Free Hollywood and Levine by Andrew Bergman

hit last night.”
    Goldmark nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, Jack. I was a man in total shock yesterday evening. Completely numb. Returning to Walter’s house and remembering the good times, well …” His voice carefully trailed off. “To be perfectly frank with you, I just wanted to get the hell out of there. It got to me.”
    â€œI can understand that. But today you feel fine.”
    He tensed slightly. “Don’t make it sound like a crime, pal. I’m still upset but today is today, and the big parade goes on, no?” He held out his hands in a gesture of philosophic acceptance. He understood life’s mysteries and tragedies, this gold-plated putz.
    â€œ Comme ci, comme ça ,” he continued. “I’ll level with you, Jack, if you’re interested.”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œWalter was a sick man,” he said, very serious and sincere now, “and he shouldn’t have done what he did. It was irresponsible, to Helen, to his friends, to the industry. But it’s done. You’re not going to bring Walter back, I’m not going to bring Walter back. So let’s go on.”
    â€œWith what?”
    Goldmark looked at me oddly, then his phone buzzed and he picked up. “No calls, Judy. Who? Okay.” He smiled at me. “Sorry, Jack, but I’ve been waiting for this bum to return a call for a week.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œBusiness is business.” His apologies were nonstop. Goldmark winked at me and then began hollering into the mouthpiece. “Robby, my friend. How’s the boy? Darryl told me you had some kind of a flu bug. Sure, Darryl talks to me. It’s all in the technique.” He laughed and laughed, looking at me with a big grin as if I, too, were supposed to start guffawing. I responded by picking my teeth with my thumbnail.
    â€œListen, amigo, reason I called,” the agent was saying, was this …” He stopped and rolled out the mortician’s carpet. “Oh, it’s awful about Walter. Crazy. But between you and me, Robby, I saw it coming for a long time. He was a very unhappy man.” Goldmark paused and shook his head somberly, as if Robby could see him. “Of course he shouldn’t have done it. It was irresponsible, to Helen, to his friends, to the industry. I’m sick about the whole thing. He was a client, sure, but before that, a friend.” He listened a bit more and looked at his watch. “Rob, reason I called is this: Mike Adler is coming into town next Monday and would love to talk to you people about an idea he’s got. You’ve got a call from London? Okay. Listen, you’ll be at Walter’s funeral tomorrow? Fine, we’ll put our heads together afterwards. Love ya.”
    Goldmark hung up and shrugged. “Sorry, but that was Bob Lester of the Fox story department.”
    â€œI never heard of him but I’m impressed anyway. I’m impressed all the time out here.”
    Goldmark thought that might be a joke, so he laughed. I lit up a Lucky and went on.
    â€œGoldmark, I get the distinct impression that you believe Walter killed himself because he was some kind of a neurotic.”
    â€œHe was a neurotic.”
    â€œWhich is why he checked himself out?”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œWell, that’s not what the cops think.”
    The agent took his foot off the script on the desk and rolled his chair forward.
    â€œThey don’t think it was suicide?” he whispered.
    â€œNo, they think it was suicide, all right, but they chalk it up to something besides neurosis. They are claiming that Walter killed himself because he was a Communist, card-carrying variety, and terrified that he’d be ruined by the revelation. The cops hinted that some kind of major scandal is brewing.”
    Goldmark’s voice went as hollow as a dial tone. “Who told you that?”
    â€œA lieutenant named Wynn, Homicide. You may be