How about the manuscript? I decided to mail it to Lu Prentz, telling him to keep it for me.
Leaving the cabin, I went to the reception desk. Fred Baine beamed at me.
‘Hi, Mr. Higgins, how’s it coming?’
‘Okay. Can you give me some paper and string, please? I want to mail a parcel.’
‘No problem.’ He went to the back of the office and produced brown paper and string. ‘This okay?’
‘Sure, and thanks. Another thing, Mr. Baine, I have a letter I want mailed out of the district. I don’t want anyone to know where I am.’ I produced the letter. ‘Mrs. Harriet is my mother-in-law. If she knew I was in Miami . . .’ I gave him a knowing wink.
He looked a little startled, then nodded.
‘Sure, Mr. Higgins. I guess you authors have to get away sometimes. I have a couple leaving for New York this morning. They’ll mail this for you: a nice couple. Okay?’
‘That would be fine.’ I slid a ten dollar bill towards him. ‘Okay to give them this?’
‘Sure. They would be glad to have it, Mr. Higgins. I’ll fix it for you. No problem.’
I returned to my cabin.
The black girl had been in, made the bed and cleaned.
I was feeling much more relaxed.
I sat down at the typewriter and worked for the next three hours, bringing The Ferguson Story to date.
I now feel confident, I wrote, that I will survive. I intend to pack this manuscript and send it to Lu Prentz for safekeeping. I will have nothing to do except to sit in this cabin until I feel sure that Mrs. Harriet has got my letter. She is smart. I have given her my word not to say anything. I have warned her if anything should happen to me, the story will go to the police. So why should she flick her fingers at me?
In a couple of weeks, I will hire a car and drive to Mexico. In a few months’ time, I will be back in Hollywood, sitting in some shabby room, waiting for telephone bell to ring.
Bad as that is, it is better than being dead
Epilogue
Lu Prentz was in a depressed mood. In the outer office, waiting to see him were four god-awful bums who had long passed the time when any film company would or could use them. He was thinking of his list of nearly four hundred such deadbeats, and he was feeling discouraged. Maybe it was time to retire. He had been in the racket now for twenty-five years. He had plenty stashed away. Why sit in this shabby office, day after day, fobbing off bums who thought they were still valuable merchandise and who were as worthless as a whore’s promise?
He looked through the grimy window at the smog that hung over Hollywood and moaned to himself. Yes, he would retire. He would sell up, and take his wife to the Virgin Islands and spend the rest of his days in the sun. To hell with those bums out there, waiting.
His office door opened and Sol Hackenstein breezed in.
Sol was the casting director for a small, but prosperous TV Syndicate which, more by luck than brains, had lately hit the jackpot.
Big, fat, wearing a light blue, well-tailored suit, Sol made an impressive figure.
‘Hi, Lu!’ he shouted. Sol liked to think of himself as a big personality so he always shouted. ‘When the hell are you going to buy yourself a new suit?’
Anticipating possible business, Lu jumped to his feet and offered his hand.
‘Sol! How are you, you beauty? You look a million bucks! How are they hanging?’
‘Fine, fine. Have a cigar.’ Sol produced two cigars, thrust one at Lu, bit off the end of the other cigar and stuck it into his face. He sat down in the client’s chair. ‘Jesus! Can’t you get a better ass rest than this?’
Lu winked at him.
‘Gets rid of the dross fast, Sol. What can I do for you?’
‘Who are those finks out there?’
‘Four of the best character actors in the racket,’ Lu said loyally.
‘Yeah? They looked like corpses to me,’ Sol said. ‘Never mind them. They are your headache. I’ve got a job for one of your bums. He’s gotta be cheap. Listen, we set up a deal with International. We’re doing a twenty episode half—hour series. It’s a great story: The Golden
West. I’m short of a gun-toting fink. I want Jerry Stevens, but he’s got to be cheap.’
Lu made a face as if he had a twinge of tooth ache.
‘Can’t have him, Sol. Now, listen, I’ve got a bum who’s way ahead of Stevens. You’ll love him! Big, hair on his chest, rides a nag as if he was in a goddamn circus, fast gun draw, you can’t miss with him.’ Lu beamed. Shale McGivern. He’s heading for the top.’
Sol drew on his cigar.
‘I want Jerry Stevens. The boys agree Stevens is the guy.’
‘Sorry, Sol. Didn’t you know?’
Sol stared at him.
‘Know what for God’s sake?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Dead? How can that be? What happened?’
‘All I know is what I read in the paper. The bum owed me five hundred and twenty three goddamn dollars.’
‘You’re lucky to have time to read newspapers. What happened?’
‘This stupid bum went for a midnight swim in the pool of some crummy motel outside Miami. They say he hit his stupid head when diving. They found him drowned.’
‘Jesus!’ Sol grimaced. ‘So we can’t have him?’
‘You can say that again. He’s dead and another thing that kills me,’ Lu said. ‘He wrote a goddamn book. He sent it to me before the accident. That bum! Writing a book!’
Sol’s eyes narrowed.
‘So, okay: finks write books. What’s it about?’
‘How the hell do I know? I don’t read books. I’ve got more than I can handle with my bums. I gave it to Liz, she reads books. She liked it, but Liz likes anything. She’s got no commercial sense. Now, listen, Sol, how about Shale McGivern? How about a test, huh?’
Sol got to his feet.
‘I’ll talk to the boys. We wanted Jerry Stevens.’
‘You said that. I told you, he’s dead.’
‘Yeah.’ Sol scattered ash on Lu’s threadbare carpet then he shrugged. ‘Well, they come and they go. We’ll go too, Lu.’ He stood thinking, then shrugged again ‘See you, Lu. You buy yourself a new suit. I’ll talk to the boys.’
Lu watched him go, then he sighed. Reaching out, he pressed the buzzer to alert Liz to send in the first of the bums.
THE END