The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox

of the car he drove. But not walking.
    The clogged traffic stream suddenly eased. He let in the clutch, swinging the little car into the Golden Calf’s palm-arched driveway. Except for two cut-stone pillars, the driveway was unmarked. The Golden Calf disdained signs. Ahead was the canopied entrance. He left the Volkswagen behind a long silver-blue Cadillac, then strode to the entrance, nodding to the impassive doorman.
    Someday, that doorman could be himself.
    Graduate of Oberlin. Author of an off-Broadway play. Teacher. Philosopher. Seer-with-a-camera. Presently a seventy-five-dollar-a-week part-time TV continuity writer, local sustaining.
    Soon to be a doorman.
    But not today. Not here. Not now, striding confidently among the hand-hewn oaken tables, looking for Dick Wagner. The confidence, of course, was bogus: a play-actor’s part, for which he’d meticulously prepared himself. Today—now—he was a young, successful filmmaker. Like Dick Wagner, he was on the way up. As he walked between the tables, he moved his shoulders to fit the part: a relaxed, confident Kevin Rossiter, easy in body and mind. A rising talent. Soft-spoken. For this Kevin Rossiter, it was all together.
    Just for an hour. Please God, just for an…
    In an alcove, Dick Wagner was half rising, waving to him. Beside Wagner was a red-haired girl wearing a brilliant green blouse with a sparkling white collar and matching Gibson-girl cuffs.
    The remains of their lunch littered the table before them.
    They’d eaten. Already eaten. Without him. Wagner had never intended to—
    “…have you been?” Wagner was saying, gripping his hand. “God, it’s been—how long? Six years? Seven? How’ve you been, anyhow? This is Victoria. Victoria Grand. That’s her real name. She’s an actress, but that’s her real name. Here—sit down, Kevin. We’re just having coffee. Or would you rather have a drink?” Gesturing to a chair, Wagner waved for a waiter, at the same time glancing at his watch.
    “I’m really glad we could get together, Kevin,” he was saying. “Even if I don’t have much time. But when I got your letter, I was determined to—What’ll you have, anyhow?”
    “Coffee’s fine.”
    “Three coffees, then,” Wagner told the waiter. “And you can bring the check with the coffee.” Wagner’s voice was low and resonant. Over the years, Wagner had worked on his voice. He’d gained twenty pounds and gone partially bald. His speech and his gestures worked smoothly together, perfectly projecting the forceful, knowledgeable communications executive, relaxing over a twenty-five-dollar lunch. On the job, Wagner would pose as the actor’s friend: earnest, understanding, compassionate. But in production conferences, Wagner would tune himself to the whims of the money men.
    Eight years ago, when Kevin’s play had been in rehearsal off Broadway, Dick Wagner had been turned down for a walk-on part.
    “How long’ve you been in Santa Barbara, anyhow?” Wagner was asking. “And how’s Joanna?”
    “We’ve been here a year. She’s—fine.”
    “What’ve you been doing, anyhow? The last I heard, you were in San Francisco. What the hell’s in San Francisco? For that matter, what’s in Santa Barbara? I mean, if you’re doing scripts, you might as well write them where they buy them, it seems to me.
    “Well, in San Francisco, I was working for Kessler and Brand. They do—” He cleared his throat. “They do educational films, mostly. And here—” He raised his hands in vague defense of Santa Barbara. “From here, it’s only a hundred miles to Los Angeles. And it’s—quieter here.”
    Wagner’s glance was shrewd now, narrowly speculative. His voice matched his eyes. “When you say ‘educational films,’ what’d you mean, exactly?”
    “Well, they were—” He watched his hands once more moving in a flip-flopping gesture of wan defense. “You know—thirty-minute shots, mostly.”
    “You mean like for audio-visual aids?