The Secrets of Harry Bright (19 page)

The dream was so incredibly joyous he never wanted it to end, but of course it always did and he was powerless to change the ending. The dream was over when his wife would say, "Sid, we can enjoy him forever now. But you mustn't tell him he's going to die when he's eighteen. You mustn't tell him!"

It was so contradictory and irrational that it made perfect sense to Sidney Blackpool. And in the dream he'd always say to her, "Oh, no! I'll never tell him that. Because he loves me. And . . . and now he forgives me. My boy forgives me!"

And then he would wake up sobbing and smothering in the pillow. It was always the same and he dealt with it the same. He would take four aspirins and half a tumbler of Johnnie Walker, which would be hard to hold with both trembling hands.

" 'Just close your eyes . . . and I'll be there,' " Hildegarde sang. " 'If you call I'll hear you, no matter how far. Just close your eyes and I'll be theeeere.'

"Damn! Goddamn!" Sidney Blackpool said.

"What happened?" Otto bolted upright.

"We, uh, almost hit a . . . jackrabbit," Sidney Blackpoo
l s
aid.

"This is one dark neighborhood," Otto said, as his partner parked in front of the huge wall of oleander and cut the engine.

And while the detectives were locking the doors of Sidney Blackpool's Toyota, a tipsy Harlan Penrod was mad as hell because a British telephone operator was trying to explain that it was too early in London to be connecting him with anyone at Buckingham Palace.

"Well, aren't they up with the baby?" he demanded. "What kind of parents are they?"

"I'm very sorry, madam," the operator said, making Harlan drop his voice an octave or two.

"I'm not a madam, nor do I live in a place wher
e m
adams reside," he said.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the operator said. "Will that be all then?"

"I'll call later," Harlan warned. And then he added, "Do you by chance know if Vera Lynn is listed in the London directory?"

"Lynn? How is it spelled?"

"Vera Lynn! Vera Lynn!" Harlan cried. "She's only the greatest singer England ever produced! She's a personal friend of the Queen Mother, for crying out loud! How old are you, anyway?"

"Would you care to speak to my superior, sir?" the operator asked.

"Oh, what's the use!" Harlan said, draining his martini. "If you don't know who Vera Lynn is, England's finished. You might as well tell me Margaret Thatcher's gonna mud-wrestle in Soho."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, good night, or good morning, as the case ma
y b
e."

Harlan hung up and mixed himself another Bombay bomber.

He was surprised to hear the gate buzzer. Probably that bitch, Freddie. He said he'd never see Freddie again but . . . Harlan went to the intercom and pushed the button.

"Yes, may I help you?" he said sweetly.

"It's Blackpool and Stringer," Sidney Blackpool said. "Can we talk for a few minutes?"

"Can we talk? Can we talk?" Harlan cried, sounding like Joan Rivers. "Just walk in the gate when you hear the buzzer, gentlemen."

Harlan Penrod was framed dramatically in the doorway when the detectives approached the house through the cactus garden. He was wearing a white guayabera shirt, a blue-silk ascot, white slacks and white deck shoes.

"Sorry to bother you," Sidney Blackpool said as Harlan stepped back and welcomed them with a flourish and his palm-down handshake.

"Not at all," Harlan said. "I was just calling London and the fools frustrated me no end."

"London, huh," Otto said. "England?"

"Oh, yes. I often call England. I've tried several times to get a message to Vera Lynn. They're very nice, the people at Buckingham Palace who take the messages. I forgot how early it is there. It's tomorrow actually. I should call later. I've called President Nixon in Peking. I called President Ford in Korea and, let's see, I also called President Reagan in Peking. I wish he'd go to Moscow. I'd love to call him there."

"And they talk to you?"

