按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
d him。 Such a plan would require them to share their secret with somebody else （this in itself was risky： makeup personnel were legendary gossips） and there was always the chance that； however good the cover…up was； the illusion of perfection would be spoiled under the blaze of so many lights。 All it required was one lucky photographer to catch a crack in the painted mask； and all their hard work would be undone。 The rumor…mill would grind into motion again。
〃Anyway；〃 she reminded him； 〃You loathe the Oscars。〃
This was indeed true。 The spectacle of self…congratulation had always sickened him。 The ghastly parade of nervous smiles as everyone traipsed into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion； the shrill laughter； the sweaty glances。 Then； once everyone was inside； the circus itself。 The lame jokes； the gushing speeches； the tears； the ego。 There was always a minute or two of choreographed mawkishness； when the Academy carted out some antiquated star and gave them a last chance to flicker。 Occasionally； when the taste level plummeted further than usual； the Academy chose some poor soul who'd already been stricken by a stroke or was in the early stages of Alzheimer's。 There'd be a selection of clips from the poor victim's great pictures； then； fumbling and bewildered； he or she would be led out to stand alone on the stage while the audience rose to applaud them； and you could see in their eyes that this was some kind of Hell： to have their finest moments thrown up on a screen…their faces strong and shining…and then have the spotlight show the world what age and disease had done to them。
〃You're right；〃 he'd said to Maxine。 〃I don't want to be there。〃
So why； if he truly didn't want to be there； was he sitting at his bedroom window tonight； staring down the length of the Canyon towards the city； feeling so damn sorry for himself？ Why had he started drinking； and drinking hard； at noon； and by two…thirty…when he knew the first limousines were beginning to roll up to the Pavilion…was he in the depths of despair？
Why； he asked himself； would he want to keep pany with those hollow； sour people？ He'd fought the battle to get to the top of the Hollywood Hill long ago； and he'd won it。 He'd had his face plastered up on ten thousand billboards across America； across the world。 He'd been called the Handsomest Man in the World； and believed it。 He'd walked into rooms the size of football fields and known that every eye was turned in his direction； and every heart beat a little faster because he'd appeared。 Just how much more adulation did a man need？
The truth？
Another hundred rooms； filled with people stupefied by worship would not be enough to satisfy the hunger in him； nor another hundred hundred。 He needed his face plastered on every wall he passed； his movies lauded to the skies； his arms so filled with Oscars he couldn't hold them all。
It was a sickness in him； but what was he to do？ There was no cure for this emptiness but love； love in boundless amounts； the kind of love God Himself would be hard…pressed to deliver。
As the cloudless sky darkened towards night he started to pick out the Klieg lights raking the clouds： not from the Pavilion itself （that lay to the west； and was not visible from the Canyon）； but from the many locations around the city where his peers； both prize…winners and losers； would in a few hours e to revel。 Members of the press were already assembling at these sacred sites…Morton's； Spago's； the Roosevelt Hotel…ready to turn their cameras on the slick and the stylishly unkempt alike。 A smile； a witticism； a look of glee from those burdened with victory。 They'd have it all in the morning editions。
Picturing the scene was too much for him。 He got up and went down to the kitchen to fix himself another drink。 By now he was on the second cycle of intoxication； having drunk himself past the point of nausea by mid…afternoon； he was moving inexorably towards a deep luxurious drunkenness； the kind that flirted with oblivion。 He'd suffer for it for whatever part of tomorrow he saw of course； and probably the day after that。 He was no longer young enough or resilient enough to shrug off the effects of a binge like this。 But right now he didn't give a rat's ass。 He simply wanted to be insulated from the pain he was feeling。
As he opened the immense fridge to get himself ice； he heard； or thought he heard； somebody； a woman； say his name。
He stopped digging for the ice and looked around。 The kitchen was empty。 He left the fridge open and went back to the door。 The turret was also deserted； and the dining room dark； the empty table and chairs silhouetted against the window。 He walked on through it into the living room； calling for Marco。 He flipped on the light。 The fifty…lamp chandelier blazed； illuminating an empty room。 There were several boxes of his belongings sitting there； still unopened。 Moved from Bel Air but still unpacked。 But that was all。
He was about to go back to the kitchen； assuming the voice he'd heard alcohol…induced； when he heard his name called a second time。 He looked back into the dining room。 Was he going crazy？ 〃Marco？〃 he yelled。
There was a long empty moment。 Somewhere in the darkness of the Canyon a solitary coyote was yelping。 Then came the sound of a door opening； and he heard Marco's familiar voice： 〃Yes； boss？〃
〃I heard somebody calling。〃
〃In the house？〃
〃Yeah。 I thought so。 A woman's voice。〃
Marco appeared on the stairs now； looking down at his employer with an expression of concern。 〃You okay？〃
〃Yeah。 I just got unnerved； is all。〃
〃You want me to go check around？〃
〃Yeah； I guess so。 I don't even know where it was ing from。 But I heard somebody。 I swear。〃
Marco； who'd emerged from his bedroom in his boxers； headed back upstairs to get dressed。 Todd went back to the kitchen； feeling a little stupid。 There wasn't going to be anybody here； inside the house or out。 Every stalker； every voyeur； every obsessive was canvassing the crowds around the Pavilion； looking for a way to slide past the security guards； under the velvet rope； and into the pany of their idols。 They weren't wasting their time stumbling around in the darkness hoping for a glance of Todd Pickett； all fucked up。 Nobody even knew he was here； for Christ's sake。 Worse； nobody cared。
As he returned to the business of making his drink； he heard Marco ing down back the stairs； and was half tempted to tell him to forget it。 But he decided against it。 No harm in letting one of them feel useful tonight。 He dropped a handful of ice…cubes into his glass； and filled it up with Scotch。 Took a mouthful。 Topped it up。 Took another mouthful…And the voice came again。
If there had been some doubt in his head as to whether he'd actually heard the call or simply imagined it； there was now none。 Somebody was here in the house； calling to him。
It seemed to be ing from the other side of the hallway。 He set his drink down on the counter and quietly crossed the kitchen。 The turret was deserted。 There was nobody on the stairs either above or below。
He took the short passageway down to what Marco had dubbed the Casino； an immense wood…paneled room； lit by a num