His legs twitched as the intermittent buzzing in the earpiece broke off with a click. "Good afternoon, Renken-Blasker," said the girl's voice.
"Dale Mannix, dear," he told her. "Burt in?"
"Yes, Mr. Mannix-right away." Her tone was properly reverential. Mannix smiled and drew in slowly on his stomach muscles, glancing downward. His chest was spare and nut-brown. Hard, he thought. Who says I'm sixty-two? I'll flatten him.
"What can I do for you, Dale?" Burt Renken's voice inquired.
"Just got a new phone," Mannix told him. "Called to give you the number."
"Shoot," said Renken.
Mannix looked at the receiver. "276-5090," he read.
"Got it," Renken answered. "Old number out the window?"
"No, no-just wanted a second one, exclusively for business." He was briefly, pleasantly conscious of his voice-its warmth and variations.
As he hung up, Mannix stared across the wide expanse of lawn toward the pool. Inger was rubbing tanning lotion over her nude, tawny form. Mannix shivered as she squirted oil drops across her breasts and rubbed them lingeringly into the skin. He thought of going out there in the sun with her. In his imagination, he could feel the soft, hot moistness of her skin.
He made a grumbling sound and picked the script back up. Have to learn these bloody lines, he told himself. He propped the handtooled-leather binder on his lap and tried to concentrate. He'd never been too good at reading, though. Not that he didn't have a memory he'd match against the best. No one-but no one-had a better grasp of dialogue than he did. It was the reading itself that bored him. All that damned descriptive garbage.
Mannix crossed his muscular legs and cleared his throat, his eyes on the poolside chaise again. Inger was on her stomach now. She stretched out, resting her head on her arms. What was she thinking of? he wondered. Who was she thinking of?
Flexion in his neck again. Trapezius, he thought. He clenched his teeth, visualizing tension spasms in the damaged muscle. He stared out at her naked form. To look inside that golden head, he thought-to see, to know.
He glanced at the telephone suddenly, the idea sprung to full bloom in his mind. Smiling, he picked up the receiver and dialed their old number. Fortunately, Maria was out shopping. He started as he heard the jangling of the telephone in the entry hall. To be on both ends of the line at once was an odd sensation. He couldn't hear the poolside telephone.
He smiled as Inger reached out lazily for the receiver. It made him feel godlike to realize that he knew everything and she knew nothing about that ringing telephone beside her.
She lifted the receiver. "Hello?" she said.
That voice-he shivered at the sound of it. Casually, he reached across the table by his leather chair, removed a tissue from its dispenser, folded it in quarters, and held it over the mouthpiece. "Hello," he replied.
"Who's this?" asked Inger.
"Don't you know?" he asked. His famous blue-grey eyes were crinkling at the corners. He could see them as he had so many times-in close-up, on wide-screen, in Technicolor.
"No," she said. Interest or impatience? Mannix lost his smile. He couldn't tell.
"Let's just say a fond admirer."
Inger murmured. "Oh?"
Ice water running up the backs of his legs. It wasn't impatience. "Come on, you know," he said.
"I don't," she protested-mildly.
Mannix turned his head, releasing shaky breath. She knew, he told himself. She was putting him on, that's all. "Sure you do," he insisted. He felt that internationally famous knot of vein at his right temple starting to pulse. "Take a guess."
"How can I?" she asked.
Mannix fumbled on the chairside table, feeling for his eyeglasses. "Try," he said impulsively. "We've met, you know." He realized abruptly that his voice was that of Gresham, the sly Chicago lawyer in Point of Order, Universal, 1958. His agent had told him he was crazy to do that one, that it would hurt his image.
"Met where?" she was asking.
"One of those parties," he answered.
He had the glasses now. He slid them hastily across his ears and nose bridge. Inger sprang into focus. "What do you look like?" she asked him.
You'd better know it's me, he thought. The planes of his face were hardened now-that look of threatening anger movie audiences knew the world over: woe betide his enemies now. He looked out coldly at her, his neck beginning to stiffen. "If I told you what I look like," he said, "you'd know who I am and the game would be over."
