Cocksure (16 page)

“What?” Joyce turned over sharply, arching away from his hand, the five fevered fingers. “You bastard,” she said.

Ziggy nodded, emphatically agreeing. “You’re the only one,” he said, “who has always been able to see right through me.”

“Oh, you’re rotten,” she said, as he reached for the top button of her dressing gown. “Mortimer looks up to you. There’s nobody he admires more.”

“Yes, yes. And who could blame you, poor kid, if you wanted to get even with him.”

Mortimer found Dino Tomasso in a state, all but frothing with anger. “Yes? What is it, Mort?”

“Before the Star Maker flies back to America, I must speak with him. I insist, Dino.”

Pacing, favoring his artificial leg, Tomasso turned his unseeing eye on Mortimer. “The Star Maker isn’t flying back to America tomorrow. He’s going into the Clinic. He’s mad, certifiably insane.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What do you understand? Shmuck.”

“Rather more than you think.”

“But what about me? He promised me. I’ve got no sons, he said. You’re my son, Dino. He put it in writing. Now the old bastard is going into the Clinic. I tell you, I could cut my tongue out. If I had a knife …”

“Why?”

Dino Tomasso sank into his chair. “I never should have blown my stack. No matter what, I never should have talked back to the Star Maker.” All at once Tomasso was weeping. “Go now,” he said, banging his head against his desk. “Go now.”

“Is the Star Maker sick?”

“Sick? If he pulls it off, we’ll all be sick. He can’t,” Tomasso said, knocking wood. “No, no, even the Star Maker, Blessed Be His Name, can’t.”

“Can’t
what
?”

“Can’t what?” Tomasso brought a three-fingered hand fearfully to his mouth. “I didn’t say it. I never told you what. Isn’t that the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God, what’s come over me? Sit down, Griffin. Stop grilling me. Let me get a grip on myself.” Tomasso leaned back in his chair, his eyes shut. “Go know,” he said over and over again.

“Dino, I must speak with the Star Maker.”

“You’ve seen the Our Living History file?”

Mortimer nodded.

“Big eyes! Snooper! Spy! Mort, I’m going to do you a favor.” Mortimer waited.

“The picture’s finished. They wound up yesterday. You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Here,” Tomasso said, shoving a package at him: some files from Personnel and three books. “There’s a Bentley with a driver waiting outside. You are to deliver this to the Star Maker personally. At his office. No straying on the set, understand? This is a bad day.”

“Okay,” Mortimer said, taking the package.

“One minute.” Tomasso bit his lip; his face clouded. “Mort, I shouldn’t say this, but … don’t let the Star Maker talk you into anything.”

“Talk me into what?”

“Look at me.” Tomasso hiked his trouser leg up, revealing his artificial limb. He turned his unseeing eye on Mortimer. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I’ll take care of myself,” Mortimer said placatingly.

“Wait. You’ve got the hots for Polly Morgan, haven’t you?”

“The hell I have.”

“Well, you warn her to take care too. You warn her to take special care.”

Still Mortimer failed to comprehend.

“Do not repeat this, but the Star Maker no longer rigidly believes in his own immortality. He plans to double-cross us all. He wants an heir.”

“Marriage,” Mortimer asked, aghast, “at his age?”

“Marriage? Go know. After all these years, go know. You’d better get moving. You’re late already.”

What, Mortimer wondered, speeding toward the studios, was Tomasso getting at? Surely the Star Maker was no longer capable of producing an heir. Unless the cunning old bastard had test tubes full of his semen stored away in a deep-freeze somewhere. He invites an unsuspecting, beautiful young girl, say Polly Morgan, to his suite, then when she’s least expecting it, whamo! Artificial insemination. Nonsense. And yet – and yet – what did he need these three books for?
Feeding Your Baby and Child
, by Spock and Lowenberg,
Your Baby and You
, by Seymour Freed, and
Natural Childbirth
, by Grantly Dick Reid. Mortimer turned to the files he had been given. The medical history and X-ray data on three girls from the typing pool, including the replacement for poor Miss Spaight, who had died while undergoing her hysterectomy.
And Polly Morgan’s case history!
Peeking, Mortimer discovered that Polly was still a virgin, of all things. How very, very odd, he thought. But what did the obscene, undying Star Maker want with these files? Was he about to select a mistress?

