The Next to Die

Tom waved and nodded. He started his engine and followed the cop car—keeping his distance. Sweat slithered down his temples, and his shirt stuck to his back. Once they were off the dirt road and the police car went in another direction, Tom loosened his tie.

Driving to Maggie’s house in Beverly Hills, Tom imagined a revised edition to that movie book. This one would include him.

LANCE, Tom, it would say, under his favorite early portrait of himself, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled and wavy. (1925-, b. Thomas Lancheski, Chicago, Illinois). Handsome, dark-haired leading man in a number of RKO westerns and crime dramas in the early fifties. But within a decade, he was relegated to guest-star appearances on Perry Mason, Ben Casey, and Bonanza; then Lance seemed to fade into obscurity. Hollywood misused Tom Lance, and it is a great travesty that his talent went unappreciated until, at age 76, he took a supporting role in the Dayle Sutton starrer, Waiting for the Fall. Lance made every minute of his screen time count. Critics raved, and he nabbed a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination…

Tom’s daydream took him all the way to Beverly Hills. He turned onto the winding, palm-tree shaded road that was Maggie’s cul-de-sac. He drove past the beautiful houses and carefully manicured lawns. By comparison, Maggie’s ranch house looked rather modest—albeit respectable.

He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a white Mercedes. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he suddenly regretted this impulsive visit. He looked grimy and tired. He was about to restart the car and leave, but he heard a dog bark. All at once, the Doberman leaped up toward the car door, its paws on the window. Tom reeled back, clutching his heart. The huge dog growled and snapped at him on the other side of the glass.

“Tosha, get down from there!” Tom heard Maggie call. He glanced out his rear window. She came around from the side of the house. She wore jeans, a white sweater, and gardening gloves. “Tosha? Tosh, get down! Who’s there?”

The dog finally shut up. Tom opened the car door and stepped outside. He patted Tosha’s head and smiled at Maggie, who came up to his Volare.

She frowned for a moment. “Oh, Tom…” She pulled off the gloves. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”

He wasn’t too good on his feet today—with his gout flaring up. He tried not to limp as he made his way around the Volare. “Hi, Maggie—”

“Say, listen,” she interrupted. “Did you call me last week?”

“Someone called pretending to be me?”

“Someone called threatening to kill me,” Maggie said. “He sounded like you. I wasn’t sure. Phoned twice. He said, ‘You promote perversion, and thus you will die.’ Then he quoted the Bible to me—I forget what exactly.”

Tom shook his head. “Why would I say something like that?”

She shrugged. “Forget it. Some crank. I’ve gotten a lot of crank letters since those cover stories in People and that gay magazine. But crank calls to my home phone are another story. I just thought—well, forget I asked.”

“I brought you a present.” Tom reached inside the car for the gift bag. It felt a bit heavy, and he remembered that the gun was in there. Turning his back to her, he transferred the gun to his pocket inside his jacket. Her dog sniffed at his crotch. Tom handed Maggie the gift bag.

“Sweet of you. Tosha, stop that,” she said in one breath, with an apathetic glance inside the bag. “I suppose I should ask you in. Would you like some ice tea?”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

She laughed. “Yeah? Since when?” She sauntered toward the side of the house and gave him a beckoning wave. “C’mon, it’s no bother. I was about to pour myself a glass.” She snapped her fingers at the dog. “C’mon, Tosh.”

Tom and the dog followed her to the fenced-in back section of the house. There was a large kidney-shaped pool, and a rock garden. “It’s the leash for you, Tosh,” she said, grabbing the Doberman by his collar. She led him to a chain attached to a palm tree at the garden’s edge. “Tosha, keep still.” She dropped the gift bag to fix the dog to his leash.

“I hear you’re in the new Dayle Sutton film,” Tom said.

“Yeah, sort of an extended cameo.”

“That’s quite a coincidence, because I’ve been considering a part in the same movie. Maybe you could put in a good word for—”

“Okay, Tosha, there you go,” she said to the dog. “Stay put now.”

Tom bit down on his lip.

Maggie retrieved the bag, straightened up, then opened the sliding glass door to the house. “Okay, here we go. After you, Tom.”

He tried not to hobble, but he caught her staring. “What’s wrong with your foot?” she asked.

“Oh, I twisted my ankle jogging this morning,” he lied.

“Jogging? You?” Maggie laughed. “I’d buy tickets to see that.”

Tom was careful of the step up to the recreation room. He loved this room, because it definitely belonged in a movie star’s home. The floor was Mexican tile, with a lambskin rug in front of the large stone fireplace. The sofa, love seat and chairs were covered with soft, cream-colored leather. Above the sofa hung an arrangement of framed photographs, Maggie’s magazine covers from a Life portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of People. There was Frank Sinatra planting a kiss on her cheek as she clutched her Academy Award; Maggie shaking Princess Grace’s hand at some formal reception; Maggie and her ex, Pierre Blanchard, attending a film premiere with Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd; Maggie and President Kennedy laughing over what seemed to be a private joke at some Hollywood political function. Her Academy Award took center spot amid the pictures, the only three-dimensional object on that wall. A sconce held it up.

“I saw you on that Burger King commercial,” Maggie said. She was in the kitchen, pouring their ice teas. Her kitchen was incorporated in the large, all-purpose room, separated by a counter bar.

Tom climbed onto one of the tall, cushioned stool-chairs at the counter. “It was a McDonald’s ad,” he said.

“Whatever,” she shrugged, handing him a glass of ice tea. “I thought it was cute.” She lit a cigarette. “Those ads can be pretty lucrative.”

“I’ve had film offers,” Tom lied. “They’re interested in me for Tom Hanks’s father in his next movie.”

“Tom Hanks,” she said, deadpan.

She knows I’m lying, Tom thought. “It’s nothing definite yet,” he said. Playing father to Kevin Costner or Tom Hanks was one of his fantasies lately.

“Tom Hanks,” Maggie repeated, then she shook her head. “Well, that’s just terrific. I’m thrilled for you.” She took a drag from her cigarette, then reached for the gift bag. “I may as well open this—before you head out.”

“I hope you don’t already have it,” he said, grinning.

She pulled out the book. “Oh, look, one of these things,” she said, glancing at the cover. “They reduce your whole career to a couple of brief paragraphs. Hope you got it on sale.”

“You don’t like it,” he murmured.

“Actually, I’m a sucker for these books,” Maggie said. She flipped through its pages, and Tom noticed her stopping in the M’s.

“‘…But her career never fulfilled its early promise,’” Maggie read aloud, sneering. “Well, isn’t that sweet? Thank you for buying this for me, Tom.”

“That’s just their way of saying Hollywood didn’t do right by you. I think it’s a nice review. The only thing they failed to mention was the guy who helped get you started. I should have gotten some credit. I mean, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be—”

“I’d still be a cocktail waitress,” she finished for him. Maggie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to see it in print. I hear it enough from you—practically every time you come over here on one of your surprise visits: ‘You’d still be a cocktail waitress!’” She laughed. “Don’t you think that by now, Tom, I’d have been promoted to hostess?”

“I don’t bring it up that often,” Tom argued. “And I don’t drop by that often either. Lord, you make me sound like a pest.”