“Oh, sure. I remember now.” Lorna Lewis had talked about “Mike” to the Professor in the car, the night of the rigged-up seance. She had some problem with him. Well, he looked like a problem to me. If we tangled, I’d be a dead duck.
But now it appeared I’d never reach the tangling stage. Lorna was flitting around, greeting leisure jackets and evening wraps, offering glasses to Aloha shirts and gabardine slacks at the bar, being kittenish with a tall red-faced man who was obviously a producer and obviously aware of it.
Mike Drayton, the husband, had disappeared. So had Miss Bauer and the Professor. I caught one glimpse of him as I went to refill my highball glass; he was stalking Lorna Lewis on the terrace. Maybe he’d steer her over to me.
The highballs were good. After my long layoff, the second drink took hold. I had a third, but I was too nervous to enjoy it. What was I doing here? Obviously the Professor had a plan—he always had a plan. But what was it?
A trio of Filipinos wandered around making noises on mandolins and ukeleles—very corny. But most of the guests seemed to be far past the third drink and they shouted requests. A small group gathered around a blonde who kicked off her shoes for a hula. Another group sat on the stairs and talked shop. Through an archway I saw a fringe of bald, partially bald and gray heads huddled over a card table.
It looked too typical, too pat and according-to-formula for me. Too much like the Hollywood party you read about. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—certainly anything but this. And on top of it, I was all alone, ignored. I sat off in a corner with no Lorna Lewis to finger the lapels of my Palm Beach suit.
I thought I’d better get drunk in a hurry and forget it. I thought I might as well get out of here. I thought...
She had hair the color of ripe apricots. She even smelled like apricots—well, apricot brandy, then. Because she was carrying a load.
She sat down beside me and smiled up with green eyes. They were nice eyes, a bit on the glassy side.
“Hello.”
“Hello, yourself.”
“What’s the angle?”
“Angle? There’s no angle.”
“Come, now—everybody’s got an angle. Are you trying to get Himberg’s eye?” she asked.
“Who’s Himberg?”
“That red-faced character—the producer. You’re trying to break into pictures, aren’t you?”
“Not me, sister.”
“I could never feel like a sister toward you, chum. And you aren’t exactly the brotherly type yourself. So why the big isolationist act?”
“Sorry. I just came to watch the floor show.”
“Well, you might get me a drink. And seeing as how you’re getting so intimate and making advances, my name is Ellen Post.”
“No relation to Emily?”
“I’m going now. I can see I misjudged you. You didn’t look like the kind who’d pull that one.”
“Please, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Let me guess. Would it be bourbon, straight?”
“Extremely straight, if you please.”
“I please.”
“Quit your bragging and run along.”
I went up to the bar and got a straight shot and another highball. Ellen Post watched me as I crossed the room toward her.
“So you’re Judson Roberts.”
“Who told you?”
“A little bird. A little bald-headed bird, with a monocle. A little sparrow, hopping after Lorna Lewis.”
“I see you don’t think much of psychological consultants.”
“Not much.” She downed her shot.
“You in pictures?” I asked.
“No. This is my line.” She tapped her glass. “Prescribe me another, Doc.”
I finished my drink slowly and made my way back to the bar. Professor Hermann was sitting on the terrace with Lorna Lewis. They glanced at me as I passed the doorway, and the Professor winked. I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so I ignored it. Right now I liked apricots better, anyway.
“Here we are.” I gave Ellen Post a glass and clicked my highball tumbler against its rim. “Forbidden fruit.”
“What kind of a toast is that?”
“You be the psychologist and figure it out. It so happens I was thinking of apricots.”
“Apricots?”
“Yes. You—your hair, your skin.”
She chuckled. It was a husky sound from deep within the throat, but it sounded surprisingly feminine.
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that’s a new approach. I might add that I like it, Dr. Roberts. Or is it Judson? Or Judd?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
She put down her glass, frowned and rose. “Damn it!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m going.”
“Have I said something wrong?”
She shook her head. A scent came from her hair. It was a pleasant scent, but it didn’t match her mood. Her face was strained in the semblance of a smile.
“No—you didn’t say anything wrong. That’s the trouble, they never do. It’s always the right thing, and I have the right answer, and the drinks get good and the conversation gets better. Up to a certain point. And then, it’s no use. It’s just no use. So tonight, I’m going home.”
“Could I—”
“You could. But I won’t let you.” She walked swiftly, a little uncertainly, toward the terrace. “Goodbye, Dr. Roberts. See you in Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“But—”
She moved away, and then I became conscious of another scent behind me. Not perfume, but something more vital than that and heavier. Tiger lily. Not golden, but white. I didn’t have to turn to know that Lorna Lewis was smiling up at me.
“There you are,” she said. “I was coming to rescue you.”
“From what?”
“The Post. Miss Pillow-to-Post. Did she ask you to go to bed with her? She always does when she gets a few drinks in her.”
“What kind of a person is she?”
“Can’t you tell? A lush. One of those rich-bitch society types. She always crooks her little finger, even when she drinks out of the bottle. I can’t stand her, but Mike likes her. He would—he’s a rummy himself.”
Jet-black brows shaped a scowl. More tiger than lily right now. She peered up at me. “You seen him around lately?”
“Your husband?”
“Let’s just call him Mike—if you don’t mind. I suppose he’s upstairs with a bottle. He always goes into that routine when I throw a party.”
“You aren’t very fond of him, are you?”
“Let’s watch that talk, now. I take my troubles to your pal, Professor Hermann. I’ve been talking to him about you all evening.”
“Do I trouble you?”
“You might.”
“All right.” And I could see that it was. The way she held my arm and looked up, with her teeth flashing. I caught a heavy gust of Scotch. She’d been working the bar, making up for lost time.
I looked around for the Professor, waiting for a cue, a signal. He’d tell me how nice I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do now. But the Professor had disappeared. This meant I was on my own. On my own, with six drinks under my belt, and a girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Maybe I should have remembered that I was Judson Roberts, Ps.D. Maybe I should have figured out how to play it carefully, slowly, cleverly.
Instead I looked down at those white legs, looked into the blue, blazing insolence of Lorna’s eyes.
“It’s hot in here,” I said.
“It might be even hotter, outside.”
“You’re thinking of your husband?”
“Don’t call him that. He hasn’t really been my husband since the Toronto game when somebody hit him with a stick. All he wants now is his bottle, understand?” She leaned close.
I understood, all right. I understood that she wasn’t in love with me, that she wasn’t in need of affection or anything else I could give her except sensation. But she had those legs and she was a movie star, or almost a star. And I was Eddie Haines, a nobody from nowhere. I was Eddie Haines, trying like hell to hold my liquor, trying like hell to remember my name was Judson Roberts.