He covered the mouthpiece, sucked in breath. Hell, let it go, a voice suggested. No, he answered. He'd suspected this for some time now. Let it come out.
"All right," she said, "let's see."
He waited.
"You're-fifty. No, no-sixty," she said.
Mannix grinned. You knew all along, you Kostlich kraut, he thought, delighted. He closed his eyes abruptly, trying not to recognize the surge of gratified relief that filled him. "That old," he heard himself say.
"I'm only teasing," she said.
Mannix opened his eyes.
"You're under forty, I imagine," Inger said.
"That's right," Mannix felt his heartbeat, slow and heavy. "Thirty-eight to be exact." He stared out through the window. Inger had her left arm pressed beneath her breasts, nudging them upward. "That's not old at all," she said.
She didn't know. Mannix felt ill. "No, it isn't old," he said with Gresham's voice. "I'm still completely capable of-" (beat): he saw it written on a script page "-quite a bit."
He felt his flesh grow cold as Inger's soft laugh drifted from the earpiece. "I'll bet you are," she said.
Mannix blinked. His head felt light. "I am," he told her. "Interested?"
He shuddered as she slid her feet back on the chaise, pushing up her knees. Her legs remained together for an instant, they slumped sideways and apart. "Why should I be interested in you?" she asked.
Mannix felt the pulsing at his temple quicken. Her tone, her posture. She was willing.
He twitched as Inger sat up, turned around, and looked back toward the study window. She did know! Mannix felt his heartbeat jolt. He waited for her smile, her wave, some sign of recognition. He deserved her mockery for this. He'd take it gracefully and-
Mannix felt himself go numb as Inger turned back and reclined once more. "Well?" she asked.
"Well, what?" She had to recognize his voice now-he wasn't even trying. But he had to try! Abruptly, he was back inside the other man. "Why should you be interested in me? Because I'm good in bed. Damn good." Please, he thought. Please tell me that you know it's me.
"Are you really?" Inger said.
Mannix shivered violently. "If I was there I'd show you."
That laugh again. He'd fought the realization for a long time, but he knew it now: it was an obscene laugh. Inger was obscene. "If you were here," she said, "you'd have to show me because I'm lying in the sun without a stitch on."
He stared out through the window at her. Now her legs were far apart, her left hand was back behind her head. She's ready for you, Mister, Mannix thought.
The swimming pool reflected like a mirror in the moonlight. Mannix stared at it. Bel Air was soundless at this time of night. He heard a bird chirp somewhere in the darkness.
He turned and looked at Inger.
Her body was stretched out on the bed like some sleek, well fed animal. She is an animal, he thought. Less than half an hour before she'd straddled him with panting fierceness. "Kostlich! Kostlich!" (Delicious! Delicious!) Who had she really straddled in the darkness though? (She had turned the lamp off, not he.) That man who phoned her this afternoon? He hadn't seen her so excited in a year.
Mannix walked across the carpeting and stood beside the bed, gazed down at the golden flood of hair across the pillow, at her browned, voluptuous figure.
All through dinner he had waited for the laughter. They'd gone over to The Swiss House-she doted on Viennese cooking. They'd gotten one of the tables in back and, as they'd eaten, he'd kept waiting for the laughter to begin-for her to tell him how ridiculous he was. At one point, when he'd seen her smiling to herself, he'd asked her what was funny-felt his hands begin to shake with final hopeful readiness.
"Nothing," she had said. He'd stared at her and known that everything he'd feared for all these years was true: he was that most despised and ludicrous of men-the cuckold.
Mannix leaned over tremblingly and pulled out the drawer of his bedside table. Reaching in, he drew out his pistol and pointed it at Inger.
No. He shook his head. Ruin his career for her? He smiled contemptuously at her slack Germanic features. Thirty-seven years he'd been a star. He'd be insane to end that for a moment's dubious revenge. He put the pistol back into the drawer.
He took off his robe and lay down on the bed beside her. Now that he'd made up his mind to divorce her, he was amused at himself for having thought, even for a moment, that she was clever enough to have fooled him.
