“You can ask. I don’t have to answer.”
Tobin moved his Scotch from his right hand to his left. “Why don’t we shake hands again and see if we can be friends.”
“Why should we be friends?”
“Because it’s Christmas time.”
“Big deal. You don’t still believe in Santa Claus, do you?”
He just watched her. “No, but I happen to know that people still give gifts. You got one this afternoon.”
Her brown eyes, so lovely, were ruined by suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When I was pulling away from campus this afternoon, I saw you standing on a corner talking to Michael Dailey, my partner’s agent. He handed you an envelope. A white envelope.”
“You’re crazy.” But when she said it her lower lip trembled.
He touched her arm, feeling sorry for her. All of a sudden she looked like a kid, not at all the hard-edged sophisticate she was trying to be tonight. “You don’t want to get involved in any of this, Marcie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do.” He paused. “You probably get financial aid, right?”
“So what?”
“You’re probably not from a wealthy family.”
“I’m not from a family at all, if it’s any of your goddamn business,” she snapped. Then her voice softened somewhat. “My father died when I was eight. My mother works in an insurance office. But again — so what?”
“So you need money. That’s my only point.”
“Most people need money.”
“But most people don’t get involved in murder cases to get it.”
She put her eyes down. He had the feeling she was going to cry. “Just leave me alone.”
“I want to help you.”
She almost whispered. “Sure you do.”
Then her gorgeous brown eyes raised and stared across the room. He turned to see whom she’d recognized. But he should have guessed: Here came her benefactor Michael Dailey. On his arm was the inevitable Joan, looking recently risen from the dead.
“I see you’re wearing a blue suit,” Dailey said as soon as he reached them. “Don’t you think black would have been a little more appropriate, given the fact that Richard just died?”
“Actually, Michael, it probably isn’t appropriate that any of us are at this party,” Tobin said. “I mean, standing next to a stand-up of Gang Girls and all.”
Dailey’s cheeks flushed. “This is strictly business. It’s the only reason I’m here.”
“Right.”
“What children you two are,” Joan said. “Face it. Richard’s dead and life goes on.”
Tobin was fascinated by Marcie Pierce’s face. The callousness of Joan’s remark made Marcie look as if she’d just been told that Elizabeth Taylor was actually a transvestite. The innocence of her shock made Tobin like her all the more.
“You seem to have taken the death pretty hard,” Tobin said to Joan. In her strapless white gown, with her hair swept up dramatically and enough makeup on to last a full day under hot lights, she was a plaster goddess. Only her teeth, baby teeth, gave any evidence of real eroticism.
Then she startled him by tearing up. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s none of your damn business.”
Tobin was about to ask her what was none of his damn business when Michael drew his head back like Christopher Lee eyeing potential necks to bite and said, “We’d best see some of our friends.”
Tears remained in Joan’s voice. “You seem to forget, Michael. We don’t have any friends.”
Dailey said, “That’s enough of the dramatics, darling. Let’s go now.” He squeezed her hand hard enough to break bones. You could see her wince under the pressure. Then they were gone, vanished into the land of floating orchids.
“Two of my favorite people,” Tobin said to the Daileys’ backs as they left.
Marcie looked revolted. “This is a long way from D. W. Griffith.”
“Huh?”
“Film is supposed to be about artistic expression. Neither of them have the dimmest idea what art is. They’re vultures and you—” Her grave brown eyes fumed. “You’re just as bad — you’re a critic.”
“I guess I don’t necessarily consider that an insult.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I do an honest job trying to direct my audience to good films and stay away from bad ones.”
“And getting well paid for it.”
“Probably not as much as you think.”
But by now she had turned away, as if searching out a companion for the evening.
“How did you get in here?” he asked.
“What?” she said, not facing him.
“How did you get in here?”
“None of your business.”
“Michael got your name put on the list, didn’t he?”
Now she turned. “So what if he did?”
He surprised himself by reaching for her arm. She didn’t surprise him by jerking her arm away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Why don’t we leave?”
“Are you crazy? Me leave with you?”
“Yes.”
She smirked. “How do you stay out of rubber rooms?”
“I’m not so bad. I’ll buy you dinner.”
“You just want to find out, don’t you?”
“Yeah. But I’m also attracted to you.”
That was the second thing he’d said in the past forty-five seconds she found amusing. “Are you putting the moves on me?”
He shrugged. “I guess, yeah.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s Christmas time. I’m lonely and you’re probably lonely too.”
“If I’m as attractive as you say, then I doubt I’m very lonely.”
“Well, maybe just for tonight you’re lonely.”
“Well, maybe just for tonight you’re full of shit.” Then she walked away.
He watched her until she disappeared and then he saw an unlikely couple making their way through the crowd. Frank and Dorothy Emory.
Before Tobin could even say hello, Dorothy said, “Don’t look at Frank’s crotch.”
“All right, Dorothy,” Tobin said. “I promise not to look at Frank’s crotch.”
“He insisted on getting a paper cup of coffee on the way over here,” she said.
“Honey, I would’ve been all right if you hadn’t slammed on the brakes.”
“If hadn’t slammed on the goddamn brakes, Frank, we’d both be in the hospital. The truck ran a red light.”
“Well, anyway, that’s how come I’ve got coffee all over my crotch.”
“That is not why you’ve got coffee all over your crotch,” Dorothy said. “You’ve got coffee all over your crotch because you’re clumsy and because you wouldn’t listen to me about not getting any coffee, especially after you’d had so much to drink.”
Frank frowned. “See, Tobin, my fault as usual.”
But by now Dorothy was already looking around, bored with Frank’s coffee and crotch. “Nice to see you, Tobin,” she said airily, and then was gone.
“Never marry the runner-up prom queen in high school.”
“That’s not a very charitable thing to say about your wife.”
“If she’d have won, she wouldn’t be such a bitch. But she’s never forgiven herself for losing, especially to somebody who was knocked up at the time they were putting the crown on her head.”
“The queen was knocked up?”
“Yeah, and by a Puerto Rican, at that.”
“Sad tale, Frank.”
“You don’t like her, do you — Dorothy, I mean?”
“Not much.”
“How come?”
“Because you’re my friend and because she makes you eat too much shit.”
“How much is too much?”
“Anything that doesn’t fit into a lunch bag.”
“Well, at least she’s beautiful.”
“She is that.” And she was — shining blond, with legs up to here, and an erotic teasing mouth and breasts that seemed to pout at you. As if to disguise all this, she generally dressed in conservative clothes and feigned disapproval of anything even faintly sexual.