Kling took the seat opposite Di Pasquale, and pretended not to be listening to the conversation.
“No, Harry, but when you start talking in terms of forty G’s for someone of this guy’s standing and reputation, we got nothing further to say. So if you don’t mind, Harry, I’m very busy, and I’m late for the office now, so…”
Kling lit a cigarette while Di Pasquale listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, well, then, let me hear you really talking, Harry. Who? That’s a screenwriter by you? That’s a French fag by me. He can’t even speak English, you expect him to do a screenplay about the West? For Chrissake, Harry, make sense.”
He covered the mouthpiece, looked up at Kling, said, “Hi, there’s some coffee in the kitchen, if you want some,” and then immediately said into the phone, “What do I care if he won the French Academy Award? You know what you can do with the French Academy Award, don’t you? Look, Harry, I’m not interested in who you can get for forty G’s. If you want to hire a French fag to write a screenplay about the West, then go right ahead. And good luck to you.” Di Pasquale paused. “What do you mean, how much am I asking? Make me a sensible offer, for Chrissake! Start around, a hundred, and then maybe I’ll listen a little.” He covered the mouthpiece again. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he said to Kling.
“I’ve already had breakfast.”
“Well, if you want a cup, there’s some in the kitchen. What do you mean, he never got a hundred in his life? He got a hundred and a quarter from Metro the last time out, and the time before that he got a hundred and five from Fox! Now, you want to talk, Harry, or you want to waste my time? Well, what is it? Who? Harry, what do I care about Clifford Odets? I don’t represent Clifford Odets, and anyway, can Clifford Odets write a Western? Well, then, fine. If Clifford Odets can write anything, then you just go get Clifford Odets. Yeah, and see what he costs you! What? No. No, we’re starting at a hundred thousand, that’s where we start to talk. Well, you think about it, Harry, and give me a ring back. I’ll be leaving for the office in a little while. Please, Harry, don’t start with the old song and dance again. I don’t care if you’re gonna have Liz Taylor in the picture, which you’re not anyway. Stick Liz Taylor in front of the camera without lines to say, and see how long she can ad-lib, go ahead. Will you call me back? What? How much? Seventy-five? Don’t be ridiculous. If I even called him up and told him seventy-five, you know what he’d do? He’d go right over to William Morris tomorrow. That’s the truth. I wouldn’t insult him. Well, you think about it, I’ve got company. What? Yeah, yeah, six naked blondes, what do you think? We know how to live here in the East. Call me back, baby, huh? I wouldn’t steer you wrong, believe me, baby, have I ever sold you a lox? This guy writes like a dream, you could shoot the movie right off the paper it’s written on, you don’t even need actors, huh, baby? Good, good, I’ll hear from you, fine, good-bye, baby, yeah, at the office, so long, sure, baby, think about it, right, good-bye now, yeah, nice talking to you, so long, baby.”
He hung up and turned to Kling.
“Big jerk, he never made a good movie in his life. You want some coffee?”
“Thanks, I’ve had breakfast.”
“So have a cup of coffee, it’ll kill you?”
Di Pasquale turned and walked toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder he said, “What’s your name?”
“Detective Kling,” Kling yelled after him.
“You’re a little young to be a detective, ain’t you?”
“No, there are men my age who’ve…”
“Where’d you get that tan?” Di Pasquale shouted from the kitchen.
“I was on vacation. Just got back to work yesterday.”
“Looks terrific on you, kid. Blond guys look great with tans. Me, I turn red like a lobster. You take cream and sugar?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll bring the works out. Seventy-five grand, he offers. I wasn’t kidding him. I call the writer with an offer like that, he’ll tell me to go straight to hell.” Di Pasquale came back into the living room carrying a tray with the coffeepot, the cups, and the cream and sugar. He put the tray down and said, “You wouldn’t prefer a drink, would you? No, too early in the morning, huh? What the hell time is it, anyway?”
“It’s nine-thirty, Mr. Di Pasquale.”
“Yeah. You know what time that guy called me? The guy working with you?”
“Carella?”
“Yeah, him. He called me at seven-thirty, the middle of the night! I woke up, it was so dark I thought I went blind.” Di Pasquale laughed and poured from the coffeepot. “So what’s up, kid?”
“Mr. Di Pasquale, were you in a play called The Long Voyage Home in 1940 at Ramsey University in this city?”
“Whaaaat?” Di Pasquale said.
“Were you in a play…?”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you, but my God, where did you find that out? That was before the beginning of time, almost. That was when dinosaurs were still roaming the earth.”
“Were you in that play, Mr. Di Pasquale?”
“Sure I was. I played Fat Joe, the bartender. I did a pretty good job, too. I wanted to be an actor then, but I was too fat, you see? When I got out of college, I used to go around making my calls, and all the casting directors told me I was too fat. So I went on a crash diet, look at me now, a ninety-seven-pound weakling, people kick sand in my face. But the funny part was, once I slimmed down, I didn’t want to be an actor anymore. So what am I now? An agent! And I do more acting on that telephone every day of the week than I did all the while I was a professional actor. So what about the play, kid, drink your coffee.”
“Do you remember any of the other people who were in that play, Mr. Di Pasquale?”
“Only one, this broad named Helen Struthers. Boy, boy, boy, boy, was she something! Beautiful girl, beautiful. I wonder if she ever made it.”
“Do you remember a man named Anthony Forrest?”
“No.”
“Randolph Norden?”
“Randolph Norden…yeah, yeah, wait a minute, he played the Swede, yeah, I remember him.”
“Mr. Di Pasquale, do you read the newspapers?”
“Sure, I do. Variety, Hollywood Reporter…”
“Any of the dailies?”
“Hollywood Reporter is a daily,” Di Pasquale said.
“I meant outside of the trade papers.”
“Sure I do.”
“Mr. Di Pasquale, have you read any of the newspaper coverage on the sniper who’s killed six people to date?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know that Randolph Norden was…?”
“Oh, my God, Randolph Norden!” Di Pasquale said, and he slapped his forehead. “Holy Jesus, how come it didn’t ring a bell? Of course! Of course, for God’s sake! He was killed by this nut, wasn’t he? So that’s why you’re here. What happened? Who did it?”
“We don’t know yet. I mentioned Randolph Norden only because you said you remembered him. But, Mr. Di Pasquale, there seems to be a pattern to the killings…”
“Don’t tell me,” Di Pasquale said, and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“What?”