The Legacy (18 page)

Boyd awakened, yawned, stretched, and then propped himself up on an elbow and stared at her. “You're a beautiful woman, Barbara,” he said.

“I've been told that before, sonny.”

“At seven-thirty in the morning?”

“It's happened.”

“Any regrets — now?”

“No. Of course, I haven't thought anything through. It's too early, and I feel languorous. There's a word for you. You can use Sam's bathroom, down the hall. I'll be languorous a few more minutes, and then a shower. There isn't a damn thing to eat in the house, but I can give you coffee, black, if it helps.”

“You go back to Los Angeles today?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn't persuade you to stay a few days?”

“And turn a friendly one-night stand into an affair? Is that what you were thinking, Boyd?”

“I don't know what I was thinking. I'm naked under these covers, and thought requires a modicum of clothing, if that makes sense. If I tell you what I'm thinking, we'll both be very confused.”

“Then we'll get dressed and talk about it.”

But over coffee in the kitchen, they didn't talk about it. Boyd said he would go back to his apartment, change his clothes and shave, pick up some papers at the office, and then stop by with a cab to drive them to the airport. “After which, we'll see Mr. Merkounian and take care of this thing.”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Barbara said. “When I was just a kid, back from college after my second year, I got involved with the big longshore strike of 1934. Mother and daddy were divorced, and mother had married John Whittier, the shipping magnate. I worked in the union soup kitchen, and whatever money I had I spent on food—”

“I know,” Boyd said softly. “We were neck-deep in that at the trial. I remember that you sold everything, including your car, to buy food for the strikers.”

“One of my good conduct medals? It's a crazy, crazy world, Boyd. And now Merkounian collects fifty thousand dollars for his client that I've taken from my mother. I don't feel a shred of guilt for what happened last night, but this thing fills me with such guilt and sadness—”

“You don't have to pay it, Barbara. You could face your husband with it and let them take us to court. I'm not sure we wouldn't win.”

“Famous last words? No, I'll pay.”

“All right. In any case, I want you to cash the check before I pick you up, say about eleven. I intend to bargain a bit with Mr. Merkounian. I think he'll take a lot less.”

“That's a curious name, isn't it, Merkounian.”

“Armenian. Good, hardworking folk and very shrewd. I think we'll be able to deal.”

“And speaking of names, how did it happen to be Boyd Kimmelman?”

“Ah, so after all these years, we've come to that. Sooner or later, it happens. Did you know that your father's name was Daniel because he was born in a boxcar on the Santa Fe Railroad, and your grandfather decided that he was delivered in a lion's den?”

“No, I never knew that,” Barbara said in amazement. “How on earth do you know? Or are you inventing the whole thing?”

“I got it from Harvey Baxter, who got it from Sam Goldberg. My own name is less romantic. A fellow named Frank Boyd saved my father's life during the earthquake. Result, Boyd Kimmelman. Now you cash the check, and I'll pick you up at eleven or so.”

Cándido Truaz had worked for Jake Levy for almost thirty years. He knew as much about the blending and maturing of wine as any man in the Napa Valley, and Jake, just past sixty now, leaned heavily on his skill and knowledge. He would tell Clair that if anything happened to Truaz, he'd turn the whole kit and kaboodle, as he put it, over to Adam and wash his hands of the wine business forever. Not that he had too much faith in Adam. Adam was interested in a variety of things, and Jake's philosophy was that if a man made wine, nothing else in the world should intrigue him. But now Truaz, a big, heavyset Chicano, with a brown, lined, and perpetually worried face, came to Jake and told him that he had something to say but he didn't know how to say it.

“I don't give a damn how you say it,” Jake told him. “If you got something to say, say it straight out. We never talked to each other any different, did we?”

“No, Jake, we didn't.”

“All right. What's eating you?”

“My daughter's in trouble.”

He had three daughters. “Who? Which one?”

“Carla.”

Carla was sixteen, round-limbed, dark-eyed, already full-breasted. The Truazes lived in a small cottage on the edge of the Higate property. Carla was in high school.

