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

agreeably and took my arm. “Fine. You must meet some of us.”
    The writer shepherded me over to a tense group of people seated in a semicircle by the bar. They included the sandy-haired cowboy actor Dale Carpenter, screenwriter Carroll Arthur, Jr., and his wife June, Henry Perillo, a carpenter and an official in the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, a German composer of movie scores named Sig Friedland, and Adrian’s agent, Larry Goldmark. I was greeted with the restrained enthusiasm usually accorded an insurance salesman.
    â€œPull up a seat,” said Goldmark, a pale, svelte figure of perhaps forty. He was drinking and chewing gum at the same time.
    Wohl got a chair for me. “We want to hear all about it, Jack. And don’t think you have to spare us; we’d like to know exactly what happened.”
    â€œSo would I,” I told him. Wohl got himself a hassock and we both sat down. “What do you want to hear about, folks?”
    Goldmark looked at the others, knotting his hands together. “Did he leave any kind of a note?” he asked.
    â€œWhy in the back lot, for heaven’s sake?” blurted Carroll Arthur, Jr. Arthur had pasty cratered skin and was quite drunk. I don’t think he heard Goldmark’s question. “Why the back lot?”
    â€œI don’t know why the back lot,” I said. “No worse a place than any. If you don’t die in your own bed, you might as well croak in a Ferris wheel. That’s my opinion.”
    â€œThe note?” asked Dale Carpenter, clearly troubled behind his blankly handsome features.
    â€œYes, LeVine, a note?” This was Perillo, a stocky man with broad shoulders, a crewcut, and an earnest, friendly manner. His brown eyes protruded a bit, like Peter Lorre’s.
    Rachel Wohl came down the stairs.
    â€œHow’s she doing?” I asked.
    â€œShe’s strong as an ox,” Mrs. Wohl answered, with some admiration but very little love. She took a seat and peered at me coldly. “I hear talk about a note. What did it say? Did it mention anyone?”
    Wohl threw his wife a murderous glance and she reddened.
    â€œDid it give a reason?” she forged on, then turned on her husband. “For Christ’s sake, Milt, stop staring at me! I know what I’m doing!” June Arthur started sniffling into her handkerchief. This was a very relaxed group of people.
    â€œFolks, it is no business of mine to say whether or not Walter left a note,” I said, “let alone give it a dramatic reading.”
    â€œWhy?” demanded Mrs. Wohl.
    â€œBecause notes are much too private. It’s Mrs. Adrian’s prerogative,” I told her.
    â€œHe’s right,” said Perillo.
    â€œThank you.” We smiled at each other, like two attendants in a lunatic asylum.
    â€œI agree,” said Friedland. That made three.
    â€œDid you read the note, LeVine?” asked Carpenter.
    â€œI didn’t say there was a note. I’m saying that if there was, it’s up to Helen Adrian to do with it what she wants. Now if there wasn’t a note, maybe it wasn’t suicide.” I looked around and sipped my bourbon. “Anybody here know why someone would want to spring a trapdoor under Walter?”
    I was always a terrible party pooper. There weren’t any gasps, that’s only in the Charlie Chan movies, but it got as quiet as a serious game of poker. Noses were rubbed, feet and hands were contemplated. The composer Friedland, a heavy-set man with red cheeks, untamed curls, and steel-rimmed spectacles, finally cleared his throat. In the silence, it registered like the downshifting of a truck.
    â€œYou are suggesting a murder, perhaps, Mr. LeVine?” was his thoughtful, heavily-accented question.
    â€œI’m suggesting it, but not claiming it. I don’t have any special information, Mr. Friedland. All I found was a dead man.”
    â€œThen there