[Continuing chapter thirteen]
For some reason, Conrad Hart had decorated his house with what looked to Casey like a drunkard’s vision of an Arabian Nights harem. It was the interior to match the faux-Moorish exterior of Armstrong’s house. No doubt some Valentino Sheik-movie’s store of props had been raided for its supply of fake palm trees and curl-cut screens—the latter mostly press-board. Someone had undoubtedly put a lot of effort into providing Hart’s party with a décor that some mid-westerner might think of as exotic. If she viewed it in the dark of a movie theatre. And had never been anywhere east of Iowa in her life.
“Casey. Good to see you. Sorry to hear about the contract.”
Casey didn’t bother to turn around to see who’d spoken. He’d heard the same sentiment, expressed in almost identical words, at least a half-dozen times since arriving. It had reminded him exactly of the rote expressions of sorrow at the mess table whenever anyone from the squadron had Gone West: something that was said out of a sense of obligation, and where the person’s true feelings were hidden, tamped down because of a fear that he would be the next to go.
The people he wanted to talk to, though, had yet to make an appearance.
“Hey, Casey. I have to talk to you about your contract.”
Even in the din of Conrad Hart’s crowded living-room, Casey thought he recognized the voice. Turning, he saw Brett Kerry standing a couple of people away. “Hullo, Kerry,” he said. “Glad to be done with playing an evil film director?”
“God, yes,” Kerry said. “What a curious way to make my talking-picture debut. And what a torturous way of making a movie. I can only hope that this experience was unique, and not an indication of what all talking-picture making is going to be like.”
“I’m the wrong person to speculate about that,” Casey said. “My talking-picture career ended before it began. And before you feel compelled to offer sympathy or a steady shoulder again, let me add that I don’t mind a bit. I have a good flying job, which is all I ever wanted.” Almost all, he reminded himself.
“I wasn’t going to offer sympathy,” Kerry said. “I was going to tell you that somebody here is looking for you.” Casey perked up at this. Had Straebo arrived, then?
Kerry elbowed his way to Casey’s side. “Do you remember the cameraman on your screen-test?”
Oh. Not Straebo. “How could I forget? Tall, skinny guy with the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen. And when you fly for a living you tend to remember a name like “Smokey”.
“Well, Smokey Burnett is the cameraman on my next picture. This afternoon we were doing some makeup and costume tests, and he asked me—”
“What? You started a new picture this afternoon? Aren’t you supposed to get some sort of break?”
“I’m told that’s the case. Since High Risk was my first picture, I don’t really know for certain. But I have to say, Casey, that I don’t mind going right to work on a new picture. When I’m idle my salary drops, and I have some debts I have to clear up. As a result of this little stock-market thing you may have read about.”
“I seem to recall hearing about some sort of market fluctuation. Are you one of those people who got caught—what do they call it? Buying on margin?”
“Don’t remind me.” Kerry rolled his eyes. “I will shoot my broker if I ever see him again. Which I rather doubt.” He shook his head. “But you’re pulling me away from my purpose. What I wanted to tell you is that Smokey asked me about you. Turns out that he quite liked the film he got of you once your formal test was over. He’s mentioned you to Garry Toth, the director of the picture. And Toth is here tonight, looking for you. I’m pretty sure he’s going to offer you a part.”
“Not again,” Casey said. “Am I wearing a poster saying Victim Available: Feel Free to Abuse?”
“You are a breath of fresh air, Casey. You are quite likely the only person in the entire state of California who is actively trying to avoid a career in the movies.”
“I thought that Ben McMahon was trying to avoid my having a career in movies. How is your Mr. Toth going to hire me after his boss has just fired me?”
“Oh, he’ll find a way. You’ll get a new name, for one thing. Nobody will pay to see a movie-actor named Casey.”
“A new name? I like the one I’ve got.”
“And one is all you seem to have got. Which is another thing acting against you. You need at least two names to succeed in this business. Three would be better.”
“Like ‘Douglas Fairbanks Junior’?”
“Now you’re getting the idea. So here’s my suggestion for your new name: Miles Naismith.”
“Miles Naismith? That’s a terrible name for an alter-ego. I’d be better off just with Casey.”
“Don’t be difficult, young man. You just follow the advice of your old uncle Brett and go find Garry Toth.”
“Yes, sir,” Casey said. “Right away, sir.” He turned away from Kerry, but not to look for Garry Toth—a man he wouldn’t recognize anyway. Instead, he headed toward the host of this evening’s event. Garry Toth and a career in movies were all very well. Tonight, Casey wanted to see if his guesses about the murder of Lily Cross were even close to being accurate. To learn that, he needed to talk to several people, people who were supposed to be here.
