around Christmas, see, and on the way back, on the seaplane, y’know? Well, Matilda got to feelin’ a little queasy …”
“Really, it’s okay, Eddie.”
“And she kept it down until we landed, but about five minutes after we got in the car, I had to stop for this asshole runnin’ a red light, and poor Matilda let fly with about a quart of dago red. I told her to do it out the window, but then this guy has to run the light … anyway, the dago red went straight ahead, hit the window and the dashboard and ran down inside the heating ducts on the dash. So the car can get to smell like puke, but otherwise—”
“Eddie, for God’s sake!”
“Come on, we’ll go get it.”
They walked through the rain to the lot where the Mustang squatted next to a couple of sleek Mark Vs.
“The keys are in it,” Eddie said, opening the door. “Top’s manual.”
Challis slid in behind the wheel. Eddie was peering down at him, as if making a final identification check. “So you think it was a frame?”
“Shit yes. Mr. Kreisler was in here during the trial—well, he’s in here all the time, of course, but he said hello, remembered me from that time you took me to his office, and we shot the breeze for a minute, he said he figured the fix was in … called it a half-assed investigation, said Hilary Durant still needed help to tie his shoes and wipe his bottom, and said it all went back to Goldie … that it was all Goldie’s fault, whatever the hell that meant.” Eddie shrugged. “So, if I can help, lemme know. But I still think you should hop a freighter to somewhere a hell of a long way from here.”
Challis nodded. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“Anyway, that Oscar meant too much to you. I remember how you handled it when you showed it to Matilda and me. You wouldn’t have killed her with that Oscar, no way.”
Challis smiled. “ I never even thought of that, but I hated to see it introduced as evidence. Maybe you’re right …”
“I’m really sorry about the puke, Mr. Challis. And … shit, man, good luck. As far as I’m concerned, you’re up on the mountain dead.” He tapped on the fabric top, Challis rolled up the window, and as he swung around to leave the lot, Challis saw the gangly figure standing in the rain, watching him, shaking his head. Huck Finn wondering at the passing parade.
Challis was hungry.
8
O LLIE KREISLER’S OFFICE WAS ON the top floor of a tall building at Sunset and Doheny, which was the sort of place a smart talent would want for his agent. As Ollie occasionally remarked in suitable company, you didn’t get to the penthouse by fucking up, and fucking up was something that if Ollie had ever done at all was now buried in the distant past, beneath a mountain of successful deals. Ollie was calm in an intense, dour way, a kind of immaculate calm which bespoke his Pasadena upbringing and Princeton education. He had things so carefully under control that you hated to run the risk of disturbing any part of it: there was the fear that it was the one utterly unforgivable transgression you might commit insofar as Ollie Kreisler was concerned.
Consequently, Challis parked in the underground ramp and paved the way with a call from the lobby. He told the secretary that he was Ned Tannen, Ned Tannen personally, calling from Universal, and that if Mr. Kreisler couldn’t take his call immediately, he, Mr. Kreisler, would surely regret it for the rest of his life. Ten seconds passed, and then the familiar soothing voice came on: “Ned, old-timer, what in the world can I do for you? You have my undivided attention.”
“What’s green and red and goes sixty miles an hour?”
“I don’t understand that actually—Ned, is this a joke?”
“A frog in a Waring blender. You’re not laughing, Ollie. You’re supposed to laugh when I use my best material.”
“Ned, you baffle me. My secretary just said … Ned, are you all right? You sound as if you might have a cold. Say something, Ned, please
“Really, it’s okay, Eddie.”
“And she kept it down until we landed, but about five minutes after we got in the car, I had to stop for this asshole runnin’ a red light, and poor Matilda let fly with about a quart of dago red. I told her to do it out the window, but then this guy has to run the light … anyway, the dago red went straight ahead, hit the window and the dashboard and ran down inside the heating ducts on the dash. So the car can get to smell like puke, but otherwise—”
“Eddie, for God’s sake!”
“Come on, we’ll go get it.”
They walked through the rain to the lot where the Mustang squatted next to a couple of sleek Mark Vs.
“The keys are in it,” Eddie said, opening the door. “Top’s manual.”
Challis slid in behind the wheel. Eddie was peering down at him, as if making a final identification check. “So you think it was a frame?”
“Shit yes. Mr. Kreisler was in here during the trial—well, he’s in here all the time, of course, but he said hello, remembered me from that time you took me to his office, and we shot the breeze for a minute, he said he figured the fix was in … called it a half-assed investigation, said Hilary Durant still needed help to tie his shoes and wipe his bottom, and said it all went back to Goldie … that it was all Goldie’s fault, whatever the hell that meant.” Eddie shrugged. “So, if I can help, lemme know. But I still think you should hop a freighter to somewhere a hell of a long way from here.”
Challis nodded. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“Anyway, that Oscar meant too much to you. I remember how you handled it when you showed it to Matilda and me. You wouldn’t have killed her with that Oscar, no way.”
Challis smiled. “ I never even thought of that, but I hated to see it introduced as evidence. Maybe you’re right …”
“I’m really sorry about the puke, Mr. Challis. And … shit, man, good luck. As far as I’m concerned, you’re up on the mountain dead.” He tapped on the fabric top, Challis rolled up the window, and as he swung around to leave the lot, Challis saw the gangly figure standing in the rain, watching him, shaking his head. Huck Finn wondering at the passing parade.
Challis was hungry.
8
O LLIE KREISLER’S OFFICE WAS ON the top floor of a tall building at Sunset and Doheny, which was the sort of place a smart talent would want for his agent. As Ollie occasionally remarked in suitable company, you didn’t get to the penthouse by fucking up, and fucking up was something that if Ollie had ever done at all was now buried in the distant past, beneath a mountain of successful deals. Ollie was calm in an intense, dour way, a kind of immaculate calm which bespoke his Pasadena upbringing and Princeton education. He had things so carefully under control that you hated to run the risk of disturbing any part of it: there was the fear that it was the one utterly unforgivable transgression you might commit insofar as Ollie Kreisler was concerned.
Consequently, Challis parked in the underground ramp and paved the way with a call from the lobby. He told the secretary that he was Ned Tannen, Ned Tannen personally, calling from Universal, and that if Mr. Kreisler couldn’t take his call immediately, he, Mr. Kreisler, would surely regret it for the rest of his life. Ten seconds passed, and then the familiar soothing voice came on: “Ned, old-timer, what in the world can I do for you? You have my undivided attention.”
“What’s green and red and goes sixty miles an hour?”
“I don’t understand that actually—Ned, is this a joke?”
“A frog in a Waring blender. You’re not laughing, Ollie. You’re supposed to laugh when I use my best material.”
“Ned, you baffle me. My secretary just said … Ned, are you all right? You sound as if you might have a cold. Say something, Ned, please
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