Cover-Up Story (9 page)

I moved forward to the rescue, and heard the Client say, ‘How's about you and me going out for a quiet drink?'

‘No, really,' Penny gasped. ‘I have to go home and do my homework.' As an attempt to discourage him by reference to her youth, it was a failure. Black Bart chuckled insinuatingly.

‘Why don't you just go get your homework and bring it back here, then? I jest love helping kiddies with their homework. I got a real talent for it.'

At least he kept his voice low. The Press were leaving, and Penny's schoolmates too far away to hear. Sam had been out of earshot, too, but he charged forward nervously, as though he knew what was going on. I decided it was time to speak to Sam again.

‘Come on, Bart.' Sam pulled him away from Penny. ‘It's time to start for the theatre. You want to check those lighting cues again, and I don't think the amplifier sounded so good at last night's performance. We ought to –'

‘Leave me alone!' Bart shrugged Sam off. ‘Leave
us
alone.' He started for Penny again, but I stepped in front of him.

‘We'd like a few more pictures of you, Bart,' I said. ‘You and the Cousins – with Lou-Ann.' I signalled Gerry forward with the camera.

Bart hesitated and, while he was unsure, I nudged him farther away from Penny. She wasted no time in quietly heading for the exit, leaving her friends to trail after her. Bart put out his hand, as though to try to stop her, but the Cousins and Lou-Ann closed in on us and the moment of danger was past.

‘You damned fool,' Sam snarled softly at me. ‘I thought you said you were having your secretary present the award. What the hell went wrong?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Penny
is
my secretary.'

‘Why, you dawg!' The Client whirled on me, giving me a conspiratorial slap on the back. ‘They's more to you than I suspected. Who'd'a' thought it?' He guffawed loudly.

‘Just get over there and pose.' Sam shoved him into the corner. ‘And shut up!'

Still snuffling with laughter, Black Bart let himself be angled into position while Gerry took half a dozen shots. Sam supervised the session, then dismissed the Troupe and turned to Gerry and me.

‘Come upstairs!' The velvet gloves were off, and the whiplash of command was in his voice. Little Brother was exercising his authority – with a sudden vengeance. ‘Both of you. I want to talk to you.'

Sam slammed the door of his room on us as soon as we were inside and whirled on us. On me. ‘Are you crazy?' he demanded. ‘What the hell do you mean, dragging a kid like that near Bart? Are you
trying
to start trouble?'

‘What does he mean, “a kid like that” ?' Gerry caught the air of belligerency. ‘What's the matter with Penny? She's a nice kid.'

‘I think that's what he means.' A lot of things were beginning to come clear, and I didn't like the shape of any of them. ‘Sam, suppose you put us in the picture. All the way in.'

‘Have a drink.' It was surrender. He was in no position to keep up the boss routine. Sam brought out a bottle of bourbon and poured stiff ones. He didn't bother with water in his.

‘What's this all about?' Gerry dumped the camera equipment on the bed and accepted his drink with suspicion.

‘How old is that Penny kid?' Sam asked.

‘Fifteen.'

‘Jesus!' He shuddered and gulped at his bourbon. It did nothing to alleviate the greenish tinge which was creeping back into his face. ‘How soon do they throw them into the labour market over here, anyway?'

‘School leaving age is fifteen. Penny is going to business college and working part-time for us. As you've probably gathered, the business isn't flourishing quite well enough to run a full-time secretary.'

Sam shook his head, and waved away the reference to balance sheets. They were the least of his worries at the moment. ‘Jesus!' he said again.

‘Sam,' I said, ‘tell us.'

He tried his favourite trick of gazing into space, but there was no escape there any longer. His eyes wavered and met mine with a sick expression. But it was time to be relentless.

‘Bart,' I prodded. ‘You've had trouble with him before?'

Sam nodded weakly.

‘Perhaps that's the real reason for this unscheduled English tour, with no advance publicity?'

Sam nodded again.

‘Obviously, you two know what you're talking about,' Gerry said plaintively, ‘but do you think you could let me in on this meeting of minds?'

‘I think the Client likes little girls,' I said. ‘Too much.'

