West of Paradise (27 page)

Empty eyes. Sarah's mind meandered. Where had she seen eyes that were that strangely empty? Where had she encountered, close up, those vacant eyes?

Building Bridges

As accustomed as he was to having a full staff to do legwork of any fashion for him, including stalking, it momentarily irritated Norman Jessup to have to hire a private detective. Especially as the man was going to be paid to find the man who had only just stopped doing Norman's stalking. But as there was nothing sinister involved, Norman figured the detective could do him no harm in the way of extortion or wanting a job in the movie business, the risk you always ran when you were Norman. He could not even address a ladies' luncheon, which he did only for his public image, without someone in a hat asking him to interview her nephew.

The detective he decided on was recommended by one of the security people at the Carlyle, a breed Norman trusted to be reliable as much as he did the manager and Bobby Short, who was currently doing a stint on piano in the Cafe. They sat in the darkened room where the entertainer played, and the detective murmured his credentials, but not so loud that it interfered with the music.

“It's okay, you come highly recommended,” Jessup said, raising his hand to stop the recounting of runaway teenagers found, renegade fraudulent financiers stopped at the airport, and wives caught in flagrante. Only when the singer finished his first show and the lights went up did Norman tell the man what he wanted.

The detective looked slightly seedy, which put Norman at his ease, as the only private eyes he'd seen were those in films. Apparently this man had been to the same movies. His face was scratchily Humphrey Bogart, his overlarge head Bruce Willis, shaved, bridging the generations in a single overweight bound. Even though he'd been assured he had Norman's confidence, he still held out his ID and his license to carry a gun. Both had his name, Hallowell Vincent, and a thumbprint.

“Hallowell,” Jessup said. “That's some moniker.” He felt an actual lift in his heart as he used that word.

“Call me Hal,” the man said. “You got a picture of the kid?”

There was the miniature album that Norman carried with him and put on his bedside table when he traveled to give him a sense of permanence. It had photos of afternoons at the beach. There was a recent snapshot of Carina, and one of a bunch of the boys, Bunyan, Gil, those who had been present the day he'd found Tyler. And one of that young man standing all alone, Michelangelo's David in cutoffs. Reluctantly Norman drew it from the plastic, not really willing to take the chance the former cop would get his prints on it.

But the man held it by its edges, like he was used to parents who might never see their kids again, so the photo would have to serve as a remembrance. “Beautiful boy,” said Hal, and then, realizing what the scuttlebutt was, added, “I mean, healthy-looking. You got any idea where he might have gone?”

“Well, he didn't have much cash, so it couldn't have been far. He's probably still in New York.”

“There are eight million stories in the naked city,” Hal said.

“Excuse me?”

“It was a show. A terrific show.” Hal smiled feebly. He had big teeth, tobacco stained. The smell of cigarettes came from his mouth, even though he wasn't smoking.

“I remember the show.”

“Meaning … there's a lot of people. He have any relatives or friends here?”

“I'm not really sure. I know very little about where he came from. He made it an exercise to talk in the present. No history. A ‘today' person.”

“Personal habits?”

“He meditates. Sitting cross-legged with his thumb and first finger in a little circle while he ‘Oms.'” Even as he attempted to sound contemptuous, the memory of it made Norman melancholy. He recalled finding Tyler on the beach in just such a pose, his buff young body all burnished dark gold and his eyes closed, their gilded lashes fanning down. He remembered the sound, the occasional chant coming from the guest cottage behind his beach house, something that would have annoyed him usually, but reassured him since it meant Tyler was home.

Even though he'd never made a move on him, he was caught by the boy. In the beginning he'd been so mesmerized he had actually followed him a few times when he'd left the beach, trying to find out what he did when he wasn't there. Before he commissioned Tyler to do the same with Sarah, Norman trailed him to see where he was going. Embarrassed, but unable to control himself, Norman skulked in doorways while Tyler took his walks through the Santa Monica mall.

