Jules got up from the Eames chair and walked over to the sofa where Arnie Zwillman was seated and sat down slowly.
“You’re carrying around a lot of lard there, fella,” said Arnie. “How old are you, Jules?”
“Let’s get down to what you wanted to see me about, Zwillman,” said Jules.
“How old? Fifty-seven? Fifty-eight? Something like that? You gotta take better care of yourself. Look at me. I’m the same age you are. Look at this stomach. Flat as an ironing board. You know why? I eat vegetables. I eat fruit. I walk five miles a day, every day. I take a massage every day. I take steam and a sauna every day. It sweats the fucking pounds right off you. You gotta lose a little of that lard. Bad for your heart. What’s your lady friend think about it? Does it bother her?”
“If Mrs. Mendelson has any complaints, she has not voiced them.”
“I wasn’t talking about Mrs. Mendelson, Jules.”
Jules was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “What are we here for?”
“I’m a friend of your son, Kippie,” said Arnie.
“
Step
son, not son,” said Jules.
“Oh, right,
step
son. He kept saying the very same thing about you,
step
father, not father. A very naughty boy, your stepson, but charming, I’ll say that for him, very charming. Ambition is not high on his priorities, but then with a rich stepdaddy like you, I suppose he has great expectations.”
“No, no, he doesn’t,” said Jules, shaking his head emphatically.
“Perhaps not directly from you, but certainly indirectly
through his mother, assuming that you cool first, which is not unlikely,” said Arnie.
The idea of death was abhorrent to Jules Mendelson. As successful as he was, he still had plans for himself that would further expand his wealth and power. And there was the crowning achievement of his life so near at hand, his role as the head of the American economic delegation in Brussels during the year of the statehood of Europe.
“It was nice of Kippie to set up this meeting for me,” said Arnie. “You’re not an easy man to get on the telephone.”
“I don’t know how my stepson knows you,” said Jules.
“Oh, Kippie gets in a little trouble from time to time, as I’m sure you know, and when he can’t go to his famous step-daddy or his society mama, he comes to see me for a little help,” said Arnie. “One of these days he’ll come to a bad end; you know that about him, don’t you?”
Jules listened. It was not the first time he had heard such a prediction for his stepson. Headmasters at several very expensive schools had voiced more or less the same forecast for Kippie Petworth after expelling him.
“I think the preliminaries are over, Zwillman. What does my stepson have to do with this? Why am I sitting here talking to you in the house of this cocaine-sniffing man Stieglitz, whom I have never met before?” asked Jules.
“Not a goddamn thing. I’m not here to talk about Kippie. I’m here to talk about the laundry business, you being, or about to be, so involved in international banking in Brussels. How’d you like to go into the laundry business with me, Jules?”
“Pretty girl, isn’t she?” said Pauline, in the darkened screening room, about the actress on the screen. She addressed her remark to Philip Quennell, but it was overheard by Casper Stieglitz, who, now very high, was returning from another trip to the bathroom.
“She’s a big dyke,” said Casper. He sat down in the row behind Pauline, in a chair next to the controls, where he could speak to the projectionist.
“Oh, no, I can’t believe such a story,” said Pauline, shaking her head.
“True,” said Casper. “She’s cleaned out half the muffs in California.”
Pauline, shocked, sat in silence for several minutes. She
ceased to look at the screen. She wondered where Jules was, and it occurred to her that he had gone home and left her there, as he was by nature too restless to enjoy looking at films or plays. She looked over at Philip. He smiled at her in the dark, realizing her discomfort with the unfortunate remark that Casper had just made. Pauline did not want to involve Philip, as she knew that he was working on a film for Casper Stieglitz. Finally, summoning her courage, she rose from her seat in the darkness. As Jules had before her, she blocked the light ray from the projection booth just behind her and cast a shadow on the screen.
“You looking for the toilet, Pauline?” asked Casper.
“Where is my husband?” replied Pauline.
“Talking to Arnie Zwillman in the house,” said Casper.
“How do I get there?”
From the obscurity of the darkened room, Willard, the butler, appeared. “I’ll take you back to the house, Mrs. Mendelson,” he said.
“Don’t you like the picture, Pauline?” asked Casper. He pressed the intercom and spoke in a loud voice to the projectionist. “What other pictures you got in there, Bernie?”