Jake never minced words. “What is it, Candy? Is she knocked up?”

“We don't know yet.”

“Well, why the hell don't you? Take her down to Napa to see Joe, and he'll give her that rabbit test or whatever the hell they do. Then we'll know what to do with the sonofabitch who took advantage of the kid.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Truaz sighed. “That's it, Jake. It's your grandson Freddie.”

“No! I'll be damned. Are you sure?”

“That's what she says. I beat it out of her.”

Jake shook his head unhappily. “What a mess! No use beating up on the kids — except that I'll break that little bastard's ass. Aah — I can't. That's Adam's job. That horny little sonofabitch!”

“What do we do?” Truaz asked miserably. “If Freddie was a Chicano kid, I'd know what to do. He'd marry her or he'd never walk again. But with Freddie——”

“Ah, wait a minute,” Jake said, putting his arm around Truaz's shoulder. “Come on, old friend, they're kids. I love Carla. She's a fine girl and a lot too good for Freddie. You think I'd stand in the way if they wanted to get married? No sir. But Freddie's not eighteen yet and Carla's sixteen — or fifteen, which is it?”

“Sixteen.”

“Well, you know what comes of that kind of marriage. Nothing but grief. Let's first find out whether she's pregnant, and then we'll work it out. Meanwhile, leave Freddie to me.”

It turned out that Carla was not pregnant. She sat crouched over and sobbing in Joe Lavette's examining room, listening to Sally, Joe's wife. “This time you're clear,” Sally told her, “and you might as well learn, Carla, that if you go to bed with a man, it doesn't necessarily mean that you'll become pregnant. On the other hand, don't play that game. It's Russian roulette. This time you are lucky. Next time, you may find yourself pregnant——”

“There won't be a next time,” Carla wailed.

“Oh, don't give me that crap. It would be nice if you could stay clean until you're married, but life doesn't always work out that way. I'm going to give you a little book, and you sit in the waiting room and read it and learn something about the way a body functions. And for heaven's sake, don't go running to your mother if you fall into bed with a boy again. Come here to me. Now how did you get those bruises on your arms?”

“Papa. He was right. He should have killed me.”

“Oh, beautiful! You have the sense of a rabbit, which is why you fell into bed with Freddie in the first place. Think a little. What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a movie star like you.”

Sally burst out laughing, and Carla's tearstained face contorted with hurt. “Oh, no, I'm not laughing at you,” Sally said quickly. “You're pretty enough to be a movie star. It's just that all those years have gone by, and I'm married to Joe and being his nurse and raising kids — I guess you couldn't understand. But let me tell you this, honey, if you want to be a movie star or anything else that takes brains or talent, don't louse up your life by having to marry some jerk you don't give a damn about. That way lies only misery.”

Misery was something Adam Levy was experiencing in full measure, and he begged his father, “Please, let me handle this. I don't want Eloise to know.”

“How are you going to handle it?” Jake demanded. “If he was my kid, I'd bend him over and put his ass in a condition that wouldn't let him sit down for a week.”

“Pop, you don't whip a boy his age. Just let me handle it.”

But as Eloise told Jean, when she drove into San Francisco to see her a few days later, it had by no means been kept from her. “I was in the kitchen downstairs,” Eloise said, “but the way Adam was shouting, I heard every word. Josh was outside somewhere, thank heavens. I never saw Adam really angry at Freddie before — or really angry at anything. He was shouting that Freddie had betrayed him, that Freddie had acted stupidly and ridiculously — and I didn't have the slightest notion of what it all meant. I didn't know what had happened. And then he shouted that with all the girls in the Napa Valley, he had to — he had to” — Eloise could not bring herself to mouth the word
shit
— “defecate on his own doorstep.”

Jean embraced her. “Eloise, you are wonderful. You are absolutely wonderful.”

