The Next to Die

too bright, the material too stiff.

Dayle smiled at him, then spoke loudly. “Hi, Mr. Lance. Thanks for coming today.”

He grinned. “You don’t have to shout. I may be old, but I’m not deaf.” He pronounced it so it rhymed with leaf.

Dayle nodded cordially. “Do you mind telling me how old you are?”

“I don’t mind telling you that I’m seventy,” he said, slurring his words. “Those McDonald’s people wanted somebody older, so I came up with the glasses and whitened my hair. I—I can play older or younger, you name it.”

Dayle kept a pleasant smile fixed on her face. Tom Lance clearly had indulged in a few shots of courage before this interview. He weaved a little as he stood in front of them. She felt sorry for him.

Dennis leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I think this guy’s had a belt or two or five. The hook or what?”

Sighing, Dayle sat back and caught the casting director’s eye. He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lance. We’ll —”

“That’s all? That’s it?” he asked.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Bullshit!”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“No, you wait a minute,” the old man shot back. “I made fifty pictures before any of you were born! I deserve some respect. Instead, I’m forced to sit out in that hallway for an hour. Then I’m called in here like a pet dog by blondie there. Nobody bothers to get off their rear ends to greet me. I—” He shook his head and swatted at the air. “Oh, forget it!” He swiveled around, almost lost his balance, then lumbered out the door.

“Sorry about that,” the casting director said.

“It’s all right.” Dayle sighed. “The seventh actor is good enough for me if Noah likes him.”

The casting director and his assistant started to collect all the resumes and videotapes.

“You seem in the dumps,” Dennis whispered to her. “Is it Grandpa? I’ll go beat the shit out of him if you want.”

Dayle worked up a chuckle. “My knight in shining armor.” She waved to the casting director and his assistant as they left the room. Then the smile fell from her face and she turned to Dennis again. “I—I’ve had these people following me around for a couple of days now. This morning, a tan Chevy tailed Hank and me from my place all the way to the studio.”

“Maybe it’s the tabloids. They’ve done this to you before, Dayle.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m sure it’s something far more serious. These people have me under a kind of surveillance.”

“Why don’t you call the police about it?”

“They’ll just say I’m paranoid.”

Dennis cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve been under a lot of stress, Dayle. I mean, ever since Leigh Simone committed suicide—”

“Suicide?” Dayle asked sharply. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all these last few weeks? Leigh was murdered! Suicide? Did you say that just to get a rise out of me?”

“I’m sorry.” Dennis shrugged. “It’s just—well, you seem to be the only person in the free world who doesn’t believe Leigh killed herself. Laura, she’s a nurse, and she has some background in psychology…”

Dayle just glared at him. The last thing she wanted right now was to hear his girlfriend’s theories.

“She said what you’re feeling is normal. You were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive. Naturally, you feel responsible. You can’t help asking yourself if you could have done something to prevent it—”

“No, Dennis. What I’m asking myself is—Where the hell do you get off talking to Laura about me? You’ve only known her two weeks.”

Dennis didn’t respond. He stared down at the desktop.

Dayle rubbed her forehead. “Just get out of here and leave me alone.”

Without a word, Dennis slunk out of his chair and headed toward the door. He glanced back at her for a moment.

“I’m not crazy, goddamn it,” Dayle whispered.

Dennis nodded, then left.

The old man’s Plymouth Volare was parked on a high, winding dirt road just below the HOLLYWOOD sign. Sitting at the wheel, he glanced around, then decided the coast was clear. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a .380 semiautomatic.

Nobody at the audition had recognized him. If they’d bothered to look at his resume, they’d have seen who he was. Instead, he was just some old actor from a McDonald’s ad.

Why, only two nights ago, one of his movies had been on television. None of his films had made it to video yet, so he was always on the lookout for when they were broadcasted on TV. Tom Lance saw this one listed in the TV Guide, which he bought every Tuesday:

’26-MOVIE-Western; 1hr, 35min (BW) **“Fall From the Saddle” (1952). Rancher turns outlaw when wife is killed by a crooked sheriff. Predictable. Tom Lance, Louise Reimen, John Clemens.

The movie aired at 2:30 A.M., and was chopped to pieces with commercial interruptions for diet centers and 900-number sex lines. Yet Tom looked forward to each break, because the announcer would say: “We’ll return with more shoot’m-up action in Fall from the Saddle with Tom Lance.”

Yesterday, Tom had stayed inside his tiny apartment, not wanting to miss any calls from friends—or possibly a producer—who had seen the movie. But the phone never rang. So Tom called a few actor acquaintances. One of them mentioned that Harry somebody had just suffered a stroke. He’d been set for a featured role in the new Dayle Sutton movie, and now they were recasting the part. For a while, Tom had such high hopes.

How stupid he’d been, thinking he had a chance.

He looked down at the gun in his hand. It was right that he should blow his brains out here by the HOLLYWOOD sign. Not very original, but appropriate. Plus they’d find him here within a few hours. Hell, if he killed himself at home, it might be days before they discovered his decaying body.

He thought about writing a farewell note to Maggie, but didn’t want to cause her any bad publicity. Maybe Tom Lance and his films were forgotten, but folks still knew who Maggie McGuire was. She had a plum part in the new Dayle Sutton film, the one for which he’d just auditioned—and lost.

How ironic, since he’d helped start Maggie’s career—way back in 1950. He’d starred in Hour of Deceit, and had been engaged to Maggie at the time. He’d practically browbeaten the director into giving her the small but showy role as the mistress of an underworld boss. She’d gone on to bigger and better films, and won an Oscar. Meanwhile, he’d floundered in B-movies and low-budget westerns. Then she’d dumped him.

Not long ago, he’d brought Maggie a book, The Illustrated Movie Star Dictionary. It was still inside a gift bag on the backseat of his car. Tom dug it out. Over a Thousand Stars Listed, the book’s jacket bragged, between a photos of Sylvester Stallone and Greta Garbo. Lavishly Illustrated, Concise Accounts of the Stars’ Careers and Their Films. From Bogart to Brad Pitt! From It Girl Clara Bow to Material Girl Madonna!

He wasn’t listed, not even mentioned. But they gave Maggie a nice write-up, and featured a beautiful glamour shot of her. Seemed like such a waste that Maggie would never get her gift. Then again, he could deliver it to her, and say good-bye. He imagined Maggie wanting to pay him back—not just for this token gift, but for her whole career. She owed him. She might even have some influence in getting Dayle Sutton to change her mind.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires made him glance up. A police car cruised from around the bend a few hundred feet in front of him. Tom quickly stashed the gun inside the book bag. Then he straightened up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. As the squad car crept by, the cop spoke into a mike, and his voice boomed over a speaker: “No parking on this road. Please move your vehicle.”