steps by the entrance to the lobby. Challis walked toward him, trying to catch his eye. He stopped beside him. In the lobby, logs roared in the fireplace.
“Eddie,” Challis said. The attendant, his face blank, eyes helpful but unrecognizing, looked him head-on. Challis had never seen the place so deserted. The only sound was the rain drumming on the marquee and running off the sides. “Eddie …”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“You don’t know me?” Challis whispered. “Come over here,” he said, tugging at his sleeve, drawing him into the wall.
“Ah, what can I do …? Hey, wait a—”
“Eddie, my boy, compose yourself, prepare yourself, and don’t scream or anything … it’s me, Challis.” He held Eddie’s arm tightly. “Come on, don’t give me any shit, Eddie. Look, it’s me.”
Eddie’s face went peculiarly gray. “Who’s shitting who … whom, I mean. It is you, isn’t it?” He looked off at the driveway, doing a take. “I mean, it is, you are, aren’t you?” He looked away, looked back again. “Where the hell’s your beard?” He was whispering, too, but he was having understandable difficulty grasping what was in fact the evidence of his eyes and ears. “Anyway, you’re supposed to be in jail … holy shit, man,” awe on creeping into his voice, “You’re supposed to be dead in that plane crash!” He was a tall, skinny kid who’d always made Challis think of the way Henry Aldrich should have looked on the old radio show. Maybe it was the way Eddie’s high voice kept losing hold of itself. Eddie was twenty-five, and Challis had gotten to know him simply because he had recognized Challis, an unusual experience for a writer. Eddie wanted to write screenplays; everyone parking cars or pumping gas or waiting tables wanted to get into the show business, and played every card dealt them. Fate had dealt Challis to Eddie, and Eddie had pursued it. One Sunday Challis had even asked Eddie and his girlfriend to stop by the place in Malibu for brunch, and the day had turned out well. The kid’s work showed some talent, and Challis’ agent, Ollie Kreisler, had said he might be willing to represent Eddie on a one-shot movie-of-the-week deal. It hadn’t panned out, but Eddie was grateful. And so, in need of transportation, it was to Eddie at the Beverly Hills Hotel that Challis had come.
“I didn’t die,” Challis said, holding Eddie in place. “I got out of the plane. I’m here and … Stop looking at me like that, damn it, I’m a customer talking to you about my car. I’m here, and nobody knows it yet. I’ve got to do what I can to find out who killed Goldie … it’s my only hope, Eddie.”
“Jesus, in your shoes, man, I’d try to escape, Mr. Challis. Ship out on a freighter to the Far East, y’know, or head for Mexico … you’d have a better chance, y’know what I mean?” He’d accepted Challis’ presence, just another oddball turn of events in Movieland. Nobody back in Dubuque would believe it.
“Eddie, look, I need a car …”
A faintly crafty expression lit Eddie’s long, permanently adolescent face: freckles, blue eyes, wide all-American mouth. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. If, say if, you somehow beat the frame they hung on you, you have to promise, I mean swear, man, you’ll get this thing I’m working on to Maximus … to Aaron Roth himself. Promise me, and you got yourself a set of wheels. Deal?”
“I promise, for God’s sake.” A black Stutz pulled up, but the other attendant got it. “Where’s the car?”
“Show you the kind of pal I am, I’ll let you have mine … ’65 Mustang ragtop, dark green, needs a little work on the chrome, but—”
“Eddie, does it have a wheel at each corner? Fine. The chrome doesn’t worry me.”
“No, but the puke might.”
“Puke? What puke? This is no time to play games with me.”
“No, I’m serious, man. You know Matilda, the girl I brought out to your place? Well, we were out at Catalina
“Eddie,” Challis said. The attendant, his face blank, eyes helpful but unrecognizing, looked him head-on. Challis had never seen the place so deserted. The only sound was the rain drumming on the marquee and running off the sides. “Eddie …”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“You don’t know me?” Challis whispered. “Come over here,” he said, tugging at his sleeve, drawing him into the wall.
“Ah, what can I do …? Hey, wait a—”
“Eddie, my boy, compose yourself, prepare yourself, and don’t scream or anything … it’s me, Challis.” He held Eddie’s arm tightly. “Come on, don’t give me any shit, Eddie. Look, it’s me.”
Eddie’s face went peculiarly gray. “Who’s shitting who … whom, I mean. It is you, isn’t it?” He looked off at the driveway, doing a take. “I mean, it is, you are, aren’t you?” He looked away, looked back again. “Where the hell’s your beard?” He was whispering, too, but he was having understandable difficulty grasping what was in fact the evidence of his eyes and ears. “Anyway, you’re supposed to be in jail … holy shit, man,” awe on creeping into his voice, “You’re supposed to be dead in that plane crash!” He was a tall, skinny kid who’d always made Challis think of the way Henry Aldrich should have looked on the old radio show. Maybe it was the way Eddie’s high voice kept losing hold of itself. Eddie was twenty-five, and Challis had gotten to know him simply because he had recognized Challis, an unusual experience for a writer. Eddie wanted to write screenplays; everyone parking cars or pumping gas or waiting tables wanted to get into the show business, and played every card dealt them. Fate had dealt Challis to Eddie, and Eddie had pursued it. One Sunday Challis had even asked Eddie and his girlfriend to stop by the place in Malibu for brunch, and the day had turned out well. The kid’s work showed some talent, and Challis’ agent, Ollie Kreisler, had said he might be willing to represent Eddie on a one-shot movie-of-the-week deal. It hadn’t panned out, but Eddie was grateful. And so, in need of transportation, it was to Eddie at the Beverly Hills Hotel that Challis had come.
“I didn’t die,” Challis said, holding Eddie in place. “I got out of the plane. I’m here and … Stop looking at me like that, damn it, I’m a customer talking to you about my car. I’m here, and nobody knows it yet. I’ve got to do what I can to find out who killed Goldie … it’s my only hope, Eddie.”
“Jesus, in your shoes, man, I’d try to escape, Mr. Challis. Ship out on a freighter to the Far East, y’know, or head for Mexico … you’d have a better chance, y’know what I mean?” He’d accepted Challis’ presence, just another oddball turn of events in Movieland. Nobody back in Dubuque would believe it.
“Eddie, look, I need a car …”
A faintly crafty expression lit Eddie’s long, permanently adolescent face: freckles, blue eyes, wide all-American mouth. “Listen, I’ll make you a deal. If, say if, you somehow beat the frame they hung on you, you have to promise, I mean swear, man, you’ll get this thing I’m working on to Maximus … to Aaron Roth himself. Promise me, and you got yourself a set of wheels. Deal?”
“I promise, for God’s sake.” A black Stutz pulled up, but the other attendant got it. “Where’s the car?”
“Show you the kind of pal I am, I’ll let you have mine … ’65 Mustang ragtop, dark green, needs a little work on the chrome, but—”
“Eddie, does it have a wheel at each corner? Fine. The chrome doesn’t worry me.”
“No, but the puke might.”
“Puke? What puke? This is no time to play games with me.”
“No, I’m serious, man. You know Matilda, the girl I brought out to your place? Well, we were out at Catalina
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