He clucked. Too bad, he thought. Marriage number four gone down the tube. Amusing that, for the first time, it was not because of his unfaithfulness. The public would never believe it, of course. Not that they should-the other enhanced his image better. Mr. Romance. He winced. What idiot columnist had made that up?
It was good all morning. Makeup at six, shooting at seven. The scenes were long and his. There were a lot of takes without excessive waits for setups. With what spare time there was, he entertained the cast with anecdotes about the Golden Years-memories laced with humor, charm, and wit. He did it beautifully. To lure and hold with words-to be "on" before a rapt, attentive audience-there was nothing like it. It was almost sensual.
Then it was over and he was in his dressing room. Lunch was called. He wasn't hungry. He sat inside the lavish trailer, staring at the telephone. How long had she been cheating on him? In the almost three years of their marriage, how many times?
Mannix jerked the telephone receiver off its cradle and dialed his home number. As if it were someone else's hand, he watched it draw the neatly pressed and folded handkerchief from the pocket of his grey slacks and press it down across the mouthpiece. Now what? asked his mind. You're dumping her. Isn't that enough?
It's not, he thought.
"Mannix residence," said Maria.
Mannix cleared his throat, "Mrs. Mannix, please."
"One moment," said Maria.
As he waited, Mannix wondered where she was. She could still be in bed. She liked to sleep late after making love. Love? he thought. He'd never manage to associate that word with her again.
She picked up an extension. "Yes?"
Mannix licked his lips. "Hel-lo," he said.
"Who's this?"
"You know who it is," he answered.
"Do I?"
Mannix tensed. "Sleep well?"
"I always sleep well," Inger answered.
Yes, you do, he thought-you aren't bright enough to suffer from anxiety.
She yawned. "Look, I have to go unless-"
Mannix cut her off. "Meet me," he said. He knew it was absurd, and yet he smiled with mirthless pleasure at the thought.
"Oh, I couldn't do that," she protested.
Her coyness made his stomach turn. "Tomorrow," Mannix told her. He could almost see her. She was sprawled across the bed, still naked.
"What makes you think I want to meet you?" she asked.
"Because you'd love it," he answered. His fingers clamped in on the bridge of the receiver. "You and me in bed, like animals."
It was almost anti-climactic when she murmured, "Where?"
The dressing room was blurred around him, swimming. Mannix felt like very heavy, very fragile glass. If he moved, he'd shatter. "Beverly Hills Hotel," he said. It sounded like a first reading. "Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
She's going to do it, he thought. He couldn't seem to breathe.
"How will I know you?" Inger asked.
The answer spun immediately to mind. "Just ask for Mr. Smith's room," Mannix said, "Eddie Smith."
"I don't know an Eddie Smith." She sounded suddenly confused.
"Real names tomorrow, baby," Mannix answered.
"Oh, I see," said Inger.
No, you don't, he thought, you don't see anything, you stupid bitch.
"Will it be fun?" she asked. He saw her face quite clearly now. The edges of her teeth were set together, eager and excited.
Mannix answered. "You have no idea."
He'd yet to take the first sip of his Pimm's Cup. He was sitting in a corner of the Polo Lounge, stirring with its slice of cucumber while he stared at the key on the table. The plastic tag was face up: 315. Eddie Smith's room, Mannix thought. A faint smile drew his lips back. Right, he thought.
Some men walked across the lounge and waved to him. He didn't wave back. He had no desire to talk to anyone. He really should have chosen some more remote spot. Everybody knew him here. Still, what difference did it make? He wasn't here to murder her-just to see a look of stupid bafflement across her face.
Mannix had to smile. It was rather funny, actually-the idea of this Eddie Smith. Mannix saw him as a college football player gone to lard, maybe a small-time actor making out with women who set their standards at the minimum level: any stud in a storm.
Smith could resemble that one over there: broad shoulders, curly blond hair, tight clothes-the jacket a shade too loud, the low-grade silk shirt. Sub-par all the way.
