Read Online Detour by Martin M. Goldsmith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin M. Goldsmith
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the love of Pete,” Ewy groaned, “turnout the light and get into bed! Or go into the living-room.”
“All right. Good night, Ewy.”
“Good night hell! Good morning!”
I scooped up a nightie and went into the bathroom, locking the door after me. I had things to do and it would be a good half-hour before I was ready to hit the pillow. I undressed rapidly, at the same time looking at my face in the medicine chest mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot from staying up so late, but still lovely. I had been told many times that my eyes are the nicest part of my anatomy—tie score with my breasts—because they are an unusual shade of green; not a jade green, a much darker color. I pressed my face as close as I could get it to the glass and examined them. There were tears glistening in them now as I thought of Alex. The gleam was an improvement because it covered up the redness. Where was Alex? Had he moved from the old apartment?
He must have; because unless he was working again , how could he pay the rent? That was probably why he had never answered the post card I sent him.
“I love you, Alex,” I whispered into the mirror—playing a little scene. “I'll always love you.”
It was a trifle overdone. In movie parlance, I was mugging it. I felt the emotion all right, only reality on the screen always photographs funny. To be any good you have to underplay everything. A casting director told me that. I tried it again, this time changing the inflection, expressing as much as I could just with my eyes and keeping my voice as flat as possible. “I love you, Alex. I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting.” Once more. God, I felt it surge all through me. At that moment I loved Alex more than ever. I did, I did. It was intense. It pulled at me and brought more tears into my eyes. Soon they were rolling down my cheeks. “I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting....”
It was great, a natural. Who said I couldn't act? Of course it wasn't all acting. I repeated the scene two or three times more, experimenting with tone, quality and diction. Then I ran hot water and looked around for the douche.
III. ALEXANDER ROTH
START your sermon. I'll listen to it. But I know what you're going to hand me even before you open your mouths. You're going to tell me that I'm nothing but a common tramp, a thief and a no-good grave-robber. You're going to say you don't believe my story of how Haskell met his death, and give me that don't-make-me laugh expression on your smug faces. You're going to say, “Roth, for God's sake, why not make a clean breast of it? You're not kidding anyone.” You're going to harp on that old gag about confession being good for the soul.
Or maybe you're going to break open the hymnal and tell me I should have waited for the police and had faith in the Lord? I'm not sacrilegious, but even if the Lord is my shield and my buckler, who the hell is going to be my attorney?
So if you can, just put yourself in my position before you let off steam and warn me for my own good that isn't the way to get to heaven. I wasn't trying to get to heaven. All I was trying to do was to get to Los Angeles, to see Sue, and, if possible, to ace myself into pictures. Now what I had aced myself into was a murder—or what looked like one—and I was the murderer in every respect, except that I didn't kill the guy. I had his car and his dough and his clothes, all right; but that was all. I didn't have his life. Maybe I'd never find out, but Haskell could have died of heart failure, of liver trouble, of cancer, of any of a million things. If that crack on the head was what killed him, I wasn't to blame. Nevertheless, as I drove away from the spot I kept telling myself over and over that I should have taken the northern route or stayed put in New York. I wish I had. Take it from me, it was a mighty queer feeling pulling into a service station and telling the fellow to
“All right. Good night, Ewy.”
“Good night hell! Good morning!”
I scooped up a nightie and went into the bathroom, locking the door after me. I had things to do and it would be a good half-hour before I was ready to hit the pillow. I undressed rapidly, at the same time looking at my face in the medicine chest mirror. My eyes were a little bloodshot from staying up so late, but still lovely. I had been told many times that my eyes are the nicest part of my anatomy—tie score with my breasts—because they are an unusual shade of green; not a jade green, a much darker color. I pressed my face as close as I could get it to the glass and examined them. There were tears glistening in them now as I thought of Alex. The gleam was an improvement because it covered up the redness. Where was Alex? Had he moved from the old apartment?
He must have; because unless he was working again , how could he pay the rent? That was probably why he had never answered the post card I sent him.
“I love you, Alex,” I whispered into the mirror—playing a little scene. “I'll always love you.”
It was a trifle overdone. In movie parlance, I was mugging it. I felt the emotion all right, only reality on the screen always photographs funny. To be any good you have to underplay everything. A casting director told me that. I tried it again, this time changing the inflection, expressing as much as I could just with my eyes and keeping my voice as flat as possible. “I love you, Alex. I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting.” Once more. God, I felt it surge all through me. At that moment I loved Alex more than ever. I did, I did. It was intense. It pulled at me and brought more tears into my eyes. Soon they were rolling down my cheeks. “I'll always love you. And no matter what happens, I'll always be waiting....”
It was great, a natural. Who said I couldn't act? Of course it wasn't all acting. I repeated the scene two or three times more, experimenting with tone, quality and diction. Then I ran hot water and looked around for the douche.
III. ALEXANDER ROTH
START your sermon. I'll listen to it. But I know what you're going to hand me even before you open your mouths. You're going to tell me that I'm nothing but a common tramp, a thief and a no-good grave-robber. You're going to say you don't believe my story of how Haskell met his death, and give me that don't-make-me laugh expression on your smug faces. You're going to say, “Roth, for God's sake, why not make a clean breast of it? You're not kidding anyone.” You're going to harp on that old gag about confession being good for the soul.
Or maybe you're going to break open the hymnal and tell me I should have waited for the police and had faith in the Lord? I'm not sacrilegious, but even if the Lord is my shield and my buckler, who the hell is going to be my attorney?
So if you can, just put yourself in my position before you let off steam and warn me for my own good that isn't the way to get to heaven. I wasn't trying to get to heaven. All I was trying to do was to get to Los Angeles, to see Sue, and, if possible, to ace myself into pictures. Now what I had aced myself into was a murder—or what looked like one—and I was the murderer in every respect, except that I didn't kill the guy. I had his car and his dough and his clothes, all right; but that was all. I didn't have his life. Maybe I'd never find out, but Haskell could have died of heart failure, of liver trouble, of cancer, of any of a million things. If that crack on the head was what killed him, I wasn't to blame. Nevertheless, as I drove away from the spot I kept telling myself over and over that I should have taken the northern route or stayed put in New York. I wish I had. Take it from me, it was a mighty queer feeling pulling into a service station and telling the fellow to
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