Scruples (52 page)

“Christ—I’ve known the kid for years. I still can’t believe it. It’s a terrible thing! He’s been my stand-in for my last three pictures. He has nobody in the world—a drifter until he came to Hollywood. I gave him the job two years ago—the kid used to hang around wanting to be an actor, but he had no talent. Poor kid. Poor Harry, Jesus. He was brought up on some God-forsaken farm somewhere, but he’d never tell me where. We’ve got to have a funeral, Vito, and fast. This is a hot country.”

“Was he a Catholic? Do you have any proof?”

“Shit, no:—who the hell knows those things?”

“We can’t bury him here then. They don’t like us anyway in this town, and they won’t let us bury a non-Catholic in their graveyard.”

The two men looked at each other. It meant chartering a plane to fly down from Los Angeles and take the body back. It meant making funeral arrangements at long distance and considerable expense.

“Vito, the kid loved the sea, really had a thing for it. Is it against the law to bury him at sea?”

“I think we had better send his body back to L.A., Ben. The studio will just add it to our overages.”

“Vito, I’m telling you, the kid would have wanted to be buried at sea. I feel strongly about this. Harry had terrible fears of—of being cremated, of being buried under the earth—
I have to insist
about this, Vito.” The actor was shaking with some emotion Vito didn’t understand. It wasn’t grief and it wasn’t anger at being opposed. He repeated again, in a voice that was suddenly shrill and violent,
“I have to insist”
and Vito recognized his emotion. Fear. “Vito, I won’t be able to finish the picture unless he’s buried at sea. I’ll be too sick thinking about him being buried in the earth when he hated that idea—too sick to work.” Fear
and
blackmail.

“OK,” said Vito, “I’ll work it all out.”

Harry Brown was quietly buried at sea before the day was over.

Vito had too much riding on the completion of
Slow Boat
not to give in to Ben Lowell’s blackmail. He had not told Maggie the ultimate fact, the fact that because of the poor box-office performance of his last two pictures he had also had to put up a completion guarantee on this picture, selling his house outside Rome and his collection of lithographs to raise it. He had done it with his eyes open. A producer must believe in his judgment even if it means risking everything he owns to make sure he has money on hand to finish his picture.

But Vito Orsini knew that he had to find out why he had been blackmailed. The picture was slipping out of his hands. The day after Harry Brown had been lowered into the sea the director had worked all day shooting and re-shooting a key scene between Ben Lowell and Mary Hanes, but, without waiting for the dailies, Vito knew that the elements of good film weren’t there. Vito had spent all of that day on the set, disregarding the director’s pique, watching, watching, watching. He saw many little things, none of them exceptional in themselves, but with his highly developed extrasensory perception, his high-rolling gambler’s instinct, Vito saw enough—of what he couldn’t have explained—to make him wander over to Mary Hanes’s room after dinner. Vito found her wearing the bottom of a black bikini and a transparent halter that she had made out of one of her large, red chiffon scarves. In spite of her thinness, she exuded a dark carnal quality that made Vito feel as if he were entering the wildcat cage at a zoo every time he was alone with her. There was something truly evil and dangerous about this seraphically pretty girl, a combination that was the reason for her stardom.

“So, so—our bloody producer himself. Or should I say our bloody undertaker?” She was lying sprawled on the unmade bed in a room reeking of marijuana.

“Mary, in Mexico it is dangerous to smoke pot. And even outside of Mexico it is dangerous to mix it with whiskey. But, primarily, I thank God you aren’t drinking it on the rocks—the water might be even more dangerous.”

“Vito, you’re not a bad old cunt. I think I like you.” She passed him the joint and he took a drag, careful to keep the smoke in his mouth. “I’m almost glad you dropped in, you sodding Wop—I was getting just a bit blue.”

“I had a feeling something was wrong today.”

“Mary doesn’t like to have her pretty boy taken away from her and thrown into the deep blue sea—like a rat, just like a stepped-on rat. Christ, Vito, I can
see
him, fishes eating him.” She began to quiver, her eyes skittering away from the horror she saw.

Vito had made a successful picture with Mary Hanes only three years ago. In spite of the scandals she had been involved in, in the past, he had never seen her out of control before. Even her most outrageous remarks were carefully calculated to attract attention, her shocking witticisms were rehearsed and honed until she made copy every time she opened her wide, oddly ugly, utterly alluring mouth, the mouth that gave her the touch of strangeness that beauty must have. Tonight she was merely paranoid from grass.

