LITMIR.BIZ

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was automatic as I handed him my hat. He motioned me towards the front room and the smile disappeared.

      It was a small affair, at that. Thirty or forty people lounged about in the gigantic room, all of them seemingly talking at once; smoke clung to the ceiling, drifting above their heads. I could hear another group out by the pool.

      No one paid any attention to me. I looked for either Claire Harding or her husband, seeing neither. I did see the young brunette who had modeled the bikini at the pool that morning. She was the central interest of four men, all of them talking only to her, all of them bald, all of them old enough to be her father, or maybe even grandfather. She was dressed in a white knitted suit with a turtle-neck, and there was no room for improvement. Her eyes caught mine, paused on my face for a moment trying to recognize me, then passed on. I could do her no good.

      I elbowed my way through the room. Claire Harding was by the pool. She was dressed in an off-the-shoulder black thing that did much for her. She was talking to two women and a man. The man walked away, looking as if he were angry about something. She followed him amusedly with her eyes, then caught sight of me. Her right hand came out in a signal and the two women turned to look at me.

      I made it to her side. She gave me a smile.

      “Mr. Phelan,” she said, “so good of you to come.”

      I smiled my thanks at her courtesy. I suddenly found myself wondering where Daddy was. Did she hide him at these gatherings?

      I caught the tail-end of her introduction.

      “. . . is a writer. Really a good one, too, you know. Surely you’ve read some of his things.”

      One of the women stared at me. She had tight blonde hair that should have been gray by now, a prominent nose and far too much makeup.

      “I do so love writers,” she said.

      I played along. “So do I.”

      Claire Harding was having her moment. The corners of her mouth twitched. “What was the name of your last book, Mr. Phelan?”

      “Mind Over Mayhem,” I said. “Claire, dear.”

      Her eyebrows rose and then fell again. She had approved of me.

      “And quite an exciting book, too,” said Claire Harding.

      “No complaints yet,” I said.

      Someone’s scream pierced the night behind me. I turned just in time to see two men throw a young girl, fully clothed, into the pool. Her body splashed into the water and waves bumped against the side of the pool and then she bobbed to the surface, swearing at everyone. One of the men jumped in beside her and everyone laughed. Everyone but me.

      Claire Harding touched my arm and I followed her through the laughing idiots to a halfway secluded place near the back of the house. We stood on the edge of a ring of colored lights which surrounded the pool. The faint scent of pine touched my nostrils.

      “Nice friends you have,” I said.

      “They’ll do. You caught my cue nicely, Mr. Phelan. You look like a writer. I hope you didn’t mind.”

      “For fifty dollars a day,” I said, “you can make believe I’m anything you want.”

      “Anything?”

      I nodded.

      “You’re taking a chance, Mr. Phelan.”

      “Is your husband here?” I might as well work a little, I thought.

      “Yes. Somewhere. I’m not just sure where.”

      “I’ll find him.”

      “I imagine you will, Mr. Phelan.”

      She waved her hand, dismissing me. I was replaced by two young men with wavy black hair and muscles.

      The girl had been following my movements for some time. Finally I turned, raising my glass in a mock salute to her. She returned the gesture, walking towards me. Her face just missed being beautiful; it was wide, with high cheekbones and an overly large mouth. Her bright black hair was cut short, her legs were long and trim and her bosom was quite ample, even in this crowd.

      “You should have punted on fourth down, Mr. Phelan.” Her smile was quick, but warm.

      “I don’t get you.”

      “You’re caught in your own territory.”

      I shrugged.

      “Harrison Woodward left almost an hour ago.”

      “I don’t—”

      “Mr. Phelan—” the smile maintained its warmth—“I’m Dianne Cochran, Miss Harding’s personal secretary. I might even go farther than that. I’m also her confidante.”

      “That’s how you knew me?”

      She nodded. “That’s how.”

      A waiter came by with a tray of fresh drinks. We helped ourselves. It wasn’t often I got a chance at such good stuff.

      “It looks like I goofed,” I said.

      “Could be,” she said. “You could stand in line for that, though.”

      “You talk in circles, Miss Cochran.”

      “Dianne will do, John.”

      “All right, Dianne. You still talk in circles.”

      “Part of my charm.”

      She had charm all right. Enough to interest me.

      A handsome young thing wearing a bright new mustache swayed by. He smiled at the girl by my side. She turned her head.

      “Some of these jokers make me sick,” she said. There was unhidden disgust in her eyes and I didn’t feel so alone any more. The odds had been cut down. There were two of us now.

      A sudden hush fell over the room. The young brunette with all the equipment was standing on a table in the middle of the room. She had removed the white knitted suit; as a matter of fact, she had removed almost everything that counted. Someone began playing a piano in a slow, blue-sy way. The girl’s tanned body began swaying slowly in a wide circle, keeping time with the music. A man coughed to my left and a woman suppressed a giggle. Dianne said something under her breath; I didn’t catch it. I could see the perspiration on the back of the neck of the man in front of me. It brought back the picture of Jocko Quinn and I erased that with another look at the brunette. Suddenly a little man with thick glasses jumped up on the table beside her and they both fell off into a welter of people.

      Noises slowly returned to the room. I felt quite warm. It was some party.

      “There’ll be more entertainment later on,” said Dianne. Her voice was as dry as a desert breeze.

      “Such as?”

      “Such as movies. The kind that most of these damned idiots like.”

      The look she gave me was unkind.

      “You don’t?”

      “Mr. Phelan,” she said, “I am a normal woman. I like the opposite sex. I like it very much. It’s a great invention and I’ve had my fun during my 24 years. But I don’t go for some of the things they hand out around here.”

      “You could quit.”

      She only looked at me, then turned away. I watched her walk through the maze of people. She stopped at the entrance to a hallway, turning to look at me, her hand resting lightly on the wall. Her fingers fluttered at me and then she was gone.

      I listened to the talk going on; it bounced off me like so much nothing. I took her route through the crowd and entered the hallway. It was dark, lighted only by a single blue bulb from the far end. I walked along the hallway slowly. At a partly open door I heard soft music. A girl sighed, a young sound.

      The

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