“He likes to walk,” Norman told the detective, trying to deal with how wistful the recollected picture made him. “Takes really long walks. Reads through the magazines at newsstands. Very pop culture kind of kid.”

“There are eight million newsstands in the naked city.”

“You got a car.” He could hear himself talking a little tough, falling into the patois of the street guy he was speaking to.

“How tall is he?”

“Six three, maybe a little taller.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“Wherever he goes, people turn around.”

“I meant scars, blemishes.”

“That's a kind of scar, don't you think? That you can't go anywhere without being noticed? I mean, I don't think he's even aware of it, but that's what happens.”

“Why did he run away?”

“He didn't. I … well, I sort of threw him out.”

“And now you want him back?” It wasn't really a question, but a statement, lightly larded with resignation.

“Not for myself,” Jessup said, wondering why he felt he had to explain that. Probably out of the affection he bore for the memory of Bogart, who'd lived and died while everyone was still in the closet, and likely wouldn't have had any use for any of it, politically correct or no. Norman could visualize him grubbily putt-putting to Hawaii in an old fishing boat, ready to break up same-sex marriages.

“Okay. I'll get on it in the morning.”

“Really early morning,” said Norman. “He likes to get up around five and go on a walk before dawn.” Once he had followed him on a silvery morning lit by a waning moon, wondering if maybe he had a lover somewhere down in Malibu.

“Well, he won't do that in New York.”

“Sure, he will. He's fearless.”

“In New York, fearless is stupid.”

“He believes the universe is looking out for him.”

“Well, it is now,” Hallowell said, and stood. “I'll find him for you.”

*   *   *

The first thing Arthur Finster did on returning to Los Angeles was check the sales figures on
By Hook or by Crook.
Normally a spot on Oprah, if she held up the book and said anything the least bit favorable, sent the book to the top of the bestseller list. But there were no consistent demographics on the Ralph Robertson show. Still, it had been a hot interview: people called in to scream at Arthur for being a peddler of pornography, and one woman phoned in to weep that the text had saved her from a life of degradation and vice. Finster had arranged that call, of course, but wasn't sure she would get through.

“How many copies did we move since last Monday?” he asked his sales rep.

She checked the distributor's computer line. “A little over seven thousand.”

“That can't possibly be all,” Arthur said. “Millions of people watch Robertson's show.”

“Not that night,” the sales rep said.

He felt measurably depressed. There was just so much sensationalism available, even in Los Angeles, and he'd tapped nearly every vein. The only one he'd missed was O.J., and there were no new wrinkles to that.

“You want your mail and phone messages now, Arthur?” his secretary asked him.

“Anything interesting?” he asked about the mail, deflated and jet-lagged.

“There's one marked ‘Personal and Confidential' that I didn't open.”

“That was generous of you.”

“You don't have to get sour with me just because the numbers aren't better.”

She was his cousin. His aunt was a terror, worse than his mother, hell to deal with, so he couldn't fire her daughter. He told everyone he kept Joyce there because she was so forthright, the quality in her he secretly hated most.

“Here's the letter,” Joyce said, and threw it at him.

He put it in his pocket, after checking for the return address. There was none. He was in no mood for an attack. His mind seethed with what amounted to yet another rejection, this one from the public at large. Appetite raged, but he didn't want to try any of the better restaurants, unwilling to chance further humiliation. In his early days in Hollywood he had gone to Ma Maison, the “in” place at the time, where executives would tremble if Patrick Terrail, who ran the restaurant, didn't seem pleased to see them. He had witnessed film potentates who had learned the movie trade at the knobby knees of Darryl Zanuck grow pale when they couldn't catch Patrick's eye. They'd been visibly fearful that they might not get a table, or be seated in the wrong room, or the portion of the yellow tented garden that wasn't fashionable. So Arthur knew he was observing an honored local ritual, to be intimidated by headwaiters who measured your rise and fall more quickly than box office returns. He'd had every intention of buying Morton's as he'd threatened to do when they turned him away, as soon as the book went to number one. Now it probably never would.

