Magic Hour Susan Isaacs (best books to read for self development txt) 📖

Sandy Court, twenty minutes back. Now, who would be most likely to know her whereabouts? Her agent? Ever hear of a guy named Eddie Pomerantz?”

Bonnie knew the name. “He’s probably been around since D. W. Griffith. I doubt if he’d be on the set with her. He’s a businessman, a deal-maker, not a hand-holder. More likely it would be a manager, or a personal assistant, if she had one of her own people.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“She might have spent time with other actors.”

“No. From what I saw and from what Monteleone told me, no one could stand her. She’s cold. Nasty. Like someone told her: Okay, Lindsay, you’re absolved from all the normal rules of behavior that everybody else has to live by.”

“But she is absolved. When you’re a big success in the movie business, you have license to behave badly. You know that. But even though Lindsay is a perfectly awful human being, she can act—when she wants to. She’s beautiful, and she has the best breasts in the world. And the most important thing—people feel compelled to watch her. They can’t take their eyes off her. She is a true star. So it makes sense that she wasn’t hanging out with anyone from the cast. They’re just plain actors, not stars. And Santana: even if he is her boyfriend, by late afternoon he’d be too involved in problems on the set to take care of her.”

I thought back to the reports I’d read and all the interviews I’d done. “From what I can remember, Santana was doing whatever it is directors do the whole afternoon. There’s not even an indication he

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took time out to go to the john; he was out there the whole time. So who else could have been with her?”

“A lot of stars get close with their makeup and hair people.

Like regular ladies do with their hairdressers; it’s a natural, easy intimacy. They might have been working on her.”

“The idea is to break down Lindsay’s alibi, not reinforce it.”

“The idea is to find the truth. Anyway, the makeup person would at least know if Lindsay had any good friends on the set. As for off the set, if she went anywhere or needed an errand, there’d be a Teamster driver. But I can’t imagine her saying, ‘Jack, drive me over to Sandy Court so I can knock off Sy.’”

“How can I get the names of all these different crew people, fast?”

“Everybody gets a crew list. There should be one at Sy’s house.”

“When Sy was killed, he was on his portable phone with Eddie Pomerantz. Do you think there’s a chance that word had gotten back to Pomerantz that Sy was going to see other actresses in L.A.?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“Because this is a gossipy business. More than that: a public business. Everything— contracts, food, cars, sex, law-suits, flatulence—is talked about. My guess is, if Lindsay hadn’t figured it out for herself, Eddie Pomerantz would know what was going on, probably from two or three different sources, and was trying to convince Sy to call off his trip.”

“He claims they were arguing about some photo-approval problems.”

“To quote you,” Bonnie said, “‘bullshit.’”

“Okay. I’m going out to see if I can dig anything up. I want you to stay right where you are.”

Bonnie shook her head. “No, I have to get back.”

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“You’re in a hurry to get arrested?”

“No. But I can’t let you ruin your career by harboring a known fugitive. I mean that.” She did.

“You may read mysteries, but you don’t know shit about the law. You’re not a fugitive. Not yet. You’re just my houseguest. Relax. Read a book. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“So write a screenplay about a producer who gets killed, and figure out whodunit.” She glanced past me, out into the house, toward the front door. “You’re thinking of taking a nice little run after I go. Right, Bonnie? Maybe a nice ten-mile sprint over to Gideon’s? Ask yourself: Do you want to put your best friend in the position of either protecting you or turning you in?”

“No.”

“Then stay here. Promise me. I don’t want my gut in a knot, wondering where you are, what you’re doing, when I’m out there.”

She reached out and took my hand. “Will you promise me that if you decide you can’t help me, you won’t arrest me?”

“Jesus, give me a little credit.” She squeezed my hand, then let it go. “If I can’t help you, I’ll let you know. And you’ll be on your own.”

She said, “On my word of honor: No matter how it turns out, I’ll never tell anyone you did this.”

“I know.” We stood together for a minute. Finally, I said:

“I have to go now.” But then I couldn’t leave. “Bonnie?”

“What?”

“Want to kiss me goodbye?”

“I tried that once. It didn’t work out so well.”

“Yes, it did.”

“No, it didn’t. Anyway, you have bigger things to do besides kissing.”

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“Like what?”

“Like going inside and calling your fiancée and telling her chicken breasts or roast beef. And then going out to try to save my life.”

C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

Easton had taken to his bed and hadn’t gotten out, but at least he wasn’t sleeping with his blankie pulled over his head anymore; he was lying on his side, his cheek propped up by his hand, and he was absorbed in a script. I was ma-ture, big-brotherly. I yelled “Boo!”

He screamed, but he was so startled it sounded more like the squawk of an oversize bird. “Don’t ever do that again!”

he roared. “Don’t you dare!” Two seconds later, he calmed down enough to ask, “What did you do, you dimwit? Sneak up the stairs so you wouldn’t have to say hello to Mother?”

“Yeah. You know, I remember when you used to call her

‘Mom’—before you decided to be born upper-class.”

“At least I can get away with it. If you tried it…”

I liked it. Easton appeared