“But what’s more,” Courtney Budlong said, “it can be swung for only two thousand cash down. Four quarterly payments — the first one three months from now — of two hundred and fifty dollars each. If it weren’t a forced sale — why, given a little time, I could sell this place for fifty thousand dollars, in today’s market.”
Bingo was thinking fast. With the furniture back in, the grounds cleaned up — yes, it would be a suitable showplace for the heads of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again.
“Wonderful neighborhood, too,” Courtney Budlong went on. He indicated a big, salmon-tinted, almost Spanish house on one side of them. “Know who lives there? Rex Strober. The motion picture producer.”
He didn’t need to add, “The great—” Bingo and Handsome added that in themselves.
“And to show you it’s not all movie colony,” he continued, “here is where Mrs. Hibbing lives. Mrs. Waldo Hibbing. Wealthy society woman. Widow of the copper mine Hibbing.”
Bingo had never heard of Mrs. Waldo Hibbing or her late husband, but he tried to look suitably knowing and impressed. The sprawling, super-ranch-style house, which seemed to be made mostly of plate glass and stainless steel, would have impressed anyone, he felt.
“And say,” Courtney Budlong said suddenly. “I almost forgot to tell you. Remember we were talking a while back about movie stars’ mansions? Do you know whose home this was originally? Who it was built for?” He smiled benignly at them. “April Robin!” He paused dramatically. “You remember April Robin, don’t you?”
Bingo looked back at the gray stone mansion, which seemed suddenly to be glowing. “Of course!” he breathed. “Of course I do. Everybody remembers April Robin!”
After one more lingering, almost loving look, he smiled at Courtney Budlong. “Just how fast could this deal be put through? Today?”
Three
“Nothing to it,” Courtney Budlong said blithely. “We’ll just drive down to the office, sign a couple of papers, you make your little down payment, and you own a house.” He patted Bingo on the shoulder. “At least you own one tenth of a house.”
“That only leaves eighteen thousand to go,” Handsome said. His voice sounded a little hollow.
Courtney Budlong laughed encouragingly. “Bright boys like you, you’ll make it in no time. I’ll probably be able to throw a few things your way. And anyway, it’s three whole months before you need to make that next small payment.” This time he patted Handsome on the shoulder.
As they backed down the drive Bingo gazed at the mansion, at its turret on the one side and its crenellated terrace on the other. At last he said, with a kind of awe, “That sure is a lot of house!”
“Boys,” Courtney Budlong said, “our chance meeting was a lucky one!”
He directed the way into Beverly Hills, pointing out a few spots of interest on the way. There, on their right, was Gene Kelly’s home. And there, ahead and to the left, the Civic Center — impressive, wasn’t it! Now, looking down the street and to your right, Romanoff’s. “Wish I could take you boys to dinner tonight.” But there was that stupid civic affair at the Biltmore. Some night this week, though. “And there’s my office, the gray building with the window boxes. Pull right up there, Mr. Kusak.”
Handsome objected that it was a no-parking zone. “Don’t worry about that,” Courtney Budlong said. “This won’t take a minute. You boys wait here in the car, because I’ll be right out.” The last words took him out of the car, across the sidewalk and into the handsome building with the shining chromium letters: BUDLONG AND DOLLINGER.
“He’s in a hurry,” Bingo said, “got that big important dinner party down at the Biltmore.” He wasn’t making explanations for Mr. Budlong, he was desperately making conversation to postpone the impending and inevitable discussion of their investment.
He looked with admiration at the BUDLONG AND DOLLINGER building. “Back in New York,” he said, “even a big important company like this one would just have some offices in a big building some place. Well, maybe a whole floor. But out here, they got the whole place. All the big firms do.” He looked across the street, a red-brick, nearly Georgian structure wore only one name: HENKIN.
He was still looking at it when Courtney Budlong came bustling out, papers in his hand. “Nice little edifice over there,” the real estate man said. “I remember when we sold it to Leo Henkin. He got it at a steal.” He cleared his throat. “You know, Henkin, the artists’ representative. Handles a lot of big names.”
Bingo nodded knowingly. He’d already learned that artists’ representative was another term for agent. He wondered who the big names were, and whether, if they waited here long enough, he’d see any of them coming or going.
“Well, here we are,” Courtney Budlong said heartily. “Told the girl we were in a hurry. Take another day to get the deed, but this’ll do you in the meantime.”
Bingo examined the first paper, Handsome peering over his shoulder. Neatly typed on Budlong and Dollinger stationery, it declared simply that, to whom it might concern, as of this date, Bingo Riggs and Handsome Kusak, of the International Foto, Motion Picture and Television Corporation of America, having made a down payment of $2,000.00 on the property located at 113 Damascus Drive, Los Angeles, California, were empowered to occupy said property pending delivery and signing of the deed. The date, the amount and the names were written in by hand, the firm name having been crowded in with a little difficulty. Below was the owner’s signature, Julien Lattimer, and below that, Courtney Budlong, Agent.
“See,” Courtney Budlong said, “you can move in any time.”
Bingo looked at the paper with a kind of reverence.
“And this,” the real estate man said, “is as good as a deed.” He handed it over. “That’s your deposit receipt. Shows you own a house.”
Bingo looked at it, too, with reverence. It, on a Budlong and Dollinger receipt form, looked like any other receipt in the world, except that it was beautifully printed, and that it represented the ownership of what had been a movie star’s mansion. There were spaces for three signatures at the bottom, one of them already filled in by Julien Lattimer. Courtney Budlong filled in another, handed his pen to Bingo and said, “And you sign here.”
For just a moment Bingo hesitated, the pen cold in his hand. He turned his head and looked at Handsome, met a look that said, more plainly than words, that Bingo was the boss, knew what he was doing, and everything was going to be fine.
The thing was done. The twenty hundred-dollar bills went from Bingo’s wallet to Courtney Budlong’s. The letter and the deposit receipt went into a Budlong and Dollinger envelope and into Bingo’s pocket.
“And the keys, of course,” Courtney Budlong said. He dropped them into Bingo’s hand. “Front door, back door, cellar and garage. Two of each.”
They seemed to feel warm, almost to glow in Bingo’s hand as he looked at them. He’d had keys before, but never to a house he owned. He divided them with Handsome and attached his set to his key chain as though they were talismans.
“Drop in tomorrow and pick up the deed,” their new friend said jovially. “Make it around noon and we’ll run over to the Derby for lunch. No, wait a minute. Make it day after tomorrow. Tomorrow’s a state holiday. Consolidation Day.” He beamed at them. “Boys, I feel you’re going to do big things in Hollywood!”
“We’re certainly off to a good start,” Bingo said, glowing. “Now can we drive you—”
Courtney Budlong shook his head. “Thanks, no. Few things to tend to in the office. I’ll have Yoshiaki drive down and pick me up.”