Shooting STAR
&
SPIDERWEB
by Robert Bloch
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Shooting Star
Spiderweb
In The Land of the Blonde, The One-Eyed Man Is King
A famous movie star found dead on the set of his latest picture...
Drugs hastily disposed of at the scene of the crime...
It’s the stuff of Tinseltown scandal—and could ruin the investment Harry Bannock made in the dead man’s library of films.
For help, Bannock turns to Mark Clayburn, a one-eyed private eye with his own history of scandals. But can Clayburn uncover the truth about Dick Ryan’s murder before time runs out for Ryan’s co-stars...and for Clayburn himself?
“Robert Bloch is one of the all-time masters.”
—Peter Straub
Robert Bloch was the legendary author of PSYCHO and a true Hollywood insider, writing scripts for numerous movies and TV shows including ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS, Boris Karloff’s THRILLER, and the original STAR TREK. You haven’t see Hollywood’s dark side till you’ve seen it through Bloch’s eyes...
SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:
GRAVE DESCEND by John Lange
THE PEDDLER by Richard S. Prather
LUCKY AT CARDS by Lawrence Block
ROBBIE’S WIFE by Russell Hill
THE VENGEFUL VIRGIN by Gil Brewer
THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis
BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod
SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas
FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich
KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall
SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane
DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins
A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block
MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust
ZERO COOL by John Lange
Shooting STAR
by Robert Bloch
A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-042)
First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008
Chapter One
My private eye was a little bloodshot this morning.
I focused it on the mirror, then wished I hadn’t. There was somebody in the mirror I didn’t care to see: the tall, thin guy with the graying hair; the man with the bloodshot eye. He bothered me. I didn’t like the way he looked today. He’d shaved and dressed too carelessly, and with that black eye-patch and the ridiculous little mustache, he bore a mocking resemblance to the man in those shirt ads of a few years back. Besides, his good eye was bloodshot.
We nodded at one another in the mirror though, just like old friends. Why not? I knew all about him and he knew all about me. Maybe I didn’t approve of my own reflection but, who knows, perhaps my reflection didn’t approve of me, either. We were even on that score.
Maybe my reflection remembered the days when I had two eyes. The days before the hair started to turn gray and the collars began to fray a little at the edges. The days when I was Mark Clayburn Literary Agency, with an office on the Strip.
Well, I remembered those days, too. Perhaps that’s why my eye got bloodshot—from too much remembering, from drinking too many toasts to the past. But it couldn’t be helped. I was stuck with my reflection and my reflection was stuck with me. Me, Mark Clayburn, still a Literary Agency, but not on the Strip any more.
I thought about that for a moment, thought about the long road leading from the Strip to Olive Street in downtown L.A., and of the things I’d lost along the way. The eye went in the accident, and most of my savings were gone by the time I got out of the hospital. Then I found my clients had disappeared, and my help, and the big office.
So here I was, starting all over again. Just a part-time tenpercenter, really, with a typewriter, a telephone, and a couple of small clients. Plus a license as a Notary Public and another one as a Private Investigator. Anything to make a buck. Not a very fast buck, either.
My bloodshot eye did a fast pirouette around the office. Nothing much to see there: a desk, files, a few chairs. No beautiful bra-breaking blonde secretary, no top-shelf rye in the bottom drawer. It was just a walkup office, the kind nobody ever comes to unless they’ve been kicked out of all the better places first.
I went over to the desk and sat down. This was no time to feel sorry for myself. Save that for tonight. Right now I had work to do: a science-fiction yarn to send to Boucher, for a client; another to try on a confessions mag, and a true-detective job to revise.
That was still my meat—the true-detective yarn. I picked it up and started to read it over, wondering for the ten thousandth time why so many people are interested in crime and its solution. How many of them identify themselves with the detective and how many of them identify themselves with the criminal? Yes, and how many of them subconsciously identify themselves with the victim? Come to think of it, you could divide all society up into those three classes: the potential investigators, the potential criminals, and the potential victims. Might do an essay on it some time, stressing the fascination people have for reading about murder. Call it Five Little Peppers And How They Slew.
But right now, my job was to read the manuscript, read it and correct it, sitting in the dingy little office that nobody ever visited. I picked up the pages, bent my head, then jerked erect.
The door opened.
He stood there, big and bluff and blond, bulking in the narrow doorway so that his tweeded shoulders almost touched either side of the frame. His eyes and teeth and rings sparkled and he said, “Hello, Mark. Long time no, si?”
“Harry Bannock! Come on in!”
“I am in.” The big man walked over and pumped my hand. First he looked at me and then he looked down. They all do if they haven’t seen the eye-patch before. “Great to see you! You’re looking great. How’s business?”
“Great,” I told him. He seemed to like the word, always had.
“Glad to hear it. Been meaning to look you up now for a long time.” He sat down. “But I’ve been rushed.”
“Sure,” I said. “I know how it is.”
“You had a pretty rough time of it, from what I heard—losing the agency and all. But you’re back in business, and that’s the main thing.”
“That’s right.” I riffled the pages of the manuscript. “I’m back in business. And you didn’t come all the way downtown just to tell me how great it is either.”
Harry Bannock leaned forward. “You don’t like me, do you?”
I smiled at him. “I wouldn’t say that, Harry. You and I used to be pretty close. We worked on a lot of deals together. I sold my clients’ stories to the studios and the networks. You sold your clients as actors. We did each other a lot of favors, tipped one another off whenever there was a lead, made some money together. And you used to phone me at least once a week and ask, ‘What are you doing for lunch, sweetheart?’ Good old Hollywood custom—everybody’s a ‘sweetheart’ or a ‘darling’ or a ‘lover’ or a ‘doll’.