Mortimer climbed out of the Bentley opposite Sound Stage D, which was ringed with black-uniformed guards. As two guards closed in on him, Mortimer showed his pass and was instructed to take the first stairway to the right, which would lead him to the Star Maker’s suite. But once inside the studio, Mortimer was drawn to the
heavy door to the sound stage. He had never been on a film set before. Pushing open the door, he slipped inside. The studio was enormous but stark, with the size and feel of a factory floor, heavily scaffolded, huge lights suspended from ropes. In the far corner, Mortimer made out a high-spirited, elegantly dressed group, drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon and caviar from a long table. Dominating the party, looking curiously sad and preoccupied amid such gaiety, stood the towering Star. This, Mortimer thought, must be the last-day party for the unit; he had read about such things. Stepping cautiously over open paint buckets, careful not to trip over tangled black cables, threading his way between flats, Mortimer, keeping to the shadows, gradually edged closer to the group, recognizing the faces of familiar actors and actresses.

Then, from his vantage point, Mortimer noticed something decidedly odd. Black-suited motorcycle riders moved from door to door, locking all but one. Other black-suited riders, their faces expressionless, filtered through among the celebrants, ushering them out of the unlocked door. While the riders seemed intent on emptying the studio, the Star rushed from guest to guest, imploring them to stay on, this laconic hero of a thousand cinema duels looking absolutely petrified. The Star’s terror, it seemed to Mortimer, was edging on hysteria, as one by one the guests melted away. Soon there were but two performers left drinking with the Star, a well-known character actor and a gorgeous actress. An impatient black-suited rider strode up to them, whispered something, and they instantly put down their unfinished drinks.

“No, no, stay,” the Star shrieked. “Have another one.”

Apologetically, they retreated.

“Please stay. Please, please.”

As soon as they were out of the door, the bolt was driven home and the lock was secured. Then, silence. The towering Star walked up to the long table, lips curled defiantly, and poured himself a glass of
champagne, just as he had done when threatened in so many films past. Only this time there was an added detail. Tears streamed down the Star’s cheeks.

Mortimer, his heart thumping, watched as two black-suited men carried out a thin seven-foot-long black box and set it down on the floor with immense care. They were followed by two more men, wheeling an incredible-looking machine with a menacing pumplike device attached. The men rolled the rubber-wheeled machine to a stop beside the long black box and immediately began to adjust a number of dials. Then a studio door cracked open and shut, admitting two of the Star Maker’s doctors and a very pretty, giggly nurse.

“Ready! Steady! Go!”

The doctors and the nurse, wearing white, raced for the long table and began to gorge themselves on champagne and caviar. They were indifferent to the black-suited riders who now began to close in on the Star.

“No,” the Star howled, picking up an empty bottle, “not this time, you don’t.”

“Double negative,” one of the doctors said to the nurse, making her fall about with laughter.

The circle of black-suited men tightened. Klieg lights were flicked on, searching out the Star.

“Now come on,” the leader of the black-suited riders pleaded. “Be a good boy.”

“No!”

“Why make trouble for us? In the end …”

“I’m not going to let you do it. Not this time.”

“But you’re going to start on another film in a month’s time. Thirty-one days from today.”

“That’s what you promised last time. I want a life of my own. I want to get married. I –”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“If you let me go,” the Star begged, retreating, “I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you say. So help me God.”

“Don’t be childish. You know the rules.”

Without warning, two black-suited riders lunged for the Star. He avoided them, disappearing among the flats.

“Now remember, guys, he’s not to be damaged. It’s as much as your life is worth if you so much as bruise him.”

One of the doctors bounced the nurse on his lap. The other doctor, having had his fill of smoked salmon, began to wrap what he couldn’t eat. Suddenly there came the clatter of a man pulling desperately against a locked door. A whistle blew. “There he is,” one of the black-suited riders called out.

As the riders regrouped, closing in on the Star, the doctor opened his legs, letting the nurse crash to the floor. He picked up a syringe and started wearily toward the Star.

“Easy does it. Now remember, guys. You mustn’t puncture him.”

Once more the adroit survivor of a hundred and one cinema chases eluded his pursuers, knocking over and shattering a klieg light.

“Where is he now?”

“That’s not our problem. It’s the broken glass we’ve got to worry about.”

