Shooting Star/Spiderweb

But I had time to spare. I took the scenic route and pulled up in front of his place around three.

It hardly surprised me to find that Tom Trent lived in a regulation, sure-enough ranch-house, complete with true Western air-conditioning, a trusty station wagon, and an ol’ swimmin’ hole lined with turquoise tile and surrounded by umbrella tables at which a quick-shootin’, redblooded hombre could set hisself down and have a shot of firewater—bonded, of course.

I pulled into the driveway but didn’t bother to ring the bell, because I could see little ol’ rough-and-ready, two-fisted Tom Trent out yonder at one of the tables. I went thataway.

I’d recognized Trent’s face, of course, but he was the kind who doesn’t depend on that alone. As I got closer I noted the white terrycloth robe thrown over the back of the chair so as to display the TT monogram in gold. A few steps nearer and I could see the same TT on his towel, and reproduced on his trunks. When I reached the table he raised his left hand in salutation, and I saw the silver identification bracelet dangling from the wrist. Three guesses as to what was engraved on it.

For some reason or other, he hadn’t bothered to tattoo his initials across his chest, though they may have been elsewhere, hidden by the trunks.

Trent was watching a white bathing-cap bobbing in the pool. The cap contained a brachycephalic head which now popped over the edge of the pool as I approached. The face stared up at me. Trent turned and saw me coming.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Hi. I’m Mark Clayburn, Mr. Trent. I’d like a few minutes of your time for an interview.”

“Interview? I didn’t get any word on an interview.” He glanced over at the pool. “Hey, did the studio call about any interviews this morning?”

The face moved from left to right.

“Sorry,” Trent said. “You know the rules. No story without a clearance from the front office.”

“I really should have checked first,” I told him. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this. But I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

“Who you with?”

I shrugged. “Freelance. But I’ve got a sort of roving assignment for features from Photoplay. You know, profile stuff, with a picture spread.”

“You can get anything you want from Higgins, in Publicity,” Trent informed me. “If you get together with him, he’ll set up the whole deal.”

I smiled. “I understand that, Mr. Trent. But what I had in mind was something a little different.”

The big man scratched himself under the arm. “That so? What’s the angle?”

“Well, it’s rather confidential.” I shot a look at the face hanging over the pool. Trent followed my gaze.

“Hey,” he called. “Swim underwater for a while, will you?”

The face disappeared.

“Sit down and help yourself. What were you saying about confidential, now?”

I sat down, ignored the bottle and glasses, and concentrated on smiling and keeping my voice soft. “Well, it’s like this. I’m trying to work up a series of interviews with dead stars.”

“Huh?”

“Novelty idea. For instance, I’m going to contact the Barrymores about a yarn on John. You know, intimate details, little bits of personal reminiscence, things like that. I’d like to do one on Beery and maybe Dix. Get the dope and then write it up in question-and-answer form, in the first person, just as if they were talking.”

“Sounds screwy if you ask me.” Trent scowled. “Besides, I ain’t dead.” He poured himself another shot.

“Of course not. But you happen to have been associated with a star who died recently. I thought you might have some interesting material I could use.”

He’d started to lift his drink, but put it down again now. The sun sparkled on the initials cut into the side of the tumbler.

“Who you talking about?”

“Dick Ryan,” I said.

Trent looked at me. Then he raised the glass, emptied it and lowered it to the table again, all in a single continuous motion. He stared at me again before he spoke. “Never heard of him.”

“What’s that? I’m talking about Lucky Larry.”

“Never heard of him, either.”

“But you played in a whole series together. You were with him the night he died.”

Trent stood up. “I told you,” he said. “I never heard of Dick Ryan. End of story.”

“Well, if that’s the way you want to be.”

He wasn’t letting me finish my sentences. “That’s the way it is, Clayburn. And let me give you a tip for what it’s worth to you: you never heard of Dick Ryan, either. And you don’t want to write a yarn about him, or ask anyone else.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Trent scowled. “How’d you lose the eye?” he asked. “Poking it in other people’s keyholes?” He was a big man, and he had a big hand. It felt like a ton, resting on my shoulder.

“What’s wrong with asking?” I murmured. “Who knows, maybe I can find a few interesting angles. Since you didn’t know this Dick Ryan, you might be surprised to learn that he was murdered.” I paused. “Then again, you might not.”

Trent’s hand began to clamp down. I reached up and batted it off. He made a sound in his chest. “Why, you!”

There was the sound of splashing from the pool. Both of us turned and saw the face beneath the bathing cap bob up. The head shook again, a slow, grave movement.

“All right.” His voice shook with the effort at control. “I’m giving you a break. I’m leaving you the other eye, if you get out of here right now. But get this, Clayburn. You aren’t doing any story on Dick Ryan. You’re not asking anyone else about him, either. He’s dead. Let him stay that way. You’re alive. And if you want to stay that way —”

The hand gave me a shove. I moved back.

“Thank you for the hospitality and the advice,” I said. “You’ve been most gracious.” I gestured toward the pool. “Now I’ll leave you to your goldfish.”

Trent made a suggestion which I didn’t care to follow, due to certain physical limitations that rendered it impossible.

I walked away, and he stared after me. So did the face in the pool.

Then I climbed into the car and drove back to town.

The lights were coming on, twinkling in Glendale, flickering over Forest Lawn, sparkling along San Fernando Road. Los Angeles, that gaudy old whore of a city, was putting on her jewels for a big night.

It was time for me to get to the hotel, to put on a few jewels of my own. I thought it over and settled for a shave, shower, soft shirt and striped tie. What the Well-Dressed Interviewer Should Wear.

According to me, that is. Tom Trent would probably prefer to see me in a shroud, nothing fancy, of course, but he’d be willing to let me have my initials embroidered on it.

I thought about Trent as I drove over to Chasen’s. A very aggressive gentleman, Mr. TT. What had his alibi been? Home with the butler, nursing his black eye; something like that. I wondered if the butler had been in the swimming pool. Somebody was calling signals. Maybe I’d better follow them, because it seemed as if the game was getting rough.

My table was reserved and waiting at Chasen’s, but Polly Foster hadn’t arrived. I glanced at my watch. Just eight. Perhaps I had time for a before-dinner drink.

I took it at the bar, and it tasted good. Felt good to be there again, after all this time. Used to spend a lot of evenings here, a long while ago. But of course, none of the crowd at the bar remembered me. Too much time had gone by. Almost a year.

And a year, in Hollywood, is an eternity.

I remembered the old legend about Orpheus and Eurydice. Orpheus went to Hades and got permission to take Eurydice away, on condition that he didn’t turn around and look at her during the return trip. But he looked back, and the bargain was cancelled.