This Time We Love Page 11

  She turned her head so that she could look up at him, her red hair gleaming on her naked shoulders. She scoffed. “You mean you wouldn’t take an opportunity to become a star overnight?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Max growled. “The film industry might have its intriguing aspects, but it’s just one more rut to get into so far as I’m concerned. I’m no more interested in becoming a movie star than I am President of the United States or head of the banking house of Morgan.”

  She curled down the side of her mouth. “What is your ambition, Max?”

  He laughed it off. “My ambition is not to have any ambitions. They get in the way of living life.”

  “Max, you are an American bum.”

  He laughed aloud this time. “Never denied it.”

  “But don’t you want to get anywhere in life?” It was the Italian girl’s turn to display irritation.

  He stroked the slope of her buttocks appreciatively. Good Lord, but the girl was built. “Sure,” he said easily. “I want to get on down to South America. I haven’t seen Rio or Buenos Aires for nearly ten years.”

  “Oh, you are impossible, caro,” she said, burying her head in the pillow again. “It is good I am going to have to give you up.”

  He looked down at her in surprise. “Give me up?”

  “But yes. My husband is coming back to Rome.”

  “Your husband!”

  She looked up again, from the side of her eyes this time. There was laughter in them. “He has been working on a film in Greece, but now it is completed.”

  Max said, “Good grief, I didn’t know you were married. When is he due back?”

  “Any time now,” she murmured. “Do it harder.”

  Max stood up and reached for his clothes. “A rivederci, fair lady,” he said. “Little Max is on his way.”

  She turned and sat up in the bed and said accusingly, “You are afraid of Alfredo and he is not nearly so large as you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Max said, getting into his shirt. “I just don’t want to put the guy in a spot where he has to biff me one to uphold his honor. Because if he biffed me one, I’d have to biff him back and I can probably biff better than he can.”

  Clara Lucciola laughed appreciatively. “It has been like you Americans say, fun.”

  “That it has,” Max said, slipping into his jacket. “Ci rivedremo presto, Clara.” He headed for the door.

  Clara called out after him. “Why in the world do you not take up with that nice Nadine Barney? She — how do say — carries the torch for you, Max.”

  “Which is exactly why I don’t take up with that nice Nadine Barney,” he said over his shoulder. “People who carry torches often get burned. So long.”

  Out on the street again, he grinned ruefully. What a girl. She’d been one of the most pleasant playmates he’d ever run into. He wondered why it was that nobody had bothered to drop the news to him that she was married. What a gang, this movie crowd. It had probably never occurred to any of them.

  “Hey, Maxie pal,” a voice slurred. “Glad I found you ol’ pal. Jus’ in time.”

  Max turned. It was, obviously, Bert Fix and the natty little flack had his customary load on. Max had been more or less avoiding the other for the past couple of weeks. The scene in the bar that had culminated with Max having to polish off the two tourists had been a little rich for his blood. In fact, he had been half-inclined to let the nastily aggressive publicity man stand on his own feet and take his beating. It just hadn’t worked out that way.

  Now he said, “Hello, Bert. What’s up?”

  “They’re out to gettcha, pal,” Bert slurred.

  Max looked at him. “Who?” he said, scowling.

  “Buncha bassers. Ol’ Bert came to warn ya, pal. You an’ me, we’ll take ’em on one atta time.”

  Max took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Heard two guys talking about it, in Jerry’s. No it wasn’t Jerry’s. Where the hell wassit, pal? No more’n half-hour ago.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “Three of ’em, hired to work you over, pal.”

  Max looked quickly up and down the street. “Come on,” he said. “The car’s across the way. Let’s get out of here.” He started across the street. “Who hired them?” he said, mystified.

  “Search me, pal.” Bert was holding back. “How come we’re not gonna take ’em on, Maxie?”

  “Because I’m not silly enough to go looking for fights,” Max growled. “Here, get in the car. I’ll take you home.”

