Evil Come, Evil Go

Whit Masterson

• Publisher: Prologue Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781440540653
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

The newspapers called it the Crime of the Century. The extravagance was understandable. The crime would have made headlines had it happened to an ordinary citizen, but this blow had been struck at Andy Paxton. His golden voice had made him an American institution. Lissa, his actress wife, was almost as successful. It was unbelievable that murder and an evil even worse than murder could have touched them. Suspecting that Andy's enemy might be someone who knew him well, the police dug into the past lives of the members of his entourage. Even the most trustworthy employees had unsavory secrets. Afraid to enlist an ally who might be an adversary, Andy sets out alone to find his opponent. There was no one he trusted, not even the police. And, ironically, he learned that police did not trust him.Here is a taut, compelling mystery, set against the fascinating background of show business.

1

THE NEWSPAPERS called it the Crime of the Century. The extravagance was understandable. The events of that first week in July were savage and shocking, and would have made headlines for any average citizen. But these were not average citizens … themselves the products of exaggeration, what they did and what was done to them took on an exaggerated importance, a drama larger than life with the entire nation as audience and critic. Every movement of the actors was scrutinized, every detail reported, a subject for breakfast table and barber shop conversation from coast to coast. And yet the real drama took place off-stage, away from the spotlight and the curious eyes, in a strange and silent duel between a man with no friends and a man who had too many …

Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!

The early evening fog, creeping in off the Pacific, ringed the red neon letters with a faint halo. But it did not obscure them, nor the sprawling shape of the theater-restaurant that reclined a hundred yards beyond the sign at the water’s edge, like some exotic sea creature stranded there by a particularly high tide. The El Dorado was no happenstance, however, any more than the point of land on which it stood. Both had been thoughtfully constructed, the peninsula dredged from the sands of the harbor, and the nightclub designed to take advantage of the setting. Surrounded on three sides by water, with the lights of the city a shimmering backdrop, El Dorado was mostly glass walls and windows, blank only on the landward approach. Those who could pay its prices were not interested in a view of the parking lot.

Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!

Near the cavernous entrance to El Dorado, two giant searchlights were already probing the sky, as they did nearly every night. Unlike many similar establishments who complained of the shortage of acts they could afford and still make a profit, El Dorado was able to book, week after week, a lineup of talent that read like a show business directory. This was not because of the salaries Samuel Skolman paid. They were, actually, quite modest. Rather, it was due to a fortuitous circumstance. It had been learned that the city of which El Dorado was a part constituted a perfect tryout date for club acts — close enough to Los Angeles and Las Vegas for convenience, yet not so close as to take the shine off the gala debuts later. Singers, dancers, comedians … they found El Dorado a test track on which new material could be polished and old material strengthened. It was axiomatic that an act that played well at El Dorado would clean up in the goldfields to the north. Those that flopped here went back to the shop for a drastic overhaul.

Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!

I don’t care how often it happens, Andy Paxton thought as the car turned into the lot, I don’t believe I’m ever going to get used to seeing my name in lights. It gave him a feeling of unreality, the knowledge that his name — the flat graceless syllables — was a household word, like a cigarette or a soap. It wasn’t even necessary to follow it with any explanation, such as “singer” or “TV star.” The name was enough; the public, or at least the great majority of it, knew. Just — ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!

The parking lot was already crowded with automobiles, although the first show was more than an hour away. A steady stream of customers threaded through the rows of cars toward the entrance. They moved good-naturedly aside to let the yellow Cadillac pass, some of them peering into it for a glimpse of the occupants, then turning to their companions, asking, “Wasn’t that …?” But since there were five men in the long sedan, no one was quite sure.

Andy Paxton sat in back, a man on either side of him, as if he were royalty. Two more men occupied the front seat, one of them acting as driver. All were his employees to a greater or lesser degree. On Andy’s left was Bake, his friend; on his right, Lanny Munce, the Artists & Repertoire man from the recording company. The driver was Hub, his bodyguard. Beside Hub sat Ed Thornburg, his press agent. These did not constitute all of his entourage by any means. It would have been necessary to employ a bus had he wished to bring everybody at once. Counting the orchestra, it amounted to around thirty people.

Bake had kidded about it on the jet down from Los Angeles. “It’s our own share the wealth plan. Andy makes it and we share it.”

Andy didn’t mind. He liked people and since the money rolled in, week after week, in a fantastic flood, it seemed only right that others should share in his good fortune. That’s what he secretly felt it was, good fortune that he personally had very little to do with. Andy, as yet, had not developed the swollen ego of most headliners. He did not resent his co-workers, or the multitude of fans who had made a bodyguard necessary. Unlike many performers who expressed private contempt for the crowds who followed them, Andy felt gratitude and even a certain amount of affection.

