Whispers (4 page)

“You’re right,” he said. “I am. But this time I didn’t have to do a lot of selling. They liked the script so much they were willing to give us almost anything just to be sure they’d get the project. It wasn’t luck. And it wasn’t just having a smart agent. I want you to understand that. Face it, kid, you deserve success. Your work is about the best thing being written for the screen these days. You can go on living in the shadow of your parents, go on expecting the worst, as you always do, but from here on out it’s going to be nothing but the best for you. My advice is, get used to it.”

She desperately wanted to believe him and surrender to optimism, but black weeds of doubt still sprouted from the seeds of Chicago. She saw those familiar lurking monsters at the fuzzy edges of the paradise he described. She was a true believer in Murphy’s Law:
If anything can go wrong, it will
.

Nevertheless, she found Wally’s earnestness so appealing, his tone so nearly convincing, that she reached down into her bubbling cauldron of confused emotions and found a genuine radiant smile for him.

“That’s it,” he said, pleased. “That’s better. You have a beautiful smile.”

“I’ll try to use it more often.”

“I’ll keep making the kind of deals that’ll force you to use it more often.”

They drank champagne and discussed
The Hour of the Wolf
and made plans and laughed more than she could remember having laughed in years. Gradually her mood lightened. A macho movie star—icy eyes, tight thin lips, muscles, a swagger in his walk when he was on screen; warm, quick to laugh, somewhat shy in real life—whose last picture had made fifty million dollars, was the first to stop by to say hello and inquire about the celebration. The sartorially impeccable studio executive with the lizard eyes tried subtly, then blatantly, to learn the plot of
Wolf
, hoping it would lend itself to a quick, cheap television movie-of-the-week rip-off. Pretty soon, half the room was table-hopping, stopping by to congratulate Hilary and Wally, flitting away to confer with one another about her success, each of them wondering if there was any percentage in it for him. After all,
Wolf
would need a producer, stars, someone to write the musical score. . . . Therefore, at the best table in the room, there was a great deal of back-patting and cheek-kissing and hand-holding.

Hilary knew that most of the glittery denizens of the Polo Lounge weren’t actually as mercenary as they sometimes appeared to be. Many of them had begun at the bottom, hungry, poor, as she had been herself. Although their fortunes were now made and safely invested, they couldn’t stop hustling; they’d been at it so long that they didn’t know how to live any other way.

The public image of Hollywood life had very little to do with the facts. Secretaries, shopkeepers, clerks, taxi drivers, mechanics, housewives, waitresses, people all over the country, in everyday jobs of all kinds came home weary from work and sat in front of the television and dreamed about life among the stars. In the vast collective mind that brooded and murmured from Hawaii to Maine and from Florida to Alaska, Hollywood was a sparkling blend of wild parties, fast women, easy money, too much whiskey, too much cocaine, lazy sunny days, drinks by the pool, vacation in Acapulco and Palm Springs, sex in the back seat of a fur-lined Rolls-Royce. A fantasy. An illusion. She supposed that a society long abused by corrupt and incompetent leaders, a society standing upon pilings that had been rotted by inflation and excess taxation, a society existing in the cold shadow of sudden nuclear annihilation, needed its illusions if it were to survive. In truth, people in the movie and television industries worked harder than almost anyone else, even though the product of their labor was not always, perhaps not even often, worth the effort. The star of a successful television series worked from dawn till nightfall, often fourteen or sixteen hours a day. Of course, the rewards were enormous. But in reality, the parties were not so wild, the women no faster than women in Philadelphia or Hackensack or Tampa, the days sunny but seldom lazy, and the sex exactly the same as it was for secretaries in Boston and shopkeepers in Pittsburgh.

Wally had to leave at a quarter past six in order to keep a seven o’clock engagement, and a couple of the table-hoppers in the Polo Lounge asked Hilary to have dinner with them. She declined, pleading a prior commitment.

