Night Extra

“Like a dog yet he whistles for me.” The trademark. of the Ridgeland and its clients was the reflexive wisecrack, the smiling and gratuitous insult. George shrugged elaborately and grinned at Karsh. “What’s the matter? Ulcers?”

“It used to be singing waiters,” Karsh said. “Now they talk. Run along and pad my account, George. I said I’ll whistle.”

George bowed crisply and went away smiling.

“He’ll go on smiling for years,” Terrell said. “Then he’ll cut somebody’s throat for asking for a glass of water.”

“Sing me a song of social significance, eh? You know everybody, don’t you?” Karsh said. “Myers, Carruthers—” He stared at the press agents and shook his head. “I don’t know them. Probably spies, travelling under a Martian passport.”

A red-headed girl had sat down beside Terrell and Karsh nodded to her. “Sam, this is Bill. She was named Bill by her press agent, not her mother.”

The red-head pouted cutely at Terrell. “Now don’t put that in your column, Mr. Terrell.”

“All right, I won’t,” Terrell said.

One of the press agents leaned over and touched his arm. “I won’t box with you, Sam. We’re building this girl up for Video Studios. Look, Karsh has said some cute things about her, as a matter of fact. They wouldn’t look bad in print — and they’re straight from the boss’s mouth.”

“I’ll get Mike to tell me about her,” Terrell said. “When we’re alone.”

Karsh smiled around the table. “Sam and I are working tonight. Would you all excuse us?”

“We could get another table,” Terrell said. “No point in rushing them.”

They stood quickly, smiled a good-bye at Karsh, and then moved off in a protective group toward the lobby, having paid nothing for their drinks but a small bit of self-respect.

“A grand bunch,” Karsh said, with a solemn shake of his head. “From my old regiment. They called me The Old Man. Follow me to hell and back.” He watched them as they went up the steps to the lobby. “Goddamn tasteless creeps.”

“Let’s order dinner. You can take it out on George.”

Karsh glanced at him. “You don’t like the Wildean shafts we break, eh. Well, it passes for conversation. If we didn’t insult each other we’d have to talk to each other. Let’s have something to drink, and talk about your story. We can eat any time.”

He was in character now, Terrell saw, a shrewd, intelligent man fascinated by his work. The other roles were forced on him out of boredom; the ruthless cynic, the patronizing seigneur, the bitter iconoclast, all of these were charades played for his own diversion.

Terrell told him what he had learned from Sarnac and Eden Myles, then waited for a reaction. After a moment Karsh said, “Something’s incomplete. What’s Eden Myles getting out of it? I don’t buy the revenge angle and I certainly don’t buy her tale of a suddenly burgeoning conscience. She’s getting paid, is my guess.”

“Sarnac says no.”

“Let’s double-check,” Karsh said. “If she’ll talk for money, we can raise the ante.”

George came over yawning. “Come on, quit stalling.”

The food at the Ridgeland was superb, but Karsh ordered vegetables and soft-boiled eggs. “Wine?” George said, winking broadly. “Real French wine?”

“I’ll have scotch with the vegetables and a double scotch with the eggs,” Karsh said. “Sam?”

“Steak.”

“Ah, expense account tonight,” George said. “How do you want it? With or without?”

“Without conversation,” Terrell said, and regretted the remark instantly. Karsh laughed and raised his drink. “Very good. Knee in the groin that time.”

George’s smile slipped for just a second. “No straight men left anywhere,” he said, snapping the big menu shut. “One steak coming right up, boss.”

Terrell said to Karsh, “What do you think of Caldwell?”

“Did you meet him today?”

“No. I talked to Sarnac.”

“Caldwell is an oddball,” Karsh said wearily. “A civic reformer is a bit like a middle-aged widow with a grown family and adequate insurance. Kind of a zero. No sex life, no kids to shout at, no bills to worry about. The house in order. That’s an intolerable situation for any human being, so they start minding other people’s business. Take Caldwell for instance. Forty-eight, Ivy League school, prosperous law business. Plays squash rackets on Tuesdays at the Union Club, shoots golf in the middle eighties at Fairhill, which is a club the average guy couldn’t get into with eighteen million bucks in his hand.”

Terrell smiled. “You’re a member, aren’t you?”