This Girl for Hire Read Online Free

about fifty. He was tall and gangly with an ambling body that seemed plucked out of some animated cartoon about comical dizzy-eyed giraffes. Despite his poor features, he had a look of warmth and sincerity. He was the kind of person you somehow wanted to like.
    â€œYou’re perfect,” he said after a moment “B.S. is crazy about beautiful dames—especially blondes. Will you work for me?”
    â€œThat all depends on what kind of work you want done,” I said.
    â€œThis afternoon I want you to go see Swanson at Tele vision Riviera. We still haven’t picked a winner in our beauty contest. Ten to one he’ll go for you. All I have to do is second the motion and you’ll be in. You’ve got to be around when we go on location. He’s going to get me, I know he is—unless—”
    â€œBut, wait a minute, Mr. Aces—”
    â€œCall me Sam, baby.”
    â€œLook, Sam,” I protested, “this six-week contract—you know I’m not an actress.”
    â€œWho cares? With your face and figure—”
    â€œBut I can’t learn lines—”
    â€œLines?” Aces said. “Who learns lines in television? This is the modernage, Honey. We’ve got little men who do nothing all day but type scripts into big letters on machines. Acting’s a cinch. Ask Swanson. He spends two days on the golf course, two days drunk and two days in bed. On the seventh day, he condescends to stand in front of a camera, read from the carding device and look at women with shapely navels.” He shrugged his lanky frame. “What do you say? If I go to the police, the publicity will kill me dead. You’re the only one who can really help me now. I don’t want to windup like Herb Nelson in an adjoining grave.”
    I scanned his face for a hint of phony melodramatics, but it revealed nothing but despair. His jaw sagged slightly.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    We shook hands. Mentally, I considered the possibility of Sam Aces having killed Herb Nelson, then quickly discarded the idea. He seemed honestly afraid. It was the same kind of fear I’d seen in Herb Nelson’s eyes the week before his death. As Aces filled out information forms, I kept wanting to tell him I couldn’t guarantee his staying out of a six-foot hole. But I never got the words out, because that’s exactly where I pictured him. I don’t know why, except at that moment Sam Aces’ slouched, dejected shoulders andunhappy drawn face gave him the look of a man who was about to die.

THREE
    A T FOUR O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON I STOOD IN THE center of oneof Television Riviera’s mammoth sound stages wear ing a skin-tight bathing suit. Max Decker, a ponderous bear of a man, sat on two wooden chairs, chewing on a black cigar and squinting under thick brows at my torso. Bob Swanson stood a few feet away, flexing his muscles and undressing me with his eyes.
    Sam Aces was in a glass-faced monitor booth above the stage floor. His voice suddenly boomed out over a speaker, “Well, what do you think of her?”
    Decker grunted, got a new grip on his cigar and continued to peer at me. Bob Swanson glanced at the booth. “You may be a lousy producer, Sam, but you can sure pick the girls. I vote yes. Can she act?”
    â€œOf course,” Aces lied.
    â€œOkay,” Swanson said. “What do you say, Max?”
    Apparently Decker liked looking at females wearing bathing suits, but couldn’t cope with the emotional problem that went with it. “Damn you, Sam!” he barked. “You had to go think up this crazy contestidea, then you went and filled up my office with a lot of fat female fannies, now you come up with a dame who’s got more dangerous curves than Indianapolis Speedway and who makes me feel like an H-Bomb about to be triggered. Get her out of here!”
    â€œBut, Max!” Swanson protested.