Hector nodded but did not take the hand that was offered. He had not come to Miss Garbo’s to make conversation, especially with a movie producer’s butler.
“What kind of night are they having here?” asked Hector.
“Not bad. Not bad,” said Joel.
“Where’s Manning Einsdorf tonight?” asked Hector.
“He’ll be out in a few minutes. He’s got a new singer opening in the next set,” said Joel.
“I want to get in and out before the new singer goes on. I’ve heard enough of Manning Einsdorf’s discoveries,” said Hector.
“Well, you’re looking pretty spiffy,” said Manning Einsdorf, coming up to the bar. He was sixty, and his gray hair was combed upward and sprayed into place to cover his bald spot. He wore large rings on each hand. “You always add a touch of class to the place, Hector.”
Hector, in his gleaming white shirtfront and black tie, preened a bit as he felt himself to be the center of attention of this admiring group, knowing that he was different from them, more important, better even. He nodded in acknowledgment, and turned to watch the action in the room.
“Been to one of your high society functions?” asked Manning.
Hector nodded yes. It was a game they played out together. He took a cigarette from a gold case in his pocket and lit it with a pack of matches labeled
MISS GARBO’S
that Manning handed to him.
“Whose?” asked Manning. Like the outsider he was, Manning Einsdorf had an enormous curiosity about the social lives of his clientele, and Hector Paradiso, who greatly enjoyed his reputation as a social figure, could not resist impressing the impressionable Manning.
“Pauline Mendelson’s,” answered Hector, in a lowered voice, always aware of the impact of her society name.
“Oh, la de da,” said Manning. “And how was Pauline dressed tonight?”
Pauline Mendelson would have been greatly surprised to
know how frequently her name was invoked in the name of style and swank among the customers of bars like Miss Garbo’s, as well as the hairdressers, and florists, and picture framers, and lampshade makers in the area of West Hollywood.
“Like Madame X herself. Black velvet. High neck. Low back. Very classical,” answered Hector.
“And what jewels tonight? Lemme guess, the emeralds?” asked Manning.
Hector shook his head. “Two strands of her perfect pearls the size of grapes, and a plain diamond bracelet.”
“Class, the woman has class,” said Manning. “Have a drink on the house, Hector.”
“I’ll have a scotch and soda, Zane,” said Hector to the bartender.
“Coming right up, Hector. How’s it going?”
“Okay, Zane. You’re looking pretty good for an old man.”
Zane, who was forty, laughed. “You want to know the first time I made it with Hector, Manning? Nineteen sixty-eight. Right, Hector? Met him at Numbers up on the Strip.”
“He was a hot number in those days,” said Hector.
“Speaking of hot numbers, I got a couple of new hot numbers here tonight,” said Manning.
“Start pointing them out. It’s getting past my bedtime,” said Hector. “And nothing Third World.”
“Take a look at the far end of the bar, the one nursing the beer, with the leather jacket and the blond hair,” said Manning.
Hector glanced down the bar. Sitting on a bar stool was a young man, aware that he was being looked at. He looked back and smiled. He was, in the dim light of the bar, very good-looking.
“Go no further. That’ll do just fine,” said Hector. “What’s his name?” asked Hector.
“Lonny,” answered Manning.
“Lonny what?”
“How the fuck do I know Lonny what? Lonny was what he told me,” said Manning.
“You ought to get both names.”
“For what? These guys aren’t trying to get into the
Los Angeles Blue Book
. They have something else on their minds.
Guys like that give you two names, nine times out of ten, the second name is a phony, so why waste time learning it?”
“What’s Lonny’s claim to fame?” asked Hector, staring at the young man.
“You’re gonna love this one, Hector. This guy is supposed to have the rest of the missing manuscript of
Candles at Lunch
,” said Manning. “Took it off Basil Plant one night when Basil was drunk and belligerent and wouldn’t pay up. He thought Basil would come after him the next day and pay him a fortune for it, but Basil was so far gone on pills and booze he didn’t even remember the incident, and a short time later he died. And Lonny’s got three hundred and ninety-eight pages of a novel he’s too stupid to read, but he brags about it a lot.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I meant when I asked what was his claim to fame,” said Hector. “Let me put it this way: when I came here tonight, I didn’t have in mind a night of literary pursuits. Let me be more succinct. Is he hung?”
