1956 - There's Always a Price Tag (4 page)

I made out I was nonplussed.

'You wouldn't kid me, Jack?'

'Look, this guy's more than a drunk: he's an alcoholic. He's never sober. No one wants him in the movie business. His contract runs out at the end of the month. And that wife of his! You won't get anything but trouble from her. I've seen her: okay, she looks good, I'll give you that, but she's just a beautiful shape wrapped around an iceberg.'

'All the same, I think I could get to the first base with her. I think I could thaw her out.'

Solly sneered.

'Now you really are kidding yourself. I've heard things about that dame. They say she drove Dester to drink. I reckon if I married her and found out she was a block of ice, I'd take to drink myself. I heard it said there was another guy who threw himself out of the window because of her. Boy! You're certainly kidding yourself if you think you can thaw her out. You haven't a chance, and if you don't want to finish up a rumdum like her husband, you'd better leave her strictly alone.'

'Who was she before she married Dester?'

'I don't know. He met her in New York, married her and brought her back here. It doesn't matter who she is. Leave her alone or you'll be up to your neck in the stuff.'

'Well, thanks for the advice, but you don't scare me,' I said, pushing back my chair. 'If Dester drops dead and Mrs. D. asks me to marry her, I'll get you to be my best man.'

'What a pipe dream!' Solly said in disgust. 'Now for the love of mike, sober up. Come back here and get down to a job of work. I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll raise your cut to fifteen per cent. I can't be fairer than that, can I?'

'Shove it,' I said cheerfully. 'I'm going to stick with Dester until he goes broke. By that time I shall be house-trained, and I'll ask Sam Goldwyn for a job.'

Solly lifted his shoulders and spread out his hands.

'You're nuts, but okay. When you're tired of the job, come back to me. I'll keep your job open for you.'

'The only reason why you'll keep it open, Jack, is because you know damn well no other sucker would have it,' I said. 'So long. Don't wave to me if you see me in the Rolls. I too have to be careful now whom I know.'

I went down the stairs into the hot sunshine.

Another guy threw himself out of a window because of her.

What guy and why? I asked myself.

* * *

When I returned to the Desters' residence around three in the afternoon, the Cadillac convertible was still missing. I put on my uniform, made sure I looked immaculate, then drove over to the Pacific Studios.

The guard opened the gates without looking at me, and I drove over to the office block with an embarrassed feeling that I was trespassing.

I backed the Rolls into one of the chalked-out spaces before the office block and settled down to wait.

At twenty minutes past four I left the car, walked up the steps and into the vast hall where a dozen bell hops sat on a bench beside a big circular desk where four lovelies handled inquiries and visitors.

One of them, fair, rising nineteen, with that fresh complexion that only healthy teenagers seem to monopolize, looked inquiringly at me.

'Yes?'

'Will you tell Mr. Dester his car is here?' I said.

Plucked eyebrows lifted.

'Mr. who?'

'Mr. Dester: spelt D-e-s-t-e-r: pronounced Dester.'

A slight flush rose to her face.

'There's no Mr. Dester here,' she snapped. 'Try the studios.'

'Look, baby, just move over and let me speak to someone who knows this job better than you do,' I said. Then spotting a dark, sleek young woman who was busily buffing her fingernails, I raised my voice: 'Hey, honey, a moment of your precious time.'

The dark one froze into an outraged statue.

'Were you by any chance addressing me?' she asked in a voice you could frost a cake with.

'Sure,' I said. 'What do I do to get some service in this joint? I want Mr. Erle Dester. Where do I find him?'

She flicked open a reference book, stared at it, showed her surprise at finding his name in the book, and said in the same frosty voice, 'Room 47, first floor.'

She then turned her back on me.

The row of bell hops moved excitedly as they listened to and sniggered at this little scene. I picked on the fattest of them and hauled him to his feet by his right ear.

'Take me to Room 47, sonny,' I said, 'and snap it up.'

He hesitated, and we looked at each other. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell me to go jump in a lake. I balled my fist and smiled at him.