  His assailant must have had the ability to walk like a cat. The first Max knew of his presence was a crashing blow dealt with an iron chain across his neck and the rear of his head. Max reeled backward, for a moment out of control. In the background, somewhere, he could hear Bert’s drunken voice snarling a challenge to mortal combat.

  He felt another blow, this time of a fist possibly with brass knucks, but it got him only glancingly. He continued falling back, going into the automatic, instinctive pseudo dance steps of the fighting man. His eyes were still half-blinded, shot with lights and stars, but now he could partially make out the man who was pressing him. The other was raising his yard-long length of chain for another swing, even as he followed after the reeling American.

  There were three of them in all. Italian toughs, gutter thugs. Max shook his head again, flexed his shoulders and reversed his direction. Somehow, he’d have to get close enough to his prime opponent so that the other couldn’t properly use his weapon.

  Max lashed out blindly, his strategy to throw the others into at least temporary defense. He could hear Bert again. The little fellow was evidently wading in to the extent of his miniature abilities. His voice was high but the only word that could occasionally be made out was “… bassers …”

  Max was clearer now. The shock of the original blow was worn off sufficiently for him to be able to assess the situation. There were three of them and they were all zeroed in on him, in spite of Bert’s efforts to attack their rear.

  Max reached out for one, a judo hold, missed his grip and accomplished nothing more than to rip the man’s jacket. He felt another blow to his ribs, and another. However, they were as nothing compared to the original crashing chain attack. These were blows of the hands.

  The three assailants were knowledgeable. They worked around him in a triangle both so that they would not interfere with each other’s efforts and so that Max could keep only one at a time in his sight.

  He felt another blow of the chain, not so hard this time, but still his knees buckled. He staggered forward, his fist open, his hand a cutting edge, rather than a hammer. He managed to get in one blow to the neck of the man before him, before feeling the chain slug into his kidneys once again. He almost screamed out from the pain.

  But one foe was at least temporarily eliminated. Max realized that he was going to have to get the man with the chain or give up the game. Another one or two blows of that type and he’d be out. The one thing in his favor was the weight and length of the unusual weapon. It took considerable strength, and room for a swing, for his assailant to operate it.

  He could see the swing begin and shuffled backward, his feet moving automatically, one, two, three, to avoid it. And did. Max lunged forward. This was it. Do or die.

  He was too groggy, his coordination too far off. He could hear Bert Fix call out something, uselessly. He felt the brass knucks crash against the side of his head, another blow to his ribs. Then the chain again, the agonizing, brutal chain. Even as he sank into the blackness, he could feel their shoes crushing into his side, his stomach. But dim in the distance he could also hear the running of feet.

  Chapter Eight

  WHEN HE AWOKE, it was in a strange room and in a strange bed. It was a comfortable bed, a homelike room such as Max hadn’t experienced in many a bachelor’s year. A woman’s touch. His body ached, and his head throbbed. Max reached up to touch
his nose and jawbone. Neither seemed broken.

  “You look like hell,” a voice said pleasantly.

  Max took in the room’s other occupant who sat on a straight chair next to the bed. It was Lonny Balt, the heavy-set, pasty-faced publicity photographer. Lonny said, “To sum it up, a cop got there before they could really do the job right. Bert had you brought here to his apartment. You were out, but the doctor Bert called said you evidently had no broken ribs and no concussion. He’ll be back shortly, to check again.”

  “Where’s Bert?” Max asked him, running his tongue around his teeth to see if any were missing or broken. “Is he all right?”

  Lonny grunted. “Nothing permanent ever happens to Bert in a fight. He never gets into one until he’s so swacked his body is limp. Besides, I don’t think anybody ever quite has the heart to really slug him.” The photographer smiled slightly to take the bitterness out of his tone and words. “He had an appointment with some magazine writer and asked me to baby-sit for him. Jeanette was twittering around until a few minutes ago, but she had to go to work, too.”

  Max hadn’t ached like this since the morphine had worn off after he’d taken the major portion of a hand grenade’s blast in North Korea. He growled, “How long am I going to be here?”