"Would you like a drink?" Harlan asked. "No, they don't talk to me, but do you know how impressed the aides are to get overseas calls from Palm Springs? I've talked to Secret Service men lots and lots of times. They've always taken my messages for the presidents. I never called President Carter. I don't like Democrats in general. Is either of you a Democrat? I apologize if you are.-

"Cops're all Republicans," Otto said. "Capital-punishment buffs. Pro death, remember?"

"Can't I get you a drink? I'm so glad you droppe
d b
y!"

"Mister Penrod," Sidney Blackpool began.

"Harlan. -

"Harlan."

"How do you like Palm Springs so far?" Harlan interrupted. "Bet you haven't seen any movie stars, but they're here, I promise you. James Caan, Sonny Bono, George Peppard, Mitzi Gaynor, the Gabors. They all live fairly close to here. Gosh, we used to have Elvis Presley and Red Skelton and William Holden, and right close by, the chairperson of the board."

"Who's that?" Otto asked.

"Liberace. And of course everyone knows about old ski nose and blue eyes. We've named streets after them.

Otto's stomach growled fiercely and Harlan said, "That reminds me, Rin Tin Tin visited Palm Springs in the old days. Are you hungry?"

"So hungry I can't think," Otto said. "I just tried to eat a bowl a chili but there was a pair a spiders doing synchronized swimming in it."

"Let me fix you some sandwiches and we'll have a nice talk."

"Tell you what, Harlan," said Sidney Blackpool impulsively, "this is turning into an all-work no-play vacation. How about coming to our hotel? We'll have a meal in the dining room and send you home in a taxi afterward."

"Oh, what a wonderful idea!" Harlan cried, fussing with his ascot and putting the martini on a cocktail table next to a love seat. "All work and no play makes . . ."

"For a bent putter," Otto said. "Tomorrow we play golf, Sidney."

"Just let me freshen up," Harlan said. "I'll be with you in a jiff"

"It'll turn into a vacation tomorrow," Sidney Blackpoo
l s
aid.

After Harlan was gone, Otto said, "He's probably in there putting sheep cells on his skin or giving himself an egg-white facial. You know, I could be back in L
. A
. watching the news. This is about as exciting as seeing the greengrocer cleaning his pomegranates seed by fucking seed."

"We'll play golf tomorrow," Sidney Blackpool promised.

"Let us make haste, gentlemen!" Harlan Penrod whisked into the room, resplendent in a red ascot.

After setting the alarm and locking the front door they were off.

The hotel was bustling by ten o'clock when they were seated in the dining room.

"A light supper, gentlemen?" the captain asked, handing the wine list to Otto Stringer.

"A complete dinner," Otto said. After the three had placed their cocktail order, he said, "Sidney, if you didn't feed me tonight, you'd wake up in the morning and find a dead jackrabbit in my bed. I was getting wild."

"Really?" Harlan batted his eyes in delight, causing Otto to roll his in exasperation.

"We wanted to talk to you about Jack Watson's car," Sidney Blackpool said.

"Sure," said Harlan. "By the way, Barry Manilow lives here, and of course Gene Autry, and . . ."

"Where was the car parked when Jack disappeared? The Porsche, I mean."

"Let's see, the police found it parked and locked in front."

"Outside the gates? In the street?"

"Yes. Do you see that man over there? The guy in the tacky silk suit with the big cigar and flashy diamonds?" "What about him?"

"He bought a nightclub in town. Claims to be an East Indian prince. Sure. He just reeks of olive oil and goat cheese. A Syrian from Vegas. Lives in Tuscany Canyon with ten huge watchdogs that eat third-world gardeners. I heard they found a skeleton in his yard with nothing left but a few tacos hanging from a rib cage."

"Some mixed appetizers," Otto said to the waiter. "And I want rare prime rib, the King Henry the Eighth cut or whatever you call it here. And a bottle of, let's see, number twenty-seven looks like a vintage French red."

"That's French white, sir," the waiter said.

"Aw, screw it. You pick it. Make sure it's at least fifty bucks a bottle."

"Very good," the waiter said.

