Part 4 (1/2)

It was time for his lunch with the Murphys, and he went out under the porte-cochere and asked for his car. The doorman was occupied with a peeling bald man in a Bentley and ignored Craig. The parking s.p.a.ce in front of the hotel was crowded, with the best places reserved for the Ferraris, the Maseratis, and the Rolls-Royces. Craig's rented Simca was shunted around by the doorman to spots less exposed to public view, and sometimes, when the spate of expensive hardware was intense, Craig would find his car parked a block away on a side street. There had been a time in his life when he had gone in for Alfas and Lancias, but he had given all that up many years ago, and now, as long as a car carried him where he wanted to go, he was satisfied. But today, when the doorman finally told him that his car was parked behind the hotel and he trudged on the hunt for it past the tennis courts toward the corner where the wh.o.r.es loitered in the afternoon, he felt vaguely humiliated. It was as though the employees of the hotel had a subtle knowledge of him, that they were letting him know, in their scornful treatment of his humble rented car, that they did not believe he really belonged in the palace whose walls they guarded.

They will be surprised at the size of their tip when the time comes, he thought grimly as he turned the key in the ignition and started toward the Cap d'Antibes and his luncheon date with Bryan Murphy.

MR. and Mrs. Murphy were down at their cabana, the concierge told him, and were expecting him.

He walked through the fragrant piney park toward the sea, the only sound that of his own footsteps on the shaded path and the crackle of cicadas among the trees.

He stopped before he reached Murphy's cabana. The Murphys were not alone. Seated in the small patio in front of the cabana was a young woman. She wore a scanty pink bathing suit, and her long hair hung straight down her back, glistening in the sunlight. When she half-turned, he recognized the dark gla.s.ses.

Murphy, in flowered swimming trunks, was talking to her. Lying on a deck chair was Sonia Murphy.

Craig was about to go back to the hotel to call Murphy on the telephone and tell him to come up because he didn't like the company at the cabana when Murphy spotted him. ”Hey, Jess,” Murphy called, standing up. ”We're over here.”

Gail McKinnon did not turn around. She stood up, though, when he approached.

”Hi, Murph,” he said, and went over and shook Murphy's hand.

”My boy,” Murphy said.

Craig leaned over and kissed Sonia Murphy's cheek. She was fifty but looked about thirty-five, with a trim figure and a gentle, unlined, non-Hollywood face. She was covered with a beach towel and was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat to keep from being sunburned. ”It's been too long, Jesse,” she said.

”It certainly has,” Craig said.

”This young lady,” Murphy said, gesturing toward Gail McKinnon, ”tells me she knows you.”

”We've met,” Craig said. ”h.e.l.lo, Miss McKinnon.”

”h.e.l.lo.” The girl took off her gla.s.ses. The gesture was deliberate, like the lowering of a disguise at a masquerade ball. Her eyes were wide, jewel-blue, but somehow evasive and uncertain, prepared for pain. Face grave and open, body not quite ripe, flesh satiny, she could have been sixteen, seventeen. He had a peculiar feeling that the rays of the sun were concentrated on her, a downfall of light, that he was looking at her from a distance, himself shadowed by a cloud with a dark promise of rain. She was perfect for the moment, poised quietly against the sea, the dazzle of the reflections from the water celebrating her youth, the richness of her skin, her almost-angular shapeliness.

He had the troubling sense of having already been a witness at the scene-a girl perfect for a moment in bright sun with the sea behind her. He could not tell whether he was oppressed or exhilarated.

She reached down, not completely graceful, her long hair swinging, and he saw that there was a tape recorder at her feet. As she bent to the machine, he couldn't help but notice the soft roundness of her belly over the pink cloth of the tiny bikini, the adolescent jut of bones on generous hips. He wondered why she had disfigured herself the morning before with the absurd oversized sweat s.h.i.+rt, the affectation of the blank expanse of dark gla.s.s.

”She's been interviewing me,” Murphy said. ”Against my will.”

