Hollywood Gothic (41 page)

Authors: Thomas Gifford

BOOK: Hollywood Gothic

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He folded the letter, put it into an envelope, and sat staring out at the Pacific breaking across the sand, slapping the pilings. The sun was working hard and the gulls slid like shadows over the surf. Behind him Sunset Boulevard began its winding ascent inland from the Pacific Coast Highway. He had been sitting on the windblown deck with the Boston ferns and the sunshine. The tall blond girl came to replenish the wine. She looked up at the sun and took a deep breath. She was extraordinarily beautiful, a California girl, the current model.

“This kind of day,” she said. “Wow! Makes you glad to be alive.”

“Lots of damage out here. They’re closed next door—”

“Right, yeah, but you know California.” She smiled. Her teeth were so white in the tanned face it made him want to cry. Goldie’s face had looked like that once. “People just keep coming back, y’know. You just gotta go for it … and then you get a day like this and what the heck, y’know?”

He finished his Chablis and went inside to the pay telephone, dialed. He heard the familiar voice at the other end.

“Herbert,” he said. “This is Toby. Give Tully the word. I’m ready.”

He left the restaurant and drove into Santa Monica. The schoolyard was empty. A girl of twenty or so in running shorts and a sweatshirt was shooting baskets. Challis stood under an oak tree and waited, smoked a cigarette, watched. She was a good shot, tall and lean. A gym teacher. He had been waiting for about twenty minutes when the kids came piling out for recess. He saw Ralph right away, surrounded by a group of his protégés. Challis hadn’t planned to force any contact; he’d just wanted to see the boy again. In the sunlight and the balmy weather, on a playground full of kids, Ralph seemed younger. Challis was about to leave when Ralph detached himself from the kids trading baseball cards and strolled toward him.

“Hi, Ralph.” He nodded. “It’s me.”

“Bandersnatch,” the boy said softly, huge eyes widening, a grin pushing gently at the corners of his mouth. “I saw you but you looked different … the beard, I guess.” He appraised the newly revealed face. “Man, I don’t know how I knew it was you.”

“Telepathy.” Challis winked.

“So how’s it going?” There were no traces of Edward G. Robinson. The dark face flashed a smile.

“I got a few things figured out. Finally. Now I’m going to hit the road. You’re my last stop.”

“Well, I tried to keep you covered.” He shrugged. “I guess I did okay. You’re not back in jail, anyway.”

“I’d better go. I wanted to see you … say good-bye.”

Ralph nodded. “I’m not too good at this. Take care of yourself. … You gonna be okay?”

“Sure. You?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Ralph Halliday.” He looked back at his friends, shook his head. “I take these crazy little bastards and teach them the ropes, take care of them. Hell, I’ll be outta here in no time. Next year I’ll be in a regular school, y’know? Then I’ll pick my shots.” He smiled up at Challis.

“Well, goddammit, give me a kiss …”

Ralph leaned forward, and their cheeks touched.

“Don’t forget the mountain,” Challis whispered.

“We were dynamite on the mountain.” Ralph stood back. “I better go. Don’t want them over here asking questions. … Hey, don’t be a stranger.”

Their eyes met and they laughed.

The wide-bodies slid down out of the eastern sky, glowing pink over the desert, caught the sunset on their cold silver wings, and settled into the bustle of Los Angeles International Airport. He watched from the hangar where Maximus kept the two company jets. He smelled the same oil and fuel that polluted every hangar. Twenty yards away was the place he’d stood a few days before, handcuffed, waiting to disappear inside. Everything had changed, but here he was, waiting to disappear again.

Tully Hacker was talking to a mechanic who’d been playing with the aircraft. Someone from Maximus catering was loading champagne and containers of specially prepared food aboard. Challis watched, felt lightheaded.

Out at the end of the runway a magenta sun was falling into the Pacific, layers of clouds at the horizon cutting it into slices like a fancy Japanese illustration. Hacker left the mechanic, walked stiffly across the oily concrete floor. He looked out at the sun.

“Pretty ain’t it?” He sighed. He was carrying a Gucci briefcase. “Well, you’re doing the right thing.”

“What’s it like back at the house?”

“Running smoothly. Oh, it’s one of your typical Hollywood tragedies, front-page stuff for a day or two …” He grinned thinly. “Sol is in seclusion. The studio has issued a statement. Daffy’s drunk, sedated—she’ll be fine. The little boy—well, it’s tough, but kids are resilient.” He made a small expressive gesture with his large hands. “This too will pass away, Toby.” He rocked back on his heels. “Herbert’s going up to see Priscilla after the funeral. Happy ending, maybe. Good man in a pinch, Herbert.” He handed the briefcase to Toby. “Everything’s in here—you’re now a man named Tom Chesswardine. Your whole life story’s there, passport, you’re even a screenwriter … a doctor, no credits, but a letter of introduction to some people you’re going to need to know. Money, bank drafts … you’re a lucky man, you’re lucky Sol feels so guilty about everything. Oh, and you’ll get a kick out of this—two screenplays in folders, with notes. They need polishes, the Challis touch. Sol told me to tell you the price is a hundred grand each—doesn’t want you to think you’re taking charity.” He laughed roughly, shook his head. “Anything I can do for you, Toby?”

“No. No loose ends.”

“The woman?”

“No. I’m an invisible man. Old Tom Chesswardine … a shadow.” He shook Tully’s hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

The pilot and the copilot came through a door. Hacker beckoned to them. “Don, Phil, come here … I’d like you to meet your passenger, this is Mr. Chesswardine …”

Challis leaned back in the plush swivel chair. The stewardess handed him a card. She was long-legged, big-breasted, and had a face that was pretty in a robot, airbrushed way.

“Those are the films we can run for you in flight, Mr. Chesswardine. Just give us the word.” She put his eye out with her smile. Teeth the size of thumbnails. I love you, he thought.

“Read them to me, please.” He handed her back the card.

“
Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Saboteur, Bringing Up Baby, The Bridge on the River Kwai, Topper, On the Town, Ride the Pink Horse
—”

“That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll watch those.” The engines were vibrating, they were moving slowly. Tully Hacker was waving. She handed him another card. “Read it to me, please.”

“Boned pheasant or Peking duck, fresh sweet peas—”

“Okay, okay. Surprise me.”

“And Perrier Jouet champagne.” She smiled again. “Are you buckled in?”

“At the very least.”

She reached down, patted the buckle to make sure. Then she went away.

“It’s a tough life,” Challis said aloud. A bad guy. In the movies the bad guys got it in the end. She brought the gorgeous green bottle of champagne with the white flowers cut into the glass, poured him a goblet of the pale gold bubbles.

“Happy days,” he said, sipped.

The sky was the color of blood as they lifted off.

The killer was getting away.

A man wearing an immaculate white suit, a pale blue shirt, a white tie with a touch of cream in it, stood above a beach, leaning on a stone wall. The breakers frothed against the pale, smooth sand, and sunshine exploded like a rain of diamonds on the shifting surface of the water. Tanning bodies lay motionless on beach towels, and the soft wind kept the man dry, though the day was hot. He wore dark glasses. He leaned against the wall, watching the people on the beach, who never moved a muscle; then he walked away through the crowds surging along the pavement by the wall.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

cover design by Michel Vrana

978-1-4532-6611-3

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