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  Michael looked at Tommy closely. “You don’t seem all broken up about the Don going away.”

  Tommy smiled slyly. “It’s an ill wind that don’t blow somebody some good.”

  “Is there going to be trouble about who succeeds?”

  Tommy glanced around the room. “I’m out here to be out of it,” he said. “I got word that somebody’s going to get whacked this weekend. I don’t want to be around.”

  “Am I an alibi?” Michael asked anxiously.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t come to that. A couple stewardesses could make me on the plane, and there’s always the hotel.”

  “If you need it, say the word,” Michael said, relieved that he wouldn’t be involved. “Say, Tommy, thanks for the car and the help with the banker. You wouldn’t believe what a sweet deal that bank is. My dough’s on the street already.”

  Tommy put his hand on Michael’s. “Anytime, you need anything, kid, anytime. I’m connected pretty good out here.”

  “That you are,” Michael said. “By the way,” he took a deep breath, “I got a little legal problem, maybe you could help me with.”

  “Speak to me,” Tommy said.

  “I’m having a little trouble getting the rights to this book that I want to make into a film.”

  “Who’s giving you a hard time?”

  Michael took a cocktail napkin and wrote down the name of Daniel J. Moriarty and the address of his law office, then he told Tommy about his conversation with the lawyer.

  “I’ll look into it,” Tommy said, pocketing the napkin. “Call you when I know something.” He looked up to see the women returning. “Say,” he said, “that’s some broad you got me. Is she gonna get mad if I want to fuck her?”

  “She’s yours for whatever you want,” Michael said.

  Tommy slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s it, kid, you take care of me, I take care of you.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Michael jerked awake to the sound of the telephone. He glanced at the bedside clock; just past 6:00 A.M. on Monday morning. He picked it up. “Hello?” he croaked. Some goddamned wrong number, he knew it.

  “Rise and shine, kid,” Tommy’s voice said.

  “Jesus, Tommy, you know what time it is? You never got up this early in your life. Where are you?”

  “In New York; where else? I just want you to know I’m taking care of that little problem of yours.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. I owe you.”

  “Forget it. You know where the corner of Sunset and Camden is?”

  “Sure, in Beverly Hills.”

  “Park your car there at eight o’clock sharp this morning, southeast corner; a guy will pick you up. He’s kind of a consultant on these things.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “You don’t need to know; he won’t know yours, either.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, I left kind of a mess at the hotel; I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it; they’re used to it.”

  “Yeah? Well, you got class, kid, and I thank you for the night on the town.”

  “Thanks for your help, too, Tommy. Keep in touch.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Ciao.” Tommy hung up.

  Michael rolled out of bed and put his face in his hands. Jesus, what did they drink last night? He glanced at Vanessa. Sawing away, just like always; nothing could wake the girl until she was ready.

  He got out of bed, showered, and fixed himself some breakfast, feeling relieved. He didn’t know how Tommy was going to fix the rights thing, but he had complete faith in him. If Tommy said it was fixed, it was fixed.

  He got dressed, took the elevator down to the garage, and drove to Sunset and Camden, arriving ten minutes early. He sat idly just off Sunset, listening to a drive-time disc jockey, drumming his fingers on the wheel in time with the music.

  A large Cadillac pulled up next to him and the electric window on his side rolled down. A man in his early twenties, unshaven, with greasy hair, looked at him.

  “You and me got a mutual friend?”

  “Yeah,” Michael replied.

  “Get in.”

  Michael got out of his car and into the Cadillac. Traffic on Sunset was full-bore rush hour now. “Where we going?”

  The driver had turned down Camden and was now making a left turn.

  “This guy Moriarty,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I gotta know what he looks like, right?”

  “Okay, but where we going?”

  The driver held up a page torn from a phone book; the lawyer’s name was circled. “To have a look at him.”

  “Oh.”

  The Cadillac swung into Bedford Drive and stopped.

  “Now what?” Michael asked.

  “Look,” said the driver, exasperated, “let me handle this, okay?”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  “That’s his house right there,” the driver said. “We’ll wait.”

  Michael switched on the radio and found some music. They sat there for better than half an hour, then he looked up and saw Daniel J. Moriarty leaving his home, a briefcase in his hand. “That’s him,” Michael said. “Get a good look.” The way Moriarty was swinging the case, Michael could tell it was empty, except maybe for a bottle of Scotch. Why did the old guy bother going to the office, anyway?

  The driver started the Cadillac and moved slowly away from the curb, checking his rearview mirrors. Momentarily there was no traffic. Moriarty stepped off the curb and walked around an elderly Volvo station wagon, digging for his keys. As he put the key into the door lock, the driver gunned the Cadillac.

  “What the hell…” Michael yelled, bracing a hand against the dashboard. “What are you—”

  The Cadillac scraped the side of the Volvo, then struck Moriarty, sending him up into the air. Michael heard him hit the top of the Cadillac, then saw the door of the Volvo spinning off in another direction. The Cadillac screeched to a stop, throwing Michael against the dashboard.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Michael screamed.

