like John Garfield getting railroaded. Dust Be My Destiny, but you’re too young to remember that.” He squeezed his forehead tiredly. “It happens more and more now. I’m retreating into fantasy, I suppose … this, the plane crash, these kids, this is the first time I’ve felt alive in weeks. Maybe it’s a fantasy, too, only I’ve gotten deeper into it this time.”
“Rubbish,” she said softly. “You’re tired, but it’s real … you really are here.”
“But if it were real,” he said, “wouldn’t you be taking some kind of precautions? I’m a convicted murderer—”
“Don’t forget, I followed the trial. You may have beaned your wife with an Oscar, or maybe you didn’t, but you’re not a criminal. From what I’ve heard, you could have had good cause … which is not exactly the same as saying she deserved it, but not entirely different, either.”
“What do you mean, you’ve heard?” He couldn’t get a handle on any of it. She was being elliptical, and he was so tired.
“I’ve been in and around the movie business all my life, grew up with it. I used to go to bed with the sounds of screenings down the hall in the projection room. I still know people who knew your wife … her mother and father, too, and I sat on her grandfather’s knee once when I was about three years old.” She got up and turned the Sidney Bechet tape over. He watched her, not quite getting it. While the tapedeck worked its way toward the beginning of the music, she said, “I dated Jack Donovan a couple of times, too. Not long before he began seeing your wife—”
“Ex-wife,” he said, staring into the fire, listening to her deep voice and the hiss of the burning logs.
“Yes, presumably she’s as ex as anyone can get.”
“You’re not overwhelmed by respect for the dead.”
“It’s a phoney attitude. Very prevalent out here, of course. All you’ve got to do out here to get some respect, my father used to say, was get the picture in the can on time and under budget and quietly drop dead. Presto, everybody agrees you should have gotten the Thalberg award. You know what they said about Louis B. Mayer’s funeral—half the people there wanted to be sure he was dead.” She came back and sat down, smiling and pulling the robe tight. “Respect for the dead should be born out of respect for the same guys living. From what I’ve heard, I didn’t have a great deal of respect for your wife.”
“It sounds to me like you kept your ear to the ground.”
“Not really. She got herself talked about.” Sidney Bechet soared off into “Sweet Lorraine,” and he felt her eyes boring into him. “And then she got herself killed.” She shrugged. “You knew her best. How much respect did you have for her?”
“I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do? I may be relatively sympathetic to your predicament, but I can’t hide you in the fruit cellar until they stop looking for you.”
“I don’t know … I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t belong in prison.” He sighed, shook his head. “I guess I’ll try to escape. I don’t know how, though. I mean, who the hell knows how to do a thing like that? Escape from some goddamn dragnet.”
“I don’t think they call them dragnets anymore—APB’s, I think. There’ll be an APB on you.”
“Well, all right. I still don’t know what to do. And stop staring at me. What you see is someone with little bits of white bone poking out through the nerve ends.” Impatiently, trying to shake off her eyes, he grabbed at a stack of books on the table at his elbow. The Black Gardenia, The Little Sister, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Cavanaugh Quest, Frequent Hearses, The Barbarous Coast, The Maltese Falcon. “What the hell is all this? Murders, murders, murders … You must be crazy.”
“Murder is my business,” she said. “I own a bookstore, nothing but mysteries. The Murder, He Says, Bookshop. We carry
“Rubbish,” she said softly. “You’re tired, but it’s real … you really are here.”
“But if it were real,” he said, “wouldn’t you be taking some kind of precautions? I’m a convicted murderer—”
“Don’t forget, I followed the trial. You may have beaned your wife with an Oscar, or maybe you didn’t, but you’re not a criminal. From what I’ve heard, you could have had good cause … which is not exactly the same as saying she deserved it, but not entirely different, either.”
“What do you mean, you’ve heard?” He couldn’t get a handle on any of it. She was being elliptical, and he was so tired.
“I’ve been in and around the movie business all my life, grew up with it. I used to go to bed with the sounds of screenings down the hall in the projection room. I still know people who knew your wife … her mother and father, too, and I sat on her grandfather’s knee once when I was about three years old.” She got up and turned the Sidney Bechet tape over. He watched her, not quite getting it. While the tapedeck worked its way toward the beginning of the music, she said, “I dated Jack Donovan a couple of times, too. Not long before he began seeing your wife—”
“Ex-wife,” he said, staring into the fire, listening to her deep voice and the hiss of the burning logs.
“Yes, presumably she’s as ex as anyone can get.”
“You’re not overwhelmed by respect for the dead.”
“It’s a phoney attitude. Very prevalent out here, of course. All you’ve got to do out here to get some respect, my father used to say, was get the picture in the can on time and under budget and quietly drop dead. Presto, everybody agrees you should have gotten the Thalberg award. You know what they said about Louis B. Mayer’s funeral—half the people there wanted to be sure he was dead.” She came back and sat down, smiling and pulling the robe tight. “Respect for the dead should be born out of respect for the same guys living. From what I’ve heard, I didn’t have a great deal of respect for your wife.”
“It sounds to me like you kept your ear to the ground.”
“Not really. She got herself talked about.” Sidney Bechet soared off into “Sweet Lorraine,” and he felt her eyes boring into him. “And then she got herself killed.” She shrugged. “You knew her best. How much respect did you have for her?”
“I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do? I may be relatively sympathetic to your predicament, but I can’t hide you in the fruit cellar until they stop looking for you.”
“I don’t know … I don’t want to go to prison. I don’t belong in prison.” He sighed, shook his head. “I guess I’ll try to escape. I don’t know how, though. I mean, who the hell knows how to do a thing like that? Escape from some goddamn dragnet.”
“I don’t think they call them dragnets anymore—APB’s, I think. There’ll be an APB on you.”
“Well, all right. I still don’t know what to do. And stop staring at me. What you see is someone with little bits of white bone poking out through the nerve ends.” Impatiently, trying to shake off her eyes, he grabbed at a stack of books on the table at his elbow. The Black Gardenia, The Little Sister, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, The Cavanaugh Quest, Frequent Hearses, The Barbarous Coast, The Maltese Falcon. “What the hell is all this? Murders, murders, murders … You must be crazy.”
“Murder is my business,” she said. “I own a bookstore, nothing but mysteries. The Murder, He Says, Bookshop. We carry
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