He decided not to call my bluff and set off up the wide staircase while the rest of the bell hops and the four lovelies stared after me as if I were the first visitor from Mars.

Fatso took me down a long corridor with fancy name plates screwed to each door, and with fancier names. Room 47 had no plate on it, but you could see where it had been by the four small screw holes.

'He hangs out here,' the boy said, jerking his thumb contemptuously at the door.

'Thanks, sonny.'

It was just the kind of room you'd expect a big-shot producer to be in. The carpet had a two-inch pile; the desk, chairs and trappings were modern and expensive; the decor was costly and tasteful. There were seven red telephones, two white ones and a blue one on the desk: all of them at that moment were very silent, and they would probably remain silent. When you're slipping in the movie business, the first thing that goes is the telephone call.

Dester sat in the desk chair that was made of green leather, bucket shaped and comfortable enough to go to sleep in.

His hands rested on the edge of the desk: an empty bottle of Scotch stood on the virgin blotter, another bottle lolled in the trash basket. His eyes were fixed in a long, glaring stare at a point just above my head; his face was congested; his facial muscles appeared to be as stiff as a board.

'It's after four, sir,' I said.

I might have been talking to the Great Sphinx for all the reaction I got. It occurred to me that he wasn't just tight; he was at this moment paralytic drunk.

I shut the door just in case someone might pass and look in. I removed the whisky bottle from the desk, then tapped him hard on his left shoulder.

Nothing happened. He continued to glare at the spot above the door. I felt his pulse. It was ticking over, but there was nothing very healthy about it. I loosened his collar. He still showed no reaction. He was as far gone as any drunk I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few.

There was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't carry him along the passage and through the hall to the car. I would have to wait until he came to the surface, if he ever did, which at the moment seemed unlikely. I sat down in one of the comfortable lounging chairs, lit a cigarette and waited.

It seemed to me as I sat in this forgotten room, that if I were in Dester's place, sweating out time before I left here forever, I might also be tempted to nibble at a drink or two. What puzzled me was why he should turn the knife in the wound. As he was washed-up, as nobody paid any attention to him, as no telephone bell rang for him, there seemed no point in his staying in this room. Why didn't he just say, 'the hell with the lot of them', and stay at home?

After about half an hour of sitting in the chair, I began to get a feeling of claustrophobia. I got to my feet and began to prowl around, looking for something to break the monotony of just sitting and waiting.

There was still no sign of life from Dester. He continued to sit motionless and glare at the spot above the door. I went over to him and waved my hand in front of his eyes, but that got no reaction either.

Across the room was a green fire-proof filing cabinet. For something better to do, I went over and inspected it. I opened the top drawer. Fitted into the drawer were a number of red-leather folders, lettered in gold: For Mr. Dester's Immediate Attention. For Mr. Dester's Remarks. Mr. Dester's Schedule. Mr. Dester's Notes on Current Production. Refer to Mr. Dester for Opinion. And so on: fifteen expensive, beautifully lettered folders that proved at one time the Pacific Studios had thought a lot of Mr. Dester, even if they didn't now. The folders were empty; they were even a little dusty. I closed the drawer and opened another. A fat document in a heavy plastic sleeve lay in the otherwise empty drawer. I picked it up, turned it and read the inscription on the outside.

The National Fidelity Assurance Company of California hereby agrees to pay the sum of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the executors, administrators or assigns of Erle Dester (the assured) on receipt and approval at its Administrative Office in San Francisco of proofs satisfactory to the Company of the death of the assured and of the title of the claimant.

I drew in a long, slow breath and read the inscription for the third time.

No wonder Helen wanted him dead.

A chill as cold and as creepy as the finger of death crawled up my spine.

* * *

A blonde in a cowboy shirt and blue jeans, duck waggled past the window with the arrogant knowledge that all the men lounging around were looking at her and finding what they saw pretty good.

I noticed her, but that was all. Three-quarters of a million dollars had a bigger fascination for me than any well-made blonde in a pair of close-cut jeans.

