Free The Player by Michael Tolkin Page A

her voice, she was too quick, he thought; she was embarrassed about something.
    â€œWhen is it?”
    â€œTomorrow morning.”
    â€œI’ll be there.”
    â€œGriffin, have the police spoken to you?”
    â€œWe’ve had contact.”
    â€œGood. I mean, maybe you saw something. Maybe you don’t even know it, maybe you saw the killer, maybe you saw a car or something that’s been near other murders.”
    â€œNo. I hate to say this, but I didn’t see anything.”
    â€œYou don’t know that.”
    The call ended. Griffin was surprised by the edge of desperation in June Mercator’s voice. When he’d spoken to her the night of the murder, she’d sounded ready to leave Kahane. Now she was crying over small clues. Griffin wondered if Bonnie Sherow would miss him if he died.
    The next morning, he didn’t wait until the office for
Variety,
he bought it at a liquor store and ripped the back page as he searched for his small ad. “No more cards. It’s my move now, but I’m giving it to you. Let’s do it soon.” He read it over three times, a dozen times, aware of a surge of pride, authorship, which relented only when a kind of stage fright chewed its way through his satisfaction. It was so naked, no phone number, no box number, something to invite a bit of curiosity from the casual reader. He realized Jan might see the ad and show it to him, so he was glad he hadn’t ordered NO MORE POSTCARDS . If Jan was to bring it to him, he would tell her to get back to work. This led him to consider firing her. On the one hand,he thought, she’s too caught up in the postcards, the next secretary might pass them on to him without comment, but if his plan worked, if the Writer left him alone, whether because he was dead or scared or etherically placated, they would stop. On the other hand, Jan would tell the replacement about the postcards, and if they continued, even for a short time, he would have to tell more lies.

Five
    Griffin did not want to have lunch with Larry Levy. At eleven he might have been able to cancel, and then Levy would have had to eat alone, or call someone and admit he was suddenly free, and all during that meal Levy would have worried about with whom Griffin’s important meeting was, but the crack about Clint Eastwood had cost him the advantage.
    He forced himself to believe that he was as much of a threat to Levy as Levy was to him, that Levy knew he was being hired as a wild card, not as a king. The restaurant Levy had chosen, a shiny Italian kitchen on Melrose, was not an obvious choice, like Le Dome or The Grill, one of those student dining halls in the campus of Hollywood. This suggested to Griffin a purpose to the lunch, since eating at one of the usual places would have made a public statement. Everyone would know by now that Levy was going to the studio, and they would have been interrupted. So Levy wanted to talk. It hadn’t occurred to Griffin until now that Levy was scared about coming to the studio. Griffin wouldn’t plan a strategy for the lunch, something Levy’s intimidating energy could upset; no, with faith in Levy’s self-doubts he could have fun.
    Levy was already at the restaurant when Griffin arrived. The hostess, a thin woman in black, led Griffin to the table in the restaurant’s second room. Griffin knew her from a restaurant inBeverly Hills where she had also worked the door; on the way to Levy she told Griffin she shared ownership with the chef of this one. Griffin said, “Congratulations,” but recognized a touch of jealousy for the woman. Why? he wondered, and silently answered himself, Because she created this out of nothing.
    Levy started from his chair, and Griffin waved him down. He wore a dark blue suit, too heavy for the day, but it had been cool in the morning. He was almost tall and had the packed look of someone with a personal trainer. Griffin, twenty pounds too