Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 3

Leroy Dane was one of the film colony’s most eligible bachelors, if you don’t mind calling a man a bachelor who has been married three, four, or five times. He was thirty-four, according to his studio’s press releases. According to the same releases he was six feet two and had been raised on a ranch in West Texas. He had played football in college, had been captain of the boxing team and had won eight letters in athletics.

His war record was excellent. He had served in General Omar Bradley’s tank corps and had twice been recommended for bravery in action. In 1946 he had come to Hollywood, where a talent scout accosted him in Schwab’s drugstore and later got him a one-scene part in a service picture. The teenage fans discovered him in that small part and he had been catapulted to stardom.

He was the biggest star on the World Wide lot — and the most disliked by the studio executives. Dane never wore a hat. Some of his enemies said he wanted to show off his wavy locks, but the truth of the matter was that the hat shops simply did not make hats big enough for the size head that topped Leroy Dane’s manly shoulders.

Dane liked to sit at the bar in The Tuilleries. The mirror behind the bar was unadorned and in it Dane could see himself as he smiled, frowned, and smirked at his reflection. He wasn’t a heavy drinker. Two-three martinis of an evening, sometimes a screwdriver to top them off. Some evenings he drank beer. That was when he had to work the next day and he liked to keep his eyes clear. They had a tendency to be bloodshot after martinis.

Leroy Dane was a strikingly handsome man. Tom Alder conceded that as he sat down on the bar stool next to the idol of millions of feminine motion picture fans.

“You’re Leroy Dane,” he said after he had ordered a bourbon-on-the-rocks.

Dane regarded him coolly. “Yes?” There was an inquiry in the monosyllable.

Alder grinned. “I’m not selling insurance. I haven’t got a subpoena for you and I’m not going to ask you for your autograph. I’m just making conversation.”

“About what?”

Alder shook his head. “I guess a man in your position has to keep his guard up all the time. Leaves him open for a stiff one in the stomach.”

“You a fighter?” the movie idol countered.

“Only in barrooms,” said Alder.

Dane sized him up. “You’re about my size. A little older, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“You look like a man who’s put in some time in the army.”

“The usual.”

“ETO?”

“Pacific.”

“European Theater myself,” Dane said. “I was with General Omar Bradley’s Tank Corps. Came out with silver bars. Man, those tin buggies were rough. And anybody says those Krauts weren’t good fighters don’t know what he’s talking about. ’Member, when they broke through there in the Bulge? Those Mark Three’s kept a-comin’ and a-comin’. They had our Shermans all beat to hell. Armor plate three inches thick. Our .75’s bounced right off em. You see that picture, Tank Brigade, a while ago? Fella wrote that never saw a tank. Taking money under false pretenses. Studio gave me a script yesterday. Never read such crap in my life. Man gets two thousand a week, you’d think he’d know his trade. Last picture I made I had to practically ad-lib the whole thing. Words... words, that’s all. No rhyme or reason. Holes in the story you could drive a truck through—”

“Or, a Mark Three tank!”

“What? Yeah, I get it. A tank. I was saying, these Hollywood writers are taking money under false pretenses. Lazy, every mother’s son of them. You think an actor’s got an easy life? Making faces is the easiest part of it. Rewriting your dialogue, making sense out of the hogwash that’s thrown at you. Watching the camera angles, the setups. Half the time you got a crew that’s never worked together. You have to tell them how to light a set, where to put the camera. Then you take these new actors, with their Stanislavsky method. Eatin’ all the time, scratchin’ themselves. Mumblin’ like they had mush in their mouths.”

“Lover!” cried the blonde, as she swooped down on Leroy Dane.

Dane grinned. It was almost a sheepish grin and might have been on another man, as the blonde threw her arms about him, kissed him soundly on the left cheek, on the right cheek, on the forehead and then crushed her lips against his. It was a noisy kiss, for she moaned and slobbered and smacked her lips and kissed and kissed. Then she dragged Dane away, toward one of the darker booths at the side of the lounge.

Alder’s eyes followed them, followed them and started to return. And then they met — and held — the eyes of the tawny one at the little table for four. There was recognition in the eyes that met his. Recognition, speculation — and decision. The owner of the eyes said a few words to the man on her right, then got up from the table and came toward Alder.

She said, when she reached him, “You weren’t going to make the move, were you?”

“No,” Alder said evenly.

“That’s what I thought. Tom — it’s been a long time.”

“They don’t show on you — the years.”

“You’re exactly the way I thought you’d be. Handsome, distinguished-looking, strong. You hate me, don’t you, Tom?”

“Why should I hate you?”

“Because of what I did to you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“And you’ve gotten over it? You met a girl and married her. You’ve got children?”

“No.”

“No children? But you are married? Some woman must have laid a trap for you. I hate her.”

“There’s no one to hate. I’m not married.”

“Neither am I — now.” She half looked over her shoulder in the general direction of the table she had left. “I’m with some friends, Tom. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you join us? Harris won’t mind — and if he does, I don’t care.”

“I’m sorry, Linda. I’ve got to be going. I just stopped in for a quick one.”

“Wasn’t that Leroy Dane, the movie star, you were with? Harris knows him. Plays golf at the same club. He’s a stockbroker — Harris, I mean. And you, Tom, what do you do? You were going to be a lawyer.”

“I gave that up.”

She drew back and looked searchingly into his eyes. Her voice became throaty. “It hurt you terribly, I know. It’s made you — bitter.”

He shook his head. “I’m not bitter. Oh, I won’t say it didn’t hurt at the time. It did. It hurt like hell. But I had a lot of company. Half the men in my outfit got Dear John letters. We passed them around.”

“You didn’t!”

“It helped. We made jokes about the letters.”

“Oh, Tom!”

He looked at her inquiringly. “What happened to the man you married? What was his name — Newcomer?”

“It didn’t work out. And his name was Newcombe, Glen Newcombe. Tom, I’ve got to talk to you. Later. Harris is beginning to pout. And Nikki seems annoyed. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Alder looked at the table where Linda’s friends were. Striking was a better word than beautiful. A brunette, in her early thirties. Nikki... the name had a foreign ring and she could have been a Central European. At a distance, she had a regal quality. Her skin seemed flawless, although somewhat on the pale side. Her coiffure was beautifully done, piled high and to the rear of her head.

“Nikki,” Linda repeated. “Nikki Collinson. That’s her husband with her. Walter Collinson. You’ve heard of him!”

Yes. Walter Collinson. He was money — big money. And Linda Foster — if that was the name she was using now — was moving in those circles. Very good. She had progressed from the innocuous, anaemic assistant bank cashier, for whom she had sent Tom Alder the Dear John letter.

He nodded. “We’ll have lunch sometime. I’ll give you a call.”

“How can you? You don’t know where to reach me. You weren’t even going to ask me. I’ll call you.”

She went off, then, rejoining her friends. And she had not asked him for his telephone number.