“He’s probably gone through all your family photographs. But look, don’t get stirred up. He’s no better or worse than a thousand others. Believe me, I’ve seen this happen over and over. When there’s a little money to be made-a few hundred bucks even-people come up with all these excuses to justify what they’re doing with other people’s privacy. America deserves to be told the truth, and all that bullshit.”
“That’s not what Arnie thought,” Tammy said. “He just said to himself: I deserve to make some money for putting up with that fat bitch of a wife all these years.”
There was no laughter now; just bitterness, deep and bleak.
“I’m sorry,” Maxine said. “I really shouldn’t have brought them in.”
“Yes, you should. And please, don’t apologize. I’m not really all that surprised. What are they saying about you … if you don’t mind me asking?”
Maxine exhaled a ragged sigh: “She was exploitative, manipulative, never did anything for Todd except for her own profit. That kind of stuff.”
“Do you care?”
“It’s funny. It used not to hurt. In fact, I used to positively wallow in being people’s worst nightmare. But that was when Todd was still alive … ” She let the thought go unfinished. “What’s the use?” she said at last, getting up from beside the bed. “We can’t control any of this stuff. They’ll write whatever they want to write, and people will believe what they want to believe.” She leaned in and kissed Tammy on the cheek. “You take care of yourself. Doctor Zondel-is that it, Zondel?”
“I think so.”
“Sounds like a cheap white wine. Well, anyway, he thinks you’re remarkable. And said to him: ‘this we knew.'”
Tammy caught hold of her hand. “Thank you for everything.”
“Nothing to thank me for,” Maxine said. “We survivors have got to stick together. I’ll see you tomorrow. And by the way, now that you’re compos mentis-I warn you-there’s a chance you’re going to have nursing staff coming in to ask you questions. Then selling your answers. So say nothing. However nice people are to you, assume they’re fakes.”
Maxine came every day, often with more magazines to show. But on Wednesday-three weeks and a day after Tammy had returned to consciousness-she had something weightier to place on her bed.
“Remember our own Norman Mailer?”
“Detective Rooney?”
“Ex-Detective Martin Ray Rooney. The same. Behold, he did labour mightily and his gutter publishers saw that it was publishable and they did a mighty thing, and put it in print in less than three weeks.”
“No!”
“Here it is. In all its shoddy glory.”
It wasn’t a big book-a mere two hundred and ninety-six pages-but what it lacked in length it made up for in sheer bravura. The copy described it as a story too horrific for Hollywood to tell. On the cover was a photograph of the house in Coldheart Canyon, with the image of a glowering demon superimposed on the clouds overhead.
“He says you, me and a woman called Katya Lupescu were in it together. Like the three witches in Macbeth.”
“You mean you actually read it?”
“Well, I skimmed. It’s not the worst thing I’ve read. He spells all our names right, most of the time, but the rest? Oh God in Heaven! I don’t know where to begin. It’s a big sticky mess of Hollywood myths and Manson references and completely asinine pieces of detective work. Basically, he’s convinced everyone is in on this massive conspiracy — ”
“To do what?”
“Well … that’s the thing. He’s not really sure. He claims Todd found out about it, so he was murdered. Same with Joe. Same with Gary Eppstadt, though of course everybody in Hollywood had a reason to murder Gary Eppstadt.”
“I didn’t know books could be published so fast.”
“Well it’s just hack-work. It’ll be off the shelves in a month. But Rooney got a quarter of a million dollars advance for it. Can you believe that?”
Tammy picked the book up-which was called Hell’s Canyon-and flicked through it.
“Did he interview Arnie?”
“Well I didn’t read it that closely, but I didn’t see his name.”
“Oh, there’s pictures,” Tammy said, coming to the eight-page section in the middle of the book. To give him his due, Rooney-or somebody working on his behalf-had done a little research. He’d turned up two photographs from the archives of some silent movie enthusiast. One was a picture of Katya Lupi, dressed in a gown so sheer it looked as though it had been painted on, the other a much more informal photograph which showed Katya, Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Theda Bara, Ramon Navarro and a host of other luminaries at a picnic in the shadow of the dream palace in Coldheart Canyon. At the back of the crowd-separated from Katya by several rows of smiling, famous faces, was Willem Zeffer. Tammy closed the book.