‘What do you mean?' Gerry wasn't usually so obtuse, but I couldn't blame his mind for boggling.

‘Jailbait!' Sam turned on him. ‘Lolitas. San Quentin Quail. Under-age,' he spelled it out, ‘so that, even if they say they consented, it's still statutory rape.'

‘In short,' I repeated, ‘the Client is a child molester. Female children.'

Gerry reeled, but rallied. ‘How very different,' he murmured weakly, ‘from the home life of our own dear queans.'

‘And the real reason for this sudden urge for Olde Worlde culture?'

‘He got away from us on that New England tour.' Sam was a defeated man. ‘Hell, we couldn't chain him up. And that stupid lug couldn't get it into his head that there was a difference between the daughter of a New England doctor and the daughter of some Southern sharecropper. Instead of Big Daddy striding round with the horsewhip, ready to be bought off, the Yankee yelled for the law. The Agency is doing its best to come to some settlement, but I've orders to keep Bart over here until they succeed in quashing the indictment.'

‘No wonder they decided Lou-Ann was a better bet for stardom.' I was feeling a bit sick. ‘Or is there something wrong with her, too?'

‘What the hell do you mean by that?' That brought Sam to his feet fighting.

‘Well, she
is
sharing a room with her mother, instead of her ever-loving spouse.'

‘That's not her fault. It's all because of that goddamned bitch, anyway. She hasn't shared a room with Bart since they got married.'

‘I can see it was a real love-match. Was that when Crystal moved in?'

‘Crystal – are you crazy?' Sam sat down again and reached for his drink. ‘Crystal is Bart's sister, that's all. I meant Maw Cooney. It's all her fault.'

‘I can understand her not approving.'

‘Approving? You think Maw Cooney didn't approve?' Sam laughed harshly. ‘Let me tell you, she engineered the whole thing. Lou-Ann was only fourteen at the time. She as good as pushed her into bed with Bart and, in the morning, dear old Maw was standing by the pillow with a shotgun – and a Justice of the Peace.'

It explained a lot of things, but not quite the hold Maw Cooney seemed to have over Bart. ‘Why?' I asked. ‘Bart must have dodged a lot of shotgun weddings in his time. How come he let Maw Cooney force him up the aisle?'

‘Because she had the biggest, blackest shotgun of all – and both barrels were loaded. With more than buckshot.' Sam refilled his bourbon and passed the bottle around. ‘You see, in the ...heat of the moment...Bart didn't notice that he was driving along a very winding road. The motel they ended up at was across the State Line. That made it a violation of the Mann Act – transporting a female across the State Lines for immoral purposes. That took it out of the realm of quaint little local laws and turned it into a Federal offence. Maw Cooney had him by the short hairs, because if she yelled Cop, he faced a term in the Federal Penitentiary.'

‘So he did the decent thing and made an honest woman out of the little gal.' All the cards were face up now, and I was right – I'd been dealt a full hand of jokers.

‘Since when,' Sam drained his glass, ‘he has ignored the blushing bride. As the man says, you can lead a horse to water . . .'

‘You know,' Gerry said thoughtfully, ‘I've never regretted it more that we don't have a drinks firm among our clients. This seems a night when there's nothing for it but to get drunk. It won't do any good, but it will certainly make me feel better.'

‘There's another bottle of bourbon.' Sam squinted at it thoughtfully. ‘Be my guests.'

Before I did, I wanted to be certain of just one more point. ‘That's the

full
story? We know the absolute worst now? You don't have a couple more cards up your sleeve – like a brace of Aces of Spades?'

‘Scout's honour.' Sam raised his hand. ‘Believe me, if there was anything more,
I
couldn't stand it. Not even to help Nathan out.'

I glanced at Gerry and he nodded. We believed Sam. There was nothing worse up his sleeve, but he had already dealt us enough.

I poured more bourbon, knowing, even as I did so, that it was not going to help me to relax.

By late the next morning, the insistent pounding in my head had slackened off and the situation looked better. At least, so far as the Perkins & Tate end of it was concerned. For our sins, Gerry and I had once handled an ageing Broadway star during his English tour, and the experience we had gathered trying to keep him from his craving, and sober enough to go onstage every night ought to stand us in good stead watching over Black Bart. It should be easier to spot Bart sneaking off the rails, since his penchant didn't come in half, quarter and miniature sizes, and couldn't be tucked away into convenient desk drawers or coat pockets.

