Roger had a high whinnying laugh. “We ought to take Amy and Jan on patrol some time, let them find out how their warriors earn combat pay. Who was it?”
“McQueen’s people. Business manager and two lawyers.” Mathieson stretched his legs out and bent his head back until something cracked in his neck.
Roger said, “Everybody trying to get you drunk enough to come down to their price. Who’s the writer?”
“Bill Block.”
Roger clawed at ice cubes and Mathieson grinned at him: Block had written Roger’s Oscar part. Roger said, “Could I do it?”
“You and McQueen could do it together if somebody wanted to come up with enough to pay for both of you. It’s a two-star script. But you’d have to talk to McQueen’s people.”
“They bought the script?”
“They bought it. It’s a bank caper story, set in Oregon. Outdoor pursuit. The bank robber and the state trooper. Nice characters.”
“Block always gives his actors something to do—which makes the bastard unique in this business.” Roger stirred with his index finger. “I’ll call them in the morning before they’ve had time to hire Barbra Streisand for the part instead of me. Here y’go.”
Mathieson took the drink out of Roger’s gnarled hand. “How’s Billy doing?”
“Back on his feet. Busted ankle never slowed no Gilfillan down. He’ll make the track team in September—that’s all he cares about. Kid ever grows up and gets married, his wife’ll be a decathlon widow.” Roger sat down. Amy sprawled sideways on the cushions, cheek propped on her palm; Roger tickled her foot and she kicked him absentmindedly. She was looking at the TV screen—the anchorman talking, behind him a black-and-white still photo of Sam Stedman looking grave. The sound was off; Roger said, “Turn that up, honey, let’s hear about it.”
She reached for the control but the screen went to a commercial. Roger said, “Shit.”
Amy sat up. “Probably a hoax anyway. Old Sam, he’d do anything to get on the front page.” She pronounced it innythang without affectation.
Mathieson tasted the drink. “I don’t think Stedman’s that kind of a phony.”
“That pious el creepo?” Amy lifted an eyebrow.
Roger said, “Sugar baby, look at it this way. Twenty years Sam Stedman’s stayed on top of the box office because he’s the only one of us who won’t play the bad guy. Number-one public image, your God-fearing Bible-belt hero. Can you see him risk the image by settin’ up a phony stunt to have his boy kidnapped?”
Mathieson shook his head. “I talked to his agent yesterday. The man’s going through genuine anguish. It’s no publicity stunt.”
After the commercial the weatherman came on. Amy switched the set off. “What about that announcement he made there last night? About hiring Diego Vasquez to find the boy?”
Roger said, “I could’ve done all right without Sam’s pious preamble but I kind of admired the rest of it. Man, he’s right, you can’t just lay down and let these fuckin’ terrorists walk on you.”
“He’s taking too much of a risk,” Mathieson said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it were our kid. I might have hired an investigator like Vasquez but I certainly wouldn’t have called a press conference to tell the world what I was doing.”
Roger said, “If you think about it, it makes sense. He’s threatening to spend every last penny he’s got to find those bastards. He’s siccin’ Vasquez on them in public to emphasize the message—if they don’t turn Sam Junior loose unharmed, they ain’t no way on earth for them to get away alive. That’s the message, clear enough.”
Mathieson said, “Is Diego Vasquez all that terrifying? What makes him more of a threat than the FBI and the police?”
“The FBI and the police need courtroom evidence and they ain’t too likely just to shoot the bastards on sight.”
“And Vasquez will?”
“He’s done it before,” Roger said. “You remember that case two years ago, that Denver millionaire that hired Vasquez to find out who pushed poison heroin on his daughter after she died from shooting up pure uncut?”
“I think so …”
Amy said, “You couldn’t hardly forget it. Diego Vasquez seems to make damn sure he’s on the front page every time he wipes somebody out.”
Roger went to the refrigerator. “I got time for another one, don’t I? No, he got all the way to the top that time. Not just the street pusher but the one the cops don’t never reach—the one that was financing it. Some real estate honcho up there.”
Amy made a baby-faced smile. “Just like in the movies. Self-defense. Vasquez left that old boy in Denver dead on the living-room carpet with three forty-five Colt bullets inside of him.”
“They dug a couple of thirty-eight slugs out of the ceiling plaster,” Roger said. “And there was this thirty-eight automatic in the dead fella’s hand. Fired twice. Everybody knows Vasquez just planted it that way after he killed that old boy. See, they never could have convicted the fella in court. That’s the way Vasquez earns those five-figure fees.”
Mathieson said, “Whatever happened to the days when there was a difference between the good guys and the bad guys? That’s what tastes sour to me—how could a religious man like Sam Stedman hire a cold-blooded killer?”
“Didn’t you ever see none of them Westerns where the sanctimonious town dads hire the gunslinger to clean up the town for them? Same fuckin’ thing, ain’t it?”
“Oh, hell, Roger.”
“You’re an old-fashioned moralist, Fred.”
Jan emerged from the dining room. “It’s on the table. Move it or lose it.”
3
The Gilfillans left at midnight and there was the customary flurry of clearing up because Jan couldn’t stand to face messes in the morning and the cleaning lady wasn’t due again until Monday. Mathieson cleared the table while Jan loaded the dishwasher and then it was half past twelve and they slouched into the Pit for their nightcaps.
“Cointreau?”
“Yes, fine.”
He poured himself a Remy Martin and carried the drinks to the couch. “I’m already a little squiffed. Ought to go on the wagon.” He stood sipping the cognac. “You know I really should sign up with a health club. The old pot’s growing. I need to get rid of fifteen pounds of this flab and get some decent exercise.”
“You don’t look so bad for an old-timer.” She gave him a distracted glance.
“Well you get past forty, you need to start looking after yourself. I see myself five years from now gone to pot and gone to seed. I get nightmares about turning into a slob like Phil Adler.”
“You won’t. You’ll always be long and lean. You’re like Roger—lanky bones.”
He slapped his paunch dubiously. Then he said, “He wants to buy me out.”
“Roger does?”
“Phil Adler.”
She carried her drink around the room, shifting little things, testing for dust with a fingertip. Mathieson sat down.
“He sprang it on me this afternoon. He wants to dissolve the partnership.”
“Whatever for?”
“I think he’s restless. He’s been bitten by the big-shot bug. A lot of agents have become producers. Phil always hates to be left out.”
She sat down across the room, the drink in both hands. “Are you going to sell out to him?”
“He only sprang it on me tonight. That’s why I was late. I haven’t had time to think about it.”
“What was your first reaction?”
“You can’t always go by that.”
“Sometimes you can.”
“We did that once. You remember what happened.”
Her fingers crept under the neckline of her dress to pluck at something awry. “In the long run it worked out. You enjoy what you’re doing now—more than you did when you were practicing law.”
“We don’t talk about that, remember?”
She uttered a short bark of unamused laughter. “I suppose Frank Pastor has microphones all over this house.”
“It’s better to stay in the habit of never talking about it.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel foolish? Melodramatic?”