What's Better Than Money (5 page)

I should have packed my bag and walked out on her. I wished I had, but I kept hearing that silver voice of hers, knowing that it could make a fortune, that I had her under contract and some of the fortune could be mine.

Suddenly she rolled over and stared at me.

“I warned you,” she said breathlessly. “Now get out of here and leave me alone!”

“Okay, you warned me,” I said, resting my arms on the bedrail and staring back at her. “But you didn’t tell me what was wrong. How long have you been on the stuff?”

“Three years. I’ve got the habit.” She sat up and taking out her handkerchief, she began to mop her eyes. She looked as romantic as a dirty bath towel.

“Three years? How old are you then?”

“Eighteen. What’s it to you how old I am?”

“You started on the stuff when you were fifteen?” I said, horrified.

“Oh, shut up!”

“Did Wilbur feed you the stuff?”

“What if he did?” She blew her nose. “Do you want me to sing? Do you want me to be a big success? If you do, give me some money. When I’ve had a big enough shot, I’m wonderful. You haven’t heard anything yet. Give me some money. That’s all I want.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Talk sense. I haven’t any money. If I had, I wouldn’t give it to you. Listen, with that voice of yours, you could go places. I know it. I’m sure of it. We’re going to get you a cure. Then when the habit’s broken, you’ll be okay and in the money.”

“That’s stale news. It doesn’t work. Give me some money. Five dollars will do. I know a guy. . .”

“You’re going to a hospital. . .”

She sneered at me.

“Hospital? They’re full up with junkies like me, and they don’t cure you anyway. I’ve been to hospital. Give me five dollars. I’ll sing for you. I’ll be terrific. Just give me five dollars.”

I couldn’t take any more of it. The look in her eyes sickened me. I had had all I wanted for one night.

I made for the door.

“Where are you going?” she demanded.

“I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll talk about it. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

I went into my room and locked the door.

I couldn’t sleep. Soon after two o’clock I heard her door open and I heard her tip-toe down the passage. Right then I didn’t care if she had jacked and gone. I had had as much of her as I could take for one night.

Around ten o’clock the next morning, I got up, dressed, and went to her room, opened the door and looked in.

She was in bed, sleeping. I had only to look at her relaxed expression to know she had got a shot from somewhere. She looked pretty, with her silver hair spread out on the pillow: pretty, without that awful, scraped bony look. Somehow, she had found a sucker to part with his money.

I closed the door and went down and out into the sunshine. I walked over to Rusty’s bar.

Rusty looked surprised when he saw me come in.

“I want to talk to you,” I said. “This is serious, Rusty.”

“Okay: talk away. What is it?”

“This girl can sing. She has a fortune in her voice. I have her under contract. This could be my big chance, Rusty. She really could make a fortune.”

Rusty studied me, puzzled.

“Okay. Where’s the catch? If she could, why hasn’t she?”

“She’s a junky.”

Rusty’s face wrinkled in disgust.

“So?”

“I’ve got to get her cured. Who do I go to? What do I do?”

“You’re asking me what to do? I’ll tell you.” He poked my chest with a finger the size of a banana. “You get rid of her, and you get rid of her fast. You can’t do a thing with a junky, Jeff. I know: I’m telling you. Okay, the quacks claim they can cure them, but for how long? A month, maybe two months, maybe even three months, then the peddlers smell them out and sell them the stuff and they start all over again. Listen, son, I like you and I’m interested in you. You have brains and education. Don’t mix yourself up with trash. A girl like her isn’t worth bothering about. Never mind if she can sing. Get rid of her. All she’ll ever bring you is grief.”

I wish I had listened to him. He was right, but nobody would have convinced me at that time. I was sure she had a fortune in her voice. All I had to do was to get her cured, and the money would roll in. I was sure of it.

“Who do I take her to, Rusty? Do you know anyone who could cure her?”

Rusty ran the back of his hand under his nose: a gesture that showed his irritation.

“Cure her? No one can cure her! What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

I held onto my temper. This was important to me. If I could get her cured, she would be a gold mine. I knew it. I was absolutely sure of it.

“You’ve been around, Rusty. You get to hear things. Who’s the guy who really fixes these junkies? There must be someone. The movie world is crammed with junkies. They get cured. Who’s the guy who fixes them?”

