Whispers Read Online Free PDF Page A

easy money, too much whiskey, too much cocaine, lazy sunny days, drinks by the pool, vacation in Acapulco and Palm Springs, sex in the back seat of a fur-lined Rolls-Royce. A fantasy. An illusion. She supposed that a society long abused by corrupt and incompetent leaders, a society standing upon pilings that had been rotted by inflation and excess taxation, a society existing in the cold shadow of sudden nuclear annihilation, needed its illusions if it were to survive. In truth, people in the movie and television industries worked harder than almost anyone else, even though the product of their labor was not always, perhaps not even often, worth the effort. The star of a successful television series worked from dawn till nightfall, often fourteen or sixteen hours a day. Of course, the rewards were enormous. But in reality, the parties were not so wild, the women no faster than women in Philadelphia or Hackensack or Tampa, the days sunny but seldom lazy, and the sex exactly the same as it was for secretaries in Boston and shopkeepers in Pittsburgh.
    Wally had to leave at a quarter past six in order to keep a seven o’clock engagement, and a couple of the table-hoppers in the Polo Lounge asked Hilary to have dinner with them. She declined, pleading a prior commitment.
    Outside the hotel, the autumn evening was still bright. A few high clouds tracked across the technicolor sky. The sunlight was the color of platinum-blonde hair, and the air was surprisingly fresh for mid-week Los Angeles. Two young couples laughed and chattered noisily as they climbed out of a blue Cadillac, and farther away, on Sunset Boulevard, tires hummed and engines roared and horns blared as the last of the rush hour crowd tried to get home alive.
    As Hilary and Wally waited for their cars to be brought around by the smiling valets, he said, “Are you really having dinner with someone?”
    “Yeah. Me, myself, and I.”
    “Look, you can come along with me.”
    “The uninvited guest.”
    “I just invited you.”
    “I don’t want to spoil your plans.”
    “Nonsense. You’d be a delightful addition.”
    “Anyway, I’m not dressed for dinner.”
    “You look fine.”
    “I want to be alone,” she said.
    “You do a terrible Garbo. Come to dinner with me. Please. It’s just an informal evening at The Palm with a client and his wife. An up and coming young television writer. Nice people.”
    “I’ll be okay, Wally. Really.”
    “A beautiful woman like you, on a night like this, with so much to celebrate—there ought to be candlelight, soft music, good wine, a special someone to share it with.”
    She grinned. “Wally, you’re a closet romantic.”
    “I’m serious,” he said.
    She put one hand on his arm. “It’s sweet of you to be concerned about me, Wally. But I’m perfectly all right. I’m happy when I’m alone. I’m very good company for myself. There’ll be plenty of time for a meaningful relationship with a man and skiing weekends in Aspen and chatty evenings at The Palm after The Hour of the Wolf is finished and in the theaters.”
    Wally Topelis frowned. “If you don’t learn how to relax, you won’t survive for very long in a high-pressure business like this. In a couple of years, you’ll be as limp as a rag doll, tattered, frayed, worn out. Believe me, kid, when the physical energy is all burnt up, you’ll suddenly discover that the mental energy, the creative juice, has also evaporated with it.”
    “This project is a watershed for me,” she said. “After it, my life won’t be the same.”
    “Agreed. But—”
    “I’ve worked hard, damned hard, single-mindedly, toward this chance. I’ll admit it: I’ve been obsessed with my work. But once I’ve made a reputation as a good writer and a good director, I’ll feel secure. I’ll finally be able to cast out the demons—my parents, Chicago, all those bad memories. I’ll be able to relax and lead a more normal life. But I can’t rest yet. If I slack off now,