Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
Then Raleigh's attention was drawn to the man's exquisite hands. The fingers were long and tapered, the nails beautifully manicured, and there were no prominent veins to be seen, which there should have been on a man his age. Raleigh wondered if guys even had cosmetic surgeons do their hands around here, and if so, whether they called it a hand job.
The art dealer stroked his chin and seemed nonplussed for
a m
oment, probably thinking that Julius was just another dotty old queen who frequented the west Hollywood clubs, until the octogenarian said, "It's me, Julius Hampton. Remember? We played bridge at the Bruegers' a couple of times before Sammy passed away."
"Julius!" Nigel Wickland said. "Of course I remember. How are you ? "
As they shook hands, Julius Hampton said, "Still upright, more or less, with the help of my man here. I'd like you to meet Raleigh Dibble. I don't know what I'd do without him. Sit down and join us."
The art dealer extended his graceful hand to Raleigh and said, "Nigel Wickland. Pleased to meet you."
"Same here, Mr. Wickland," Raleigh said.
"Nigel, please," the art dealer said to him. "And may I call you Raleigh?"
"Of course," Raleigh said.
Raleigh wondered if the toffee-nosed accent was legit or something the art dealer affected for L
. A
.'s west-side nouveau. Raleigh had spent nearly six months bumming around Europe as a young man and had lived in London for a summer, waiting tables at a bistro. He'd even considered affecting an Oxbridge accent like Nigel Wickland's when he'd been in the catering business but decided that it could backfire if his customers found him out. They liked their phonies to be less obvious phonies around these parts.
"What'll you have?" Julius Hampton said to the art dealer, and Raleigh noticed that the old man's bony hands were trembling most of the time. It was hard for him to hold a martini glass anymore without spilling it.
Nigel Wickland ordered a banana daiquiri and chatted with Julius Hampton about the bargains now available at the Wickland Gallery. Raleigh Dibble figured he knew the Nigel Wickland type well enough. The west side of L
. A
. was full of them. Given the ar
t d
ealer's obvious ego, the gallery would of course bear his name. And even though a man as old as Julius Hampton would be an unlikely prospect for a sale, Nigel Wickland seemed compelled to chat him up about the treasures to be had just a few blocks away on Wilshire Boulevard. Raleigh figured that the art dealer was constantly chumming the waters in case any of Julius Hampton's less grizzled friends or neighbors was ever tempted to take the bait.
"The bloody recession is forcing people to sell for indecently low prices," Nigel told them, and signaled to the waiter for another round when his glass was still half full.
Boozer, Raleigh thought, but then reminded himself that in the gay bars everyone seemed to drink more to bolster their courage for encounters that were often risky.
It was then that Nigel Wickland said, "Have you been to the Brueger house since Sammy passed? I sometimes wonder how Leona is really holding up."
Old Julius Hampton cackled and said, "The merriest of widows is dear Leona. I understand she sometimes dates a filmaker named Rudy Ressler when he's not molesting children at UCLA, where he lectures at the film school. He's one of those people who make cheap indie films that probably go straight to DVD."
Raleigh had been impressed many times by his employer's knowledge of the movie business as well as any other business that was peculiarly relevant to Angelenos. Like his father before him, Julius Hampton had made his fortune as a real-estate developer, and the Hampton brokers bought and sold to real Hollywood names on a regular basis, not to second-raters like Rudy Ressler. As Julius Hampton and Nigel Wickland chatted about people they knew in common, Raleigh excused himself and went the restroom.
While Raleigh was gone, Nigel Wickland said, "Nice chap. Seems competent."
"Very," Julius Hampton said, with just enough drink in him t
o g
ossip. "His catering business failed some time ago and he's eking out a living now. He's basically very honest but he got in some tax trouble with Uncle Sam back then. Had to spend some time locked up in federal prison. I have a PI do a background on everyone I hire. I've never questioned Raleigh about his past even though I know a lot about it. I can tell you that he cooks like Julia Child."
