'Only the LA Tattler Knows!' Catchy, huh?"
"Like the plague." He was silent for a moment, and Gayle could almost hear the gears clicking in his head. "You know what I've been thinking of doing next? A film on the homes of old movie stars. Not the new houses, but the mansions with history, know what I mean? Webb's is one; you Can feel Old Hollywood oozing out of those walls. Flynn's is another. Valentino's, Barrymore, and . . . oh God, yes! . . . the Kronsteen castle! That would be a hell of a place for atmosphere!"
"What's so special about it?"
"Unsolved murder, babe. Old Kronsteen got his head chopped off up there a few years back, the place has been empty ever since. It's a real medieval castle, walls and towers and everything. High school kids go parking up there now. Jesus, I could do a whole film on that place alone!"
"Never heard of it," Gayle said.
"Before your time, babe. Mine too, but I drove up there once with a friend and a couple of chicks from Hollywood High. Many moons ago, that is, so don't get your feathers ruffled."
"Don't worry."
"Chuck knew the place, I didn't. Seems we went a hell of a long way up Outpost Drive and turned off onto a narrow road that went right up to the sky. Blacktree, Blackwood, something like that. Spooky as hell. I did some acid up there, and I swore I could hear that Bald Mountain thing from Fantasia, thought I saw demons flying around, all kinds of incredible colors. Strange trip."
"I'll bet. Before you start playing young Coppola again, you'd better wrap up those pictures for Trace. I've got a feeling he doesn't think the Tattler should arrange its deadlines around your film-making sessions."
"Why does he always give me the shit detail?" Jack frowned. "Last week it was a stunning photo-piece on vandalism out at the Wax Museum. Somebody carved his initials on Farrah's tits, knocked Elizabeth Taylor's head off, and played tic-tac-toe on Yul Brynner's skull. Christ! If I could just get a little bit ahead, maybe get somebody interested in my films or . . . I need a break, that's all. It'll happen, I know it will."
"I know it will, too, but a little patience wouldn't hurt. So what's all this junk about Cliff Webb's ghost being seen roaming around the cemetery?"
"Oh, every year a few people say they see somebody who looks like Webb strolling around Hollywood Memorial. It's nothing new. Last week a watchman thought he saw him . . . or it . . . in the cemetery after midnight ..
"Of course," Gayle said. "What ghost would be out before the witching hour?"
"Right. Well, Trace gets a wild hair and wants me to do the pictures for Sandy's story. The hell if I know what the story's going to say; I'm just clicking the shutter."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So what about the ghost? What happened after that watchman saw it?"
Jack shrugged. "I suppose it did what all ghosts do. It melted away or broke up into a thousand shimmering lights or . . . heh heh heh . . . turned toward the watchman's flashlight with a cold, red glare in its eyes. You don't really believe in that stuff, do you?"
"No, not at all. Now can we change the subject, please?"
He smiled and licked her arm, sending up a rash of goosebumps. "Gladly, Miss Clarke . . ." He lifted the sheets slightly and began to nibble on her right breast. The nipple hardened quickly, and Gayle began to breathe faster. "Better than ear lobes any old day," Jack managed to say.
Then suddenly from beyond the closed bedroom door came the sound of frenzied clawing. the door for a few seconds. He said loudly, "Cut it out, Conan!" The clawing went on and with it an occasional low whining.
"He's jealous," Gayle said. "He wants to come in."
"No, he's been acting crazy for a couple of days now." Jack stood up from the bed, took his bathrobe from where he'd laid it over a chair, and put it on. "He's clawing at the front door," Jack told her. "Maybe he's got a girl friend of his own. Back in a minute." He crossed the room, opened the door, and passed through
"Like the plague." He was silent for a moment, and Gayle could almost hear the gears clicking in his head. "You know what I've been thinking of doing next? A film on the homes of old movie stars. Not the new houses, but the mansions with history, know what I mean? Webb's is one; you Can feel Old Hollywood oozing out of those walls. Flynn's is another. Valentino's, Barrymore, and . . . oh God, yes! . . . the Kronsteen castle! That would be a hell of a place for atmosphere!"
"What's so special about it?"
"Unsolved murder, babe. Old Kronsteen got his head chopped off up there a few years back, the place has been empty ever since. It's a real medieval castle, walls and towers and everything. High school kids go parking up there now. Jesus, I could do a whole film on that place alone!"
"Never heard of it," Gayle said.
"Before your time, babe. Mine too, but I drove up there once with a friend and a couple of chicks from Hollywood High. Many moons ago, that is, so don't get your feathers ruffled."
"Don't worry."
"Chuck knew the place, I didn't. Seems we went a hell of a long way up Outpost Drive and turned off onto a narrow road that went right up to the sky. Blacktree, Blackwood, something like that. Spooky as hell. I did some acid up there, and I swore I could hear that Bald Mountain thing from Fantasia, thought I saw demons flying around, all kinds of incredible colors. Strange trip."
"I'll bet. Before you start playing young Coppola again, you'd better wrap up those pictures for Trace. I've got a feeling he doesn't think the Tattler should arrange its deadlines around your film-making sessions."
"Why does he always give me the shit detail?" Jack frowned. "Last week it was a stunning photo-piece on vandalism out at the Wax Museum. Somebody carved his initials on Farrah's tits, knocked Elizabeth Taylor's head off, and played tic-tac-toe on Yul Brynner's skull. Christ! If I could just get a little bit ahead, maybe get somebody interested in my films or . . . I need a break, that's all. It'll happen, I know it will."
"I know it will, too, but a little patience wouldn't hurt. So what's all this junk about Cliff Webb's ghost being seen roaming around the cemetery?"
"Oh, every year a few people say they see somebody who looks like Webb strolling around Hollywood Memorial. It's nothing new. Last week a watchman thought he saw him . . . or it . . . in the cemetery after midnight ..
"Of course," Gayle said. "What ghost would be out before the witching hour?"
"Right. Well, Trace gets a wild hair and wants me to do the pictures for Sandy's story. The hell if I know what the story's going to say; I'm just clicking the shutter."
"So?"
"So what?"
"So what about the ghost? What happened after that watchman saw it?"
Jack shrugged. "I suppose it did what all ghosts do. It melted away or broke up into a thousand shimmering lights or . . . heh heh heh . . . turned toward the watchman's flashlight with a cold, red glare in its eyes. You don't really believe in that stuff, do you?"
"No, not at all. Now can we change the subject, please?"
He smiled and licked her arm, sending up a rash of goosebumps. "Gladly, Miss Clarke . . ." He lifted the sheets slightly and began to nibble on her right breast. The nipple hardened quickly, and Gayle began to breathe faster. "Better than ear lobes any old day," Jack managed to say.
Then suddenly from beyond the closed bedroom door came the sound of frenzied clawing. the door for a few seconds. He said loudly, "Cut it out, Conan!" The clawing went on and with it an occasional low whining.
"He's jealous," Gayle said. "He wants to come in."
"No, he's been acting crazy for a couple of days now." Jack stood up from the bed, took his bathrobe from where he'd laid it over a chair, and put it on. "He's clawing at the front door," Jack told her. "Maybe he's got a girl friend of his own. Back in a minute." He crossed the room, opened the door, and passed through
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