“I have no personal experience in the matter. I’ve only seen his videos,” said Manning.
“Well?”
“Extended, it rises two inches above his belly button. Is that what you want to know?” asked Manning.
“Yes, Manning, that’s exactly what I want to know. Introduce me, and get the charges all set now, up front, so there’s no misunderstanding later. I had a little trouble with that Puerto Rican number you set me up with last week.”
“So I heard.”
“I pay seventy-five, no more.”
“It’s a hundred-dollar market these days, Hector.”
“Seventy-five,” repeated Hector.
“And the pretty boy at the end of the bar that you’ve taken a fancy to is a hundred and a half, take it or leave it, no bargaining with him.”
“How do you know?”
“He told me. He considers himself a video star.”
“That is an outrageous amount of money,” said Hector, with indignation in his voice.
“Let me put it in perspective for you, Hector,” said Manning. Manning Einsdorf was an astute businessman and used to dealing with the penurious Hector. “A hundred and fifty bucks wouldn’t pay for one centerpiece at Pauline Mendelson’s party tonight, and you can’t fuck a centerpiece.”
Hector smiled. “I always said about you, Manning: you’re a man with class.”
“Do we have a deal?”
Hector turned to the bartender. “Zane, send another beer down to Lonny at the end of the bar. Compliments of Mr. Paradiso, tell him.”
“I bet you five bucks he’ll say, ‘As in Paradiso Boulevard, on the way to the airport?’ ” said Zane.
“That’s the point, Zane,” said Hector. “They all say that. It worked with you in ’sixty-eight, and it’s still working today.”
Zane laughed and took a beer down to the end of the bar. Lonny accepted it, and raised it in a salute to Hector. Hector walked down to the end of the bar, and the two men shook hands.
There was a roll of the drums, and Manning’s voice came out on the loudspeaker. “Lady and gentlemen, Miss Garbo’s is proud to present the Los Angeles singing debut of Miss Marvene McQueen.” The orange curtains parted to reveal a blond singer, in a black evening dress with thin shoulder straps, standing in the curve of a piano. She wore her long hair in the style of a forties movie star, like Veronica Lake, so that one eye and half of her face were obscured by it. As she began to sing “Moanin’ Low,” in what she hoped was the manner of Libby Holman, she threw back her head to get the hair out of her eyes. The customers turned to look and listen, but their interest in her musical efforts quickly waned, and the business of the bar went on.
“Is this a guy in drag?” asked Hector.
“Hector, please,” said Manning. “She’s a woman.”
“Looks like a guy in drag.”
“Well, she’s not.” Manning was annoyed. “Shhh,” he went to some customers who were talking too loudly and not paying attention to his discovery.
“How much are you paying her?” asked Hector.
“Actually, she’s paying me. This is her debut.”
“Not so hot-looking for a nightclub singer.”
“I think it’s a very interesting face,” replied Manning.
“Her family never heard of braces, I see.”
“Braces?”
“She’s got buckteeth.”
“Well, they’re not exactly buck. One of the two front teeth is in front of the other.”
“Where I come from, that’s buck. You’re not going to tell me she makes a living at this?”
“Why?”
“Look around. Nobody’s listening to your new discovery. How does she make a living?”
“She’s the literary critic for
Mulholland
, but keep that under your lid. She don’t want anyone to know.”
“That’s Hortense Madden?”
“Herself.”
“Hey, Manning,” said Zane, the bartender. “The singer’s pissed off because you’re talking during her number.”
“Fuck the singer,” said Hector.
“No, thanks. She’s not my type,” said Lonny, the video star, speaking his first words of the evening.
Hector looked at Lonny and laughed. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Lonny, smoking a joint, looked at all the photographs in silver frames that covered the tables in Hector Paradiso’s living room. There were pictures of a great many grand people, as well as recognizable faces of film stars of past decades—Tyrone Power, Rosalind Russell, Dolores del Rio, Astrid Vartan—and they never failed to fascinate Hector’s nocturnal visitors. Hector, his black tie off, his shirt open at the neck, sat in a chair with a strong drink of whiskey and watched the young man. In his arms was his dog, Astrid, a West Highland terrier. Astrid was used to the strangers her master brought home most nights of the week. Hector noticed for the first time that Lonny wore black jeans, a black Lacoste shirt, and black running shoes.