“
I
happen to be enjoying the picture, Casper,” said Hortense Madden.
Pauline did not answer. Beside her, Philip Quennell rose. “Are you okay, Pauline?” he asked her.
“Fine, Philip, just sit down. I’m fine. I have to find Jules, that’s all,” whispered Pauline.
The butler reached out his hand to her, and she took it. He led her through the dark room to the sliding glass door, which he pulled back. “There’s a step there,” he said to her in a low voice.
Outside Pauline breathed in the fresh night air.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mendelson, for what Mr. Stieglitz said,” said the butler.
“I have never in my life heard such an expression—” said Pauline, and then stopped.
“He gets a little hyper when he uses,” said Willard.
Pauline looked at the butler, not sure if he meant what she thought he meant, but decided not to question him. She had been brought up with servants and understood what her father had always called the boundaries of communication. “Look at these roses,” she said instead. “They need to be
clipped. They need to be watered more. This garden is a disgrace.”
“He’s let the place go since his wife moved out,” said Willard.
“He’s let himself go too, I’d say,” said Pauline.
“We’ll go around this way by the pool,” he said. “Careful here, some of the outdoor lights have gone out. One of Mr. Stieglitz’s guests tripped last week.”
“Heavens, I hope I don’t trip,” said Pauline, holding on to Willard’s arm.
“I know your house, Mrs. Mendelson,” said Willard.
“You do?”
“They used to call it the von Stern house before you bought it.”
“Yes, they did call it that, years ago,” said Pauline. “We bought it from Mr. von Stern.”
“What most people don’t know is that von Stern built it for Carole Lupescu, the silent film star. It’s where she committed suicide.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Turned on the gas.”
“Good heavens.”
“In the garage, not the house, in a Dusenberg.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m a house freak, a movie star house freak. I know the history of every movie star’s house in this town.”
“Our house bears very little resemblance to the way it was when Mr. von Stern had it, I’m afraid.”
“I know. I heard you did a total gut job on the house and doubled the square footage,” he said.
“You know so much.”
As they approached the terrace of the house, Willard said, very quickly, “Hector Paradiso was a friend of mine.” If Hector Paradiso had been alive, Willard would not have called him a friend, merely an acquaintance; but dead, it was safe to secure the friendship without fear of detection. “I saw you at Hector’s funeral at Good Shepherd.”
“Such a sad thing it was,” said Pauline. They were now on the terrace, and Pauline remembered the way. “Oh, yes, it’s through here, isn’t it, that we came out? I remember it now.”
“Mrs. Mendelson, Hector didn’t commit suicide. You know that, don’t you?”
Pauline looked at Willard. “No, I don’t know that. Suicide was the official finding in the autopsy report,” she said, wondering why she felt obliged to explain that to Casper Stieglitz’s butler, whom she probably would never see again. At the same time, she knew this man had been kind to her and realized he was sincere in what he was saying.
“Please listen,” he said, with an urgency in his voice. “An undesirable called Lonny Edge was the guy who killed Hector. Believe me, Mrs. Mendelson. I only tell you this because I know what good friends you were with Hector.”
Pauline did not know what to say. She had never understood Hector’s death or her husband’s insistence that it was a suicide. Her confusion was interrupted by loud laughter in the night air. Both she and Willard turned around to see where it was coming from. Three people, two young women and a man, all walking in an unsteady fashion, were coming around the side of the house to the pool area.
“And for God’s sake, don’t run your hands through his hair, because he wears a rug which he thinks we don’t notice,” said one of the young girls, and the three collapsed with laughter.
Willard recognized the voices but called out, “Who is that?”
“Hi, Willard. It’s only us, Ina Rae and Darlene and Lonny,” Ina Rae called back.
“Dear God,” said Willard, looking at Pauline. “You’re early, Ina Rae. Mr. Stieglitz is still running a film. Perhaps you should wait in his room until his guests leave. Go around by the kitchen entrance.”
“Got any drinks, Willard?”
“Ask in the kitchen,” he said. Then he turned back to Pauline, who had been staring at the young trio. “Next shift,” he said simply, in explanation.
“Did she say that young man’s name was Lonny?” asked Pauline.
