Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 by Sacred Monster (v1.1) Read Free Book Online

Imitating
me perfectly, not a flicker of expression on his patrician face as he dips his
head in pale shadow of true obeisance, he says, “You bellowed, sir?'”
                 “I
did.” I show Hoskins my shaking hand. For some reason, I'm not sure why, I
believe him to be sympathetic behind that blank facade. “I want one of those
fuzzy drink things, you know?” I say. “With the vodka and the
milk and the egg and all that stuff.”
                 “Certainly,
sir,” he says (what else would he say?), and turns to the interviewer. “Anything for you, sir?”
                 The
interviewer seems embarrassed as well as surprised. With a fidgety laugh, he
indicates his notepad and pencil. “Not on duty,” he says.
                 Strange thing to say.
                 Hoskins
doesn't think so. “Very well,” he says, and bows generally and exits.
                 Where
am I? Something's gone agley with this interview, this fella dislikes me now.
That's not the way it's done; we get along with the press. Trying for a cheery smile, I say, “Very restoring, that drink
thing. Gets me on my feet. Knees,
anyway. Where were we?”
                 “Last Seen in Tupelo .” He still disapproves of me; damn his eyes.
                "Right," I say. " That play made me, of course. Biff Novak was the real
start of it all." Smiling in reminiscence, I say, "And it brought
Buddy back into my life." "Your best friend."
                "That's right." I smile,
seeing it as a camera shot. AN ANGLE on a theater marquee:
     
                 Saul
Katz Presents
  GEORGE CASTLEBERRY’S
  LAST SEEN IN TUPELO   starring
     
                 JACK
PINE              
MARCIA CALLAHAN
                 CAMERA
PANS down from the marquee to a busy midtown New York street, centering on
Buddy Pal, standing on the sidewalk in marine uniform and close-cropped hair,
duffel bag over shoulder, smiling up at the marquee. "Buddy Pal," I
say.

           FLASHBACK
8
     
     
                 The
dressing room was windowless and small but elegantly and expensively appointed.
The style might have been just a bit too masculine,
protesting just that shade too much in its elkhorn ashtray and brown leather sofa with
discreet brass nailheads around its bottom and the Remington reproduction
(cavalry charge) on the wall. When the makeup lights flanking the mirrored
dressing table were off, as now, the indirect lighting made the room softly
mellow and cozy, like some underwater grotto where Captain Nemo might relax,
the rich browns and creams a pleasant relief from that infernal eternal blue.
                 Seated
on the sofa, in passionate but still-clothed embrace, were the two stars of the
show, Jack Pine and Marcia Callahan, she a forthright brunette of twenty-
eight, tall and slender, whose seventh starring role in a Broadway show—and
seventh affair with her leading man—this was. Or would be. Or might be.
                 Jack
found himself kissing Marcia's eyebrow, and then her forehead, and then the top
of her head, realizing her lips and hands were working their way down the front
of his body, destination unmistakable. With a little surprised smile, the
visual equivalent of Jeepers! he
shifted to a position more comfortable for them both, relaxed, smiled more
lazily, then all at once sat up again, pulling up the bewildered woman by the
shoulders, saying, "Marcia, no. Better not."
                 She
gazed at him with bewilderment in her forthright eyes. "Are you
kidding?"
                 Embarrassed,
his less-than-forthright gaze slipping away from her, he mumbled,
"George."
                 "George?”
                 "He's due here any minute," Jack said, unhappy but
trapped. "He'll want me to be pleased to see him, if you know what
I mean."