Linda Gail’s presence at the party didn’t bother me. Nor did the fact that she was at a table with Garth McQueen and Jack Valentine. I was bothered by the fact that Roy Wiseheart was sitting next to Linda Gail, his hand on the back of her chair. I had a sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach that wouldn’t go away.
“Where are you going?” Rosita said.
“To have a chat,” I said.
“With wh
om?” she said.
“I’m not sure.”
“Hold up, Weldon,” Fincher said.
I ignored him and worked my way through the crowd to the far end of the pool. If I thought I was about to embarrass Roy Wiseheart, he quickly proved me wrong. He caught me before I reached his table, clamping his arm around my shoulders. “Fincher got you out here after all, did he?” he said.
“How’d you know?”
“I told him to bring you and Rosita. He didn’t think you’d come.”
“You know Fincher personally?”
“Everyone does. He’s a bank. Did you see Bugsy Siegel and his girlfriend over there?”
“Did you bring Linda Gail here?” I asked.
“No, she’s with this Valentine character. Talk about greaseballs.”
“How did you end up at her table?”
“Garth invited me. Give it a break, will you?”
I didn’t know what to say. “Is your wife here?”
“Are you kidding? My wife wouldn’t sit down in a public restaurant unless the chairs were sprayed with DDT. Come on, Garth has heard a lot about you.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t intrude.”
“He’ll be disappointed. Do it as a favor to me. He’s not a bad guy. Then I want to get some advice from you.”
Whether he was lying or not, I never knew anyone who was better at getting others to do his will. I stepped up on the platform and shook hands with McQueen. He was a large man, with craggy good looks and no fat on his body and a voice that was like a dull saw cutting through a dry board. Journalists loved him because of the fights he picked in his own lounge and the caricature he created at his own expense. All in all, though, he was a likable fellow, and I suspected that, like many men of humble origins, he had learned to say as little as possible and let his reticence be interpreted as a sign of wisdom. “You’re in the movie business?” he asked.
“No, I’m part owner of a pipeline company,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, seemingly unsure of what he should say next. “I met Jack Warner recently.”
“Really?”
“He told me this story. You know who William Faulkner is?”
“I’ve read two or three of his books,” I replied.
“Warner took Faulkner and Clark Gable duck hunting. When Gable was introduced to Faulkner, he said, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Faulkner. What line of work are you in?’ So Faulkner says, ‘I’m a writer. What line of work are you in, Mr. Gable?’”
McQueen waited, unsure of the effect of his anecdote. Wiseheart and I laughed. No one else did. Linda Gail probably knew who William Faulkner was, but her eyes were focused on me. No, “focused” is not the right word. “Smoldering” is more accurate, and I doubted if she cared two cents whether she made a good impression on Garth McQueen.
“Where is Rosita?” she said.
“She wandered off with Lloyd Fincher. I’d better be getting back. It’s good meeting you, Mr. McQueen.”