Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman Page A

pretended that he did, but in his gut he didn’t. He wanted his status and parking space and hundred-fifty grand like everyone else. I never knew anyone who worried about money as much as Walter did.”
    Her eyes got a little wet and then the maid came in to clear the dishes. We got up and started for the living room, but Mrs. Adrian suddenly turned and told me to follow her. We went up the stairs.
    The master bedroom was across from the top of the stairs. Mrs. Adrian walked past it and down a hallway that went back to the front of the house. We came to a study, a small, cozy room containing a couch, desk, typewriter and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Above the desk were framed, glossy photographs inscribed to Walter: from Mervyn LeRoy, the director, from Edward G. Robinson (“To Walter, a great writer. With affection, Eddie”), from Claudette Colbert, Humphrey Bogart, Joan Blondell, and John Garfield, dressed as a boxer. (“To Walter, a real fighter. Your dear pal, Julie.”)
    â€œI want you to stay here with me,” Mrs. Adrian said very softly.
    I turned to face her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed.
    â€œIn this room, I meant, Jack.” She pointed to the couch. “That folds out. It’s really more comfortable than the bed in the guest room. Walter slept here sometimes, when he had to work late and didn’t want to disturb me coming into the bedroom. In the morning I’d find him curled on the couch in his underwear, his clothes piled up on the typewriter.” She smiled, really glowed, I thought, for the first time in discussing her husband. It was as if her fondest memory of Walter was of his sleeping in another room, down a long hallway from her.
    â€œWhy do you want me to stay here?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s cheaper than the hotel and mainly I’m too frightened right now to stay here alone. You’re a detective, you know your way around guns, you’re familiar with danger. That’s true, isn’t it? It’s not just from the radio. You have faced danger, I assume?”
    â€œOnce in a while. Not daily, but enough. Too much.”
    She was satisfied.
    â€œGood, then. You’ll stay.”
    We looked at each other for a long moment. I could hear the leaves hissing in the full trees outside.
    â€œYou’ll stay,” Helen Adrian said, “until we learn what really happened to Walter.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œAnd then I suppose you will return to New York and I will figure out what to do with the rest of my life.” She nodded abruptly and started acting the busy housekeeper, the decision made. “But first things first. I’ll put fresh linen on the bed here and you can go back to the Real and get your belongings. You know how to get there from here? Want me to go with you?”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
    â€œFine.”
    I stood there looking more than a little ridiculous. This was not the kind of thing I handled well. Helen Adrian knew it. She smiled mischievously.
    â€œJack, no one will talk. They know you’re a detective. If they do talk, the hell with them. Now get your stuff. Mrs. Billy will stay till you come back.”
    I stood a bit more, searching for excuses not to stay, excuses motivated by guilt at having the hots for my dead friend’s wife and fear that we were both in serious danger and sitting ducks in this big rich house. Then Mrs. Adrian stepped forward and kissed me, an ambiguous peck that landed at a point equidistant to my sensual wet lips and my scratchy cheek. Then she walked out and headed for a hall closet, probably the linen closet, calling “See you later” over her shoulder.
    I retrieved my gear from the Real and returned to the Adrian house about eleven. Mrs. Billy opened up and informed me that Mrs. Adrian had retired for the night.
    I went upstairs and checked into the study. The bed had been made. There was a note on the