Shooting Star/Spiderweb

“Temper? You don’t have any temper. You’re a lamb compared to boys like Trent and Ryan. They’re the kind that haul off and clout you one. That lousy Ryan hit me on the arm when he threw me out.”

“Then he did toss you out?”

“Sure. What the hell. I didn’t want to say it, but that’s what happened. Tossed me out on my can. And Trent after me. Trent was looking for his gun, he was so damned mad.”

She stopped.

“Go on.”

“I don’t remember. We were all high, and I was crying. Of course, Trent was only talking. He didn’t have his gun anyway. Ryan did—in the trailer. And Trent went back to town to get patched up.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s got an alibi.”

“But couldn’t he have come back later?”

“The way he was beat up? No. And with all that liquor in him?”

“You’re sure it was just liquor?”

“Of course. What else? He went back to town, and I was mad so I drove back to town myself.”

I nodded. “So I heard. You didn’t by any chance happen to turn around, did you?”

“Why?”

“Well, Ryan said something about expecting company. And it occurs to me that you may have been curious, that you might have sneaked back to take a look at his visitor.”

“Look, I was so damned mad at that louse, I never wanted to see him again. I wouldn’t have cared if somebody blew the top of his head off.”

“Somebody did,” I said, softly. “And that’s not all they did, either.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“Somebody knew Trent’s gun was in Ryan’s trailer. Maybe you all did. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone came there and killed him—killed him in a horrible way, a way that deserves to be punished. I want to see that he gets what’s coming to him, and no matter how you feel about Ryan, I think you do, too.”

“But I don’t know anything,” she murmured.

“I think you do. I think you know, and you were afraid to talk, because your name would be involved. You didn’t want to get mixed up in any scandal. There’s that reefer tie-up in it, I know.”

She drained her glass. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“If that’s the way it is, I don’t blame you. But remember this. I’m not a cop. It’s safe to tell me. I can put my information into a story without revealing the sources. And you have my word for that. Wouldn’t you like to see them get the killer?”

Polly Foster set her glass down.

“I’m getting woozy,” she said. “Think I’ll go home.”

“But you haven’t told me—”

“Bright boy. I haven’t, have I? I’m going home.”

“Let me drive you.”

“No. Taxi.”

“Look, don’t rush off. It’s early yet. I promise, I’ll drop the subject.”

“Like hell you will. You’ll just keep pouring drinks into me until you get what you want.” She sighed. “I know the routine. Only usually, when a guy does that he’s after something else.”

“There’s a thought,” I said.

“Skip it. You aren’t even interested, are you? I can tell. And if you pretended to be, it’s only for your goddam story.”

“Please, this is important. Haven’t you ever stopped to think that there’s a murderer running around loose? Maybe it’s someone you know. Surely it’s someone who knows you. It’s dangerous to let—”

“Never mind.” She stood up, accomplishing the act without swaying. “I do a lot of thinking. And all I know is, I’m alive, and I want to stay that way.”

“Sure you won’t let me drive you home?”

“I’ll manage.” She turned, and I came around the table and took her arm.

“One thing more,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I told you I had another favor to ask you. For a girl, a fan of yours. Will you autograph this menu?”

“Very funny.”

“I mean it.” I took out my pen. “Here.”

“Sorry. No autographs. No answers, either. You aren’t getting anything more out of me, Mr. Clayburn.”

I picked up the menu and wrote on the margin of the cover.

“All right,” I said. “If that’s the way you feel. But take it with you. If you change your mind—about the autograph or anything else—you can call me at the number I wrote down. I’ll be there tonight.”

“Don’t hang by anything until,” Polly Foster said. She favored me with a ravishing smile, and I beamed back at her as we moved toward the door.

I watched her enter the taxi and waved goodbye. She noticed the stares of the couples on the driveway and blew me a kiss for their benefit. But all the while her lips moved, and I knew she was saying something suitable for washing out with soap.

Then she was gone, and I was left alone. Left alone to reclaim my car and drive back to the hotel.

By the time I got there my glow had faded. I bought a pint at the drugstore and took it up to my room; not in any hopes that it would restore the glow, but merely to keep me company.

I needed company right now, needed it badly, because I’d goofed.

Sitting there on the bed, I opened the bottle and took a drink on that. Then I reviewed my record so far.

Goofed with Trent this afternoon. Goofed with Polly Foster tonight. Two foul-ups in one day. Quite a record for a novice. I hadn’t learned one solitary new fact. All I’d succeeded in doing was to make enemies out of the best possible leads in the case. Maybe Miss Foster had something there: I was just a one- eyed bastard who didn’t know his way around.

I took another drink. Might as well get blind. In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king...

How long had I been sitting here? An hour, two hours? It didn’t matter. The bottle was half empty and I was more than half full. Might as well kill it. Everything else was dead. Dead as Dick Ryan. Dead as the case.

Tomorrow morning I’d have to call Bannock and tell him the deal was off. No soap. No soap to wash out the mouth that wouldn’t talk. No soap, no leads, no clues, no case—and no eleven grand for me, either.

Pity. It was all a pity. I could cry over it. Cry with one eye. But that’s the way it was. No sense in trying to fool Bannock. I’d goofed, and I didn’t have any idea what else to do.

If I saw Joe Dean or Estrellita Juarez or Abe Kolmar, I’d wind up with a blank again. Nobody was talking. The reefer angle had them all scared. So they laid off.

Or was it something else?

I sat up.

Laid off.

Had they got what I’d been getting? Had somebody gone to them directly and told them to lay off?

I’d forgotten about my phone call, the visitor to my apartment.

Sure, I could tell Bannock I was through with the case. But who’d tell the other?

I stared at the phone, sweating, wondering whether or not it would start to ring, if I’d pick it up and hear that flat voice once again.

Then I grunted, remembering that I wasn’t home any more. I was in the hotel, I was safe. He didn’t know, couldn’t call.

That called for more than a grunt. It called for a grin. In fact, it called for another drink.

I was just reaching for the bottle again when the phone rang.

No drink now. No grin. I was sweating again, and my hand wavered as it went to the phone.

But I picked it up because I had to pick it up, said “Hello” because I had to say “Hello,” and listened because I had to listen.