Way to Go, Doll Baby

By William R. Cox

Who hurt Doll Lansing so bad?
Tim Farr didn’t know.
Who banged Doll’s head around so that her whiskey-blurred eyes could no longer see which men were doing what to her hot, voluptuous body?
Everybody in Asienta, maybe. Producers, actors, tennis pros, even realtors and judges.
Until Doll lay like a broken puppet at the base of a cliff, the wheel of justice spun crazily, and the pointer reached Tim Farr.
Sure, everybody in the smoldering Hollywood suburb had had a go at Doll at one time or another.
So had he.
INCLUDES SPECIAL BONUS NOVELLA – “What’s Cookin’, Killer”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215947708

William R. Cox

William Robert Cox, affectionately known as Bill, was born in Peapack, N.J. March 14 1901, worked in the family ice, coal, wood and fur businesses before becoming a freelance writer. A onetime president of the Western Writers of America, he was said to have averaged 600,000 published words a year for 14 years during the era of the pulp magazines.One of his first published novels was Make My Coffin Strong, published by Fawcett in the early 1950's. He wrote 80 novels encompassing sports, mystery and westerns. Doubleday published his biography of Luke Short in 1961.From 1951 Cox began working in TV and his first teleplay was for Fireside Theatre - an episode called Neutral Corner. It was in 1952 that he contributed his first Western screenplay called Bounty Jumpers for the series Western G-Men which had Pat Gallagher and his sidekick Stoney Crockett as Secret Service agents in the Old West, dispatched by the government to investigate crimes threatening the young nation. He went on to contribute to Jesse James' Women; Steve Donovan, Western Marshal; Broken Arrow; Wagon Train; Zane Grey Theater; Pony Express; Natchez Trace; Whispering Smith; Tales of Wells Fargo; The Virginian; Bonanza and Hec Ramsey.He wrote under at least six pseudonyms: Willard d'Arcy; Mike Frederic; John Parkhill; Joel Reeve; Roger G. Spellman and Jonas Ward (contributing to the Buchanan Western series).William R. Cox died of congestive heart failure Sunday at his home in Los Angeles in 1988. He was 87 years old. His wife, Casey, said he died at his typewriter while working on his 81st novel, Cemetery Jones and the Tombstone Wars. We are delighted to bring back his Cemetery Jones series for the first time in digital form.

Book preview

Chapter One

THE SUN WESTERED against the Santa Monica Mountains but the heat was dry, oppressive to the men on the Number One tennis court of the Asienta Country Club. In the temporary, hired wooden stands the members and fellow townsmen perched and blistered. It had been a long Saturday afternoon, thought Tim Farr.

He threw up a ball and served. Harry Lansing lunged for the spinning, fuzzy sphere and missed. The umpire announced, Game to Mr. Farr. He leads six to five, third set

Going to the net, Tim Farr uncramped his right hand and looked at it dully, knowing he must maintain his concentration, knowing that if he let down for a moment he would be lost. He felt Harry Lansing’s gaze upon him, glanced up to meet the lowering dislike, to answer it with a glare of his own. Then he was reaching for a towel and he was trembling. Too old, he thought, I’m too old for this damned foolishness.

It was the finals of the B Tournament, an event of absolutely no importance. The club championship had been decided among the young. Bick Bickerson, the pro, had insisted on this event and Tim had been witless enough to go along with the idea. It was cardiac time in Asienta, Tom scowled. No man past thirty years of age should stay out here in the sun for three damned sets.

And what about Harry Lansing—there was a gentleman, a little dandy, ten pounds heavier than a horse and still determined to win the silver-plated trophy. Harry could die in his tracks, it would be easy to imagine it, noting his flushed face, the veins in his thick neck, the shakiness of his knees. And not a bad idea, at that.

The stands were quiet. The people, all tennis buffs, sat with their own thoughts, each held in the silly tradition of silence. Tim Farr could not refrain from staring toward them in the tiers. They were his neighbors. They stared solemnly back.

