Page 124 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

him at all, you know. Had to be about three o’clock. Maybe earlier.
When I get there on Tuesdays, I have to do the pool first because he
wants to have it ready for any guests as soon as possible. Of course,
on the other days I leave it to last, pretty much for the same reason.”
“How did he seem to you?” Labelle’s question was nice and vague.
Having guided the barge out into open waters, the aggressive little
tugboat backed off; he was on his own. I set my features in the perky
attentiveness of an air-headed anchorwoman gazing with jelled
adoration at her blow-dried male colleague’s recitation of
inconsequentialities.
“Mr. Fish?” Gene was exhausting his repertoire of delaying tactics.
“Same as always. Phone in one hand, cigar and bottle in the other.
Had his trunks on, but I don’t think he was going swimming.”
“Oh? Why not?”
Gene grinned triumphantly. “I’ve seen him lots of times. When he
has the cigar, that means he’s going in the hot tub. No cigar, the
pool.”
“I see. What was his mood?”
“Like I said: same as always. Loud on the phone. Can’t tell if that
means he’s happy or madder than hell. Might be the same thing for
him.”
“Could you tell who was on the line with him?”
The old gent looked shocked. “Certainly not! I never eavesdrop.
And I don’t like hearing all that bad language, anyway. I realize he has
to talk like that to those people he works with in order to get their
respect, but I sure wouldn’t. And I don’t think he would like it if he
thought I was listening in—I hear that the movie business is full of
top secrets and confidential information that you wouldn’t want your
competitors to find out. No, I never want to look like I might be
spying on some big deal he is cooking up.”
This testimony was just about worthless: G.F. never kept an
opinion to himself, and the person to whom it applied was likely to
hear it directly from Fish, at high volume and in low invective. As for
industrial espionage, anyone who could separate the extremely scanty
pearls of wisdom from the massive midden of rotten oyster shells he
produced would need the patience of Job and the prescience of Louis
B. Mayer. But Ms. Gramercy did not press him on the issue.
“Who else was at the house yesterday afternoon?”

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