“Yes.”
“Is that the same Lonny you were speaking of just now?”
Willard nodded. He opened the door.
“This is a very active household,” said Pauline. They stepped into the house. “Where do you suppose my husband is?”
“In the den with Mr. Zwillman.”
“Will you show me the way?”
“Through there.”
Pauline looked at Willard as if she wanted to remember his face and then opened the door of Casper Stieglitz’s den without knocking. Inside, seated side by side in earnest conversation, were Jules and Arnie Zwillman. Both men held drinks in their hands, and the room was cloudy with blue cigar smoke. The men broke apart from their conversation, in surprise at the interruption.
Pauline wondered at the intensity of their involvement. It was the way she had seen Jules look when he talked with his friends from the financial world.
“Jules, I want to go home,” said Pauline. She did not move from the door.
Jules looked at his watch. “Is the movie over?” he asked.
“For me it is.”
“Is something the matter, Pauline?”
“I have a perfectly frightful headache, and I must leave immediately, with or without you.”
“Did you meet Mr. Zwill—?”
“Yes, I did. Are you coming, Jules?” She turned and walked out of the room.
“Hey Willard,” called out Ina Rae from Casper’s bedroom, where she and Darlene and Lonny were smoking joints and drinking margaritas until the film was over and Casper’s grand friends left and the orgy could start. “Come in here a minute, will ya?”
Willard was in the kitchen paying off the caterers and complaining bitterly to them that one of Mr. Stieglitz’s black dinner plates had been broken.
“What is it, Ina Rae?” he asked, after he had completed what he was doing with the caterer. He wanted to make it perfectly clear that he did not drop everything and run when a person of the caliber of Ina Rae called him.
“My friend Lonny here has something he wants you to do,” she said.
Willard looked at Lonny. He had taken off his jacket and jeans and was sitting on Casper’s bed in a black jockstrap and T-shirt, with a joint hanging out of his mouth.
“You look familiar, Willard,” said Lonny.
“I was at Miss Garbo’s on the night you walked out of there with Hector Paradiso,” answered Willard.
“The whole fucking world must have been at Miss
Garbo’s that night,” said Lonny. “Poor Hector. Who woulda thought he’d have pumped all that lead into himself?”
For a moment the two men stared at each other. “You wanted something?”
“Yeah. Is Mr. Phil Quennell in the projection room watching the movie?”
“Yes, he is,” said Willard, surprised.
“When he comes out, give him this, will you?” He picked up a large manila envelope. On it was written in a very simple handwriting,
Mr. P. Quinel. Personel
. Under it was written
Zerox copy
.
“You writing your memoirs, Lonny?” asked Willard. “You better learn how to spell first.”
“Just give it to him, asshole, and don’t give me any attitude. All right?” said Lonny. He reached over and put his hand on Darlene’s knee and brought it all the way up the inside of her thigh, at the same time looking at Willard.
“Listen, you cheap hustler. Don’t use any of Mr. Stieglitz’s Porthault towels for cum rags. Got it?”
“I know the rules, Willard,” said Ina Rae. “I know where he keeps the cheap towels. When’s this movie going to be over, for God’s sake? We may start without him. This boy’s gettin’ hot here.”
Jules’s Bentley was parked in the courtyard of Casper Stieglitz’s house. He opened the door for Pauline to get in and then went around to the driver’s side and got in himself. Both strapped on their seat belts without speaking. As he backed the car up, he crashed into the side of a small Honda.
“Good God,” said Jules.
He opened the door of his car and looked out. “I should go in and tell the butler I hit that car,” said Jules.
“No, you shouldn’t, Jules,” said Pauline.
“It might be Zwillman’s.”
“Zwillman wouldn’t have a little car like that, believe me. At least you didn’t hit the gold Rolls over there. That’s probably Zwillman’s. You can call tomorrow. It’s just a dent.”
“About a nine-hundred-dollar dent,” said Jules.
“It’s not as if you can’t afford to pay for it. Let’s go. I want to get away from this house,” said Pauline. “I’ve never had a worse time anywhere.”
He drove the car out of the driveway onto the cul-de-sac
and made his way toward Mountain Drive, where he went through a stop sign.
“Are you drunk?” asked Pauline.