"The poor fellow," Nigel Wickland said. "That is certainly a spot of bother to live down, isn't it? Still, many people around here have had similar problems with the IRS. That doesn't make him a criminal."
When Raleigh returned from the restroom, Nigel Wickland started paying more attention to him than to Julius Hampton. Raleigh didn't sense that it was a gay thing. It just seemed that Nigel Wickland wanted to learn about his work history. Nigel asked if this was his first job as a butler/chef. And he seemed very interested in Raleigh's former catering business, saying he thought he remembered Raleigh's employees catering some soirees at the Wickland Gallery. Raleigh thought that was just bullshit until he remembered that Nellie had catered a fancy gig at a Beverly Hills art gallery. They'd lost money on it when she'd failed to anticipate the amount of champagne needed, and she'd had to quickly run to the nearest liquor store and buy cases at retail. Was that the Wickland Gallery? He couldn't remember.
Then Nigel Wickland started to wheeze. He took a few short deep breaths that didn't seem to help him. He muttered, "Please forgive me," and took an inhaler from his trousers pocket, turning away from Raleigh and Julius Hampton. He put the inhaler in his mouth and pressed the canister, simultaneously inhaling deeply, holding the steroid in his lungs as long as possible.
When he exhaled, he turned back to them and said, "I'm sorry. Adult-onset asthma. It started three years ago. Part of the indignities of advancing age."
Julius Hampton said, "You think you're old? Like Willie Nelso
n s
aid, I've outlived my dick. I wouldn't want to outlive my liver. Without a decent martini, what's the point in any of it?"
Nigel Wickland then said to Raleigh, "Did you ever think about starting up your catering business again? I don't mean in the middle of this recession but later."
"It takes starter money to get a business like that going," Raleigh said. "I'd have to win the lottery or something."
"Still, there's nothing like the feeling of independence that being one's own boss can give. Especially with men of a certain age, like you and me."
Julius Hampton said, "What it all boils down to is relevancy. All the elderly understand that. You will, too, sooner than you think. Marty Brueger always talks about it. He says when he started feeling irrelevant, he knew he was through with living. That's what he's doing in Leona's guesthouse--waiting to die."
"Well, you're not irrelevant, Mr. Hampton," Raleigh said quickly. Nigel Wickland said, "Hear me, god. Save us all from irrelevance."
As Nigel returned to pumping the chubby butler about his work history, Julius Hampton began getting restless at being left out of the conversation. After the second martini, the old man said, "Well, Raleigh, is it time to go home and see what's on TV tonight?"
Then Nigel Wickland said quickly, "Raleigh, here's my card. Give me a ring and I'll show you around the gallery. Any time at all. I think you'd enjoy it."
When they were driving home, Julius Hampton said, "Well, well, Nigel Wickland seemed smitten with you, Raleigh. What's the secret of your attraction?"
"Unless he likes Pillsbury Doughboys, it couldn't be physical," Raleigh said, patting his belly. "I've got so much flab spilling over my belt that my hips look like a muffin top. I think he was just being friendly, Mr. Hampton."
"Nigel doesn't strike me as the overly friendly type," Julius
Hampton said, looking at Raleigh as though he certainly couldn't figure out Nigel's interest.
The next afternoon before taking his nap, Raleigh's employer told him he could take the afternoon off. Raleigh couldn't decide whether or not to visit Sharon, his older sister in San Pedro. His other sister had died of lung cancer when he was in prison, and both parents were gone, so Sharon was the only close relative he had left. But she was an Evangelical Christian who always spent at least half of every visit trying to bring him to Jesus. He decided he didn't feel up to it today.
He thought about going to a movie in Westwood, or maybe visiting an old friend who used to work for him and Nellie in the catering business. She was a busty Brazilian in her midforties. Alma was hopelessly clumsy and had broken more glasses than the Sylmar earthquake, but she'd sleep with him if she was in the mood, and he loved to kid her that she had tits from here to paternity. Raleigh couldn't remember the last time he got laid and was almost horny enough to buy a knobber from one of those Asian masseuses on Hollywood Boulevard. He phoned Alma but the number was no longer in service, so on a whim he drove his Toyota to the Wickland Gallery and popped in unannounced.
