“What did these notes look like?”
“Pasted-up letters cut out from newspapers and magazines. ‘Pig — you will never reach New York alive.’ Stuff about blowin’ up the Putnam publishing offices in both London and New York. He had another press conference, same bullshit; but this time he gets round-the-clock police protection, till he sails home on board the S. S. France.”
“You know, this is jogging my memory—”
He was waving out a match, having lighted up a fresh cigarette. “It should. It got lots of play in the papers, both here and abroad. The book was a big bestseller; it pulled the Putnam publishing nuts outta the fire.”
“Why do I think you think Putnam sent those notes to himself?”
A sneer of a smile formed. “I don’t just think it — I know it. He brags about it, to his family and close friends. He uses it as an example of how clever he is.”
“You can go to the pokey for fraud like that.”
He blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it dissipate as he spoke. “Yeah, but to Gippy, it’s just another publicity stunt. And he prides himself on stirrin’ up the press.”
“And you think he’s doing the same thing now.”
“He’s capable of it. Sitting by himself some night, cutting out those words from papers and magazines, pasting them up, feeling like he’s one smart son of a bitch.”
“Then why would he hire me to protect Amelia?”
Of course, I knew the answer to that: because I was really hired for a completely other purpose.
“Probably for authenticity,” he said with a shrug. “To show his concern for his wife, when he leaks this to the papers.”
“Does Putnam know how low your opinion of him is?”
“He suspects.”
“Why do you do business with him, then?”
“He’s got a great wife. She’s only a so-so flier, but she’s got a great heart and more courage than a Marine battalion.”
“A so-so flier?”
He grunted a laugh. “You know how many crashes that sweet girl has had? At least a dozen.”
“Nobody told me that before I went flying with her.”
A Cheshire Cat grin formed under the pencil mustache. “To a pilot, a crash don’t count unless it kills you. If you can walk away from it, it’s just another successful landing... even if your plane blows up a few seconds later.”
“You’re worried about her, aren’t you?”
The grin vanished; his forehead tightened. “You’re goddamn right, I am. Each one of these feats of hers has to be bigger than the last. She’s running out of impressive baloney to pull off. She’s no spring chicken, either.”
I sat forward. “Why do you help her, then? I can see she respects you. Why don’t you just tell her to retire? Famous as she is, she ought to be able to rest on her laurels, and let G. P. market her fame for the rest of her life.”
He’d started shaking his head no about halfway through that. “She wouldn’t listen to me, Nate. As disenchanted as she may be with Gippy, she knows the bastard invented her.”
“Svengali?”
“Yeah, or Doc Frankenstein. Besides, Gippy’s a tightwad, a stingy fucking bastard... but he pays top dollar when he really wants something.”
“So he’s buying you, too.”
“Yeah. I’m not proud of it, but I’m a pilot in Hollywood...” He gestured to the gallery of famous faces. “...and Hollywood is a town of glamorous whores... Like it or not, I fit in.”
I knew what he meant. He was at home in Hollywood like I was at home in the bushes of his Toluca Lake bungalow with my Speed Graphic. I didn’t like what I was doing, particularly, but it was a living, and I was good at it.
It was ten o’clock at night, after a day that had included another half-day of training for Amy in the little red Link and an afternoon here at Mantz’s house, where I had not been in the bushes, but relaxing in the living room. Shoes off, spread out on a couch, I read movie magazines and took catnaps while Mantz, Amy, and retired Navy Commander Clarence Williams, a dark-haired sturdy guy with a beaky nose and a dimpled chin, were gathered around the kitchen table going over charts and maps. Williams was no-nonsense in a military manner that got Amy’s attention.
On the afternoon trip to Mantz’s place, Amy had done the driving, tooling the sleek Terraplane past the farms, ranches and lush orange groves beyond the airport to the shaded streets of residential Burbank, where the foot soldiers of the dream factory lived in modest cracker-boxes.
Toluca Lake was another story, from the wide flawless sidewalks to the cozy interesting homes (“Lots of art directors live in Toluca,” Amy explained) and an eclectic array of shade trees, elms, oaks, redwoods, and, for the requisite Hollywood tropical touch, palms. She pointed out several movie star homes (“Bette Davis lives there... That’s where Ruby Keeler lives”) and indicated a golf course beyond Valley Spring Lane.
“Do you play golf?” she asked.
“Only under duress.”
“I rather enjoy it. Would you consider joining me some afternoon, if I can get out of Paul’s clutches?”
“Sure. Is that a public course or a country club?”
“It’s a country club.”
“Might be a problem.”
“Why, Nate?”
“Most country clubs are restricted.”
“Oh... I’m sorry... I forgot...”
“I’m Jewish? That’s okay. I forgot it myself, a long time ago. Trouble is, other people keep bringing it up.”
Amy, Mantz, and Commander Williams had slaved over the charts till around six, at which time we all headed over to a steakhouse in Glendale where we hooked up with Toni Lake. Dinner was nice, though I was glad Amy was paying — it was a pricey seventy-five cents a steak, à la carte — and I dropped Amy back at Mantz’s bungalow, ostensibly heading back to Lowman’s Motor Court.
Only I didn’t head back. The Terraplane was parked over on Toluca Estates Drive, in front of Mary Astor’s house (always had kind of a yen for her and wouldn’t have minded a glimpse, but no luck). The night was cool and dry, a breeze riffling leaves, including those of the bushes I was snuggled behind; I was in a sportshirt and slacks and didn’t look much like a private detective, more like a peeping tom... if there’s a difference.
The blinds on the window were shut, but I could see around the edge of them, and — thanks to light from a lamp out of my range of vision, presumably on the bedstand — catch a view of the doorway and a dresser next to it; also the edge of the bottom of the bed. This angle would not give me the prize-winning in flagrante delicto shot I craved, but if this bedroom were the site of a man and woman making whoopee, sooner or later the two of them might appear together within my view, enjoying a before or after hug and kiss, in dishabille.
I’d done this kind of work plenty of times before, but tonight I had a sick feeling and a racing heartbeat. To tell you the truth, as close as I’d gotten to Amy, as much as I liked her, I might have ditched G. P.’s snoop job, if I wasn’t so goddamn jealous of Mantz. What did he have that I didn’t have? If she’d had the good sense and better taste to have an affair with me instead of Mantz, I would have never considered ratting on her to her husband.