Sidney Blackpool ordered a Cobb salad and Harlan had a bowl of leek soup and a veal chop.

"I've been trying to lose a few pounds," he said to
Otto.

"You're in pretty good shape for your age," Otto said, and Harlan looked as though he could slap Otto's face.

"Harlan, did Jack Watson ever park his car in the street at night?" Sidney Blackpool asked.

"Once in a while."

"Really? A car worth forty grand on those dark streets? Must have a few auto thefts around there."

"A Porsche Nine-eleven's worth more than that," Harlan said. "And this is a transient town. He didn't do it ver
y o
ften."

"How often?"

"Maybe only a few times. When he came home very late."

"What's very late?"

"When it wasn't dark anymore."

"He came home at dawn? Where would he go all night? This isn't a late town."

"This is an early town," Harlan said, draining the Bombay martini and smiling demurely when Otto signaled for another round. "Maybe two hundred and fifty thousand people come to this valley in season, but in the summer it's a very small town with a small-town mentality. Have you listened to the commercials on radio and T
. V
.? I heard a girl today announce the bill at the multiple cinema. 'In TheATER One,' she says, 'is I'm a douche.' I thought it was a porn flick till I realized the poor thing was trying to say Amadeus . Oh, I miss the big city sometimes, but I'd never go back to L
. A
. When Mister Watson asked me if I'd accept the wages he offered, I countered by dropping on my knees. You can keep Hollywood."

"About the car," Sidney Blackpool said, as the second round of drinks arrived.

"Cheers, dears!" Harlan cried, lifting his martini. "He'd come home at dawn sometimes? Where would he spend the night?"

"Sergeant, he was a gorgeous young rich boy. He could spend the night anywhere he wanted. I'm sure he loved his fiancee but he was young."

"How long had he been engaged to his girlfriend?"

"Not long. Three, four months, I think. Her family and his were very good friends, but I'm sure he loved her. He wouldn't do everything his father wished."

"Okay, so sometimes he came home at dawn or close to it, and he wouldn't bother to pull in and block the driveway with the Porsche. He'd park outside and come in through the walk-in gate, right?"

"Right."

"Well, if his car was parked in front of the house and locked, were the keys to his Porsche found on his body?"

"No. As I recall, his keys were in his bedroom where he always kept them."

"Okay, Harlan, then it's very unlikely that he was forced to drive the Rolls from the house, or forced to leave the house in any fashion. An intruder wouldn't pull the Porsche out of the garage, park it in front, lock it up and return the keys to Jack's bedroom, now would he?"

guess not," Harlan said.

Didn't you think the same thing on the day Jack was discovered missing? I mean, didn't you tell the F
. B. I
. and the Palm Springs police that it was likely that Jack parked in front that night so he could drive the Rolls out later? And wouldn't that just about rule out any notion that he was snatched from the house?"

"I was so confused back then! Mister Watson just sort of took over from everybody. Do you know how forceful a man he is? He was running around with one of those cordless phones his company makes, and, I don't know, it was like the red-phone syndrome: Get me Washington! He told the F
. B. I
. men right in front of me that his boy was kidnapped out of the house and I still can't say he wasn't. Like I said, Jack hated to drive the Rolls-Royce."

"Is it that Victor Watson wouldn't even consider the possibility that his son might drive the Rolls up to a canyon in Mineral Springs of his own volition?"

"Maybe that's it. And I still don't know that he would. What would Jack be doing in a place like that?"

"What's your opinion?"

"Gosh, I don't know what to think." Harlan dabbed his eyes with a dinner napkin. "He was like my son, that boy. He and his dad argued sometimes, and he'd talk to me about it later. I think he hated it, being dependent on his dad all the time. He used to call him da-da, but not to his face. And he used to say things to me like `Well, guess I'll go ask Daddy Warbucks for my allowance. My impression is that when he finished his education he was never again going to take money from his father.