Kill Your Darlings by Max Allan Collins Page B

you’ll have a valuable piece of property in those books.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Just an observation.”
    “Get outta here, Mallory! Just get the hell away.” He looked at Kathy. “You’re not with
him
, are you?”
    Kathy, stunned by the behavior of both of us, managed only to nod.
    “You keep lousy company, baby,” he said to her.
    She burned. “It’s nothing compared to my taste in publishers,” she said, and turned and walked quickly away.
    I pointed a finger at Gorman again. “We’re going to talk some more,” I said.
    “I’m shakin’, I’m shakin’,” Gorman said, moving his body like a little kid responding to threats from another little kid. Which was maybe the case.
    When I caught up with Kathy, she glared at me. “Couldn’t that have waited?”
    “Uh, what have waited?”
    “Your big scene with Gorman. He
is
my boss, you know!”
    “Come on—that guy’s an iguana. He’s...”
    “My publisher!” She turned and gave me a tight angry look. “
Noir
means a lot to me. I don’t make much off it, it’s not my living, you understand, but it’s the part of my life that makes the rest of my life worth living. And Gorman’s my publisher. He may not be Hugh Hefner, but he’s my publisher!”
    “He isn’t even Larry Flynt, Kathy.”
    “I don’t care! You could’ve had the courtesy to pull that stunt without me at your side! It was thoughtless!”
    I sighed. “Yeah. I guess it was. Sorry.”
    “Just leave me alone.”
    She walked toward the elevators.
    She pressed the up button and stood with folded arms. I came up to her and said, “Is supper still on?”
    Her reply about snapped my head off: “Why? Do you want to back out?”
    “No.”
    “Me, neither,” she said and stepped into the elevator, and I caught a wisp of yet another wry smile before the doors slid shut.

9
    I rested the cover painting of
Murder Me Again, Doll
against the wall next to the bed in my hotel room; I left the tissue paper over it but the garish cover beneath shouted through and reminded me of Roscoe Kane. I turned it to the wall, wondering if buying the thing had been a mistake.
    No, I said to myself, someday the ugly circumstances surrounding Roscoe Kane’s death will fade, and Kane, the writer, and Gat Garson, the character, would move to the forefront, pushing all the rest of it into the background, where it belonged. Then I could enjoy my painting....
    After all, I was able to listen to Beatles music again, wasn’t I? I could hear “Hard Day’s Night” or “Eight Days a Week” on the radio, and smile and sing along. One night, not so long ago, a news bulletin had interrupted the old Mamie Van Doren movie I was watching (
Sex Kittens Go to College
), and I knew at once that from then on I’d never be able to watch Mamie Van Doren without thinking of John Lennon, and, more importantly, would never be able to listen to Beatles music again, not with any joy anyway....
    But that, too, had passed; and now Beatles music, and various other music from my junior high and high school days, was about all I could stand to listen to; that and some of the new music that harked back to those days. I had a little Sony cassetteplayer along, as a matter of fact, which was sitting on the hotel-room dresser at the moment, and I popped a tape in—a Bobby Darin tape—and fell back on the bed and tried to relax and forget about Roscoe Kane for a while.
    But Bobby Darin wouldn’t let me.
    “
Splish splash
,” he sang, “
I was takin’ a bath
...”
    I sat up.
    “Very funny, Bobby,” I said, and got up and shut off the little cassette player.
    And called Mae Kane’s room.
    “Y-yes...?” she said, tentatively. From the sound of her voice—not to mention the eight rings she’d let go by before picking up the receiver—I could tell she’d had her share of calls from the media and condolence-wishers and such, and was getting gun-shy.
    “Mae, it’s Mal.”
    The voice went warm, husky.