He blinked. The blond young man was smiling at him. Mannix tensed, about to cut him off, when the idea came-instantly complete, completely beautiful. Mannix smiled broadly. How much more satisfying than a look of bafflement on Inger's face. He gestured for the young man to come over.
The young man stood with obvious delight and as he crossed the lounge Mannix realized abruptly that he was an actor-he had seen him somewhere in some undistinguished role performed with undistinguished flatness. Mannix almost chuckled. The young man would perform all right, he thought; through any indicated hoop. He'd have to-it was part and parcel of his hunger to succeed. They were all the same.
The young man stopped in front of him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Mannix," he said. His smile was that of all young, struggling actors, Mannix thought, straining for unwonted charm-too bright, too many teeth displayed.
"Sit down," Mannix said.
The young man was unable to restrain a startled grin. "Why, thank you," he responded. He sat with lithe dispatch. Lifts weights, thought Mannix. Studies at some one-horse acting school, played a few supporting roles in non-pay theater groups, has a list of TV credits adding up to zero. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice genial, interested.
The young man swallowed. "Jeff Cornell," he said sincerely. Who made that up? Mannix wondered. Probably some agent. "Cornell," he tasted. "Seems to me I've seen you somewhere."
"I just did a part on L. A. Law," Cornell supplied immediately.
"Of course," said Mannix. He hadn't seen it. "And very good, too," he added, smiling.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Mannix," said Cornell. "That's very kind of you."
Not exactly, Mannix thought. The young man's dazzling smile amused him. Exactly what he needed. "Tell you what I have in mind," he said. "I need a favor."
"I'll do anything I can, Mr. Mannix," Cornell answered gravely.
I know you will, thought Mannix. Anything at all. "I want you to meet my wife at three o'clock," he said. "I want you to seduce her." Not even Olivier could mask a reaction to that, he thought.
It wasn't surprising that Cornell's face went almost completely blank. "Is-?"
"-this a joke?" completed Mannix. "No, it isn't. I have reason to believe that my wife has been unfaithful." With a platoon of different men, the sentence finished in his mind. "I want to divorce her, but I have to have some evidence."
"But-" Cornell looked distressed.
"You have carte blanche," continued Mannix, using the tone of whimsical bittersweetness that had endeared him to a generation of moviegoers. "You can go the distance if you want to. I have every reason to believe she won't object. That part doesn't interest me. My one concern is catching her. You understand?"
He could see that Cornell was trying unsuccessfully to understand.
"Let me give it to you once again," said Mannix. Now his voice had bite. "Number one: I know my wife's been cheating on me. Number two: I need evidence that will stand up in court. Number three: If I can trap her in a compromising state, I'll have that evidence." He leaned back, fingering the key tag. "Not too hard a job," he said. "She won't say no, I guarantee you." He paused for effect. "And in return," he finished, "you acquire a featured part in my next film which commences shooting this fall in London."
He waited, thinking: I can hear the wheels turn. A featured part in Dale Mannix's next film? London in autumn? The big chance!
Jeff Cornell would draw and quarter his mother for less.
Mannix checked his wristwatch. It was only three-nineteen. Come on, he thought. He drank some Scotch and sat the glass down irritably. What were they doing now? He winced. His neck was stiffening again. Disturbances like this were bad for him. He should be home, relaxing in the sun, not sitting here. God damn her, anyway!
He looked at his watch again. Seven minutes more. He drew in trembling breath. Play it cool, he told himself. He'd have it made in seven minutes: the delight of seeing Inger's dazed expression and the evidence he'd need to dump her without cost. As for Cornell-He smiled. London in the fall would not see Jeff Cornell before any cameras. Idiot, Mannix thought coldly.
The scene projected on his mind again. Inger entering the hotel at five to three, heading for the desk. Mannix had been standing where she couldn't see him and observed her talking to the clerk, then smiling as she crossed the lobby toward the elevator. Room 315, he thought. He picked the key from the table and dropped it into his pocket. Cool, he thought. He pushed away the glass, then eyed his watch again. Time to go.
