Blue Screen by Robert B. Parker Page A

fifties, with tightly curled blond hair and rimless glasses. Her skin was pale, with very little makeup. She wore dark purple lipstick. She spoke in little spurts, punctuated with little irrelevant giggles. Her gestures were sharp and angular. She wore black jeans and a black shirt with short sleeves. Her arms were thin. Her fingernails were painted dark purple. Her name was Trixie Wedge.
    “When she came to me she had nothing,” Trixie said.
    “Except the body,” I said.
    Trixie giggled once.
    “She had that. But she was nowhere. She hadn’t done anything. She didn’t know anybody [ giggle ]. She was nowhere.”
    “And you helped her,” I said.
    “I got her acting lessons. I got her an Alexander trainer.”
    “Alexander?”
    “Posture and breathing,” Trixie said and giggled. “I taught her how to dress. I mean, she had expensive clothes and a lot of them. But they were in awful taste, you know [ giggle ]? I got her a new wardrobe, and I made sure she wore it to the right places and was seen by the right people.”
    “Pygmalion,” I said.
    “Excuse me?”
    I shook my head.
    “Just someone I knew who had a similar problem. What was she doing when she came to you?”
    “Doing?”
    “For a living,” I said. “To pass the time. I gather she was not yet an actress.”
    “Oh, no [ giggle ], she surely wasn’t.”
    “So what was she?” I said.
    “I have no idea.”
    “She never said?”
    Trixie giggled and shook her head.
    “She married?”
    Giggle and shrug.
    “Do you have an address for her?”
    “You can get her through the studio or Buddy Bollen’s office,” Trixie said.
    “No,” I said, “I mean when she worked for you.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Could you find it?”
    Giggle.
    “Now?” I said.
    “You want it now?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    She giggled again.
    “Well, okay, I guess.”
    She got up and went out of her office for a while. I sat in the small room with its small, cold fireplace behind the desk. There was a gas log but it wasn’t lit. On the walls were head shots of a bunch of actors I didn’t know and a couple I sort of did. There were also a couple of posters for television movies. I read the posters carefully and looked at all the pictures, and got up and went to the window and looked down at Montana Avenue for a time, and finally Trixie returned.
    “My assistant is on her honeymoon [ giggle ], and the files are in disarray.”
    “But you found an address?”
    “Yes. She wouldn’t be there now.”
    I nodded. Trixie handed me a piece of notepaper with an address.
    “It’s in Santa Monica,” she said. “Off San Vicente, I think.”
    “I’ll find it,” I said. “Anything else you can tell me about her?”
    Trixie shrugged and giggled.
    “She was a bitch,” Trixie said.
    “There’s always one,” I said.
    Trixie giggled.

16
    E RIN ’ S FORMER MANAGER had a desk in a little cubicle in a warren of little cubicles occupied by a large management agency on Beverly Boulevard. He was a wispy, middle-aged man with a swell tan and thick, white hair worn longish and brushed straight back. His name was Ash Crawford.
    “She needed more managing than I could give her,” he said when I asked him to talk about Erin. “Wild child.”
    “Was she married?” I said.
    “Said she was. I never met him.”
    “Do you know his name?”
    Ash Crawford smiled like a happy uncle.
    “‘My husband,’” he said. “That’s all she ever called him.”
    “Where did she live?”
    “Santa Monica, near Seventh Street, I think. I used to meet her sometimes at the bar at Shutters.”
    “Do you have an address?” I said.
    “Bet I do.”
    He turned to the computer on his desk and worked for a moment.
    “Here you go,” he said.
    The printer started up and a page came out. He handed it to me. It was the same address Trixie had given me. There was a phone number, too. But it was not likely to be useful. I folded the printout and put it in my purse.
    “So when did you start managing