“Certainly. The studio doctor told me. It’s a glandular thing or something.” A pause. “He was a lousy lay.”
“I’ve seen all your charts. Physiologically your body is nor mal in every respect.”
“Fuck the charts, Charley. Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
“Have you ever been in love, Teri?”
“I could be in love with you.”
Silence.
“Get that look off your face. I can’t help it. I told you. It’s the way I’m built. I’m always hungry.”
“I believe you. But it’s not your body that’s hungry. It’s your emotions.”
“I’ve never been fucked in my emotions. Do you want to give it a whirl?”
“No. “
“What do you want?”
“To help you.”
“Why don’t you come over here and sit down next to me?”
“That will be all for today.”
Judd switched off the tape. He remembered a dialogue they had had when Teri was talking about her career as a big star and he had asked her why she left Hollywood.
“I slapped some obnoxious jerk at a drunken party,” she had said. “And he turned out to be Mr. Big. He had me thrown out of Hollywood on my Polack ass.”
Judd had not probed any further because at that time he was more interested in her home background, and the subject had never come up again. Now he felt a small nagging doubt. He should have explored it further. He had never had any interest in Hollywood except in the way Dr. Louis Leakey or Margaret Mead might be interested in the natives of Patagonia. Who would know about Teri Washburn, the glamour star?
Norah Hadley was a movie buff. Judd had seen a collec tion of movie magazines at their house and had kidded Peter about them. Norah had spent the entire evening defending Hollywood. He picked up the receiver and dialed.
Norah answered the phone.
“Hello,” said Judd.
“Judd!” Her voice was warm and friendly. “You called to tell me when you’re coming to dinner.”
“We’ll do it soon.”
“You’d better,” she said. “ I promised Ingrid. She’s beauti ful.”
Judd was sure she was. But not in the way Anne was beau tiful.
“You break another date with her and we’ll be at war with Sweden.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Are you all over your accident?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What a horrible thing that was.”
There was a hesitant note in Norah’s voice. “Judd…about Christmas Day. Peter and I would like you to share it with us. Please.”
He felt the old familiar tightening in his chest. They went through this every year. Peter and Norah were his dearest friends, and they hated it that he spent every Christmas alone, walking among strangers, losing himself in alien crowds, driving his body to keep moving until he was too exhausted to think. It was as though he were celebrating some terrible black mass for the dead, letting his grief take posses sion of him and tear him apart, lacerating and shriving him in some ancient ritual over which he had no control. You’re dramatizing it, he told himself wearily.
“Judd…”
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Norah.” He knew how much she cared. “Perhaps next Christmas.”
She tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. “Sure. I’ll tell Pete.”
“Thanks.” He suddenly remembered why he had called. “Norah—do you know who Teri Washburn is?”
“The Teri Washburn? The star? Why do you ask?”
“I—I saw her on Madison Avenue this morning.”
“In person? Honestly?” She was like an eager child. “How did she look? Old? Young? Thin? Fat?”
“She looked fine. She used to be a pretty big star, didn’t she?”
“Pretty big? Teri Washburn was the biggest—and in every way, if you know what I mean.”
“Whatever made a girl like that leave Hollywood?”
“She didn’t exactly leave. She was booted out.”
So Teri had told him the truth. Judd felt better.
“You doctors keep your heads buried in the sand, don’t you? Teri Washburn was involved in one of the hottest scan dals Hollywood ever had.”
“Really?” said Judd. “What happened?”
“She murdered her boyfriend.”
Chapter Twelve
IT HAD STARTED to snow again. From the street fifteen floors below, the sounds of traffic floated up, muted by the white, cottony flakes dancing in the arctic wind. In a lighted office across the street he saw the blurred face of a secretary streaming down the window.