  “Lonny said, “The doc evidently thinks that nothing’s wrong.”

  “I feel wrong,” Max said plaintively.

  “And he figures you’ll probably be up and around tomorrow. At least, that’s what he told Manny King. Manny’s been phoning every hour or so. They’re trying to shoot around the big bridge scene until you get back, but meanwhile they’ve got all those extras on the payroll doing nothing.” Lonny grinned. “You’re in demand, man.”

  “Oh, great,” Max said. “Listen, who were those guys?”

  The photographer looked at him. “Don’t you know?”

  “No, I don’t, damn it. That was a professional job. Somebody hired some pros.”

  “Well,” Lonny said, “who likes you that much?”

  Max tried to concentrate. “I don’t know. Possibly some guy whose girl I messed around with.” His eyes widened. “Maybe Clara’s husband.”

  Lonny shook his head. “Not Alfredo. Not the type. Besides, he and Clara have a working agreement so that neither has to be faithful when they’re separated by a job. I have a better candidate for you. How does Filippo sound?”

  “Filippo who? Half the men in Italy are named Filippo.”

  Lonny looked at him. “The grapevine has it that you and Marcy have been playing house in your spare moments.”

  Max was indignant. “Well, the grapevine has it wrong. You mean Filippo Giotto thinks I’ve been messing around with Marcy McEvoy and hired some thugs to beat me up? Nonsense.”

  It was Lonny’s turn to be surprised. “I take your word for it, but let me give you a hint. Giotto is bad. The story is that he was connected with the Mafia in Sicily as a boy. He got to the States after some vendetta and into the gangster element connected with the Hollywood unions. I’ve always suspected that he got something on Marcy at that time. Possibly she was a hooker before she got into films and Filippo could expose the fact. Anyway, when the war ended, Filippo came back here and muscled his way into the Italian film industry. The police still haven’t completely cleared him on the mysterious death of a competitor producer several years ago.”

  Max closed his eyes. “Oh, great. I have to make enemies of a guy like that. He was already teed off because I didn’t take a dubbing job with him.”

  “I heard about that,” the photographer said laconically. “If I was you, Max old friend, I’d get out of town.”

  “I can’t get out of town,” Max grumbled. “I’m too big. People would think it looked funny.”

  “It’s your business,” Lonny yawned. “But like I say, if it was me I’d get on back to the States to home and family.”

  “I haven’t got any family,” Max growled.

  “I thought you were related to Fielding Toys.”

  “Uncles, cousins and aunts. I meant real family.” There was a strained note in the easygoing Max’s voice. “Mother died before I was old enough to remember and Dad raised me until I was about thirteen. He was the best old man a kid ever had, but he worked himself into a heart attack.”

  Lonny said, questioningly, “Never been married, Max? No kids?”

  The big man stirred in the bed as though impatient of the other. “No. That’s the beginning of the rut. You get married, the kids start. Before you know it you’re on the treadmill. Nine to five and two weeks off for vacation each year. The old rat race, the old grindstone. No thanks, friend.”

  Lonny grunted. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. I’ve got a wife and a couple of kids, myself. It drives me batty to get these jobs abroad and I can’t be with them.”

  “Every man to his own poison,” Max growled.

  It turned out that Max was up and hobbling around the apartment by that evening. When Bert Fix and Jeanette returned from work, they clucked over him, Bert fixing him drinks and Jeanette disappearing into the kitchen to do up a monstrous amount of some of the best home cooking Max could remember eating. Bert evidently had a jewel in the petite Jeanette Pearson; she made a home that was a home.

  He still ached but at least he felt mobile and insisted on returning to the small apartment he’d rented on the Via di Priscilla just east of Villa Ada park.

  “You’re all right?” Jeanette fussed over him. She was as sweet as gumdrops, but there was also something in her attitude that Max couldn’t quite put his finger upon.

