Hollywood and Levine Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind them I supposed wives were preparing suppers for husbands but it was hard to imagine. No people sat in yards or took down wash; perhaps only fruit baskets occupied these jukebox-colored houses. I lowered my chin into a moist palm and felt that mixture of bemusement and sick-to-the-gut loneliness that comes with entering a strange city. And there is, I learned, no city stranger than Los Angeles, even to its inhabitants.
    My sense of time and place was bent completely out of whack. It was that most numbing and private hour, sunset, and I stared out the windows of this cab wondering what the hell I was doing in California, so far from my small comforts. The more I speculated on the Adrian tale, the more half-baked the whole venture seemed, three hundred bills or not. I knew nothing about the writer’s life or the worlds in which he moved, nothing about his friends or enemies. I didn’t know the good guys from the heavies, the golden girls from the floozies. I wasn’t even sure I could really trust Adrian; God knows what he might have flown me out here for. To be his alibi, to save his marriage. People with money can exercise their whims in a more dramatic fashion than can those without it.
    I massaged my brain in this useless fashon all the way to the hotel, located on a residential Hollywood street called Sierra Bonita, just off Sunset Boulevard. The Camino Real was three stories of unpretentious white stucco separated from the street by a driveway which curved around a broad lawn boasting a slightly oily lily pond. I paid the Mexican, somnambulated through the Spanish-style lobby of wrought iron railings and red tile floors, and was led to my room by an elderly priss named Roy. He told me I looked like the rugged type. I congratulated him on his perception and closed the door in his face.
    Adrian had gotten me a large and airy back room. It overlooked a small patio set in a grove of fragrant fruit trees, but I was too tired to enjoy it. I flopped down on the soft double bed and closed my eyes. It was a quarter to seven. What I really wanted to do was grab some dinner, go to sleep, and check in with Adrian early the next morning. But I rarely do what I want to do, who of us does? So I sat up and decided to get right on the case.
    Funny thing is the case was practically over.
    When I called Adrian’s house a woman answered. I asked if she was Helen Adrian. She sounded guarded.
    â€œYes, this is. Who am I speaking to?”
    â€œIt’s Jack LeVine, Mrs. Adrian, from New York.”
    â€œWalter’s friend the private eye?” She sounded relieved.
    â€œHimself. In person.”
    â€œWell, it’s just marvelous that you’re here. Walter’s been raving about you.” Helen Adrian had the kind of husky and unvarnished voice that usually went with women I got silly over.
    â€œWalter always raves. Can I speak to him?”
    â€œWell, Jack, Walter’s still at the studio. He’s working late on a rewrite that was due five days ago.”
    â€œSo he’s still working?”
    â€œOh yes. Contract squabbles or not. He’s devoted to his work.” I couldn’t separate the irony from the admiration. Both were present in her voice.
    â€œHow’s he been?”
    â€œUp and down,” she said carefully. “Mainly down. As far as I know, his agent and Warners are still negotiating. Apparently they’re starting to give in a little and Larry—that’s Larry Goldmark, Walter’s agent—thinks there might have been some misunderstanding all along. But he’s not sure.”
    â€œSounds vague as hell.”
    â€œDoesn’t it? This business really stinks, Jack, you can’t imagine.” Her words were bitter but the tone remained detached, analytical.
    â€œI’ll have to learn,” I told her. “Listen, will I be able to see Walter tonight?” I hoped she’d say no.
    â€œOf course,” she said. “He left