“Mary, how long have you been smoking this stuff?” He passed her the joint with a anile that had nothing in it to indicate that she and her agent had assured him before he signed her that she hadn’t used drugs since she had been busted over a year ago on her return to Britain from South America, an affair that had been hushed up with difficulty.

“Since I was eleven—hasn’t everybody?” she said, giggling, in a sudden change of mood.

“No,” Vito said patiently, “I mean today.”

“What day is today? Wait—no—don’t tell me—it’s Friday. Right? Yesterday was Thursday, tomorrow—Saturday. Right?”

“Right, Mary, one hundred percent. So, how long have you been smoking?”

“Oh, that—since yesterday I think. I didn’t bring any with me. My bloody agent made sure of that—packed me up himself, he did—anyway, those turd-eating Mexican border guards’ll put you away, Vito—didja know that? So, afterward, I got some from that quack you brought from Mexico City—one hundred bucks and the bastard only gave me twenty joints—but it’s good stuff. Want another drag? Come on—”

Vito took another small drag, clamping the end of the joint lightly between his teeth to prevent the smoke from reaching his throat. He realized that Mary Hanes was far gone, but, like so many grass smokers, she had become too restless to stop talking.

“So you started after Harry had the accident?” Vito asked her calmly. “I understand. It was very sad. Such a young, good-looking kid. A sad, silly way to die. You found him simpatico?”

“Simpatico? What’s with these bloody Italian words, Vito? That pretty piece of rough trade? Ben’s cock-sucker—Ben won’t make a picture without the kid around—stand-in! He had more talent in his mouth than anywhere else—a tongue that could drive you crazy—he’d do anything for a buck. Simpatico!” She seemed to muse bitterly on what she had said. “More whiskey, Vito.” She held out her glass. In her skimpy bikini bottom and almost nude halter, stoned out of her mind, Mary Hanes looked as innocent as a cherub on the ceiling of a small Roman church.

“Rough trade?” Vito knew what the words meant. But did she—in her condition? She looked at him scornfully.

“Sweetums, momma’s baby boy, come to mama.” She grasped Vito’s hands and pulled him to her, guiding his hands over her hard, flexible body, pushing them between her legs. “Even that nasty bit of work, even that little whore, that gorgeous slab off the meat rack, wanted Mary. They all want Mary. And I wanted him. Ben knew it too—bloody queen—wouldn’t let Harry out of his sight—fucking faggot, wanted pretty Harry all to himself—and now he’s got bloody fuck-all. Serves him right, shit-licking murderer—who’ll suck his cock now?”

“Harry fell, Mary—”

“Harry FELL? You believe that too? Fell! How could the kid fall while he was fucking me?” Suddenly she laughed. A nasty wet sound. “You should have seen Ben’s face when he opened the door—I’d won, Vito, and he knew it—I’d won.”

“So—?” Vito said without expression.

“So he bashed him, you asshole, with the butt of that gun he carries—didn’t know that—did you—and dragged him outside—that’s all.”

“And left him to bleed to death?”

“Too true—too too too true. Dead and buried like a squashed roach—a rat—deep, deep under the sea. Oh! Help me Vito! I keep seeing it!” Vito got a bottle of mineral water and carefully fed the crazed girl three Valiums from the bottle on her bureau—the only way he knew to help bring her down safely. Hours later, when she was snoring, finally unconscious, he left her room after rousing her dresser and exacting her promise to stay with the actress until morning.

It was Maggie who figured out what to do. When Vito staggered back to his room at dawn, he found her up, recovered from her bout of stomach trouble and anxious about his absence. Vito Orsini was a man who had learned that in the film business you trust no one, and quite possibly he would never have told Maggie what he had just learned except that he realized that even if Mary Hanes managed to finish the picture without revealing the truth about Ben Lowell and his murdered stand-in, she would return to London and, given her lack of control, within days, rumors or perhaps the entire story, would be in the world press. When he had finished, Maggie sat speechless for a minute and finally said,
“Actors.”

“A comment in the great Hollywood tradition.” Vito, with nothing left to lose, found he could still be amused.

“Shut up, darling, and let me think.” Craving a respite, Vito slumped on his bed and fell into a light sleep, while Maggie took out her pad and pencil and started making notes, scratching them out, making others. An hour later she woke him.