All we had to do, then, was keep Bart away from the under-age segment of his public. Autograph books could be collected at the Stage Door and brought to Bart to sign in his dressing-room, so there would be no gathering of kids for him to plough through after the performance. Sam could continue to dog Bart's footsteps whenever he stepped outside the hotel and, even though it would cut into what we laughingly referred to as ‘our other business', Gerry and I could take turns on guard duty when Sam wanted time off. Oh yes, and it might be a good idea to make sure that Bart never came near the office or got within sighting distance of Penny again.

Having decided that, I thought I'd covered all contingencies. I even thought it didn't sound too difficult. A strenuous programme, perhaps, but not an impossible one. But then, I was a hundred years younger in those days.

For one thing, I had forgotten the rest of the Troupe. I realized this when the telephone rang, and I heard the plaintive whine at the other end of the line.

‘Douglas, I'm right disappointed in you. I do think you ought to see to it that Lou-Ann gets some kind of Award now, with pictures, and all. Her Public expects it.'

My head began throbbing again. ‘Good morning, Mrs Cooney. How are you today?'

‘Like I said, I'm disappointed. I did think you was a friend of ours.'

‘I was,' I said. ‘I am. I'm sorry you're disappointed, Mrs Cooney. But, you know, Bart
does
have the Top of the Charts hit, so it's Bart we must concentrate on. I
did
get Lou-Ann into some of the pictures, however.'

‘Yes, I know. I understand your position –' her voice dropped meaningfully – ‘like you explained it so good to me the other night. But you got to think of Lou-Ann's position, too, and her future. That Bart – he's nothing but a flash in the pan. And I know how come he got that song to sing, too – it shoulda gone to Lou-Ann – but we won't bother about that right now. Don't you worry, though, I'm gonna see that something like that don't never happen again.'

I immediately began to worry. ‘Mrs Cooney, I hope you won't mention anything I told you the other night. It was in strictest confidence, and for your information only –'

‘That's right,' she interrupted firmly. ‘And that's just why I'm calling you now. Because I know you got Lou-Ann's interests at heart – even if it don't always seem like it.'

‘Mrs Cooney, I assure you –'

‘Now, I want to get together with you for a nice long talk about what we can do to promote Lou-Ann over here. I already got some good ideas. I think you ought to get Lou-Ann to open some of them village fetes like you read about in English novels. You might not realize it, but Lou-Ann is no stranger to that kind of thing. She's real good at it. Why, she opened the State Agricultural Fair and the County Stock Show at home last year, and they gave her an honorary bronze medal for hog-calling. I mean, that little girl is just loaded with talent. She'd liven up any of your old fetes good and proper.'

‘I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Cooney,' I said, ‘but my other phone is ringing. I do agree that we must talk together soon. Perhaps next week. You've certainly given me a great deal to think about.'

I rang off quickly, before she could say anything more, and staggered off in search of an aspirin.

But when a day starts like that, it usually goes on like that. Penny's mother telephoned to report that Penny had ‘caught a chill' and wouldn't be in for the rest of the week. I didn't blame her. I told her mother that we were sorry to hear that, and that we'd see that Penny got her salary just the same. We'd collect it from the Client somewhere among the other fees.

I know that the human race would be in a bad way without mothers, but I'd had enough of them for one day, so I decided to clear out of the office before any more could call.

I remembered the card in my pocket from one of our PR friends – an invitation to an early afternoon film show in Leicester Square to demonstrate a new colour process, with an urgent ‘Come and help swell the ranks' scrawled across the accompanying compliments slip. I could roam in there, looking like an interested advertising man, and try to catnap while the last of my hangover twinged itself out.

There turned out, as usual, to be more swelling than ranks at the showing. Afterwards, some of the crowd gathered round to congratulate me on the new Perkins & Tate account. It sounded good, handling Black Bart, and I didn't disillusion them. We went out for a few drinks at a new restaurant someone else was opening, and made a meal of the
canapés.
It was all very convivial.