Free Come Back Dead by Terence Faherty Page B

things,” he said.
    â€œMay I come in?”
    Whitehead half-turned toward the dark room behind him and then shook his head. “I was just going out. For breakfast,” he added.
    â€œI can always use a second breakfast. I’ll buy if you’ll let me tag along. It isn’t every day somebody recognizes me.”
    I was trying to point out that we had something in common: membership in the Has-Beens of America Society. That link or my offer to buy won the point for me. Whitehead kept me waiting while he found the jacket that matched his vest. Then he led me east on Belmont to Olympic Boulevard.
    â€œIt’s just a short walk,” he said. “I never drive.”
    As we passed the DeSoto, I considered tossing my flask through its open window. Now that I’d actually met Whitehead, I was even less comfortable with the idea of liquoring him up. He wouldn’t have thanked me for the gesture. When we reached the corner, he gazed at a bar called Maxie’s as though it was the girl he’d left behind.
    Across the boulevard from the bar was an old-fashioned, railroad-style dining car. “There we go,” I said. “Just what we need.”
    I took Whitehead by his patched elbow and led him across the four lanes of homicidal traffic. The diner’s lunchtime crowd hadn’t arrived yet, assuming the place had a lunchtime crowd. I found us a booth with plenty of privacy and ordered coffee and bacon and eggs from a waitress who didn’t know she was dealing with two celebrities. Whitehead seconded my choices without much enthusiasm. After the coffee arrived, I offered him a cigarette. He held it very delicately, between his thumb and forefinger, but he drew on it like a man siphoning gasoline.
    â€œWhat exactly are you after from Drury?” I asked.
    His yellowed eyes avoided mine like twin butterflies dodging the same net. “Oscar Levant was in that movie, too,” he said. He moved his tongue around in his mouth, inspecting his teeth. “ Rhythm on the River .”
    â€œI remember,” I said.
    â€œNot as well as I do,” Whitehead said, his voice so dry it brought dusty Alora to mind.
    â€œHow could that be?”
    He shrugged and cleared his throat.
    â€œHave some coffee,” I said.
    â€œDon’t have a taste for it, thank you.”
    â€œLet me sweeten it for you.” I unscrewed the top of the flask before removing it from the pocket of my suit coat. There wasn’t much room in Whitehead’s mug. Just enough for one healthy shot of rye.
    He didn’t ask why I wasn’t joining him. He was beyond that kind of pleasantry. He took the mug from me and made room for another shot. I poured it and put the flask back in my pocket. I didn’t bother replacing the cap.
    â€œWhat are you doing for Carson?” Whitehead asked, his feathery voice gaining strength with each word. “Are you in production now? You can’t be acting for him; he’s using the original Albertsons cast.”
    â€œYou answer one for me first,” I said. “How is it you knew about Drury’s latest project? It was supposed to be a secret.”
    â€œKay Lamantia told me.” Whitehead was holding his mug beneath his Roman nose, inhaling its fragrance. “Kay was our costume designer on First Citizen and Imperial Albertsons . Carson tried to hire her for the reshoot, but she wouldn’t come out of retirement. She was nice enough to call me for a chat.”
    He took another killer drag on his cigarette and waited for me to live up to my end of our bargain.
    â€œThe company I work for was hired by Drury,” I said. “We’re in the security business. I haven’t been an actor since the war. There are various schools of thought on why my career ended. One is that the studios lost interest in me. Another says that I lost interest in acting. I like to think I just aged out of my character, like Mickey