Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman Read Free Book Online Page A

attentive eyes; it was, rather, a white hot intelligence that gave her face its poised and startling symmetry. I couldn’t get over her. She was most certainly in shock, but it seemed to me a surface condition. Dive below to the heart, or up to the brain, and you would find someone with a firm hold on reality.
    She leaned very close to me. “Jack, the police said it was suicide,” she whispered. “I don’t believe that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œHe’s been upset, but not that upset: It’s not in Walter’s character to do that. He’s not a quitter.” She spoke precisely, emphatically.
    â€œNo, he wasn’t.” I made the painful change in tense. I didn’t really know whether Adrian was a quitter or not. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter. “But he was very much in the dumps when we spoke in New York.”
    Mrs. Adrian reached over and picked a large brandy snifter off an end table. A couple of shots of cognac glittered in the lamp and firelight; she swirled the liquid about and gazed down into the glass, a fawn at a pond. There was a tap on my shoulder. Wohl with my drink. I took it and thanked him. He looked fondly at Mrs. Adrian.
    â€œShe’s taking it marvelously, isn’t she?” said the writer, as if she wasn’t there. “Just marvelously.”
    Mrs. Adrian looked up at him. “You don’t have to stay here, Milton, really.” She smiled, just a little. “Please don’t feel that you have to.”
    Wohl didn’t know if he was being paid a compliment or asked to leave. The fire behind us lit his thick glasses into two miniature blazes. He nodded and sipped some ginger ale.
    â€œMilton was Walter’s best friend,” said Mrs. Adrian. “He’s been so terribly wounded by this.” Now it was like Wohl wasn’t there.
    The writer leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I’d like a few words with you when you’re done with Helen,” he said, then straightened himself and joined a few other people who were standing in a clump, intently watching Helen and me talk.
    â€œHe really Walter’s best pal or was that just talk?” I asked Mrs. Adrian.
    â€œEveryone was Walter’s best pal. That was his problem.” Her voice turned a little bitter.
    â€œThis would seem to be the wrong town for deep friendships.”
    â€œGod, is it ever.” She downed some cognac. “I mean. Walter could be as calculating as everyone else out here. It’s a law of nature. But down deep he was so goddamn trusting.” Her face crumpled up, then she turned her head and abruptly wept into a corner of the couch. It was way overdue. I patted her on the shoulder.
    â€œWhy don’t you go stretch out for a while,” I told her. “Cry your eyes out. It’s time to stop being brave.”
    A thick-featured and large-boned woman in a peasant blouse and blue skirt appeared. Her hair was wrapped in a bun so tight it looked to be pulling her face in half.
    â€œHelen, take Mr. LeVine’s advice,” she said not too gently. “You ought to get some rest.”
    Mrs. Adrian got up slowly. She sighed, and looked to be ready for a long cry.
    â€œJack LeVine, this is Rachel Wohl, Milton’s wife.” She made a last attempt at playing hostess. “You’ll come back here tomorrow, Jack, around suppertime?”
    â€œOf course,” I told her, aware that everyone had heard the invitation.
    Mrs. Adrian took my hand and squeezed it as hard as she could, which wasn’t very hard at all. Then she circled the room and thanked everyone before heading up the stairs, followed by Rachel Wohl. When she disappeared from view, the volume in the room went up a decibel or two, as if a cautious hand had adjusted a knob.
    I stood up and Wohl sprang to my side.
    â€œYou’re not leaving, are you?” he asked.
    â€œThought I’d circulate.”
    Wohl smiled