They were well-tanned people, attired in sports clothing of subdued hues, in shorts and halters, in pullovers and slacks of flimsy synthetic materials, wearing dark glasses for the most part, owlish, blank, far more serious than the occasion demanded, watching Tim Farr and Harry Lansing, householders and successful members of ‘the industry,’ fight each other into the ground in a tennis match.

None of it made any sense, yet was entirely conceivable against the background of Asienta. There were many wormy apples in this new and rich little retreat in the Valley and Tim Farr was acutely aware of every wiggle within the overripe fruit. He wiped the sweat band on his right wrist and replaced it, still looking toward the spectators.

Bickerson, who was tall, blond and moronic, moved close to him and whispered, You got the bastard over a barrel, Tim. Stay on top of him.

Thanks a heap. The tennis pro was keeping his back to Lansing lest he be overheard. The lessons you gave him aren’t paying off, are they?

You got him, repeated Bickerson. If you want him, that is. Maybe you don’t want him.

Tim Farr did not respond. Did he want to beat Harry Lansing, after all?

He was staring straight at Doll Lansing, known to the people out there in television land as ‘Dolly Harder, lovely star of the Run, Girl, Run series and wife of the well-known producer, Harry Lansing.’ She was seated on the far end of the bleachers, her long legs crossed, her shorts cut almost as high as the bikini she habitually wore at poolside across the way from the tennis courts. She held a paper sack in which, ill-concealed, was a pint of cheap bourbon, her favorite potation. Her startling, piquant face, masked behind smoked harlequin spectacles, was aimed at her companion.

Ralph Gordon was lean and lanky, not handsome but appealing when properly photographed. He was leaning toward Doll, talking in his affected actorish voice. Tim could see that Gordon was angry, his petulance plain behind the phony facade. Being angry with Doll would get him a seat in the park, Tim thought. She might sleep with Ralph occasionally but she had no respect for him.

Bickerson had gone away but Tim knew that his concentration was indeed broken. Harry Lansing’s bulldog tenacity would take care of the rest and this might be all for the better. Harry was a producer, Tim was a freelance television writer often dependent upon Harry for a job. And Harry lived in his ‘image,’ – horrible word – which meant that an upset win at tennis over him would produce trauma.

Good old television land. This was part of it, Asienta, California, where the little elves of the boob-box business dwelt and played. He wiped the handle of his Wilson Special, moving toward the baseline, walking past the umpire’s perch, squinting into the sun. He saw Doll Lansing take a drink from the bottle in the paper bag, saw Ralph protest. Since the two were atop the stand at the far end no one else noticed, certainly not Harry Lansing, who had not lost his concentration, not for an instant, had never, never admitted possible defeat, glowering, impatient, his hard, heavy features set in dour lines.

Television land—what a farce and how weary Tim was of its peculiarities. There was no escape from it under the present circumstances but he could hate it. And the awful truth was that it need not be this way if only the people involved would be honest with themselves and one another.

Calvin Farr, seventeen, gangling, awkward even in repose, looked up from where he was perched at the knee of Susan Gordon, divorced wife of Ralph Gordon, muttering, Get him, Tim. Break his back.

Calvin was not always a satisfactory stepson, but he had his points. And Susan’s expressive, extraordinary actress’s face was bright with emotion, her haunting green eyes full of deep meaning as she silently urged him to go on and win the match.

People took most things too hard, Tim thought. It meant nothing for him to beat Harry Lansing. It would not alter the course of history one iota; it would get no more notice than a stick in the throwaway Valley newspapers which cluttered the lawns of the unwary or untidy. It did not even mean anything here in the club, excepting that people did not like Harry Lansing and wanted to see him humiliated. Tim just did not have the drive to go on to victory.

His dragging gait had taken him almost to the baseline when for no reason at all he glanced up toward Doll Lansing and Susan’s ex-husband. Thus he was the only person in position and with time to move, the only one who saw that was happening, who could react in time to prevent disaster.

