The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh. Страница 4

He reached for the ring I wore on a silver chain around my neck. I put up a protective hand. «Isn't this moving kind of fast?»

I shrugged. «Feels right to me.» I could have explained the ring. It wasn't what Steve thought. Dan and I had been in an antique shop. I'd seen the ring and said it was pretty, which it was: old-fashioned setting and «chocolate» diamonds. Dan had bought it for a couple of dollars. Mostly as a joke. It didn't fit me or anything. «So he's moved in?»

«Not officially,» I admitted. «But we haven't spent a night under separate roofs since he took the bodyguard gig.» Steve's smile was wry. «Well, you're the happiest I've seen you in a long time.» «I am.» «Just … fuck, I don't know.» I studied him curiously. «You don't like Dan, do you?»

He reached over and shifted the screenplay next to his elbow a fraction to the left. «I don't know. He's okay. I mean, he's a great looking guy and he seems to really care about you. He makes you laugh, which is good.» He grimaced. «Maybe I'm jealous.» «Nah. Come on. What is it?» Steve's brown eyes met mine. «He seems a little controlling. Possessive.» I considered this. «He does?» Steve raised a shoulder. «Yeah. Maybe it's a cop thing.» «Yeah,» I said slowly.

Steve drank more beer. «Hey, listen. I know you're hot on doing this role, and I respect that. It's a good script and a great role, I have no doubt. Just remember, it's the kind of part that's liable to get you typecast, which until now you've avoided. And that's a good thing, regardless of what that asshole Lenny Norman thinks or says.» «Duly noted,» I said. «Peter Grady has already expressed interest in working with you again.» «He has?» «His people called your people.» «You mean his agent called you?»

«Yep. And Winston Marshall, who is producing the film, is definitely interested in you – which I think is how we managed to score a copy of the script. I think he put pressure on Norman.» It was all I could do not to grab for the screenplay then and there.

«Just keep in mind that working with a director who didn't want you wouldn't be a good thing. Especially for you.» «Come on, Steve,» I said. «Hey. I'm just saying. There are other considerations.» «Like the fact that I wouldn't get my usual fee? Such as it is.» «Bingo.» «Money isn't everything.» «It is when you need it.»

We talked a while longer and I invited Steve to dinner. He declined on the grounds that he had previous plans, and took off not long after. I wondered if he really had plans or if this was about Dan. It would be awkward as hell if Steve really disliked Dan. I wondered what Dan thought about Steve. Or if he thought about him at all.

Rising, I got myself another beer from the fridge, changed the record to Frank Sinatra's Only the Lonely and settled back in the lounge chair with the screenplay for The Charioteer. FADE IN EXT. DUNKIRK – DAY

The sea air worked its way into the script as I pictured the chaos of Dunkirk: the sprawl of the dead and dying beneath the black pall of smoke in the windless sky; the makeshift armada of ships and boats and skiffs and rafts and anything that could float; the exhausted and shamed British troops. Ice cold water, the whistle of shells overhead, the smell of guns and brine and blood and death – Laurie Odell with his kneecap blown off, out of his skull with morphia and pain and seasickness.

Sort of put my own problems into perspective. How the hell did anyone hold it together under those conditions? And how the hell were they going to convey the magnitude of the disaster of Dunkirk on a shoestring budget?

I had just reached the part where Ralph Lanyon realizes that the blood-drenched soldier he is asked to pronounce dead is Laurie Odell, a man who holds a special place in his boyhood memories, when I got that prickly feeling you get when you know you're being watched.

Looking up, I expected to see Mrs. Wiggly on patrol. Nothing. The white beach was blindingly empty in the afternoon sun. A few boats dotted the distant blue glitter of the water.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head, staring up at the hillside behind the house. A man stood on the flat-topped rock that overlooked this private stretch of beach.

He was too far away to make out his face, but I recognized the shaggy blond hair, the baggy Hawaiian shirt, the black sunglasses. Paul Hammond. My mouth went dry. My heart started slugging hard against my ribcage.

It can't be, I thought. Don't flip out over a coincidence. This is a beach town. Half the guys around here have shaggy hair. Half the guys out here wear sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts.

I blinked. The guy on the rock was still looking my way. Or maybe he was just facing my way. Don't start imagining things, I told myself.

Shading my eyes with my hand, I tried to get a better look, and as I stared – trying not to be too obvious about it – he waved to me.

I short-circuited, incapable for several long seconds of thinking what my next move should be. Finally, shakily, I stood and walked into the house. From inside the doorway I stared back at the hillside. The man was gone.

He couldn't be gone, gone. He must have moved on down the hillside where I couldn't see him from where I stood. «Maria?»

Maria Martinez, my housekeeper, withdrew from the oven, holding up her inky-stained orange plastic gloves. «Si?» She gazed at me with her beautiful, solemn olive eyes.

«When you cleaned up the breakfast dishes, what did you do with the postcard that was on the table?» «I didn't see no postcard, Mr. Fairchild.»

«There was a picture postcard on the table. Right next to the jam pot.» I could hear the agitation rising in my voice despite the silliness of the words. Maria was staring at me, slowly shaking her head. «No.»

«Yes.» I made a little square with my hands as though that might refresh her memory. «There was a postcard.»

Somehow her expression managed to look both polite and like she thought I was losing it. Then she brightened. «Oh, si. Mr. Moran. He take something off the table. You ask heem, Mr. Fairchild.» She smiled to show me there were no hard feelings and returned to scrubbing the inside of the stove.

I walked over to the sliding door and stared out through the screen. Chaparral stirred in the wind. The hillside was bare of anyone. Dan was late getting home – and that was not usual.

I told myself to get used to it. I'd done enough cop shows to know that detectives keep irregular hours – even when they're not working.

It was nearly five-thirty when the screen door suddenly slid open. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but Dan didn't seem to notice, walking out on the deck and kissing me hello.

«Sorry, I'm late. Traffic was a bitch down PCH.» He handed me a bottle of wine and a flat brown-wrapped parcel.

«It's okay.» I glanced at the wine – a very nice chardonnay – and took the parcel. «Are we celebrating?» «Aren't we?» Just for a moment his smile was unsure. «I guess we are.» I picked at the string of the package. «What's this?» «Something for you.»

«Yeah?» I couldn't remember the last time somebody bought me a gift Just Because. When you're the guy with the money, people just assume you're picking up the tab.

I tore open the wrapping and studied the indigo-blue cover: Ella Fitzgerald's profile faced the New York nightscape. The original 1957 Verve recording of Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Gershwin Song Book. «My God, where did you find this?» «That little place in Santa Monica where you buy the phonograph needles.»

«I … thank you.» I turned the cover over and studied the play list. «'The Man I Love,'» I read aloud. «'Nice Work if You Can Get It.'» I smiled at him.

«Ain't that the truth.» He leaned forward and kissed me again. Fresh male with a hint of mint. If this kept up I would soon be addicted to the flavor of him «Want me to put it on?»