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[Continuing chapter twelve]
The number Hogan had given him turned out to be that of Monarch’s Gower Street studio. That made sense, since today was supposed to have been a shooting day for High Risk. While he waited for the operator to connect him with Hart, Casey wondered if Jerry Straebo had managed to talk McMahon into letting him shoot today after all.
It turned out he had. “We’re going to finish up this morning,” Hart told him. “Sorry you can’t be here.”
“That’s all right,” Casey said. And it really was.
“Well, there’s no reason why you can’t be at the wrap party anyway. I’m hosting a small blow tonight—just a few hundred of my nearest and dearest. You should come. I’ve invited Howard Hughes’s new star—the one who replaced Greta Nissen. You’ll want to see her, Casey. She’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like such a good idea to me.” Having just washed his hands of the Hollywoods, Casey wasn’t at all sure he wanted to re-immerse himself in that world.
“Bushwah. You’ll have a great time. Besides, everyone here’s been asking after you.” There was a pause, and Casey thought he heard a woman’s voice, muffled by distance or a bad connection. “So,” Hart said, “my place, any time after eight tonight. You know how to get there.”
“Actually, that could be a problem,” Casey said, recognizing another opportunity for escape. “I have to fly Hogan’s buses from Glendale to Santa Monica this afternoon. I can’t see how I can get from Clover Field to Silver Lake, especially if Hogan keeps me late, which he probably will.”
“Don’t you have that—oh, right. The truck was a studio truck, wasn’t it?”
“Even if it wasn’t, it’s still in the police yard in Los Angeles. I’ve been chauffeured around by people for the last week, and I’m not going to ask people for rides anymore. If man was meant to drive, God would have given us all Duesenbergs.”
“Hell, Casey, why don’t I loan you one of my cars? It’s not as if I can drive more than one of them at a time.”
“Borrowing someone’s car is worse, it seems to me, than begging for a lift from them.”
“More bushwah. Don’t think of it as a loan, think of it as a favour repaid. You helped me a lot with that tutorial of yours, and I’ve been trying to come up with a way of showing my gratitude. The loan of a car for a few weeks—even a few months—is a small price to pay, really. I insist on it. And I have the perfect car for you, fly-boy.”
“All right,” Casey said. “If you insist.”
“I insist. It’ll be waiting for you at—what did you say? Clover Field?”
“Clover Field. It’s due east of Santa Monica. South of Central Avenue, if you know the neighborhood.”
“I’ll make sure it gets there. You make sure you get to my place tonight.”
“Thanks, Hart. I really appreciate this.” An idea came to Casey. “Say,” he added, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a guy called Buckley, have you? Michael Buckley?”
“Michael Buckley? Nope. Is he in pictures?”
“I don’t know what he’s in,” Casey said. “That’s the problem. I’m trying to track down this bummer and nobody’s ever heard of him.”
“Obviously he’s not from around these parts,” Hart said. There was another pause. Casey heard Hart’s voice, muffled, say, “What do you mean, you won’t? Don’t be a bastard.”
After another moment, Hart came back on the line. “Casey, where are you right now?”
“At Gower and Santa Monica,” he said. “Kitty-corner to the cemetery.”
“You’re right on top of us,” Hart said. “That’s perfect. Get here as fast as you can, Casey. I’ll tell the gate to let you in. We’re in the new sound stage; I’ll wait for you by the door.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just get here. Somebody here knows your Mr. Buckley.”
Next Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
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