  The driver was looking back over his shoulder. “Shit!” he said through his teeth. “Wait here.” He got out of the Cadillac and started walking back toward Moriarty, who was not only alive but was, unaccountably, trying to pull his battered body across the street with his elbows.

  Michael started to hip his way across the seat to the wheel and drive away; then he saw there were no keys in the ignition—indeed, there was no ignition. He looked across the street to where a man in a Mercedes had been pulling out of his driveway. He had stopped and was looking, first at Moriarty, then at Michael. Michael looked to his right and saw a middle-aged woman in a bathrobe and curlers holding a newspaper, looking straight at him. He turned and looked out the rear window of the car.

  The driver was walking the hundred yards that separated the Cadillac from Moriarty; purposefully, but not fast. A knife was in his hand. He covered the last few yards to the struggling Moriarty, kicked him over onto his back, plunged the knife into his chest, twisted it once, then walked back toward the Cadillac, leaving the knife in the now-dead body of Daniel J. Moriarty.

  Michael looked again at the man in the Mercedes and the woman with the newspaper. They were watching the driver walk back to the car and following his progress to the Cadillac, where Michael still sat.

  The young man got into the car, reached under the dash, did something with some wires, and the engine came to life. He put the car in gear and drove away, turning right at the next corner. “You’d think the car would do it to an old guy like that, right? I mean, Christ, a Cadillac!”

  Michael was speechless with rage and fear. He scrunched down in the seat; why hadn’t he done that before? A couple of minutes later, he was left standing at his car. He got in, started the engine, drove to the corner, then turned onto Sunset, blending in with the traffic, terrified of everybody around him. He could hear police cars in the distance.

&
nbsp; They had seen him, those two people. The man in the Mercedes, he could be in the business, somebody he might have to deal with someday. The woman could be married to somebody at Centurion; how did he know? They had bored their curious eyes into him, memorized his features; he was sure of it. He put on his dark glasses and turned toward Sacramento on the freeway. He would turn back toward the studio in a few minutes; right now, he had to swallow his heart, get his pulse back under two hundred. Driving would do it.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Driving didn’t do it. When he got to the studio an hour later, Michael’s heart was still pounding. He slammed the car door and walked into his office.

  “Morning,” Margot said, handing him his messages.

  Michael said nothing, but went into his office and sat down heavily at his desk.

  Margot followed him in. “There’s a problem.”

  “Huh?” He hadn’t been listening.

  “At the Bel-Air.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friend, he beat up the girl I arranged.”

  “What?”

  “Put her in the hospital. I’m afraid that I am in trouble with her madam, and you are in trouble with the Bel-Air.”

  “Tommy beat her up?”

  “Michael, try and listen to me. Your friend made such a mess of that girl that she may never look the same again. Her madam is up in arms, the hotel is up in arms—I persuaded them not to call the police—and you are going to find this very expensive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The girl wants twenty-five thousand dollars before noon today, or she says she’ll go to the police.”

  “Tell her okay.”

  “The madam is probably raking some of that off. I can try to get it down some.”

  “Tell her it’s okay, I’ll pay the money.” He flipped through his address book, found the number, and dialed. The banker came on the line. He waved Margot out of the office. “This is Callabrese.”

  “Yes, Mr. Callabrese; what can I do for you?”

  “I want twenty-five thousand in cash left at your reception desk immediately. A woman will ask for it; don’t ask for I.D., just give it to her.”

  “As you wish.”

  Michael hung up the phone and went to the door. “Margot, please go to this address and pick up an envelope; there’ll be money inside; pay the madam and do what you can to see that she keeps her mouth shut.” He handed her a slip of paper.

  Margot grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. “You’ll have to cover your own phones.”

  Michael picked up the phone and called home.

  “What?” a sleepy Vanessa said.

  “Vanessa, wake up and listen to me carefully.”

  “Huh?”

  “Goddamnit, wake up and listen!”

  “All right, Michael, I’m listening!”

  “This is what you and I did this morning: we woke up early, made love, then took a shower together. I left the house about nine-thirty—later than usual—for the office. You got that?”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s important, if anybody should ask.”

  “All right. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  Michael slammed down the phone. Where were his fingerprints on the Cadillac—on the door handle? Yes, and on the dashboard, where he’d braced himself. Christ, if they ever found that car…The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Vincent? Is that you?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “My name is Larry Keating; I sent you a screenplay? I’d like to set up a meeting.”

  “Call my secretary this afternoon.” He hung up. The phone rang again, and he let it ring. He sat and let the phone ring until Margot got back.

  “Is it all right?” he asked.

  “It’s all right. The madam can control the situation. She’s extremely annoyed that this has happened, but she’ll keep her mouth shut, and she’ll keep the girl quiet, too.”

  “Good.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but your appointment with the trade paper is tomorrow, for an interview and photographs.”

