Bells of Avalon Read Free Page B

Kenneth Coolidge from Tempo . I'm not here about the supper club.” He started to speak again, but stopped short and tilted his head, “Wait a minute, you’re the brother…the Kingly Kitterages, right?” he smiled.
    “Well, Mr. Coolidge, we may be up to par yet. Have a seat, won’t you?”
    “I'm sorry I didn't recognize you. The name rang a bell but I'd dismissed it as, well, happenstance.”
    Max waved it away as if it were no matter and sat behind his sizeable desk
    “Think nothing of it. We all change over the years, don't we Mr.—I'm sorry what was the name again?”
    “Coolidge. Kenneth Coolidge, from Tempo Mag —”
    “Like the president?”
    “I'm sorry?”
    “The president?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Any relation?”
    “No, unfortunately.”
    “Ah, that's too bad. I had an uncle who went on the campaign trail with him—the president that is. You said you were a reporter?” Max asked. Coolidge looked at his hands and sighed.
    “A writer . I’m from—”
    “ The Sun , did you say?”
    “—no, sorry...you didn't speak with someone from The Sun did you?” he asked with a momentary flash of disappointment.
    “Oh no, I suppose not. I only thought I'd seen your byline.”
    “My brother writes for them , sports editor, boxing mainly—Les Coolidge.”
    “Oh, well you know the name rang a bell, but I just dismissed it as—happenstance.”
    The reporter looked over him with the same skeptical eyes as before.
    “I'm just screwing with you, friend.” Max smiled. The reporter shifted in his seat and clicked his pen before smiling back.
    “You know you ought to thank your luckies you caught me first. Albert hates talking about the old days. Even if you got him to—he'd make dull copy.”
    “Well I do appreciate your speaking with me. I'm sure you're a busy man.”
    “Ah, never too busy to take a trip down memory lane.”
    “I was hoping to get some information, if I could. Do you mind if I take notes?”
    “No, please do,” Max smiled at the pad of paper, “how can I help?”             
    “Tempo is just getting some retrospectives—behind the scenes stuff on the Smirk ‘a’ Gram pictures of the 40s—the ones with Danny Gallagher and Katie Webb. My editor’s on the fence about the article…he always gets nervous about exploitation pieces. You and your brother filmed on the same lot. You knew them, right?”
    “Daniel? You're doing a story on Daniel?” Max asked leaning forward in his chair.
    “Him and others. You see, it’s coming up on the anniversary of the last picture. There’s some interest around certain crew and cast members.”
    “You’re writing a commemorative piece? Why? No one’s cared about those films in years.”
    “Well, there may be some interest very soon.”
    “What does that mean?”
    Coolidge shifted in his seat and laughed awkwardly, “How can I put this? Some unsavory rumors have begun to surface about the productions.”
    “Unsavory? How do you mean?”
    “Well, I’m sure you’re aware of the new scandal around Willis Percy?”
    “The dancer? Can’t say I have. He’s been dead for years anyway.”
    “Probably best that he is…with all the underage girls and parties.”
    “Underage girls?”
    “Yeah, turns out the guy was a regular Errol Flynn—maybe worse.  Some of the stuff I’ve heard would make your hair curl,” he smiled, “allegedly.”
    “Is that right?” Max asked, leaning back in his chair once again.
    “So you knew Daniel Gallagher?”
    “Well, of course.”
    “Did you know him well?”
    “Well?” Max asked.
    “Yes. Did you know him well?”
    Max paused, “Yes.”
    Coolidge’s dark brows furrowed, he stopped writing, “Yes? You knew him well?”
                  “Of course,” Max finished. The reporter shifted in his chair. Max found himself staring at the virgin portions of Coolidge’s notepad.
                  “Mr. Kittredge?”