Rusty rubbed the back of his neck, scowling.

“Sure, but those folk have money. A cure costs money. There is a guy, but from what I hear he costs plenty.”

“Well, okay, maybe I can borrow the money. I’ve got to get her cured. Who is he?”

“Dr. Klinzi,” Rusty said. He suddenly grinned. “You’re killing me. He’s way out of your class, but he’s the boy. He’s the one who cured Mona Gissing and Frankie Ledder,” naming two of Pacific Studio’s biggest stars. “They were muggle smokers, but he fixed them.”

“Where do I find him?”

“He’s in the book,” Rusty said. “Look, Jeff, you’re making a fool of yourself. This guy costs the earth.”

“I don’t care what he costs so long as he can cure her. I’ll sell him a piece of her. She’s going to make a fortune. I feel it in my bones. With that voice, she can’t go wrong.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Okay, so I’m nuts.”

I got Dr. Klinzi’s address from the telephone book. He had a place on Beverley Glyn Boulevard.

Watching me, Rusty said, “Listen to me, Jeff. I know what I’m talking about. The worst thing anyone can do is to get tangled with a junky. You can never trust them. They are dangerous. They haven’t the sense of responsibility sane people have. They are crazy in the head. You have got to face that fact. It’s not like dealing with normal people. They will do anything and they don’t count the cost. Get rid of this girl. She’ll only bring you grief. You just can’t mix yourself up with a girl like her.”

“Save it,” I said. “What are you worrying about? I’m not asking you for any donation.”

I walked out and caught the street car back to my rooming-house.

Rima was sitting up in bed when I walked into her room. She had on a pair of black pyjamas. With her silver hair and her cobalt blue eyes, she really looked something.

“I’m hungry.”

“I’ll have those words engraved on your head stone. Never mind how hungry you are. Who gave you the money for a shot last night?”

Her eyes shifted away from mine.

“I didn’t have a shot. I’m starving. Will you lend me. . .?”

“Oh, shut up! If I can fix it, will you take a cure?”

Her expression became sullen.

“I’ve got beyond a cure. I know. It’s no good talking about a cure.”

“There’s a guy who really can fix it. If I can persuade him to take you, will you go?”

“Who is he?”

“Dr. Klinzi. He fixes all the big-shot film stars. I might be able to talk him into fixing you.”

“Some chance! It’d be cheaper to give me some money. I don’t want much. . .”

I grabbed hold of her and shook her. Her breath against my face made me feel sick.

“Will you go to him if I can fix it?” I yelled at her.

She jerked away from me.

“Anything you say.”

I felt I was going out of my head myself, but I kept control of myself.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him. Stay right where you are. I’ll tell Carrie to bring you a cup of coffee and something to eat.”

I left her.

At the head of the stairs, I called down to Carrie to get a hamburger and a coffee and take it to Rima. Then I went into my room and put on my best suit. It wasn’t much. It was shiny in places, but by the time I had slicked down my hair, brushed my shoes, I didn’t look too much of a bum.

I went back into Rima’s room.

She was sitting up in bed, sipping the coffee. She wrinkled her nose at me.

“Gee! You look sharp.”

“Never mind how I look. Sing. Go on: sing anything, but sing.”

She stared at me.

“Anything?”

“Yes – sing!”

She began to sing
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
.

The melody came out of her mouth effortlessly, like a silver stream. It crawled up my spine and into the roots of my hair. It filled the room with a clear, bell-like sound. It was better than I thought it could be.

I stood there listening, and when she had gone through the chorus, I stopped her.

“Okay, okay,” I said, my heart thumping. “You stay right here. I’ll be back.”

I went down the stairs three at a time.

II

Dr. Klinzi’s residence stood in an acre and a half of ornamental gardens, surrounded by high walls, the tops of which were studded with sharp iron spikes.

I walked up the long drive. It took me three or four minutes of fast walking before I caught sight of a house that looked like a movie set for Cosimo Medici’s palace in Florence.

There was a big terrace with fifty or so steps leading up to it. The top rooms had bars to the windows.

Everything about the house and the grounds was sombre and very, very quiet. Even the roses and the begonias seemed depressed.