Mannix stood. He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and left the Polo Lounge. Crossing the side lobby, he ascended a half flight of steps and entered the men's room. There he scrubbed and rinsed his hands. I'm washing my hands of her, he thought, the concept pleasing him.
He stared at his reflection as he carefully combed his black and grey-streaked hair. Sixty-two? he thought. Absurd. He didn't look a day past forty-five. He was lean and hard. To hell with Inger. Who needed her? He was Dale Mannix. He didn't need anyone. He straightened his black knit tie. Hic jacet, cunt, he thought, you've had it. Mannix is about to dump you-right into the garbage can where you belong.
The elevator was waiting. He stepped inside and pressed the button. He was Vince DeMaine in City Heat going up to kill his faithless wife. No, that was unreality, he thought. This was happening; he was merely getting rid of excess baggage. She could play around on someone else's money. As for him, there were still a lot of numbers in his book.
The doors slid open. Mannix left the elevator, listening to his footsteps. Room 325. He pressed his shoulders back, visualizing himself as he walked: tall, distinguished, on top of the world. Room 323. If Academy Awards were given for true-life performances, he'd win one for the scene he was about to play. 321. He smiled. Let them be naked, he thought. 319. His words were going to hit them with far more impact than bullets. 317. A few more paces.
Mannix stopped outside the room and listened. There was no sound inside. He waited tensely. What were they doing? He reached into his pocket and withdrew the key. Don't let me fumble now! he thought in panic as he almost dropped it. It would be horrible if he unlocked the door so clumsily that she had time to run into the bathroom. They had to be in bed together, naked, staring at him. He would accept no less.
He shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door ajar.
A wave of darkness rushed across him. For a moment, he was certain he was going to faint. His fingers grabbed the doorknob as he wavered.
Jeff Cornell was standing by the window, smoking nervously. Inger was sitting on a chair. Both were dressed. The bed was made.
"Do come in," said Inger coldly.
Mannix gaped at her. Her face was pale and rigid, her expression filled with venomous distaste. "Well, are you going to close the door?" she asked. "Or would you rather everyone in the hotel found out about this?"
Mannix pushed the door shut. He felt dazed and numb.
"Disappointed?" Inger asked. "Is your big scene ruined? The outraged husband telling off the guilty wife? Did you rehearse it for a long time?"
Mannix couldn't speak.
"You must think I'm awfully stupid," Inger said.
It hit him then. "You knew," he said.
"Brilliant!" she exploded.
"But why-?"
"I have to tell you, don't I?" Inger cut him off. "I really have to tell you-it's impossible for you to understand." She stood up, glaring at him. "I've had it, Dale!" she raged. "Is that clear? Do you understand that? I have had it! Years and years of living with your damned suspicions! All right for you to have affairs! Oh, yes, of course! You're Dale Mannix, you're the big star! Mr. Romance! But me? Oh, no, not me! I had to be watched like a criminal! Questioned! Hounded! Constantly suspected! Well, I've had it, Dale! This is the last damned straw! Trying to trick me into having an affair with a total stranger so you can trap me with him! You're sick, Dale! You're sick and you're too damned much for me!
Mannix reached out feebly. "Inger." He felt cold and sick. "Inger, please." His neck was like a board.
Inger closed the door and locked it, walked across the room, and sat on the bed. Lying down, she gazed up at the ceiling.
That had been the closest one of all. If Cornell hadn't told her what was going on-She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms. All that conversation on the phone and she'd never had the least suspicion it was Dale. She groaned. My God, he could have wrapped me up but good, she thought.
She stretched luxuriantly. It was all right now, though. It had worked out perfectly-she might have planned it herself. Dale wouldn't dare suspect her now. Not for a long time, anyway. She laughed softly. It was a riot that the man he'd picked to trap her had gotten her a long reprieve instead.
Inger sighed. And what a man, she thought. She was looking forward to spending time with him. She clenched her teeth and murmured, "Kostlich."
She turned her head and looked up at the rows of photographs on the wall. Dale Mannix. The big star. Mr. Romance. She snickered. Old fool, she thought.
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