“The one who looks like Mickey Rooney with a facelift? The one who was always trying to come up with new excuses for patting my backside? Is that the Mike you mean?”
“The Mike I’m talking about, Casey, has often said he wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole.”
She gave a disdainful laugh. “It’s really too bad you can’t get latent prints off a person’s backside after two years or I’d prove to you what your alleged chum used to try.” She shrugged both shoulders and yawned. “Where can I sleep tonight?”
He nodded toward a yellow door. “Guest room’s the only space available, Casey.”
She stood up, stretched, yawned twice more. “I really do, you know, appreciate this. Of all the people I know in this heartless town you’re the only one who isn’t,” she told him, smiling. “I came to the right place in my hour of distress.” Crossing to him, she kissed him on the cheek and then, tightening the robe, went into the guest room.
Tuesday it rained, long and hard.
When Mike Filchock came hurrying into Stookie’s Restaurant in Studio City, twenty minutes late, his curly red hair was plastered to his head, and the bright orange lumberjack coat he’d been wearing of late started to give off steam. “Why do we keep coming to this dump?” he inquired as he slid into the booth and faced Wes.
“It’s close to the studio.”
“So is Harlan’s Car Wash, but we don’t dine there. Although I imagine the chow’s better.” Yanking several paper napkins from the dispenser atop the Formica tabletop, he blotted his head. “I’ve had a rough day. It’s a burden being the only nonjerk in the vicinity.”
“How’s the new show coming?”
“It’s a surefire hit.”
“Great. Who’s going to be doing it?”
“That part’s not concrete yet.” He patted his chest, getting his hand all wet. “I can feel it, though. You know, you can sense a flop and you can sense a hit. And Glickman in Remission is going to be a Top 10 show.”
“Glickman in Remission?”
“We changed the title from I’m Not Dying.”
“We?”
“I’m doing this with a partner now. Rosco Manger.”
“Who is?”
Mike was glancing around at the other lunchtime patrons. “Do you realize that everybody else in this pesthole is ancient? We’re the only people under forty.”
“You’re forty-two.”
“We’re the only people under forty-two. Boy, the sound of all these ancient coots gumming their gruel is going to distract me.
“Tell me who Rosco Manger is.”
“You ought to keep better informed about showbiz, since you work in the vineyards yourself. Manger’s the guy who did Young Bing for the Nolan Network.”
“When was this?”
Mike took another look around. “Nineteen eighty-six.”
“And what was Young Bing?”
“Ahead of its time,” answered his friend. “A brilliant concept, a sitcom dealing with the early years of Bing Crosby. The adventures of a crooner in 1930’s Hollywood. A brilliant notion, huh?”
“Patrons of Stookie’s must’ve loved it.”
“Hell, it ran a full thirteen weeks. These days that’s—” He paused, held up a hand. “Wait now, Wes, you’re not going to distract me from my real purpose in rendezvousing with you today. I came here because I have a holy mission.”
“I don’t want to talk about Casey.”
Mike grabbed up his menu. “Did you order?”
“Quite some time ago, yes.”
“Is she still squatting with you?”
“I told her she could stay until she finds a place to live.”
“That’s great, that is. It’s akin to telling a giant Brazilian jungle leech it can only suck your blood until another jerk comes along. Or like informing Dracula he can only bite your neck until somebody juicier pops up. Or it’s similar to... oh, hi, Marlys. I’ll have the vegetarian gyro, dear.”
A plump blonde waitress had stopped beside their booth. “How’s the new concept coming along, Mike?”
“It’s going to be a maximum hit, sweetheart.”
“I sure hope so.” Marlys rested one hand on the table edge and leaned in the redheaded writer’s direction. “The show of yours I really loved was a couple of seasons ago. The Floyd Yunkis Story.”
“It was a gem.”
“Now there was a concept. Based on a real life story about an escaped serial killer who became a standup comic. It, you know, combined the best elements of The Fugitive with Seinfeld,” she said. “How long was that on for?”
“Six weeks,” he answered. “We were on opposite Terminal Illness that season, a bad break.”
“Well, good luck with the new one. Malomar Productions is very interested in my script, by the way.” She smiled and moved along.
“You cannot lead a life of this quality in Des Moines, Iowa,” observed Mike, watching the waitress walk away.
“Probably not.”
“Okay, back to reality. What criminous scheme has Casey McLeod ensnared you in now?”
“Her damned house burned down, Mike. She simply needs someplace to stay for awhile.” He frowned at his friend. “I thought you were a Christian.”
“Nope, I let my membership lapse.” Holding up his left hand, Mike started ticking off fingers. “Let me — which is what level-headed buddies are for — let me remind you of the earlier messes this wench got you into. There was the instance of Grandma Lizzie’s pearls, for one. If I hadn’t been thick with that lady in the D.A.’s office, you both might’ve been sent—”
“Grandma Elsie.”
“What difference does it make? She doesn’t have a Grandma Lizzie or a Grandma Elsie.”
“Just because she’s an orphan, that doesn’t mean—”
“You don’t even know for sure she’s an orphan. She only told you she was.” He tapped another finger. “Then there were those bearer bonds she allegedly stumbled on whilst innocently jogging along the beach in Malibu. Turned out those were glommed from a hapless messenger who got bopped on the coco in Bel Air.”
“Nobody ever accused Casey of having anything to do with the theft of those bonds.”
“That’s because she made such a brilliant defense. She crossed her terrific legs, leaned over so far that each and every cop got a splendid view down the front of her—”
“C’mon, Mike.” He reached across the table to put his hand on his friend’s arm, the way a guest does when he wants the talk show host to shut up. “Listen, it’s simply that I don’t know. There’s something about Casey. She’s not like any other woman I’ve ever run into, including the one I was married to for three years.”
“I understand that Typhoid Mary had similar qualities, likewise Lizzie Borden.”
“It’s already settled. She’s staying with me for awhile.”
“They ought to start a Casey Anonymous organization,” suggested his friend. “Hell, she’s slept with enough guys to guarantee quite a membership. You could help each other shake the—”
“Quit it.”
“Okay, sorry.” He touched another finger. “The business with Justin Crouch’s Jaguar.”
“He lent it to her.”
“The Santa Monica law thought otherwise.”
“It was settled quietly. She wasn’t arrested.”
“All right, I admit I don’t see in her what you do, but... well, no, rewrite that. She is very attractive, sure, but she is also monumental trouble, old buddy,” warned Mike. “If you could think about this rationally, you’d realize you have to boot her right out your door. You’re thriving at Sparey Art, you can afford to treat her to an extended stay at a posh motel. Just make sure it’s a hostelry some distance from Santa Rita Beach.”