both of the novels you wrote back in the sixties, the early sixties—”
“Does anybody ever buy them?”
“Sure. Trivia collectors.”
“Thank you very much.”
“There is a steady demand for any mysteries with a Hollywood background. You wrote two. I’ve even got an autographed first of The Final Cut. Your trial and conviction, you’ll be glad to know, has driven the value sky-high.”
“How nice for you.”
“Last week a collector in La Jolla offered me a thousand dollars for that particular volume. I’m thinking it over.”
“Only in America,” he moaned.
“Only in Hollywood,” she said.
5
H E WOKE WITH A CHISEL of bright, glaring sunlight prying his eyes open. From the window he could see out across the lake, where the morning light flowed down the mountainside in a thick wave, as if the Disney people had already been hard at it. His trousers, shirt, sweater, and underwear were laid out on a chair, clean. The torn knee had been stitched up. While he dressed his aching body, he breathed deeply at the window. The night in a warm bed seemed to have softened him, made him feel the aches and pains more intensely. The snow was melting and leaving wet spots on the driveway. It dropped from the eaves like a metronome, and fir trees that had been white and heavy-laden the day before were now dark green, wet. He was admiring the view and trying to ignore the realities which were groping their way toward the center of his consciousness when he heard the soft rapping on the bedroom door.
“Good morning,” Morgan Dyer said, sliding swiftly into the room and closing the door behind her. She was wearing faded Levi’s, a heavy cardigan sweater with a belt and with shoulders halfway down her arms, tennis sneakers. “Sleep well?”
“Fine. But I feel like sasquatch has been using me for a soccer ball. I’ve led a sheltered and sedentary life until the day before yesterday—is that right? Day before yesterday? Whenever …” He pulled up the covers, straightened the pillows. “I really appreciate all this, washing these things … a place to sleep, no policemen in the middle of the night. I … well, I’m not quite sure how I can repay you—”
“Don’t be silly, you’re talking rubbish again—what could you do in your position, put in a good word for me with the warden?” She went to the other side of the bed and got the tangled blankets smoothed. “But we do have to decide what we’re going to do with you. Unless you’re planning to just wander off into the mountains, sort of mystically, in which case something will probably eat you tonight and your problems will be over. Otherwise your problems are just beginning. First, there are all these children who have seen you. The first time they see a picture of you, they’re going to start talking about good old Bandersnatch.”
Challis stroked his beard, smoothing the unkempt, wild patches back toward his ears. “I think I can fix that one. Are they up yet?”
“Having breakfast. The plump one is really something—Edward G. Robinson—he just took over in the kitchen, scrambled eggs, fried bacon. Funny, though, when he came out of the bathroom, he was smoking a cigar.” Her green eyes flickered. “I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, and he pointed his cigar at me and said, ‘ More, yeah, that’s what I want, more. ’ Unnerving, first thing in the morning.” She regarded him quizzically across the bed. “What do you suggest?”
“Send Edward G. up to see me, and do it privately, not in front of the rest of them.”
He brushed his teeth with a brush dangling from a rack in the bathroom connecting to the bedroom. In the mirror he saw that his flat blue eyes were clear and bright for the first time in months; staring at the face, it occurred to him for the first time just how famous the trial had made it, and what the papers and television were going to do with it once they realized he had survived the plane crash. The trial
“Does anybody ever buy them?”
“Sure. Trivia collectors.”
“Thank you very much.”
“There is a steady demand for any mysteries with a Hollywood background. You wrote two. I’ve even got an autographed first of The Final Cut. Your trial and conviction, you’ll be glad to know, has driven the value sky-high.”
“How nice for you.”
“Last week a collector in La Jolla offered me a thousand dollars for that particular volume. I’m thinking it over.”
“Only in America,” he moaned.
“Only in Hollywood,” she said.
5
H E WOKE WITH A CHISEL of bright, glaring sunlight prying his eyes open. From the window he could see out across the lake, where the morning light flowed down the mountainside in a thick wave, as if the Disney people had already been hard at it. His trousers, shirt, sweater, and underwear were laid out on a chair, clean. The torn knee had been stitched up. While he dressed his aching body, he breathed deeply at the window. The night in a warm bed seemed to have softened him, made him feel the aches and pains more intensely. The snow was melting and leaving wet spots on the driveway. It dropped from the eaves like a metronome, and fir trees that had been white and heavy-laden the day before were now dark green, wet. He was admiring the view and trying to ignore the realities which were groping their way toward the center of his consciousness when he heard the soft rapping on the bedroom door.
“Good morning,” Morgan Dyer said, sliding swiftly into the room and closing the door behind her. She was wearing faded Levi’s, a heavy cardigan sweater with a belt and with shoulders halfway down her arms, tennis sneakers. “Sleep well?”
“Fine. But I feel like sasquatch has been using me for a soccer ball. I’ve led a sheltered and sedentary life until the day before yesterday—is that right? Day before yesterday? Whenever …” He pulled up the covers, straightened the pillows. “I really appreciate all this, washing these things … a place to sleep, no policemen in the middle of the night. I … well, I’m not quite sure how I can repay you—”
“Don’t be silly, you’re talking rubbish again—what could you do in your position, put in a good word for me with the warden?” She went to the other side of the bed and got the tangled blankets smoothed. “But we do have to decide what we’re going to do with you. Unless you’re planning to just wander off into the mountains, sort of mystically, in which case something will probably eat you tonight and your problems will be over. Otherwise your problems are just beginning. First, there are all these children who have seen you. The first time they see a picture of you, they’re going to start talking about good old Bandersnatch.”
Challis stroked his beard, smoothing the unkempt, wild patches back toward his ears. “I think I can fix that one. Are they up yet?”
“Having breakfast. The plump one is really something—Edward G. Robinson—he just took over in the kitchen, scrambled eggs, fried bacon. Funny, though, when he came out of the bathroom, he was smoking a cigar.” Her green eyes flickered. “I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, and he pointed his cigar at me and said, ‘ More, yeah, that’s what I want, more. ’ Unnerving, first thing in the morning.” She regarded him quizzically across the bed. “What do you suggest?”
“Send Edward G. up to see me, and do it privately, not in front of the rest of them.”
He brushed his teeth with a brush dangling from a rack in the bathroom connecting to the bedroom. In the mirror he saw that his flat blue eyes were clear and bright for the first time in months; staring at the face, it occurred to him for the first time just how famous the trial had made it, and what the papers and television were going to do with it once they realized he had survived the plane crash. The trial
Similar Books