Well away from the drive, under the shade of the elm trees, I could see several people sitting in wheel chairs. Three or four nurses, in gleaming white overalls, fluttered around them.

I climbed the steps and rang the front door bell.

After a moment or so, the door was opened by a grey man with grey hair, grey eyes, grey clothes and a grey manner.

I gave him my name.

Wordlessly, he led me over a gleaming parquet floor to a side-room where a slim, blonde nurse sat at a desk, busy with pencil and paper.

“Mr. Gordon,” the grey man said.

He pushed a chair against the back of my knees so I sat down abruptly and then went away, shutting the door after him as gently as if it were made of spun glass.

The nurse laid down her pen and said in a gentle voice and with a sad smile in her eyes, “Yes, Mr. Gordon? Is there something we can do for you?”

“I hope so.” I said. “I want to talk to Dr. Klinzi about a possible patient.”

“It could be arranged.” I was aware that her eyes were going over my suit. “Who is the patient, Mr. Gordon?”

“I’ll explain all that to Dr. Klinzi.”

“I’m afraid the doctor is engaged at the moment. You can have complete confidence in me. I arrange who comes here and who doesn’t.”

“That must be pretty nice for you,” I said, “but this happens to be a special case. I want to talk to Dr. Klinzi.”

“Why is it a special case, Mr. Gordon?”

I could see I wasn’t making any impression on her. Her eyes had lost their sad smile: they now looked merely bored.

“I’m an agent and my client who is a singer is a very valuable property. Unless I deal directly with Dr. Klinzi, I must go elsewhere.”

That seemed to arouse her interest. She hesitated briefly, then she got to her feet.

“If you will wait a moment, Mr. Gordon, I’ll see. . .”

She crossed the room, opened the door and disappeared from sight. There was a longish pause, then she reappeared, holding open the door.

“Will you come in?”

I entered an enormous room full of modern furniture, a surgical table and desk by a window behind which sat a man in a white coat.

“Mr. Gordon?”

Somehow he made it sound as if he were very pleased to see me.

He got to his feet. He was short, not more than thirty years of age, with a lot of blond wavy hair, slate grey eyes and a bedside manner.

“That’s right. Dr. Klinzi?” I said.

“Certainly.” He waved a hand to a chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gordon?”

I sat down, waiting until the nurse had gone away.

“I have a singer with a three year morphine habit,” I said. “I want her cured. What will it cost?”

The slate grey eyes ran over me none too hopefully.

“Our charge for a guaranteed cure would be five thousand dollars, Mr. Gordon. We are in the happy position here to guarantee results.”

I drew in a long, slow breath.

“For that kind of money I would expect results.”

He smiled sadly. They seemed to specialise in sad smiles in this place.

“It may seem expensive to you, Mr. Gordon, but we deal only with the very best people.”

“How long would it take?”

“That would depend largely on the patient. Five weeks perhaps, but if it is a very stubborn case, eight weeks: not longer.”

“Guaranteed?”

“Naturally.”

There was no one I knew who would be crazy enough to lend me five thousand dollars, and there was no way I could think of to raise such a sum.

I turned on the soft soap faucet.

“It’s slightly more than I can afford, doctor. This girl has a great singing voice. If I can get her cured, she’s going to make a lot of money. Suppose you take a piece of her? Twenty per cent of whatever she makes until the five thousand is taken care of, then three thousand on top as interest.”

As soon as I had uttered the words I knew it was a mistake. His face suddenly went blank, and his eyes turned remote.

“I’m afraid we don’t do that kind of business here, Mr. Gordon. We are very booked up. Our terms are, and have always been, cash. Three thousand on entry, and two thousand when the patient leaves.”

“This is a very special case. . .”

His well-cared-for finger moved to a button on his desk.

“I’m sorry. Those are our terms.”

The finger pressed the button lovingly.

“If I can raise the money, the guarantee is really guaranteed?”

“You mean the cure? Of course.”

He was standing now as the door opened and the nurse drifted in. They both gave me sad smiles.

“Should your client want to come to us, Mr. Gordon, please let us know soon. We have many commitments and it may be difficult, if not impossible, to fit her in.”