Dester no longer represented to me a chronic alcoholic in need of pity. Sooner or later this guy would drop dead or walk in front of a car or fall out of a window. You can't fill yourself with alcohol to the point of paralysis and not run into trouble eventually, and when he was dead, but only when he was dead, his carcass would be worth in hard cash seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks which was, in anyone's language, quite a piece of money.

The reason why Helen didn't want him to have a chauffeur now became suddenly clear to me. She knew that he would still drive the Rolls, drunk or sober, chauffeur or no chauffeur. The previous night when he had been plastered to the hairline he had been about to drive out on to the crowded boulevard if I hadn't taken over the job. She was gambling on him getting involved in an accident: a fatal accident for preference. That could be the only explanation why she had got rid of Simmonds and had tried to get rid of me.

According to Solly, Dester was heading for bankruptcy, and Solly had ways and means of knowing things like that. There appeared nothing to save him from the crash, but if he died, his wife could clear his debts and still have plenty to live on.

A slight sound behind me made me drop the policy into the drawer and look over my shoulder.

Dester was coming back to life. His fingers moved on the blotter, the fixed glare had gone out of his eyes.

I silently closed the drawer and stepped quickly across to the door.

'Are you ready to come home, sir?' I said loudly.

He blinked, shook his head, blinked again, then got me in focus.

'There you are, Nash,' he said thickly. 'Is it four yet?'

'It's a little after four, sir. I've been waiting.'

I was surprised how quickly he came alive. He pushed back his chair, frowning. Then he looked at his wristwatch.

'I have had a lot to do,' he said. 'We are pretty busy right now. I didn't realize it was as late as this.'

I moved over to the desk as he got to his feet, ready to catch him. He swayed dangerously and I put out my hand and steadied him.

'My foot's gone to sleep,' he muttered, leaning against me. He sat on the edge of the desk. 'Where's the car?'

'Outside, in front, sir.'

'Bring it around the back.' He waved to a door. 'I go out this way.'

'Yes, sir.'

I left the room, walked fast down the corridor, through the hall, feeling the eyes of the four lovelies watching me with concentrated interest, and down the steps to where I had left the car. I drove it around to the back of the building. As I got out Dester came slowly down the steps, supporting himself by hanging on to the rail.

I got him into the car with some difficulty, and he lay back, sweat on his face, his eyes half closed.

'Shall I take you home, sir?' I asked.

The effort he had made to move himself from the office to the car proved too much for him. He seemed to go off into a coma: anyway he didn't look at me nor did he reply.

I shut the car door and went around to the driver's seat. I drove down to the gate, passing a steady stream of people on their way home. They spotted the Rolls and paused to stare. I heard a girl say: 'There's Dester going home: bottled as usual,' and she giggled.

I slightly increased the pace, but I couldn't drive as fast as I wanted to. Other people stared; other people had remarks to make. I was sweating by the time I slowed down while the guard opened the gate.

This time he deigned to look at the car, and his eyes fell on Dester as he lay back against the cushioned headrest, his face the colour of a rotten tomato, his eyes glazed. The guard looked at me, grimaced, then spat in the road. Maybe he had every right to feel that way about it, but I was tempted to jump out of the car and knock his teeth down his throat.

Once out on to the wide boulevard I trod on the gas, but even then people stared at the Rolls as it swept past them. They knew I was taking home a drunk; I could tell it by their jeering grins.

It was a relief to get under cover of the drive-in of Dester's residence where no one could stare. I pulled up outside the house and got out, opening the car door.

Dester sat rigid and motionless, his eyes once more fixed in that ghastly glaring stare. I tapped him on his knee.

'We're home, sir.'

I might just as well have been talking into a dead mike for all the reaction I got from him.

I couldn't leave him in the car. I wasn't going to wait out there in the hot evening sunshine. I reached in, caught hold of his coat front, hauled him out and over my shoulder in a fireman's lift.

He must have weighed over two hundred pounds, but I'm strong and I've lifted heavier things than Erle Dester, but not much heavier. I lurched up the steps, opened the front door, crossed the hall towards the stairs.