Outside the hotel, the autumn evening was still bright. A few high clouds tracked across the technicolor sky. The sunlight was the color of platinum-blonde hair, and the air was surprisingly fresh for mid-week Los Angeles. Two young couples laughed and chattered noisily as they climbed out of a blue Cadillac, and farther away, on Sunset Boulevard, tires hummed and engines roared and horns blared as the last of the rush hour crowd tried to get home alive.

As Hilary and Wally waited for their cars to be brought around by the smiling valets, he said, “Are you really having dinner with someone?”

“Yeah. Me, myself, and I.”

“Look, you can come along with me.”

“The uninvited guest.”

“I just invited you.”

“I don’t want to spoil your plans.”

“Nonsense. You’d be a delightful addition.”

“Anyway, I’m not dressed for dinner.”

“You look fine.”

“I want to be alone,” she said.

“You do a terrible Garbo. Come to dinner with me. Please. It’s just an informal evening at The Palm with a client and his wife. An up and coming young television writer. Nice people.”

“I’ll be okay, Wally. Really.”

“A beautiful woman like you, on a night like this, with so much to celebrate—there ought to be candlelight, soft music, good wine, a special someone to share it with.”

She grinned. “Wally, you’re a closet romantic.”

“I’m serious,” he said.

She put one hand on his arm. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned about me, Wally. But I’m perfectly all right. I’m happy when I’m alone. I’m very good company for myself. There’ll be plenty of time for a meaningful relationship with a man and skiing weekends in Aspen and chatty evenings at The Palm after
The Hour of the Wolf
is finished and in the theaters.”

Wally Topelis frowned. “If you don’t learn how to relax, you won’t survive for very long in a high-pressure business like this. In a couple of years, you’ll be as limp as a rag doll, tattered, frayed, worn out. Believe me, kid, when the physical energy is all burnt up, you’ll suddenly discover that the mental energy, the creative juice, has also evaporated with it.”

“This project is a watershed for me,” she said. “After it, my life won’t be the same.”

“Agreed. But—”

“I’ve worked hard, damned hard, single-mindedly, toward this chance. I’ll admit it: I’ve been obsessed with my work. But once I’ve made a reputation as a good writer
and
a good director, I’ll feel secure. I’ll finally be able to cast out the demons—my parents, Chicago, all those bad memories. I’ll be able to relax and lead a more normal life. But I can’t rest yet. If I slack off now, I’ll fail. Or at least I think I will, and that’s the same thing.”

He sighed. “Okay. But we would have had a lot of fun at The Palm.”

A valet arrived with her car.

She hugged Wally. “I’ll probably call you tomorrow, just to be sure that this Warner Brothers thing wasn’t all a dream.”

“Contracts will take a few weeks,” he told her. “But I don’t anticipate any serious problems. We’ll have the deal memo sometime next week, and then you can set up a meeting at the studio.”

She blew him a kiss, hurried to the car, tipped the valet, and drove away.

She headed into the hills, past the million-dollar houses, past lawns greener than money, turning left, then right, at random, going nowhere in particular, just driving for relaxation, one of the few escapes she allowed herself. Most of the streets were shrouded in purple shadows cast by canopies of green branches; night was stealing across the pavement even though daylight still existed above the interlaced palms, oaks, maples, cedars, cypresses, jacarandas, and pines. She switched on the headlights and explored some of the winding canyon roads until, gradually, her frustration began to seep away.

Later, when night had fallen above the trees as well as below them, she stopped at a Mexican restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard. Rough beige plaster walls. Photographs of Mexican bandits. The rich odors of hot sauce, taco seasoning, and corn meal tortillas. Waitresses in scoop-necked peasant blouses and many-pleated red skirts. South-of-the-border Muzak. Hilary ate cheese enchiladas, rice, refried beans. The food tasted every bit as good as it would have tasted if it had been served by candlelight, with string music in the background, and with someone special seated beside her.

I’ll have to remember to tell Wally that, she thought as she washed down the last of the enchiladas with a swallow of Dos Equis, a dark Mexican beer.