Doll was toppling, as in slow motion, turning over. Tim dropped his racquet and ran. Then Doll screamed once and everyone was looking. Ralph seemed to be lunging for her. There was a twelve-foot drop in prospect and Ralph could not reach her or was afraid of falling himself, or did not want to reach her and Tim was running faster in his tennis shoes.

Doll went over now, head downward. Tim made a last skidding jump, braced himself for the catch. Doll was five feet five inches tall and weighed one hundred twenty pounds. She landed with considerable force. He broke the impact with his arms and his chest, instinctively rolled with the heft of her, over and over. They lay still for a moment on the grass, breathing hard, striving for oxygen.

Then Doll said in a faraway voice, Nice catch, Tim. Old Tim. Nice indeed, friend.

He pulled away from her, the odor of booze and perfume, the softness and, even now, the insidious magic of her. He managed to sit up, the breath knocked out of him as once long ago on a football field in November when he had been double-teamed, remembering that day and school, his mind doing a small trick as he sought air.

Then the people arrived. He got to his hands and knees and Bickerson was on one side of him, Calvin on the other, walking him while others went to Doll. He could hear Doll ordering them off, swearing that she was all right. Tim took a breath and it hurt. The tennis pro and his stepson walked him, supporting him until he broke free, nodding assurance. Cal, he thought, was almost as tall as Bickerson, no wonder he ate so much. He shook his head like a prize-fighter throwing off the effects of a punch.

Bickerson was saying, That was quick, Tim. That was really movin’ in there.

What happened? demanded Calvin. How did it all happen so quick?

She … she fell. It was the best he could manage at the moment. Happened … to … to see it.

You sure she wasn’t pushed? Bickerson asked, leering.

The bitch, Calvin blurted.

They came to the clubhouse, where there was shade from the blistering sun, and they sat. Bickerson hurried off to get some cold water for Tim.

Harry Lansing approached them. She’s perfectly okay, which means snozzled. Nice work, Tim.

Tim grunted.

You know how she is, Harry went on. "Damn fool

dame. Then he dismissed his glamorous wife with a rude gesture. Guess you can’t play today any more, huh?"

Guess not.

Finish it tomorrow, okay?

Tim shut his eyes. Well, I don’t know, Harry. We’ll see. My back hurts right now. Let’s leave it lay awhile, all right?

Well, hell, said Harry Lansing. It’s got to be finished., I mean, it’s a tournament, all that.

Tim said, Tell you what. I’ll default.

Well, if you want to. Harry’s face altered. It had occurred to him that he would be accepting a trophy through the default of the man who had saved his wife from possible serious injury. He temporized. No, I couldn’t go for that. Like you say, let’s let it lay awhile, huh?

Harry left abruptly. Tim lay back and relaxed. He saw Susan Gordon talking with Ralph, who was shaken and pallid beneath his tan. Best thing ever happened that she had got rid of that star of stage, screen and television, Tim thought. Even if nothing good happened, if Susan and Tim could not ever make it together, she was far better off without sniveling Ralph.

Calvin was muttering, The lousy stinker. He should be castrated.

Never mind that, said Tim. And watch your language.

Castrated ain’t swearing, Calvin argued. It’s what should be done to him.

You’d better go on home, said Tim wearily. Mrs. Beechamp’ll be looking for you. Haven’t you got a date or something on a Saturday night?

Well, you know. No wheels, said the boy. I guess I’ll do something, though.

I guess you will, all right. Tim gingerly got to his feet. He was stiffening in all his joints. And you don’t get wheels back until your time is up.

Yeah. I guess it was pretty silly, making that Hollywood Boulevard scene. Calvin was in one of his reasonable moods. How about you? Can you make it?

No bones busted, said Tim. And … thanks.

For what? The youngster grinned and went loping off. He was far easier to get along with since his mother had died, Tim thought. He would be going away to the university if he could make some decent grades in junior college, and the days of hysterical crises would be ended. It hadn’t been easy but it had been worthwhile.

