Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald Read Free Book Online Page A

good while. I'd heard this story before. I started playing around with this old pianola in the corner. Orson looked over at me and said, "It's so old, it's new again." It sounded like he was reciting from something. Then damned if it didn't start playing, and my favorite tune, too, an old Celtic air, "Tramps & Hawkers." It was evocative source music for Welles' Hemingway tale.
    Orson's Voice: "Ernest had assisted in the filming of a documentary about the Spanish Civil War, lad," he said to saucer-eyed Bud. "Propaganda against the fascists. Fund-raising stuff, really. Hemingway wrote the film's narration. I was to read the Papa-penned material. But it went on too much, I thought. Too melodramatic. It needed a trim to be more lean and masculine ... you know, in the vein of the stuff by Hemingway that we all so revere."
    The legend went something like this. During a screening, Ernest had made some snide remarks about Orson's delivery. Ernest allegedly said that Orson sounded "queer," or some such. Hemingway probably had a point, there.
    Welles said that it was impossible to read the words Ernest had written, that they were written for the page, not the screen. Welles probably had a point, there.
    Orson continued as Bud scribbled away. "Hemingway couldn't get past my direction of the Mercury Theatre," Orson said, turning down his mouth. "He thought me some kind of avant-garde, theatre faggot. So Ernest said to me, 'You fucking effeminate boys of the theatre, what do you know about real war?'"
    "So you swung on him," Fiske guessed.
    "No, no dear boy. He'd have killed me. I played to him. Mincing, complimenting him on his size and strength. The situation swiftly degenerated. And oh so precipitously --- chairs and, finally, punches were thrown. All of this struggling was silhouetted against the backdrop of scenes of warfare in Spain. A real Hieronymus Bosch moment. Marlene saw it all. It was quite marvelous really --- two guys like us fighting in front of these images representing people in the act of struggling and dying. We ended up toasting each other over a bottle of whiskey."
    I shook my head and poured some more brandy. "Tell Bud the rest, Orson. You two didn't leave it that well. Hemingway later ended up doing that narration. They scuttled your work ... old friend."
    "Yes, well..."
    Not sure why, but I felt like needling Mr. Mercury Theatre. "I heard Hemingway's version from John Huston," I said. "Hem told John that every time you used the word 'infantry' --- Hem's words, not mine --- that you sounded 'like a cocksucker, swallowing.'"
    This could go either way, I figured --- Orson coming for me with his cane, or...?
    As I too often am, I was really just trying to keep myself interested.
    I grinned, waiting to see what would happen next.
    Orson exploded in laughter. He slapped his fat thigh and rumbled, "Ah, by Christ, I do so love that bastard. I can't imagine him dead. I'd like to see Hem again. To drink with him. I'd so love to drink with both of you --- the three of us together a last time --- me and you bastards dear."
    Me too, maybe. But it wasn't apt to happen in this lifetime.
    Bud started pressing Welles for more details.
    The crew was setting up Orson's next shot outside, so color Welles expansive --- no pun intended. Welles had time on his hands and an attentive audience taking down every damned word ... it all added up to some kind of bliss for Orson, I figured.
    I left Welles to his accidental interview and staggered out into the balmy Venice night, clutching the decanter of brandy.
    11
    I followed the scent of seawater to the ocean and found the beach.
    There was something shimmering and white out there. I walked out onto Orson's truncated, faux bridge --- little more than a jetty with rails, really --- angling to get a better look.
    The effort was worth it. It was one of the extras, a pretty Mexican girl, swimming in her white bra and panties in the moonlight.
    I watched her for a while.
    Absent-mindedly, I