”I bet,” Craig said. Murphy was famous for giving interviews to anybody on any subject. He was a big, heavyset, squarely built man of sixty, with a shock of dyed black hair, a whisky complexion, shrewd, quick eyes, and an easy, bluff Irish manner. He was known as one of the toughest negotiators in the business and had done very well for himself while enriching his clients. He had no written contract with Craig, just a handshake, although he had represented Craig for more than twenty years. Since Craig had stopped making movies, they had only seen each other infrequently. They were friends. But, thought Craig meanly, not as close friends as when I was riding high.

”How're your girls, Jesse?” Sonia asked.

”When last heard from, they seemed okay,” Craig said. ”Or as okay as girls can be at that age. Marcia, I hear, has put on weight.”

”If they're not up on a possession or pus.h.i.+ng charge,” Murphy said, ”consider yourself a happy parent.”

”I consider myself a happy parent,” Craig said.

”You look pale,” said Murphy. ”Put on a suit and get some sun.”

Craig glanced at the slender tan body of Gail McKinnon. ”No, thanks,” he said. ”My season hasn't started yet. Sonia, why don't you and I take a walk and let them finish their interview in peace?”

”The interview is over,” Gail McKinnon said. ”He's been talking for a half hour.”

”Did you give her anything she can use?” Craig asked Murphy.

”If you mean did I use any dirty words,” Murphy said, ”I didn't.”

”Mr. Murphy was most informative,” Gail McKinnon said. ”He said the movie industry was bankrupt. No money, no talent, and no guts.”

”That'll help a lot the next time you go in to make a deal,” Craig said.

”Screw 'em,” Murphy said. ”I got my pile. What do I care? Might as well enjoy telling the truth while the mood is on me. h.e.l.l, there's a picture going into production that's been financed by a tribe of Apache Indians. What the h.e.l.l sort of business are you in when you have to get script approval from Apache Indians? We ordered lobster for lunch. You got any objection to lobster?”

”No.”

”How about you?” Murphy asked the girl.

”I love it,” she said.

Oh, Craig thought, she's here for lunch. He sat down on one of the folding canvas chairs facing her.

”She's asked me a lot about you.” Murphy jabbed a blunt finger in the direction of the girl. ”You know what I told her? I told her one of the things wrong with the business is it's driven people like you out of it.”

”I didn't know I had been driven out,” Craig said.

”You know what I mean, Jess,” Murphy said. ”So it became unattractive to you. What's the difference?”

”He was most complimentary about you,” Gail McKinnon said. ”You would blush with pleasure.”

”He's my agent,” Craig said. ”What do you expect he would say about me? Maybe you'd like to hear what my mother used to say about me when she was alive.”

”I certainly would.” The girl reached down toward the tape recorder. ”Should I turn it on?”

”Not for the moment.” He was conscious of the girl's small smile. She put the dark gla.s.ses on again. Once more she was an antagonist.

”Gail says you're being stony-hearted,” Murphy said. It didn't take him long to call girls by their first names. ”Why don't you give her a break?”

”When I have something to say,” Craig said, ”she'll be the first to hear it.”

”I take that as a promise, Mr. Craig,” the girl said.

”From what I heard my husband spouting for the last half hour,” Sonia said, ”you're wise to keep your thoughts to yourself, Jesse. If it was up to me, I'd put a cork in his mouth.”

”Wives,” Murphy said. But he said it fondly. They had been married twelve years. If they ever fought, they fought in private. The advantage, Craig thought, of late marriages.

”People ask too many questions,” Sonia said. She had a quiet, motherly voice. ”And other people give too many answers. I wouldn't even tell that nice young lady where I bought my lipstick if she asked me.”

”Where do you buy your lipstick, Mrs. Murphy?” Gail McKinnon asked.

They all laughed.

”Jess,” Murphy said, ”why don't you and I wander down to the bar and leave the girls alone for a cozy little preluncheon slander session?” He stood up, and Craig stood, too.