“You are not a member here,” he said finally.
“But I’m an upstanding young man,” Sam said. “And an occasional Christian.”
“You’re not the law,” Fishback said. “You are not a policeman.”
“Why’d you turn on Roscoe?”
The ceiling was very high and very elaborate with moldings and designs. The windows high and bright, sunlight making long shapes on the wooden floors. Fishback tossed the ball around some more, lit another cigarette. “Ty Cobb smoked this brand. He said it’ll make you mentally and physically alert.”
“Always liked Babe Ruth,” Sam said.
“He’s old, worn-out. Smoked Home Runs. Terrible tobacco.”
Sam shrugged. Fishback picked up another medicine ball, a heavier one, and the leather thwacked hard and fast back and forth in the men’s hands. Fishback threw it over his head and started to catch it at his hip, rotating his waist.
“I don’t believe what you said in court,” Sam said.
“About what?”
“About Roscoe wanting to peep in on the Bathing Beauties.”
“He’s a pervert. A big, fat, lousy pervert. The man would stick his willie in a sewer pipe.”
“He thought you were his buddy.”
“I had to tell the truth,” Freddie said, grinning. “It’s the law.”
“How much are you getting?”
“What?”
“From Hearst,” Sam said. “How much did he pay you to direct that little morality play? I bet it was in silver. Or maybe a deal with his picture company? That’d be worth it to an up-and-comer like you.”
Fishback walked over to large rack and planted his feet in some stirrups, bringing up a long pulley system and stretching his wide, muscular torso, a new cigarette in his teeth.
“You look like Wallace Reid,” Fishback said.
“No kidding,” Sam said.
“I don’t like Wallace Reid,” he said. “He’s a dope fiend.”
“How much?”
“How much they pay you, Pinkerton?”
“Three dollars a day.”
Fishback laughed. Sam smiled back at him.
“You heard from Al Semnacher lately?”
“Who?”
“The guy who you got to wrangle the girls,” Sam said. “Hollywood agent. He was in the papers. Wears glasses. Goofy smile.”
“No.”
“Funny,” Sam said. No one else has heard from him either. If I were you, I’d watch my back.”
“What he did to that girl wasn’t right,” Fishback said. “He is a beast, you know.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“Did she crush herself?”
“She wasn’t crushed.”
“I didn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this,” Fishback said.
“You’re a cog in the wheel.”
“What’s that?” he asked in his thick accent.
“A piece of lousy machinery,” Sam said.
“Are you different?” Fishback asked.
30
I know them,” Roscoe said. It was late and he sat in his hotel room over a bottle of bourbon with Gavin McNab. “I don’t follow,” McNab said, rubbing his eyes, still buttoned tight in his boiled-and-pressed shirt and tie, black coat slung over the back of his chair.
“You know your audience.”
“They’re not an audience,” McNab said. “They’re a jury.”
“What do you think an audience is?”
“They watch you sing and dance and do a little comedy. We’ve spoken of this before.”
Roscoe shrugged and took a sip of the bourbon. Minta had packed along a few bottles for him in her suitcase, knowing they couldn’t be tipping a bellboy during the trial, risking some kind of side scandal.
“What about Mrs. Nelson?”
“What about her?” McNab asked.
“She called her occupation that of a housewife.”
“So?”
“She said it forcefully-like, take it or leave it. She’s no-nonsense. Doesn’t get wrapped up in emotion or bullshit.”
“Did you see her hat?” McNab said.
“Of course,” Roscoe said. “Enormous. Reminded me of something a pirate would wear. I like her. Rock-solid old broad.”
“Who else do you like?” McNab said, a smug grin creeping into one cheek, indulging the fat man.
“Mr. Sayre? C.C.?”
“Clarence,” McNab said. “Cement contractor.”
“He smiles. Big smiles, rosy cheeks. That’s a man who knows what it’s like to drink a few whiskeys, do a little dance. He knows there’s no harm in that. No Satan creeping in the bottle.”
McNab finished off his whiskey. He leaned back into his seat. “Roscoe?” “Hold on,” Roscoe said. “Hold on. Kitty McDonald.”
McNab’s face was fogged out by the smoke coming from his lips, squinting across the table, genuinely intrigued now. The whole indulgence thing passed. “Go on.”
“Rich woman,” Roscoe said. “A fine-looking woman. Did you see her furs?”
McNab nodded.
“She doesn’t want to be there. She wants this whole business to wrap up.
She’ll swing with the rest of ’em. Okay, who’s next? Miss Whosit? The old broad?”
“Mrs. Winterburn.”
“Fantastic name. Isn’t it? Winterburn. Don’t you love saying it? She’s the prim-faced schoolteacher, the woman who’d whack your knuckles with a ruler. Sour old kisser. Didn’t she say she was in one of those women’s clubs?”
“She’s not a Vigilant, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you think I’m an idiot, Roscoe? Her club is literary. She’s part of the Jack London Society.”
“Ha!” Roscoe said, pounding his fist on the table, the whiskey glass trembling. “A woman of the arts. And what am I?”
“You make movie pictures.”
“The arts.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m running them down in my mind. I watch them. Not directly but slyly out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want them to think I’m trying to make contact, as if I am a desperate man.”
“God forbid,” McNab said, waving the smoke away with his hand. His eyes squinting more at Roscoe, maybe a little less curious now. He checked his timepiece again.
“It’s two minutes past.”
“Past what?”
“Last time you checked,” Roscoe said.
“Christ Almighty.”
“August Fritze.”
“Solid fellow. Brokers cotton.”
“That’s not why I like him,” Roscoe said, pointing his index finger at McNab.
“Do tell.”
“He wears spats. Spats! What kind of man wears spats in San Francisco?”
“A man who likes spats.”
“A man who likes women, drinking, song,” Roscoe said. “Dierks is obvious. How on earth did you get a former liquor salesman on the jury?”
“Because I can outthink and outmaneuver Brady and U’Ren in my sleep.”
“What’s the explosives expert’s name?”
“Crane.”
“I don’t get a read on him. He’s kind of a mystery. Same with that Reef fellow. Both poker-faced bastards.”
“And we all know you like Mrs. O’Dea.”
“She smiled at me.”
“Stop the earth.”
“And who is the big man? The one with the hangdog face?”
“Mr. Torpey.”
“And Kilkenny,” Roscoe said. “Candy manufacturer. I know you found him kinda grim. But he can be won. I can make a case to him.”
“When is that?”
“When I testify.”
“And you’ve decided?”
“Yes.”
McNab stubbed out the cigarette. He stood and slipped into his big black coat and buttoned up the front. He checked the timepiece again before he got the final buttons, and Roscoe knew it was an effort to unnerve him.
It worked.
“Just what did Zukor say to you?”
McNab looked Roscoe in the eye. He bit a cheek and rocked back on his heels, hands in pockets. He kept the same dead-eyed stare and said, “He said you weren’t quick-witted enough to keep up with those jackals.”
“Brady and U’Ren.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Zukor is a fool.”
“I find him quite shrewd.”
“But you know me better.”