off beneath her neck, any resemblance to robins’ eggs ended.
She halted just inside the door and looked around for a moment. Heads turned, which wasn’t hard for me to understand; she’d just turned mine. Several people nodded, and she nodded back. But all the while she was scanning the crowd.
I got off the stool and prepared to walk over. At that moment she spotted me and came into the bar. She walked right up, without any hesitation, and she smiled.
As she stood before me now, I could see that her lips were full, too. Her eyes were something rather special. They were smiling along with her lips, and all for me.
“Hello,” she murmured sweetly. “Are you the one-eyed bastard who wants to pump me about Dick Ryan’s death?”
“My dear Miss Foster,” I said. “There seems to be—”
“I’m not your dear Miss Foster. And I don’t give a damn about what there seems to be. What I want to know is why you’re sticking your big fat nose into somebody else’s business.”
“Tell you about it at dinner,” I said. “Come on, our table’s ready.”
“Do you think I’d actually have dinner with you?”
“Of course.” I grinned at her. “You didn’t come here just to call me names. You’re just dying to find out what I know. So you’ll just have to pay the price.”
“And that price is having dinner?”
“Half of it.”
“What’s the other half?”
I winked. “Tell you about it later.”
“Well, of all the nerve—”
But she had dinner with me. Steaks, New York cut, and baked Idaho potatoes and one of the special salads. Plus Manhattans. A quick one before we ate and several during the meal.
The drinks helped a lot. Let’s give credit where credit is due. She got the first one down fast before she started to go after me.
“I suppose this is Bannock’s idea of a joke,” she said. “Pulling that interview gag. Wait until I get hold of Costigan tomorrow morning.”
“Who’s Costigan?”
“Publicity. Bannock set this up with him. I’ll tell that cheap flack a thing or two.”
“Why? It’s not Costigan’s fault. How could he know? And Bannock really thought I was after a story.”
“The hell he did.”
“What other reason would he have?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But I intend to find out. And fast.”
“Be reasonable,” I said. “Bannock was just doing me a favor. He’s not involved in this at all.”
“Then who is?”
“It’s my own idea. I’d like to do a story on the Ryan case.”
“That’s not what you told Tom Trent.”
“Oh, so he’s the one who tipped you off.”
Polly Foster made a face which might have surprised her fans. “All right, so he called me. And I said I’d find out what this was. So start talking, Mr. Clayburn. A bargain’s a bargain.”
The steaks arrived with the second round of Manhattans. “I already told you. I want to do a story, for the true-detective magazines.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
“I did that little thing, but they can’t seem to tell me what I want to know.”
“Which is?”
“Who killed Dick Ryan?”
She put down her fork and picked up her drink. For a moment I thought she was going to throw it at me. Instead, she gulped.
“Level with me,” she said. “Are you a cop?”
“No. Just a literary agent. Do a little writing of my own, now and then.”
“In other words, all you’re interested in is a chance to make some money.”
“That’s right. I could use a little dough, and this seemed to be an excellent lead.”
The big gray eyes narrowed. “So that’s it. I’m beginning to get it, now. How much?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much are you asking to lay off?”
I looked at her. Then I put down my knife. I put down my napkin. I stood up.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” I said. “I’ve been insulted.”
Polly Foster looked around hastily, then reached out and grabbed my wrist. “For God’s sake, sit down!”
I smiled, but didn’t move.
“Come on, everybody’s looking.”
“And you don’t want anyone to see me walk out on you, is that it? Imagine the gossip! ‘Who was the unknown escort who staged a public walkout on glamorous Polly Foster the other night at—’z”
“Sit
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry, damn you!”
“There’s a sweet girl.” I sat down again. “But don’t ever accuse me of anything like that again. Poor but proud, that’s me. I’m no blackmailer.”
“Sorry.”
“I understand. Easy to make a mistake. The woods are full of them out here. Come on, let’s have another drink.” I signaled the waiter and ordered.
“Trent guessed you were after shakedown money.”
“Trent’s a slob.”
