the block. This looks like a great place to stop on the way for a glass of milk.”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah. Look.”
The kid turned and pointed to the photographs. There were musicians, directors, actors, actresses, baseball players, and boxers. There were a couple of football players and a TV game show host and the editor of a big important newspaper from a big important city.
At least that’s what the kid said. I didn’t recognize any of them except the ones I had pictures of in my jacket pocket.
That is to say, if I’d known who the others were once, I didn’t remember them now. Damn that magnetic tape memory.
So I just nodded and went along with it. The kid looked at me over his shoulder and saw me nodding and he cracked a smile wide enough to sail the Atlantic in and then he showed me his back again and kept up with the commentary. He was in his element now and I got the impression that working the fountain was the best job in town..
“And there’s Alaska Gray,” he said. “Rico Spillane. Parker Silverwood. Fresco Peterman. He was in here just last week he was, was Fresco. Look.”
The soda jerk pointed to a picture at the end of the row. Four-for-four, they were the folk whose pictures Charles David had stuffed in a tube and buried up by the Hollywood Sign.
“Fresco’s a great guy, great guy,” said the kid. “Likes root beer and a float.” He looked over his shoulder and gave me the eyebrows. I tried to return the expression but I had no eyebrows to give, so instead I said: “Best floats in town, goes the story.”
That might have been true or it might not have been. I had no idea. But the kid waggled the eyebrows and turned back to the wall. He raised his arms like a conductor about to tell his orchestra to put the pedal to the metal and he kept running.
“Bob Thatcher. Millicent Olivier. Charles David—”
Bingo.
“—You know his beard is insured for a million bucks?”
That I did not know. But I’d had my first sighting. Not a live one, but now I had two photographs of the missing star. You might even call it a set.
“Oh,” said the kid, “and Sheira Shane. Oh boy.” He let out a wet whistle at this picture, a black woman with a head shaved nearly to the scalp. She was in a strapless dress and had a long arm draped around the kid’s boss. The kid’s boss looked pretty pleased with the situation.
“Oh boy,” I said after making a clicking sound that I hoped the kid would take as mutual appreciation of the female form. Then I saw his shoulders drop.
“What is it?”
The soda jerk sighed with perhaps a little more theatricality than was strictly necessary, and he turned back around.
“Well, mister, they all used to come in here quiet a lot. I thought they liked it. But recently… well, Fresco was last week like I said but the others…”
“The others?”
“Well, mister, they don’t come here so often anymore. I suppose they’re busy people, but still, it’s a shame. A real shame, it is.”
“Oh,” I said. “Like Charles David?” I pointed to the photograph. “You could call me a fan. I’d love to get his autograph one day.”
The kid’s smile came back. “Oh yeah! He’s great. Did you see Blackmailers Don’t Shoot ? That movie! Man alive. Charles David is an artiste .”
I made some more noises the soda jerk seemed to like.
“So when was he last here?”
The kid frowned. “Not for a while. Maybe a month. Busy, right? Actually, I remember. Last time he was here, he was sick in the bathroom. Say, I hope he’s okay.”
“Stomach flu maybe,” I suggested. “Goes around, even movie stars.” While I said that I filed away the information about Charles David's movements.
The kid nodded. “I guess.” Then he returned to the photographs. After another handful of famous faces he stopped again. He hrmmed but didn’t turn around.
“And then there’s Chip Rockwell,” he said.
I looked at the photograph. It showed a middle-aged man in thick glasses
“Oh yeah, oh yeah. Look.”
The kid turned and pointed to the photographs. There were musicians, directors, actors, actresses, baseball players, and boxers. There were a couple of football players and a TV game show host and the editor of a big important newspaper from a big important city.
At least that’s what the kid said. I didn’t recognize any of them except the ones I had pictures of in my jacket pocket.
That is to say, if I’d known who the others were once, I didn’t remember them now. Damn that magnetic tape memory.
So I just nodded and went along with it. The kid looked at me over his shoulder and saw me nodding and he cracked a smile wide enough to sail the Atlantic in and then he showed me his back again and kept up with the commentary. He was in his element now and I got the impression that working the fountain was the best job in town..
“And there’s Alaska Gray,” he said. “Rico Spillane. Parker Silverwood. Fresco Peterman. He was in here just last week he was, was Fresco. Look.”
The soda jerk pointed to a picture at the end of the row. Four-for-four, they were the folk whose pictures Charles David had stuffed in a tube and buried up by the Hollywood Sign.
“Fresco’s a great guy, great guy,” said the kid. “Likes root beer and a float.” He looked over his shoulder and gave me the eyebrows. I tried to return the expression but I had no eyebrows to give, so instead I said: “Best floats in town, goes the story.”
That might have been true or it might not have been. I had no idea. But the kid waggled the eyebrows and turned back to the wall. He raised his arms like a conductor about to tell his orchestra to put the pedal to the metal and he kept running.
“Bob Thatcher. Millicent Olivier. Charles David—”
Bingo.
“—You know his beard is insured for a million bucks?”
That I did not know. But I’d had my first sighting. Not a live one, but now I had two photographs of the missing star. You might even call it a set.
“Oh,” said the kid, “and Sheira Shane. Oh boy.” He let out a wet whistle at this picture, a black woman with a head shaved nearly to the scalp. She was in a strapless dress and had a long arm draped around the kid’s boss. The kid’s boss looked pretty pleased with the situation.
“Oh boy,” I said after making a clicking sound that I hoped the kid would take as mutual appreciation of the female form. Then I saw his shoulders drop.
“What is it?”
The soda jerk sighed with perhaps a little more theatricality than was strictly necessary, and he turned back around.
“Well, mister, they all used to come in here quiet a lot. I thought they liked it. But recently… well, Fresco was last week like I said but the others…”
“The others?”
“Well, mister, they don’t come here so often anymore. I suppose they’re busy people, but still, it’s a shame. A real shame, it is.”
“Oh,” I said. “Like Charles David?” I pointed to the photograph. “You could call me a fan. I’d love to get his autograph one day.”
The kid’s smile came back. “Oh yeah! He’s great. Did you see Blackmailers Don’t Shoot ? That movie! Man alive. Charles David is an artiste .”
I made some more noises the soda jerk seemed to like.
“So when was he last here?”
The kid frowned. “Not for a while. Maybe a month. Busy, right? Actually, I remember. Last time he was here, he was sick in the bathroom. Say, I hope he’s okay.”
“Stomach flu maybe,” I suggested. “Goes around, even movie stars.” While I said that I filed away the information about Charles David's movements.
The kid nodded. “I guess.” Then he returned to the photographs. After another handful of famous faces he stopped again. He hrmmed but didn’t turn around.
“And then there’s Chip Rockwell,” he said.
I looked at the photograph. It showed a middle-aged man in thick glasses
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