He got to the locker room through the shifting small crowd of people, acknowledging their compliments with a wave of his hand, limping a bit despite himself. Judge Clay, corpulent, showing his age more every weekend, tried to engage him in discussion but he managed to find his corner and take off his tennis clothes and slip into the shower to examine his bruises. They were few, to his surprise and the hot water washed away much of the discomfort. He went back to his cubicle and began to dress.

There would be the buffet supper and much drinking and some dancing by the younger married set which he preferred to skip. He lingered, alone in the dampness and silence of the disorderly room, disgruntled, dissatisfied with himself and his world. He was a writer, he made an average of twenty-five thousand dollars each year doing television scripts, he owned a comfortable house, he had few responsibilities, why should he be discontented?

He had long known he was not a gifted writer. He had begun in college by selling short stories to the now forgotten slick magazines. He had been lucky enough to get into TV early, when he was just a kid. Now, at thirty-five, he was an experienced hack who got jobs because the producers knew he would give them a script that could get on film—nothing great, nothing bad, either. Since television was cued to mediocrity, he had no reason to complain. Had he a message for the world, it would have found expression long since.

Part of his unrest was Susan Gordon, of course. It was possible that he was in love with her. He wasn’t certain; he was fearful that he was incapable of love for a woman. He lit a cigarette, leaning against the wall, suspended for a moment in a cloud of honesty.

A voice came through the wall of the women’s locker room next door. Of course I’m all right, damn it. Leave me alone, will you for Christ’s sake? Just get the hell out and leave me alone.

There was no mistaking the loud, musical tones of Doll Lansing.

Mary Jo Cienega’s whiskey alto was equally distinguishable, Your head, you know you hit your head.

You think it’s the first time I’ve been hit in the head? You know more about my home life than to believe that.

I don’t like to hear that kind of talk. Mary Jo was married to the most prominent realtor in Asienta, a friend to Harry Lansing, the producer, a member of the group that controlled much of the thinking of the community. She was also an alcoholic of some standing. She went on, If it wasn’t for Tim Farr, you’d have been killed. You know that.

At mention of his name Tim realized that he was eavesdropping. He moved self-consciously away from the wall and went through a door which led into the men’s bar of the club. He thought about Mary Jo, handsome, lean, with the body of a girl and the eyes of an old woman.

Joe Cienega, short, lively, brown-eyed, descendant of those who had once owned the Valley, called, Buy the hero a drink, Sam. That was nice work, hero.

Thanks, said Tim Farr. Make it a Jack Daniel old-fashioned, Sam. Since Joe doesn’t buy too often, make it a double.

Rat-fink, said Joe. You seen Mary Jo?

She was in the ladies with Doll, said Tim Farr.

Then they’re lushing it up out of her bottle, Joe decided. No use to worry about them. You going to play it off with Harry tomorrow?

I don’t know. Sam, a Negro with a round quiet face, put the drink before him. It doesn’t seem important. There were no other members in the bar. Joe came closer, looked over his shoulder and muttered, Play him. He’ll worry about it all night and be a soft touch. Beat his brains out, Tim.

I’ll think about it. Kind of feel let down.

Beat him. The bastard needs it, urged Cienega. Don’t worry about a job—he’ll have to hire you if you beat him, just to prove he’s regular.

Yeah. I see what you mean.

He needs it, repeated Lansing’s close friend. He’s been riding too high. You do it.

Tim watched the real estate dealer roll into the main dining room, realizing that the man was more than a little drank. He turned to catch Sam’s eye as the bartender repressed a twinkle. Make me another, Sam. I’ve a notion to blow this party.

Yes, sir. Hope you win tomorrow, Mr. Farr.

I may not play. I may default. He was short, irritable, which was unlike Mm. He added quickly, Just one of those things, and smiled.

I know, Mr. Farr. Pressure, pressure, pressure. The whole world pushes at you, sometimes.

The second drink was enough. Tim’s mind opened, his shoulders squared, he knew he had to be alone to explore his thoughts, to make decisions. His weariness was forgotten but it lay there, beneath the surface glow caused