Shadow Games (11 page)

All this was rendered in dialogue, off-stage narration, and even a few biting and very melancholy songs. And
Cobey
had written every bit of it. There could be no doubt about his talent as either writer or actor.

Many critics had applauded the risks
Cobey
had taken with his own character, and Puckett agreed completely with them. Randy was a despicable character in virtually every respect...and yet...and yet there was a sorrow and curious humor about him that rose from the ashes of his pettiness and egotism and made him...almost likeable.

Almost.

It was this tension, this unexpected candor, that was so thrilling to watch. The play ran one hour and thirty-seven minutes without an intermission, and, when it was over, the audience was immediately on its feet.
Cobey
took eight curtain calls.

E
ven half an hour after the play ended, backstage was jammed with people of every kind—reporters, celebrity-gawkers, spouses of the cast, stage hands, and actors appreciating all the attention they were getting—that little universe of wannabes
and hangers-on and minor stars that make up every professional stage production.

In front of
Cobey's
dressing room stood Lilly Carlyle and a handsome, white-haired man Puckett recognized immediately as Wade Preston, the majority owner of International Talent Management.

Puckett and Anne went over, Puckett not being sure that Lilly would remember him from their brief visit the long-ago day he'd brought
Cobey
back from the asylum in St. Louis.

But she remembered him at once. "Wade, this is the private investigator who helped us with
Cobey
that time."

Puckett and Preston shook hands. "Is it all right to say that you were one of my heroes?" Puckett asked and smiled.

"I'm just gratified to know that at least some of the kids who grew up watching my movies went to work for the right side of the law," Preston said. "Unfortunately, I get a lot of prison mail from my little buckaroos. Seems not all of them trod the path of right and justice." His last words mocked themselves—a 1950's movie- and TV-star now mocking some of his old and very corny dialogue. Puckett liked the guy and, idiotic as it seemed, was thrilled to meet him.

Things didn't go so well with Lilly and Anne. She said, "And this, Wade, is Anne Addison, who wrote that very heavy-handed psychoanalytic article about
Cobey
that time. For
Movie Talk
, remember? I nearly had to get an injunction to force her to leave him alone."

Even in the shadows of the small hallway they were standing in, Puckett could see Anne blush.

Puckett started to say something but Preston said it for him.

"Now, Lilly, we're all here to celebrate the fine things that are happening to
Cobey
these days. Let's not let past history spoil the night. I'm sure that Ms. Addison's intentions were honorable."

And with that, he gently touched Anne's elbow and smiled at her. "Thanks for coming this evening, Anne."

She nodded, obviously thankful that he had so skillfully changed the moment into a pleasant one.

Puckett made note of the good cop-bad cop routine for which International was famous. With his handsome, Roman senator head and courtly bearing, Wade Preston of the dark suits and brilliant white shirts, shining gold cufflinks and honest blue eyes—Wade Preston could never be anything except the good cop.

The bad cop role was left to Lilly Carlyle who, industry gossip had it, relished the part. Usually it worked opposite tonight's sequence. Usually, Preston tried to talk an uncooperative client into doing the proper thing. Sweet talk, that is. Using words such as right and honor and best intentions. And if that failed, then plump but beautiful Lilly in her $3,000 Rodeo Drive suits came at you. And the words she used were far different. Motherfucker. Asshole. Never work in this town again. And with a few cocksuckers and rip-your-balls-off thrown in for good measure.

"You're here to see
Cobey
, I take it?" Preston said.

"Just to say hi, see how things are going," Anne said, speaking directly to Preston and not even looking at Lilly. "I want to ask him if he'd let me do a piece on him. The magazine contacted your office, Ms. Carlyle, several times. But we got no answer."

Preston did not look happy. "Which magazine is it, my dear?"

"
Pinnacle
."

"And Lilly didn't get back to you?"

Preston looked most unhappy. He shot a nasty little glance at Lilly and then turned his attention back to Anne. "
Pinnacle
is a very important magazine in our industry."

"It's probably the best," Puckett said.

"And we'd be very happy to have
Cobey
be in it," Preston soothed. "But, really, the decision is his." He shot his sleeve and consulted his watch. "Lilly and I have a dinner engagement and we're going to be late if we hang around here
anymore. Why don't you give our best to
Cobey
—and then ask him yourself about the article?"

Anne smiled, obviously pleased at the turn this conversation had taken.

Lilly glared at her, not even trying to hide her displeasure.

"Good night, Ms. Addison."

"Good night, Mr. Preston. It was really nice to meet you." Anne laughed. "I wanted to say the same thing Puckett did. I grew up watching your movies, and your TV series, too. I had this terrible crush on you for years."

Preston tapped a forger to his forehead. "Music to a former matinee-idol's ego." He nodded to Puckett. "Good night, Puckett. Nice to meet you."

The two men shook hands again.

Lilly Carlyle got in one more good glare and then left on Preston's arm.

"I don't think Lilly's going to invite you to her next birthday party," Puckett said.

"Good," Anne laughed. "Because I wouldn't go, anyway."

A
fter the photographers, after the two wealthy Chicago matrons, after a college drama instructor and his three very cute coeds, after the two overweight leaders of
Cobey's
Chicago fan club...after all these people, Puckett and Anne finally got to see
Cobey
...

