Free The Hollywood Trilogy by Don Carpenter Page B

hatchetman look he can get sometimes, wiping it off his face as soon as he realized it was there, and said politely with a smile, “Who’s in back?”
    â€œThat could be Jim,” I admitted.
    My private telephone rang and I went into the living room and answered it. It was my lawyer, who wanted to set up a series of meetings at my convenience, and as we talked I watched Karl getting nervous. It must have driven him crazy to have somebody else on the telephone in his presence and him with no telephone. After sitting straight and staring out the window and tapping his foot, he jumped up and went into the kitchen. I heard the bottled water belch as he drew himself a drink, and then saw him through the French windows walk over to the edge of the front terrace and peer out over the side, and then come back in and grab the house phone, and pretty soon he was having a low conversation of his own, probably with his service, because he kept saying, “No, keep that one” and “Give me that one again” and making little notes in a notebook with a tiny gold pencil.
    All the time I had known Karl, ten years, he had been making notes in that same notebook with that same little gold pencil, or else he had a stash of them somewhere, thousands of them maybe, all alike, and got out a new one every morning, who knows? Karl is very secretive about some parts of his life.
    Jim came into the living room naked and said, “I’m hungry as a bastard.” He did a take when he saw Karl and glared at me.
    â€œWhat the fuck is this?”
    He strode out of the room and we heard him yell, “Get that asshole out of here, pronto! ”
    Karl hung up his telephone quickly and looked at me with big round eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked. I went on with my own call, and pretty soon Jim came out dressed and gave Karl another nasty glare:
    â€œYou still here?”
    Karl stood up. Jim gave him a dazzling smile and hugged him. “Karl, you old bastard, how’s your dad?”
    Karl grinned, but I could tell he was really pissed off at Jim.
    I hung up my telephone. Jim said, “I’m hungry enough to eat the ass out of a dead mule. Let’s go somewhere and have a nice big lunch.”
    â€œI have a reservation at the Polo Lounge,” Karl said.
    â€œFuck the Polo Lounge,” Jim said.
    â€œWe could go to Schwab’s . . .” I said. “Schwab’s?” Karl asked. There was no enthusiasm in his voice.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with Schwab’s?” I asked him.
    â€œNothing, it’s just I’ve never been there,” Karl said.
    â€œWell, suck my nuts,” Jim said. “We’ll just have to take you to Schwab’s!”
    As far as I knew, Jim had never been there either.
    â€œWhat about the girl?” I said to Karl.
    â€œShe already ate,” he said.
    â€œWhat girl?” Jim asked.
    â€œWhat, the coffee and toast they bring you here?” I said. The hotel didn’t have a regular kitchen, but you could get anything you wanted if you were willing to pay for it.
    â€œI think she had juice, too,” Karl said. “I was in the shower.”
    â€œWhat girl?” Jim said again. He went into the kitchen.
    â€œGet me a beer, will you?” I called out to him, and picked up the house phone, dialing 609.
    After a couple of rings she answered, a nice low voice with most of the Texas rubbed off.
    â€œThis is David Ogilvie,” I said. “We’re all going over to Schwab’s for something to eat . . .”
    â€œHere, let me talk to her,” Karl said. He came over toward me holding out his hand for the telephone, but I backed away.
    â€œYou want a beer, Karl?” Jim called from the kitchen.
    â€œNo, thank you,” Karl said.
    â€œ. . . Me and Karl and Jim Larson,” I said into the phone.
    I heard the pops from the kitchen as Jim opened the beer, and felt a sudden wave of anxiety