“A study in black,” said Hector.
“What’s that mean?”
“It seems as if all the interesting people dressed in black tonight.”
Lonny nodded, disinterested. “Who’s this?” he asked, picking up a picture.
“She’s called Pauline Mendelson,” said Hector.
“Movie star?”
“Oh, goodness, no. Just a friend.”
“Looks high class.”
“She is.”
He picked up another picture, of a young bride, and stared at it. “I’ve never been to a wedding,” he said.
“Never been to a wedding? Really?”
“I mean a real wedding like this, where the bride wears a white veil, and has bridesmaids, and walks up the aisle on the arm of her father. Hey, that’s you in the picture? Is this your daughter?”
“No, no, my niece. My sister’s daughter. Her father was dead, and I took her up the aisle.”
“Wow.” He took another toke from his joint. “This is good dope you got, Hector.”
“Lots more where that comes from. And other treats, as well.”
“How long ago was this wedding?”
“Nine years.”
“Is it a happy marriage?”
“It isn’t a marriage anymore.”
“Divorced, huh?”
“No, the husband dropped dead on the street in Barcelona.”
“No kidding? That’s sad, really sad.”
“What’s your last name, Lonny?”
“Edge.”
“Lonny Edge. Nice name. Is that your real name or hooker name?”
“It’s my real name, and I don’t like being called a hooker, Hector,” said Lonny. There was a menacing note in his voice.
Hector recognized the note and looked at him. Beneath the cushion of his chair was the gun he always had at the ready for protection in case any sort of unpleasantness should break out with one of his night visitors.
“This is what I do for a living,” said Lonny, explaining himself. “I have no problem with it.”
“Oh, of course,” said Hector, smiling nervously. “It was just a figure of speech. No offense, old man.”
“I also happen to be a very big name in video,” continued Lonny.
“Yes, yes, I think I may have seen some of your videos, now that I think of it.
Hard, Harder, Hardest
? Wasn’t that you?”
“Yeah, man. That was me,” said Lonny, pleased that he was recognized.
“Marvelous film. Why don’t you come over here,
Lonny,” said Hector, getting down to the business of the evening. He placed the little dog on the floor and then lifted one foot, on which he was still wearing his black patent leather dancing pump, and pointed it at the crotch of Lonny Edge’s black jeans. Hands on hips, ready for anything, Lonny watched the rich bachelor. Hector drank from his whiskey glass and slowly moved the toe of his black patent leather dancing pump up and down on the fly of Lonny’s jeans, smiling at him at the same time.
“Let’s see if what you’ve got in there is as good as Manning Einsdorf says it is, Lonny,” said Hector.
The next morning, an hour before dawn, five shots rang out in the living room and library of 9221 Humming Bird Way. Hector Huberto Luis Paradiso y Gonsalvo, the last member of the great Paradiso family that had helped to found the city, turned and stared in disbelief into the mirror over his mantelpiece and saw the blood drain from his tanned face, leaving it a purplish gray color. Beyond in the mirror, his eyes met the eyes of his killer as that person looked back in haste before making for the front door. Astrid, his dog, barked furiously at the departing figure.
Leaning against the wall for support, Hector edged his way to the door of the library, trailing blood as he slowly moved toward the telephone. On his desk was a pile of blue stationery from Smythsons on Bond Street in London, with his name, Hector Paradiso, engraved across the top of each sheet. The stationery had been a favorite gift from Pauline Mendelson. “So personal, so thoughtful, so typical of Pauline,” Hector had said at the time to Cyril Rathbone, to whom he sometimes flaunted his close friendship with the grand lady. As he leaned over the top sheet and wrote the name of the person who had fired the five shots that were causing his death, several drops of blood fell on the piece of paper, partially covering his childlike scrawl. The dog, Astrid, hugged his leg, crying.
Hector buzzed the intercom that connected with the room of his houseboy in the pool house across the lawn.
“
Si
?” came the sleepy voice of Raymundo.
“Police,” Hector whispered into the phone. “Get the police.”
“You all right, señor Hector?” asked Raymundo.
“Get the police.” His voice was so weak it could scarcely be heard.
Raymundo, alert, hopped out of bed.
From the intercom came the last words of Hector Paradiso. “And get rid of all the porn before my niece gets here.”