They walked into his dressing room and there he sat, Diet Pepsi in one hand, cigarette in the other, a very good-looking young man in a dark V-neck sweater, jeans, and white Reeboks.

When he saw who Anne was—when she really registered on his mind—a curious expression filled
Cobey's
eyes and he jumped up from his chair.

But then
Cobey
stopped himself, looking over at Puckett. It was obvious that, at first,
Cobey
didn't recognize Puckett, even though the man looked familiar somehow.

Puckett said, "I did some work for your manager, Lilly, a few years ago."

"Sure!"
Cobey
said suddenly. "The trip from St. Louis."

"Right."

Cobey
stuck out his hand. His grin seemed real. "How are you, anyway, Puckett?"

"Doing fine. Do you remember Anne?"

"Of course,"
Cobey
said and moved over, as if in a receiving line, to shake her hand, too.

Puckett sensed something right then, but he wasn't sure what. Just some kind of jolt that passed from Anne to
Cobey
as they shook hands...a sense that was reinforced by the strange way they stared at each other.

Then Anne laughed. "I wondered if you'd let me do a follow-up article on you?"

"Hell, yes, I will. I was very happy with that first one."

They looked at each other another long moment and then
Cobey
laughed and said, "How about a Diet Pepsi for either of you?"

They both accepted.

Cobey
took two icy cans from a small brown refrigerator next to his closet door. He handed them each a Diet Pepsi and then invited them to sit down.

The dressing room was more like a spare room where odds and ends of furniture had been stored. Only the round, theatrical mirror with light bulbs encircling it bespoke show business. On the long dressing table stood several vases of dead flowers with tiny white note cards taped to each vase—the remains of opening night well-wishing.

"So how about you?" Puckett asked. "How've you been,
Cobey
?"

The grin again. He'd been a handsome kid and now he was a handsome young man. Especially when he grinned that
Cobey
grin. "Fantastic. I know that sounds gushy as hell, but it's true. You've heard that two of the networks are talking to us about new shows for the fall?"

"Congratulations,
Cobey
," Anne said.

"And there's talk about HBO taping this show and running it as a special."

"Things are starting to roll again for you," Puckett said.

Cobey
hoisted his Diet Pepsi. "As long as I stay on the wagon, I'm fine."

He was just about to toast his guests when there was a knock at his door and a very pretty, very shy young woman said, "I saw the Dragon Lady leaving so I thought it'd be safe to come in."

Cobey
laughed, jumped up and walked over to slide his arm around the woman. "Veronica Hobbs, this is Anne Addison and Mr. Puckett."

Veronica Hobbs nodded quietly to them. She was, Puckett guessed, in her very early twenties, blonde and pale, like a beauty from Poe, perhaps, possessing an ethereal quality that only made her gentle beauty more mysterious. In the proper light, those shadowed eyes would be a deep green. And if she ever smiled, there would be as much pain as pleasure in that smile. She wore a simple, green, woolen jumper that flattered her slender but attractive body.

"'The Dragon Lady' Veronica was referring to is Lilly,"
Cobey
said. "They're not exactly what you'd call the best of friends."

"She hates me," Veronica said simply. "She wants
Cobey
for herself."

There was no humor in her remark and
Cobey
looked uncomfortable. He guided Veronica over to the last empty chair, got her seated and got her a Diet Pepsi.

"Anne Addison..." Veronica said. "Now I remember. You wrote an article about
Cobey
."

"Yes."

"That's the best thing ever written about him."

"Thank you."

"You're still writing, I hope?"

"Writing about
Cobey
again, in fact."

"I'm surprised you haven't written a book by now," Veronica said to Anne.

"Well, I'm trying to put one together—the best of my pieces on movie- and TV-stars over the years. Even a lot of the things I had to do under pen names."

"Why did you use a pen name?"

"Usually because I had more than one article in the issue and the editor didn't want my name appearing twice. I'm making decent money now, but when I was just starting out I really had to write a lot."

"God, I wish I could write," Veronica said. "I'm twenty-two years old and I don't have any talent at all. For anything."

"C'mon, now,"
Cobey
said, gently kidding her. "Don't get into this." He leaned over and put his hand fondly on Veronica's shoulder. "This is a woman who was a piano prodigy and paints well enough to have her work hung in several New York galleries...but she says she doesn't have any talent."

"I'm a dabbler," Veronica said. "I'm not a professional the way Anne is or you are."

Puckett could certainly understand
Cobey's
fascination with the young woman. She was even prettier when you watched her close up. And her self-deprecation was so sincere and painful, it was fetching. You wanted to put your arm around her and protect her.

"I know how you feel," Puckett said. "I'm the same way, Veronica. I'm constantly surrounded by really talented people, but there isn't a damn thing I can do."

"By the way,"
Cobey
said, "Puckett is a cop. A private one these days. And one of the best paid in Los Angeles. So he must be doing something right."
Cobey
clapped his hands together as if he were leading a hoe down. "But, c'mon,
people. Let's stop all this self-deprecation and really dish somebody."

Anne giggled. "Now that's more like it,
Cobey
. Let's really do a number on somebody."

"Have you heard the gerbil story?"
Cobey
said.

"That old chestnut?" Anne laughed. "You can do better than that."