*   *   *

He was in bed, wearing silk pajamas from Hong Kong which he'd planned on donning for his interview with
Esquire,
but they hadn't called back either, when he remembered the letter. He leaned over to the chair where his jacket hung, and reached for it.

Dear Mr. Finster,

I am a student at Beverly High. I read all your books. I admire you a lot. I read the story about you in
Beverly Hills 213
how you have so much nerve and initiative. I read that you aren't afraid to publish anything.

I know there are already a lot of O.J. books, but here is the mystery that wasn't solved. What happened to the bag? The one O.J. was carrying that maybe had the knife in it, and the bloody clothes?

Well, what if I was to tell you I knew where that bag went? My dad was a friend of O.J.'s. He is always telling me I lack initiative. They said in
213
that's what you have plenty of. I know a lot of kids who's parents used to be friends of O.J.'s, and they all have stories about him. How about a book about the kids who's parents are friends of O.J.'s. Or used to be. I know one kid whose a waiter part time at Chin-Chin in Brentwood and he says O.J. orders take out, that he's afraid to come into resturants. We know a lot of anekdotes like that.

You better not call me at home. Its' a real dilema if I should tell you this stuff or not. But I admire your initiative and want some of my own. If you want to talk you can meet me at baseball practice at the field at Beverly High on Wednesday around four o'clock. Please don't tell about this to anybody. I play third base.

Yours very truely,

Richie Harnoun

Thrilled, Arthur looked at his watch. It was only Friday. How could he wait till Wednesday? A fresh angle: The Children of Friends.
The Apple Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree,
that could be the title. What a clever boy.

At the same time he got excited at the prospect, Arthur felt his first pang of compassion ever for O.J. Ordering takeout. Not willing to risk being turned away either.

Suddenly, he remembered how hungry he was. He reached for the phone, dialed 411, and asked Information for the number of Chin-Chin in Brentwood.

*   *   *

When Kate checked her new answering machine, there were two barked messages from Perry Zemmis, both from the same day. He had been calling her daily since the item first appeared that he had bought the Fitzgerald “sequin.” She had never returned any of his calls. Once, when she picked up the phone and he was on the line himself, she had clicked the receiver, and told him her mother was on the other line from the hospital. As little as he seemed to respect anything, he was immediately browbeaten by the absentee spectacle of a mother, and jumped off the line. It appeared to be a town full of power players who feared the women who had spawned them, even when their mothers turned out to be their wives, as Lila Darshowitz had.

There was also a message from Mel, her agent; one from her mother, who wasn't in the hospital; Jake Alonzo; and, most unexpectedly, a call from Duchess Wendy. Kate had to play it a few times to make sure it really was Wendy. She spoke with a tremulous voice. Kate had to listen repeatedly to get the number right. Impressed and thrown, she put out of her mind the message from Jake Alonzo, and called Wendy's number. She needed a friend more than she needed a lover. Did he really want to be her lover? Could a duchess, even toppled, really want to be her friend?

“I wanted to thank you so much for the flowers, and your most kind note,” Wendy said, and paused for a moment. “
And
the note you returned.”

“You're more than welcome.”

“Would you like to meet for tea?”

They settled on the terrace of the Hotel Bel-Air for a meeting place. There was an ex-president's wife at one of the balcony tables, and the fallen head of a studio at another, so the setting seemed perfect for deposed royalty.

“One doesn't have a lot of people one can trust,” Wendy said, into a finger sandwich, so her words were partially obscured. But Kate heard clearly what she was trying to say.

“I understand.”

“I wonder if you do,” Wendy said, putting her sandwich down, looking at Kate with woeful eyes, the whites visible above the lower lids. “I wonder if you know how relieved I was when you returned that note. Relieved, and, to be frank, agreeably surprised. Many people would have sold it.” She lowered her very soft voice even further as she said that, with a sidelong glance at her security person to make sure he wasn't eavesdropping. He was standing a few feet away, watching her, but not listening, engaged in a sidelong conversation with the security man for the ex-president's wife.