“I am not at all wonderful, Jean dear, because at that point I was at the edge of getting one of those dreadful headaches of mine, and I marched upstairs and told them that it had to stop. Freddie was standing, looking out of the window, and Adam was shouting that Freddie had better turn around and face him or else, and then just as I entered the room, Freddie cried out that Adam had always hated him, which breaks my heart because Adam adores him, and then I burst into tears and that ended it.”

“And Adam told you the whole story.”

“Yes, but, Jean, I don't understand any of it. Freddie hasn't spoken to Adam or me for two days. He's always worshipped Adam, and now I'm so frightened —”

“Of what?”

“Of losing Freddie.”

“You're not going to lose him, Eloise. Why do you go on thinking the world is a rose garden? You've suffered enough pain and misery to know different.”

“I've never suffered, that's the trouble. I'm so afraid.”

Boyd Kimmelman decided finally that he would see Mr. Merkounian alone, and he settled the matter for twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. As he told Barbara later that day, before he left for San Francisco, “It was a dubious undertaking — the lawsuit, I mean — from the beginning, and Merkounian was worried about what might happen if Carson found out about it. So it was harassment and blackmail. Now it's nailed down. You can bet your life that neither Merkounian nor Westcott will declare that money. There's nothing that stimulates the greed of any red-blooded American like a little tax-free cash. You can buy nearly anything and anybody with cash, and they will button their lips, Barbara, believe me, and here's the other twenty-five thousand to give back to your mother. So it's over.”

They had met at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel, Barbara guiltless and undisturbed by the fact that she was sitting here having a drink with a man she had gone to bed with the night before; more disturbed, indeed, by Boyd's easy cynicism.

“Is there any nook or cranny where a little honor is left?” she wondered. “You're an officer of the court, Boyd. Aren't we aiding and abetting?”

“Are we? I settled a case out of court for a cash payment. It's perfectly legal. Your mother lent you the money. You will pay her back, I'm sure. No aiding and abetting at all. Funny thing, Merkounian is a decent guy. Grew up on a little farm in the San Joaquin Valley, and the family broke their backs to put him through school. Now he's a Beverly Hills lawyer. The Armenians were massacred by the Turks, the Jews by the Nazis, but neither of us smell any burning flesh. Now how the devil did I get into that?”

“I think I know,” Barbara told him, smiling wanly.

“I'm going back tonight. Will you be all right?”

“I suppose so.” Barbara took a check out of her purse and put it in the envelope with the twenty-five thousand dollars that Boyd had handed to her. “It's my check for twenty thousand, and I want you to give the whole thing to my mother. She'll be very indignant and persuasive, but don't let her beat you down. Make her take it.”

“Where did you get twenty thousand dollars?”

“My worldly wealth. Don't let it worry you, Boyd. I'm all right.”

“I hope so. We never actually talked about your marriage. Do you want to?”

“No.”

“O.K. Will you be coming up to San Francisco soon again?”

“Dear Boyd,” Barbara said, taking his hand, “I'm a rotten candidate for an affair. Thank God neither of us is in love. I don't know when I'll be back home. I don't know much about anything except that this wretched business is over, for which I am very grateful to you.”

But it was not over. Two weeks later Sam told her that he knew all about the settlement with Mr. Westcott. He approached her with this at a moment when she had just finished reading an editorial in the Los Angeles
Morning World.
The subject of the editorial was Norman Drake:

“Mr. Drake,” the editorial said, “has announced that he will be a candidate for the presidency. Mr. Drake comes to this point in his career with years of experience in the House of Representatives and in the United States Senate. Better equipped than most candidates with an intimate and working knowledge of government, he has proven himself to be a thoughtful and energetic legislator as well as a brilliant campaigner. A native Californian, he is well acquainted with the special and particular needs of the West Coast states, an area all too long neglected by the Federal Government in Washington. While this newspaper has in the past disagreed on occasion with some of the views of Norman Drake, on an overall basis we support both his position and his program. We welcome him into the race.”

Carson had departed for downtown a half hour before, making no mention of the editorial. Barbara was sitting at the table in the breakfast room, drinking her coffee, reading the editorial, when Sam joined her. Robin Park, the Korean houseboy, set down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.