Like tonight. As the Cadillac pulled to a stop beside the stage door at the rear of El Dorado, it was immediately engulfed. Mostly young people and teenagers, they surrounded the automobile, staring in the windows, shouting his name.

Hub turned off the engine. Over his shoulder, he told Andy, “Stay put until I can clear them back.” He swung out of the car, a big heavy-set man with the authority of command.

Thornburg, the press agent, said as if concluding an argument, “There you are, Andy. You’re a smash already.”

“He’ll be lucky to get inside with his pants intact,” muttered Bake. “Reminds me of a lynch mob I saw once. Is that a rope that guy’s got?”

“Where?” Lanny Munce asked, craning his neck in alarm. Bake whooped with laughter. He was an irreverent joker, an easy-going young fellow Andy’s age, but bigger and darker. They had been friends since boyhood. Bake had run interference for Andy on their high school football team. In a way, he was still running interference for him. They had talked vaguely of going into business together but the draft had separated them. When Bake’s hitch was up, Andy was already on his way to stardom. Bake had followed him and tried unsuccessfully to be an actor. After that, he had drifted into Andy’s orbit and had remained. His exact duties were undefined and undefinable, a combination confidant, trouble-shooter and Man Friday.

“Here come the gendarmes,” Thornburg announced. Hub had had little success in clearing away the mob; like water, they seeped back as quickly as he pushed them away. Now a pair of uniformed policemen joined him and order began to emerge from chaos. “But where the hell are the photographers?”

“I’ll have to kid Hub about that,” Bake mused. “It’s not the man that does it, it’s the uniform.”

“I wouldn’t,” Andy said. “Hub’s kind of touchy and I don’t carry hospitalization for you.”

“Any time,” scoffed Bake, but Andy knew that Bake would heed the warning. Not that Bake was afraid of Hub, not exactly. But Hub — Hubbard Wiley — was no man to be taken lightly. An ex-cop, former private detective, one-time professional wrestler, the only thing soft about him was his drawling voice. Hub was quick and he was smart, and if he lacked a sense of humor, well, you didn’t hire a bodyguard for laughs.

Hub opened the rear door of the Cadillac. “Okay, Mr. Paxton.” Andy had often urged him to use his first name but Hub persisted in being formal.

Bake slid out first and Andy followed him. The two policemen acted as a windbreak, preventing the enthusiastic youngsters from pinning Andy to the car. A number of autograph books were waved in the air like flags.

“Come on, get back,” Hub said. “Mr. Paxton’s got a show to do.”

But they continued to call and to wave the autograph books. Andy nudged Hub. “Let’s give them a break. They’ve been waiting out here in the fog.” He winked at Lanny Munce. “After all, they buy the records.”

Hub pointed to a teenage girl in the front rank. “Okay, you first. One at a time, and don’t push.”

Andy began to sign his name, scarcely seeing the faces whose owners shoved the books at him. Nor could he hear much of what they said; everyone was trying to talk at once. He kept smiling and nodding and making monosyllabic pleasant replies. Someone called, “Where’s Lissa?” Andy looked up, grinning. “Baby sitting, of course.”

Bake said in his ear, “It’s getting late, chum.”

“Okay, okay. I’m about done.” He handed back the last book and waved around at the crowd. His escort, like a Macedonian phalanx, marched him off to the stage door. The teenagers trailed him all the way, shouting encouragements. Thornburg, chuckling, said, “Hail, Caesar!” He took a cynical view of adulation, knowing how much of it was created by people like himself. He dragged himself through life on a permanently withered left leg, the result of childhood polio; his deformity as well as his job set him apart from the crowd. Neither hero nor hero-worshipper, Thornburg had found his perfect niche, kingmaker.

Bake said, “You got it wrong, Ed. They’re looking for a mirror image these days. And who is the fairest of them all?”

This kind of talk, referring to him less as a person than as a product, always made Andy uncomfortable. “You ever stop to think they might just like to hear me sing?”

“If he stopped to think, he wouldn’t be a press agent,” Bake said. They passed through the stage entrance, the steel doors clanged shut behind them. Clowning, Bake braced his body against them. “Safe at last, thank God!” No one paid any attention.

They had merely passed from one mob into another. The backstage area was cluttered with people, electricians and stagehands adjusting equipment, musicians tuning instruments, plus a number of other men and women who seemed to have no particular function but wandered about with distraught expressions. They rushed forward as eagerly as the autograph hounds outside, each clamoring for Andy’s attention. And on the other side of the red velvet curtain another crowd, the supper show customers, patiently awaited their turn. Andy Paxton was the axis on which tonight’s little world revolved.

Andy tried to give each o...