Conrad Hart stood beside the bar in his living-room. It was a sensible place for a host to be at a party like this, Casey thought as he made his way toward the bar. Sooner or later, everybody attending the blow would wind up where the drinks were.
“Glad to see you made it,” Hart said to him. “Gin?”
“I’ve been here close to an hour already, Hart. It’s just taken me that long to fight my way to the bar. I’ll have bourbon, if you’ve got some.”
“As it turns out, I do. The real stuff, too. Bought with a prescription just this afternoon. With Jerry’s supply of good stuff—um, interrupted, I’ve been reduced to putting out panther-sweat for all but my nearest and dearest.”
“I’m honored,” Casey said, accepting a glass and spritzing a bit of soda into the whiskey. “At least, I think I am. Speaking of Jerry—”
“That’s a nice-looking suit,” Hart said. “Do you have to return it to Wardrobe?”
“Why does everybody in this town automatically assume that good clothes are stolen from Wardrobe? I bought this suit this morning with my very own money. Just as I intend to buy my own flivver, soon as possible. Thanks for the loan, by the way. Your Bentley really goes.”
“Doesn’t it just? That breezer scares the ever-loving shit out of me, but I figured you’d be just the sort to tame it. Something in the fly-boy character, was how I figured it.”
“Bentley made rotary engines for the Sopwith Camel during the War, you know,” Casey said. “He seems to have adjusted to civilian life a little bit better than I did.” Before Hart could say anything, Casey changed the subject. “Is Straebo here tonight?”
Hart made a sour face. “Yes. He’s never so pompous as when he finishes a picture, and tonight it’s even worse. He’s still nourishing a grouch for some reason, and it’s making him nasty, in a whiny sort of way.”
“Any idea where I might find him?”
“Look under any table.”
“What, is he drunk? What kind of host are you?”
“What kind of host would I be if he wasn’t drunk? You seem to have missed the fundamental point of this party, Casey.”
“Hmm. This is one time where my interests are at odds with yours, then. I was hoping to take advantage of your having a bunch of people crammed into one place, but so far it seems to be the wrong sort of people.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean by take advantage, Casey. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be any better off if you told me.” Hart smiled. “Speaking of taking advantage, though, here’s someone you ought to meet. Hey, Jean! Come here!”
Casey turned, and saw a beautiful young woman walking toward him. She was small and lithe, with porcelain-white skin and hair that was almost that white. Casey was uncomfortably aware of the fact that she was not wearing anything under a blouse that looked suspiciously like a pajama top. He forced himself to look into her eyes—which were deep-set and blue-grey, and seemed unnaturally large.
“Jean Harlow,” Hart said, “I’d like you to meet Casey. He’s a pilot on the picture we just finished. And he used to work for your Mr. Hughes.”
Miss Harlow offered her hand, looking mostly at the floor. She said something, but it was spoken so quietly that Casey couldn’t hear it. He thought he heard the word “Harlean,” and wondered if she’d been telling him her real name.
“Are you enjoying working on Hell’s Angels?” he asked, unable to think of anything else to say.
“I haven’t started yet.” Casey thought he recognized the expression in her eyes: Jean Harlow was as frightened of what she was about to do as Casey had been before his screen-test. “Mr. Hughes is very nice, though. Momma likes him, too.” She looked over her shoulder and Casey, following her gaze, saw another blond, this one middle-aged but dressing much younger, laughing and flirting with someone half her age.
“For God’s sake,” Casey said after Harlow had wandered back to a corner to sit, apparently miserable, “she’s just a child. Hughes is going to destroy her.”
“From what I hear,” Hart said, “Hughes is terrified of her. Well, maybe not her per se. But he’s not directing her. He’s hired some Limey to do all of the dialog scenes. You’re right, though: she is just a kid. I hear she’s only eighteen.”
“Did she remind you of someone?” Casey asked him.
“Yes,” Hart said. “And no. She’s a blond, and Hollywood’s full of blonds. But there really is something unique about her, Casey. The camera’s going to love that kid.”
Maybe, Casey thought. When he looked at Jean Harlow, though, it was hard not to see Lily Cross.
“Where was the last place you saw Straebo?” he asked.
“Here, unfortunately. When he slunk away, though, he was headed toward the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
“There’s a tub of beer in there. And presumably people he can talk to who haven’t worked for him lately, if ever.” Hart gave him an exaggerated salute. “If you insist on seeking him out, Casey, you’re a braver man than I. Or more of a fool.” Casey returned the salute, and fought his way out of the room.
In the hall, he came face to face with Desiree.
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 Chapter Thirteen
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