  “Fine,” he said, then sat bolt upright. “No!”

  “Tomorrow’s bad? Your book was clear.”

  “I’ll do it on the phone.”

  “Michael, they can’t take pictures on the phone.”

  “No pictures. I haven’t got time to mess with these people; tell the guy if he wants to talk to call me tomorrow morning.”

  “All right.”

  “And hold all my calls until I tell you. I’ve got some thinking to do.”

  “All right.”

  He tried to think but couldn’t. Finally, he buzzed Margot. “Find out who’s the chairman of the board of trustees of Carlyle Junior College, then make me an appointment as soon as possible.” This was dangerous, but he had to do it now, or he would go completely crazy.

  The chairman’s name was Wallace Merton, and his office was in a downtown law firm. Michael was made to wait a few minutes, increasing his nervousness. When he was finally announced, he drew a deep breath and tried to relax.

  “Good morning, Mr. Vincent, what can I do for you?” Merton asked, waving Michael to a chair. He clearly was not accustomed to spending time with strangers.

  Michael sat down and set his briefcase on the floor. “Good morning, Mr. Merton; I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Good.”

  “I am a producer at Centurion Pictures, and I am interested in the film rights to a property which I understand has been left as a bequest to the college.”

  Merton looked at him blankly. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The estate of Mildred Parsons?”

  “Oh, yes; that man Moriarty.”

  Best to tell as much of the truth as possible. “I saw him last week, but frankly, he was a little worse for the wear, and I couldn’t make much sense of what he had to say. I did understand that the board of trustees had it in its power to sell the rights.”

  “Well, we didn’t last week—only Moriarty did, but some hit-and-run driver ran him down in front of his house this morning.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

  “It seems most of my day has been taken up with Mr. Moriarty and his problems.”

  “If I’d known about this I certainly would have waited a decent interval, but as long as I’m here, may I explain myself?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I read the book recently and thought it might make a nice little art film, if I can fit it into our schedule. We normally have a couple of dozen projects like that floating around the studio at any given time.”

  Merton looked at Michael sharply. “I’ve done some business with you movie people in my time, and it sounds to me like you’re trying to buy a valuable property cheap.”

  Michael stood up and put his card on the man’s desk. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time, Mr. Merton; you’re obviously very busy today. If you have any interest in selling the rights, call me.” He turned to go.

  “Oh, sit down, Vincent,” Merton said. “At least tell me what you’ve got in mind.”

  Michael sat down. “What I have in mind, sir, is offering you ten thousand dollars for a year’s option against a twenty-five-thousand-dollar purchase price.”

  “Let’s get this done, Mr. Vincent: twenty-five thousand against fifty. I have a fiduciary responsibility to the college to get a decent price.”

  “Twenty against forty. That’s as far as I can go without the board’s permission.”

  Merton stood up and stuck out his hand. “Done. Send me a contract and a check.”

  Michael shook the man’s hand. “I’m sorry about Mr. Moriarty.”

  “Drunken oaf,” Merton said. “He had a liver the size of a watermelon. He told me his doctor gave him six months, and that was nearly a year ago; I shouldn’t think he’d have lived another month.”<
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  When Michael got back to his office there were two men in his waiting room.

  “Mr. Vincent, these two gentlemen are police officers,” Margot said. “They’d like a word with you.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Michael sat and looked at the two police officers. This was a new experience for him. In the past he had always avoided talking with policemen.

  “I’m Sergeant Rivera,” said the larger of the two men. “This is Detective Hall.”

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Michael asked, more calmly than he felt.

  “Are you acquainted with a lawyer named Daniel J. Moriarty?” Rivera asked.

  “Yes, I am, if you can call it acquainted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I met the man once, at his office, and he was roaring drunk. There was a bottle of Scotch on his desk as we spoke.”

  “When was this?”

  “Late last week—Thursday or Friday.”

  “You were in his diary for Friday morning.”

  “That was it, I guess. I suppose this visit must be about his death.”

  The cop regarded him for a moment before speaking. “And how is it you come to know of his death, Mr. Vincent? He only died this morning.”

  “I spoke with Mr. Moriarty about acquiring the film rights to a novel called Pacific Afternoons. He controlled the rights, but as I said, he was drunk. He did manage to explain that all the rights to the work had been bequeathed to Carlyle Junior College, so earlier today I met with the chairman of their board of trustees, a lawyer named Wallace Merton. He told me that Mr. Moriarty had been run down by a hit-and-run driver.”

  “I see,” the cop said, sounding disappointed.

  “So, gentlemen, you now have my entire knowledge of Mr. Moriarty.”

  “Just one other thing, Mr. Vincent,” the policeman said. “Did Mr. Moriarty refuse to sell you these rights?”

  “He may have; it was hard to ascertain his meaning, given his condition. In any event, it seemed to me that if I was going to get anywhere, I’d have to talk with Mr. Merton.”