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[Continuing chapter fifteen]
“I don’t think that you have to do anything with me,” Casey said. “In fact, I insist that you don’t.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about late-night accidents,” McMahon said. “Or a renewal of interest in your behavior by, say, Detective Sergeant Clark.” He smiled—or, rather, showed his teeth with his mouth forced into an upward curve, which was not at all the same thing. “At the same time, you’ll allow that I have a right to be concerned about the details of this unfortunate situation appearing in the newspapers or on Walter Winchell.”
“I’m more than happy to assure you on that score,” Casey said. “I don’t tell tales. So long as I think that justice is done, I’m satisfied.
“Speaking of which, what about Michael Buckley? Do we know where he’s gone? What’s to be done about him?”
“Nobody knows,” Neal said, looking at Straebo, who flushed and shrugged his shoulders as if to imply that he hadn’t had anything to do with Buckley’s involvement. He’s probably answering my first question, Casey thought, but I’m pretty sure that nobody knows applies equally well to the question of what’s to be done. “He’s disappeared. I’ve got some calls out to—people I know—but I’m sure he’s not in California.”
“I gather,” McMahon said dryly, “that the Dallas police have been notified. His parents are there. But nobody seriously expects him to turn up with Ma and Pa.” McMahon dragged out the “ma” and “pa” in a cruel parody of an Iowan accent, and Casey wondered just how much contempt McMahon held for that part of Middle America that comprised such a significant percentage of his customers.
“You’re not going to be pressing Fitts to look to hard for Buckley, though,” Desiree said. “Are you? And if he does turn up, I’m willing to bet that the D.A. won’t be burning up the telegraph wires demanding his extradition. The last thing you want, Ben, is for Buckley to explain how Eve’s crimes weren’t just the isolated acts of a madwoman.”
“Needlessly blunt, but accurate, Desiree,” McMahon said. “As is so often the case with you. I suppose I’ll have to think about your future, while I’m thinking of Casey’s.”
“Don’t waste any time on little old me,” Desiree said, looking honestly aghast at the prospect of any more scrutiny from Ben McMahon. “I’m content with my life as it is. Or very nearly,” she added, with an eyelash-flicking glace at Casey.
Damn it, he thought. Why does she do that? Every word or gesture toward him from her had to be couched in some form of—detachment was the only word he could think of that fit. Did she really hold the entire world in amused contempt? Or was she just afraid? That thought took him back to the squadron mess in Flanders, reminding him of the elaborate defenses men constructed—had to construct—against the brutal daily realities of their lives. What has she been through, he wondered, that leaves her needing that sort of wall around her?
“Nonetheless,” McMahon said, “I think that a raise for you is probably in order. I don’t say this simply as an attempt at a bribe—though I don’t deny that if I can buy your cooperation in this matter I’ll consider the money well-spent—because I’ve seen your work in Jerry’s picture, Desiree, and I’m pleased. To my mind you’ve been—I don’t know, treading water—lately. But sound seems to have wakened something in you. I like what I’m seeing.”
“Thank you,” Desiree said, softly, and Casey, seeing the momentary hunger in her eyes, had to suppress a whistle of admiration for the way McMahon knew just how to reach her without seeming too obviously manipulative. That need for approval, he decided, might well be the main reason for her barricade of cynicism.
“As for you, Casey, I think I’m prepared to accept your word as an officer—a man of honor—that you’ll treat your speculations in this matter—and I remind you that they are speculation, and will never be anything but—as being confidences between us.” Casey felt a brief shiver of disgust that a man like McMahon would use the word honor, but decided that he’d have to accept it as being the least unacceptable alternative to a purely financial arrangement. “I do think, though,” McMahon added, “that I acted with too much haste in terminating your contract the other day.” With this he shifted his gaze to Neal, whose face seemed to turn an even deeper shade of red. Well, Casey thought, looking from Straebo to Neal, at least I know who my enemies are, even if I can’t seem to find any friends here. Many friends, he corrected himself, looking at Desiree.
“Don’t worry yourself, Mr. McMahon,” he said. “I have a job. It’s one that I like.”
“But surely you could continue to fly even if you were acting in my movies.”
“Would you be willing to be a grocery clerk during the day, and only produce movies in your spare time?” Casey asked. “Flying is not my hobby, Mr. McMahon.”
“I assure you, Casey: I’m not trying to buy your silence. Well, not only that,” he added with a thin smile, seeing the look on Casey’s face.
“I do know when I’m licked, though,” McMahon said after a pause. “I don’t promise I won’t continue to occasionally badger you with offers, Casey. You really do have some potential for the movies, you know. But so long as we understand each other about the need for—discretion, I suppose, is the polite word—in this matter, then I’m prepared to leave it at that.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to have a chat with Mr. Grey—and to say good-bye to Eve, come to that—before I go to my meeting with Hughes.”
After McMahon was safely out of the room, Neal turned to Casey with a look of full loathing. “Mr. McMahon is welcome to delude himself however he wants. For myself, though, if I ever see you on my studio lot again I’ll beat you into pulp and throw the pulp into the Pacific.”
“You might want to be more concerned with holding onto your job,” Desiree said, and for once there was no artificial sweetness in her voice. Casey heard nothing but suppressed rage, and hoped he never heard it again. Don’t make this woman angry, he reminded himself. Ever. “Whatever power you think you might hold at Monarch is slipping away, Neal,” she said. “Someone as demonstrably incompetent as you’ve been ought to be thinking about making friends, not enemies.”
“I’ve got friends, you green-eyed bitch. And I can ruin you if you cross me.”
Casey got to his feet. Neal probably outweighed him by thirty pounds, and even if they’d been evenly matched in that regard Casey was in no condition to fight. Somehow, that didn’t matter right now.
“You’re not the only one with … friends, Neal,” Desiree said, raising her hand to stop Casey where he was. “And you can’t do anything to me if I’m not afraid of you. Don’t forget, you brainless bull, I’ve been in your office. I’ve seen your file on me. And I don’t give a damn about what you do with it.”
She got to her feet, and Neal actually shrank back from her as she stalked to the doorway. “If you’re smart,” she said to him, “you’ll go out of your way to avoid me. For as long as you still work for Monarch Pictures.”
For a second, Casey just admired the picture she’d presented. Then he realized that Desiree might be proposing to leave without him. “I’d take her seriously,” he said to Neal. Then, grinning, he followed her out of the room.
He caught up with her in the entry hall. Or perhaps she had waited there, in ambush. “You’re going to have to give me a ride home, Casey,” she said to him. “It’s the only honorable thing to do. After all, you brought me here in the first place; it’s your duty to see me home safely.”
She no more needed an escort than she needed protection from the likes of Neal, Casey decided. But for the opportunity to spend more time in her company, he was prepared to play the gallant. “At your service, Miss Farrell,” he said, and gestured her past him as the butler opened the front door.
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 Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
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