“Christ!”

“You two. Sweep it up immediately. All we need is for him to trip over that.”

Now the nurse sat on the other doctor’s lap, shoveling caviar into his mouth until the cheeks were inflated.

“Over there!”

The Star was trapped in a spotlight, high over the studio floor, swinging from a cable, reminding Mortimer, more than anything else, of his Academy Award-winning
Captain Kidd’s Revenge
.

“If you come a step closer,” the Star shrieked girlishly, “I’ll throw myself down.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. You’ll break.”

“I don’t care.”

A black-suited rider whistled as he opened the long black box, velvet-lined and mothproofed. The doctor with the syringe approached again, suppressing a yawn.

“Lower him down gently,” the leader of the black-suited riders called out when suddenly Mortimer was seized from behind. He jumped.

“What are you doing here?” a rider demanded.

Another rider twisted Mortimer’s arm high behind his back.

“I’ve come to see the Star Maker. I have some confidential papers with me.”

“You’d better, baby. You’d better.”

As Mortimer was hustled off, the Star’s shrieks continued unabated, silence coming only when the heavy studio door slid shut behind him.

“You’d be Griffin, Mortimer Griffin,” the Star Maker said cordially.

Wincing with pain, Mortimer nodded.

“Let him go. Griffin’s got an absolutely marvy lymphatic system. Isn’t that right?”

Mortimer nodded dumbly.

“Did you bring the papers and books?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy! You can leave us alone now, fellas, it’s perfectly all right. Pour yourself a drink, Griffin. Over there,” the Star Maker said, indicating the bar.

Gratefully Mortimer helped himself to a large brandy.

The Star Maker’s handsomely appointed suite was overheated, silk curtains drawn against the sunlight. The desk, the surface covered in tooled green leather, was the work of a seventeenth-century Florentine craftsman. A carved piece of Chinese jade served
as a paperweight. The desk-lamp base was carved out of ivory, the work of an Ashanti tribesman. All the other furnishings, at first glance, were also rare and ruggedly masculine, except for a far corner set off by frilly blue curtains. This corner was bare except for a rug made of chinchilla skins, and a frail-looking bassinet hewn of hand-carved oak.

“It was Henry the Third’s of France,” the Star Maker said, and went on to explain that in deference to Henry III, who wished to be a woman, French sovereigns were referred to by the feminine gender:
“Sa majesté.”

Mortimer had, until now, avoided looking directly at the Star Maker, who was not seated in the customary wheelchair. Instead, the old thing was lolling on a bed, under an enormous oil painting of Tiresias, on Mount Cyllene, watching two snakes coupling. Crocheted pillows were propped under the Star Maker’s massive head, and a lead taped to an artery in his arm ran to a renal dialyzer, wherein the Star Maker’s blood flowed over one side of a semipermeable membrane of Cuprophane, and was cleansed of undesirable molecules and toxic materials before it ran into the body through another vein. A most efficient-looking nurse attended the dialyzer. “Kidney rinse,” the Star Maker said, nose crinkling. “I’ll only be another minute. Won’t I, dear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mortimer waited, trying not to stare, while the nurse unstrapped it. The Star Maker smiled back reassuringly and Mortimer noticed, for the first time, that now the right eye was swimming with cataracts. Then, mercifully, the nurse drew a curtain round the Star Maker and Mortimer hastened to pour himself another drink.

Soon the Star Maker emerged in a wheelchair, cheeks pink, legs tucked under a rug, the right leg dangling at least six inches lower than the left, the shoe on the right foot easily two sizes larger than the shoe on the left. “Now then,” the Star Maker asked, “are you comfy?”

“Yes,” Mortimer said.

“Thank you, nurse,” the Star Maker said, waving the right, absolutely unwrinkled hand. The other hand was wizened. Something else Mortimer found unnerving; the Star Maker’s voice tended to crack in mid-sentence, wavering between soprano and baritone.

“Only a half hour to your next injection,” the nurse said, departing.

The Star Maker nodded, leaning forward for Mortimer to light a cigar. On the Star Maker’s lap there were knitting needles, a ball of blue wool, and the beginnings of a baby’s blue sweater. “You weren’t supposed to enter the studio. It was naughty of you, Griffin. Very. How much did you see?”