  “Yeah, pal,” Bert said. “You can stay here till hell freezes over if you want. Jeanette loves to have somebody to do things for.” He changed subjects almost in mid-sentence. “Man, that cop came just at the wrong time. We were really working those wops over.”

  Max shook his head woefully at the little flack. “If I ever need a press agent, it’ll be you. You sure can build up the guy whose side you’re on.” He turned to Jeanette. “I’m okay, gal. In fact, I’ll be back to work tomorrow.”

  He did get back to the set the following day, but happily didn’t have to subject his aching body to simulated warfare. That day and the one following he whipped his combatants into the shape he wanted them. Manny King was long enough in the game to realize when he himself was unknowledgeable, and to give way to someone who was. For all practical purposes, he put the bridge scene into Max’s hands.

  Max himself, his head covered with a helmet, was to stand in for Horatius. And he kept Terry, the American bit player who had seen combat in the South Pacific, on as Herminius. However, for Spurius Lartius, the third of the Romans who defended the bridge, he sought out the most experienced of the extras, actually winding up with the former Bersagliere he’d fought in his first demonstration.

  The story called for the Etruscans coming in on the Romans three at a time, the bridgehead being so narrow that no more could get into action at the same moment. As soon as the Romans had cut down the first three, another trio of the best Etruscans came in, and following them still three more of their chiefs.

  So it was a matter of finding nine extras who had been in combat and were well versed in both bayonet fighting and with trench knives. It wasn’t too much of a problem. Still it had to be shot over and over again to achieve the prerequisite realism, and it ran into days. Max managed to accumulate more bruises, rather than to get over those he’d acquired in the scrap before Clara Lucciola’s house.

  By the time it was through, so was Max’s day of glory. From stand-in for Clark Talmadge, and technical adviser on hand-to-hand combat, he slipped back into becoming little more than a messenger boy and interpreter for Manny King and Mike Rogers. Not that he particularly cared. He enjoyed this opportunity to get the inside picture of film production, but he was already beginning to weary of it. In fact, he had half a mind to light out with the money he’d saved on the job, and take another look at South America.

  The last week o
r so had had its complications. Marcia McEvoy, once she’d decided that Max Fielding was the prime ingredient needed for her bed, was in no mind to take no for an answer. Her attempts to bring him to accept his fate became increasingly open.

  To Max, the whole thing had got to the laughable point, even that phase of it where Filippo Giotto had had him beaten up. Actually, he was one of the few available men in the whole production who hadn’t been in the hay with Marcy at least once.

  Max had been warned, gently, by Manny King of the Venus’s-flytrap which was Marcy McEvoy.

  Max had been warned, gruffly, by Mike Rogers of the fact that the Italian producer, Giotto, had evidently decided that Max was his rival for his wife’s affections.

  Max had been warned, laughingly, by Clara Lucciola, that Giotto was a bastardo and to watch out for knives and even guns, from dark alleys.

  Max had been warned, briskly and crisply, by Nadine Barney, that she wouldn’t stand for anything developing which would put the production’s star out of action. And why didn’t he, Max, stay away from Marcy? She had only a snort, in the way of response, when he told her plaintively that he was steering as far clear of La McEvoy as he could and that the aggressive nymphomaniac repelled him.

  Max had been warned, shyly and quietly, by little Jeanette Pearson, who flushed and kept her eyes low as she talked, that Miss McEvoy had a terribly jealous husband and Jeanette did hope that Max wouldn’t have any more trouble in the streets.

  In fact, about the only person on the set who didn’t get around to warning Max Fielding about Marcy was Bert Fix. Bert had scratched his beard reflectively and said, “Hell, if she wants it, give it to her, pal. I’ll tell you, it’s something. She’s a barracuda, pal.”

  Max stared at him. “You too, Bert?”

  The little man scowled at him. “Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Max soothed. “I just don’t see how she does it all. And I can’t figure why her husband has picked on me. Hell, the man could unlimber a submachine gun on Via Veneto and at random kill half a dozen men who’d slept with his wife.”