But when she considered it for a moment, she could almost hear his reply: My lamb, that is nothing but blatant psychological rationalization. It’s true that loneliness doesn’t change the taste of food, the quality of candlelight, the sound of music—but that doesn’t mean that loneliness is desirable or good or healthy.” He simply wouldn’t be able to resist launching into one of his fatherly lectures about life; and listening to that would not be made any easier by the fact that whatever he had to say would make sense.

You better not mention it, she told herself. You are never going to get one up on Wally Topelis.

In her car again, she buckled her seatbelt, brought the big engine to life, snapped on the radio, and sat for a while, staring at the flow of traffic on La Cienega. Today was her birthday. Twenty-ninth birthday. And in spite of the fact that it had been noted in Hank Grant’s
Hollywood Reporter
column, she seemed to be the only one in the world who cared. Well, that was okay. She was a loner. Always had been a loner. Hadn’t she told Wally that she was perfectly happy with only her own company?

The cars flashed past in an endless stream, filled with people who were going places, doing things—usually in pairs.

She didn’t want to start for home yet, but there was nowhere else to go.

 
The house was dark.

The lawn looked more blue than green in the glow of the mercury-vapor streetlamp.

Hilary parked the car in the garage and walked to the front door. Her heels made an unnaturally loud
tock-tock-tock
sound on the stone footpath.

The night was mild. The heat of the vanished sun still rose from the earth, and the cooling sea wind that washed the basin city in all seasons had not yet brought the usual autumn chill to the air; later, toward midnight, it would be coat weather.

Crickets chirruped in the hedges.

She let herself into the house, found the entranceway light, closed and locked the door. She switched on the living room lights as well and was a few steps from the foyer when she heard movement behind her and turned.

A man came out of the foyer closet, knocking a coat off a hanger as he shouldered out of that confining space, throwing the door back against the wall with a loud
bang!
He was about forty years old, a tall man wearing dark slacks and a tight yellow pullover sweater—and leather gloves. He had the kind of big, hard muscles that could be gotten only from years of weightlifting; even his wrists, between the cuffs of the sweater and the gloves, were thick and sinewy. He stopped ten feet from her and grinned broadly, nodded, licked his thin lips.

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his sudden appearance. He wasn’t an ordinary intruder, not a total stranger, not some punk kid or some shabby degenerate with a drug-blur in his eyes. Although he didn’t belong here, she knew him, and he was just about the last man she would expect to encounter in a situation of this sort. Seeing gentle little Wally Topelis come out of that closet was the only thing that could have shocked her more than this. She was less frightened than confused. She had met him three weeks ago, while doing research for a screenplay set in the wine country of Northern California, a project meant to take her mind off Wally’s marketing of
The Hour of the Wolf
, which she had finished about that time. He was an important and successful man up there in the Napa Valley. But that didn’t explain what the hell he was doing in her house, hiding in her closet.

“Mr. Frye,” she said uneasily.

“Hello, Hilary.” He had a deep, somewhat gravelly voice which seemed reassuring and fatherly when she had taken an extensive private tour of his winery near St. Helena, but which now sounded coarse, mean, threatening.

She cleared her throat nervously. “What are you doing here?”

“Come to see you.”

“Why?”

“Just had to see you again.”

“About what?”

He was still grinning. He had a tense, predatory look. His was the smile of the wolf just before it closed hungry jaws on the cornered rabbit.

“How did you get in?” she demanded.

“Pretty.”

“What?”

“So pretty.”

“Stop it.”

“Been looking for one like you.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“You’re a real pretty one.”

He took a step toward her.

She knew then, beyond doubt, what he wanted. But it was crazy, unthinkable. Why would a wealthy man of his high social position travel hundreds of miles to risk his fortune, reputation, and freedom for one brief violent moment of forced sex?

He took another step.

She backed away from him.

Rape. It made no sense. Unless. . . . If he intended to kill her afterwards, he would not be taking much of a risk at all. He was wearing gloves. He would leave no prints, no clues. And no one would believe that a prominent and highly-respected vintner from St. Helena would drive all the way to Los Angeles to rape and murder. Even if some would believe it, they’d have no reason to think of him in the first place. The homicide investigation would never move in his direction.