“Listen to what happened yesterday. Ben Lowell saved Mary Hanes from rape. He’s a hero, she’s an innocent victim. Like it?”

“Swell. Perfect. You’re insane, did you know that?”

“Even my mother knows me better than that. Vito, you’re not thinking creatively. It plays perfectly when you shift the details around just a bit. Now, pay attention: Harry Brown, a very bad guy, started to bother Mary from the day she got here. She was terrified of him and told Ben. So, last night when Ben was walking by Mary’s door, he heard her screaming for help. Brown was on top of her, raping her; she was fighting back, desperately. Ben grabbed the guy, he put up a fight naturally, Ben had to hit him. He fell, hit his head on the corner of the dresser. Now comes the important part. They revived him and he was OK. Still very drunk—but subdued. He left
alive
. Ben stayed to reassure Mary, then left. It wasn’t until the next morning that Brown was found. Obviously, he had been dazed, stumbled on the garbage can in the dark, fell again, passed out, and bled to death. The doctor didn’t question it. Burial at sea was for the reasons Ben gave you. Where’s the hole?”

“Who’s going to believe it?”

“Everybody. Ben will tell that story more convincingly than he’s ever played any part. Mary too if you put the right kind of pressure on her—everyone knows how much scandal she’s been involved in and this would finish her too. No one else knows anything about what really happened.”

“Maggie, sweet, God knows I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but
Cosmo
couldn’t get that story into print for months and by that time this will just be old, bad news and all the damage will have been done.”

“Not if I can get it on television. You have to get a plane here as soon as possible. I’ll fly up to Los Angeles, talk to one of the network-news boys and we’ll have a TV camera crew here by tomorrow night, latest. It will be on the air before you’ve even finished shooting. Fantastic publicity for the picture and nobody can prove it
didn’t
happen that way. Hitting a man who’s raping a woman isn’t a crime—it’s a mitzvah. Vito, Vito, it’s your only chance!”

While Maggie was in Los Angeles, Vito did his work well. He found Mary Hanes shaken and sober when she finally woke up. He locked the door of her room behind him and hit her heavily on both sides of her face. Then he put his hands around her neck and squeezed, stopping just before she lost consciousness. He deposited her gently on her bed and waited, girmly, till she gasped, “What—what!”

“There is a moment in the life of a woman like you when she finally goes too far. You’ve reached it. I’ve cabled your husband.”

“You cunt, you bastard cunt! You know he’s determined to leave me if there’s any more mess—and my
babies
—he’ll get them—oh, Christ, how could anyone do this—It’s all over—over.” She was racked by loss.

“Don’t be absurd. Harry Brown was raping you and Ben Lowell saved you, possibly saved your life. Look at the way Brown beat you up, hit you, choked you. Your husband is terribly upset. You know how much he loves you. Hell be here tomorrow.”

“Vito—?”

“The television-news camera crew will be here tomorrow, too. They will want to interview you, of course-perhaps we should go over the story you told me yesterday. Mary, look alive! I know you’ve been through a nightmare but you’re not usually a slow study.”

She smiled as she washed the blood off her battered face. “You’re a smart little swine, Vito. Right! Read me my part.”

The incredible ratings of the show “Who Was Harry Brown and Did Ben Lowell Murder Him?” which preempted two half-hour situation comedies, told the network news chief that he had stumbled on a gold mine. There was a huge audience out there, addicted to television and hooked on celebrities. They could wallow in the pop-cultural peepshow of Maggie’s program, feeling virtuously well informed about the doings of the world, without having to actually time in to
Washington Week in Review
. The news chief had as little trouble talking Maggie into signing a contract for a weekly show as Maggie had had in getting him to send the camera crew to Mexico. They both knew a ripe thing when they smelled it The only surprise was how good a thing it was. More than good. It was majestic. A new genre of television had been born: the movie magazine dressed in the superior style of the news documentary. A new media star had been born: Maggie MacGregor. There were only two losers along the way, Harry Brown, still bitterly, secretly mourned by Ben Lowell, and Vito’s picture,
Slow Boat
. Even with the enormous publicity it received it didn’t do well. By the time it was released, the Mexican episode had long since dimmed in the public consciousness. Nobody cared, really. And besides, Vito had been right about it. It was a dog.