A prim young woman in a jacket and skirt and very sensible heels said, "Good afternoon, my name's Ruth Langley. Is there anything I can help you with today or would you just care to have a look around ?"
"Mr. Wickland's invited me to stop in for a personal tour of the gallery," he said. "The name's Raleigh Dibble."
When she escorted him to Nigel Wickland's office, the art dealer stood up, came around his massive mahogany desk, and shook hands energetically.
"So glad you came. You're just in time to come and have a drink with me," Nigel Wickland said, donning his linen blazer, the color of a martini olive.
Raleigh figured the ascot must be for evenings in gay bars, because the art dealer was wearing a white shirt with a forest-green silk necktie. He made Raleigh feel shabby in his off-the-rack rusty brown sport jacket worn over chinos, with black leather loafers that needed the heels replaced.
They went to the bar at the Ivy and took a table. Just as before, Nigel Wickland ordered a banana daiquiri, and a second one before he'd finished the first. In the light of day Raleigh could see that the art dealer's eyes were watery and there were broken veins on the sides of his nose. A juicehead for sure, he figured. Still, he was buying the drinks and Raleigh's curiosity was killing him, so he ordered a Jack on the rocks.
After he was half finished with the second drink, Nigel Wickland said, "If you don't mind my asking, Raleigh, did you actually sell your catering business or ..."
"It tanked," Raleigh said with a wry grin, starting to feel the Jack Daniel's already. "I got nothing out of it. So here I am, a domestic servant."
"Hardly that," Nigel Wickland said. "I'm sure you're a valued employee to Julius. But I can't imagine that the pay is very good."
"A living," Raleigh said. "Sort of. But the food's great because I buy and cook it for both of us. Mr. Hampton still has a young man's appetite." Raleigh drained the glass, and Nigel Wickland immediately signaled for another.
"I'd like to rely on you to be discreet, Raleigh," the art dealer said. "I know you've been with Julius a relatively short time, but I might be able to offer you a better position."
"With you?" Raleigh said. "I'm an art Neanderthal."
"I don't mean in my gallery," Nigel Wickland said. "After meeting you the other night I realized that you have exactly the qualifications that a client of mine needs at this time. You heard Julius and me mention her name. Leona Brueger?"
"I vaguely remember that," Raleigh said, getting into the second
Jack, a delicious golden burn sliding down his throat and making him feel the glow coming on.
"I've recently learned that Leona Brueger is deeply involved with Rudy Ressler, the filmmaker that Julius mentioned."
"The child molester?" Raleigh said. "That's what Mr. Hampton called him."
Nigel Wickland smiled and said, " He doesn't try to entice children with a kitten and chocolate bars, believe me. College coeds, his targets of choice, are not exactly children, even if they do behave that way. But Rudy's changing his ways and has been getting increasingly serious about mature women, especially the widow Brueger."
"It sounds like you know them pretty well," Raleigh said.
Nigel said, "I've come to know more than a little about Leona Brueger after having been contacted to appraise the late Sammy Brueger's formidable art collection. I've been led by her to believe that she's going to sell it all, along with the house, perhaps to marry Ressler and move to Napa, where she'll grow grapes or whatever people do when they have more money than good sense."
"Nigel," Raleigh said finally, "this is all very interesting, but I don't see how I could possibly fit in here."
Nigel said, "Leona Brueger has been saddled with Sammy's brother Marty, who is eighty-seven years old and ailing. Marty spends most of his time in Leona's guesthouse, but occasionally he likes to get out and about. She needs the services of a butler/driver/ companion who can cook three meals a day for him. Just as you do for Julius. Leona Brueger also likes an occasional little dinner party at home, but the people she's hired have been unsatisfactory. It's not so easy for her to find a man who can cook and manage a dinner party as well as do the rest of it for her brother-in-law. After we met, I realized that with your background and experience, you're just what she's been looking for. You're a perfect fit, Raleigh."