A Graveyard for Lunatics

?Two Unitarians??

?Two???

?And when they all stagger forth on Easter Sunday and ask, ?Who cut Judas Iscariot out of the film?? how come the answer is: Manny Leiber!?

There was a long silence. Manny Leiber threw down his unlit cigar. Freezing me in place, he let his hand crawl to the white telephone.

He dialed three studio digits, waited, said, ?Bill??

He took a deep breath. ??rehire Judas Iscariot.?

With hatred, he watched me replace the three cushions on the three easy chairs. ?Is that all you came to talk about??

?For now.? I turned the doorknob.

?Whatta you heard from your friend Roy Holdstrom?? he said, suddenly.

?I thought you knew!? I said, then stopped.

Careful, I thought.

?The fool just ran off,? I said, quickly. ?Took everything from his apartment, left town. Stupid idiot. No friend of mine, now. Him and that damn clay Beast he made!?

Manny Leiber studied me carefully. ?Good riddance. You?ll like working with Wong better.?

?Sure. Fritz and Jesus.?

?What??

?Jesus and Fritz.?

And I went out.

33

I walked slowly back to my grandparents? house somewhere in the past.

?You sure it was Roy running by an hour ago?? asked Crumley.

?Hell, I dunno. Yes, no, maybe. I?m not coherent. Martinis, middle of the day, that?s not for me. And?? I hefted the script? ?I got to cut two pounds off this and add three ounces. Help!?

I glanced at a pad Crumley was holding.

?What??

?Called three autograph agencies. They all knew Clarence??

?Great!?

?Not so. All said the same. Paranoid. No last name, phone number, or address. Told them all he was terrified. Not of being burgled, no, but murdered. Then burgled. Five thousand photos, six thousand autographs, his nest eggs. So maybe he didn?t recognize the Beast the other night, but was afraid the Beast knew him, knew where he lived, and might come get him.?

?No, no, that doesn?t fit.?

?Clarence, whatever-his-name is, the agency people said, always took cash, gave cash. No checks, no way to trace him that way. Never did things by mail. Showed up, regular, to make deals, then disappeared for months. Dead end. Dead end, too, the Brown Derby. I walked nice and soft, but the maitre d? hung up on me. Sorry, kid. Hey??

Just then, on schedule, the Roman phalanx reappeared, far off, double-timing. With jovial shouts and curses they approached.

I leaned wildly out, holding my breath.

Crumley said: ?Is that the bunch you mentioned, and Roy with them??

?Yeah.?

?Is he with them now??

?I can?t see??

Crumley exploded.

?Goddamn, what the hell is that stupid jerk doing running around the studio anyway? Why doesn?t he get the hell out, escape, dammit?! What?s he sticking around for? To get himself killed?! He?s had his chance to run, but he?s putting you, and me, through the wringer. Why!??

?Revenge,? I said. ?For all the murders.?

?What murders!??

?Of all of his creatures, all his most dear friends.?

?Crap.?

?Listen, Crum. How long you been in your house in Venice? Twenty, twenty-five years. Planted every hedge, every bush, seeded the lawn, built the rattan hut out back, put in the sound equipment, the rain makers, added the bamboo and the orchids, and the peach trees, the lemon, the apricot. What if I broke in one night soon and tore up everything, cut down the trees, trampled the roses, burned the hut, threw the sound deck out in the street, what would you do??