A Savage Place Part 18

That day I hung around while Candy interviewed a rape victim, talked to the chairwoman of an educational-reform group, did a stand-up in front of a new boutique that had opened in Beverly Hills, and interviewed a glossy-looking kid who had just finished shooting the pilot for a TV series that was coincidentally going to be carried locally on KNBS-TV. Then I hung around the studio while Candy did some film editing and taped some narration over some of the edited film, and spent maybe a half hour in conference with Frederics, the news director.

That evening I finished up my book on Edmund Spenser while Brewster took Candy to the revival of a Broadway musical at the Music Center.

The next day Candy covered a blood shortage at the L.A. Red Cross blood bank, a Right to Life protest outside an abortion clinic in El Monte, a benefit fas.h.i.+on show staged by the wives of the California Angels, and the finals of a baton-twirling contest in Pasadena.

That evening she went with Brewster to a party at Marina del Rey. I stopped at a drugstore on La Brea near Melrose and bought a copy of The Great Gatsby off the paperback rack. I hadn't read it in about five years, and it was time again. I picked up some tomatoes, lettuce, bacon, and bread at Ralph's, along with a six-pack of Coors and a jar of mayonnaise, and went back to Candy's apartment to an orgy of B.L.T.'s. And elegant prose. And beer.

Candy called from the station the next morning around nine to tell me that she'd be at the station most of the day, and there was no need for me to hang around there. Station security was enough protection.

"I'll be home this evening, though," she said. "Brewster's out of town until Thursday."

I told her I'd pick her up when it was time. And she said she'd call. And I hung up. I had finished GatsUy in a sitting. With breakfast I'd read the L.A. Times. I was irritated, bored, restless, edgy, useless, frustrated, bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. I wasn't making any money. I wasn't solving a crime. I wasn't saving a widow or an orphan. I was sleeping on a couch and my back was getting stiff. I thought about packing it in and going home. I could be having dinner with Susan this evening. I looked at my suitcase, tucked in between the couch and the wall. Ten minutes to pack, ten minutes to get a cab, half hour to the airport. I could make the noon flight easy. I shook my head. Not yet. There was something besides coitus happening in the Sloan-Brewster romance, and I had to stay around until I found out what.

But in the meantime I had to get rid of the feeling that my gears were grinding to a halt. I put on my running stuff and did about ten minutes of stretching and then went up to Sunset and headed west at an easy pace. You run out of sidewalk on Sunset, and the traffic is too ugly to run in the street, so I s.h.i.+fted down a block to Lomitas and went along amid the affluence to Whittier Drive, down Whittier to the place where it joins Wils.h.i.+re by the Beverly Hilton Hotel. I went along Wils.h.i.+re to Beverly Glen, up Beverly Glen, and started cruising among the neighborhoods of Westwood until I ended up on Le Conte Avenue in front of UCLA Medical Center. The sun was hot, and the sweat had soaked pleasingly through my T-s.h.i.+rt. The hills in Westwood were just right. You'd barely notice them in a car, but it was a good varied workout running. I took it easy, ten twelve-minute miles, sightseeing. I U-turned at Westwood Boulevard and jogged back east along Le Conte. There were orange trees, ripe with fruit in people's front yards, and lemon trees, and now and then an olive tree with small black fruit on it. The roofs of the houses were mostly red tile, the siding often white stucco, the yards immaculate. There was no residue of sand and salt from the winter's snow. The driveways often slanted up, without fear of ice. "He sent us this eternal spring,/Which here enamels everything." Who had written that? Not Peter Brewster. I jogged along just fast enough to pa.s.s someone walking. Except, like everywhere else in Tinsel Town, no one was walking. Somewhere I heard two dogs barking. Probably a recording. "He hangs in shades the orange bright,/Like golden lamps in a green light." The houses were close together. i never figured out why. There was s.p.a.ce abounding out here at the f.a.g end of the way west. Why did everyone huddle together? Why didn't they ever come out on the street? How could they produce something as silly as Rodeo Drive? Would Candy elope with Peter Brewster?

It was early afternoon when I got back to Candy's. I'd done about fifteen miles and I felt better. I spent a long time in Candy's shower. Then I got dressed and took Candy's car and went out for a drive. I had read that morning in the L.A. Times that traffic congestion was a leading tourist complaint in L.A. They were obviously not tourists from the East. Compared to Boston and New York, driving in L.A. was like driving in Biddeford, Maine. The freeways were bad, but I never had occasion to use them. I drove east on Hollywood Boulevard, slowly, past Vermont Avenue, where Hollywood fuses with Sunset, and on along Sunset toward downtown L.A. I got off by the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and drove around downtown a little and then headed back on Third Street. I'd been a lot of places and there were usually resemblances. Boston and San Francisco had points of comparison, and they were both not unlike New York, only smaller, and New York was not unlike London, only newer. But L.A. was like nothing I'd ever seen. I didn't know any place like it for sprawl, for the apparently idiosyncratic mix of homes and businesses and shopping malls. There was no center, no fixed point for taking bearings. It ambled and sprawled and disarrayed all over the peculiar landscape-garish and fascinating and imprecise and silly, smelling richly of bougainvillea and engine emissions, full of trees and gra.s.s and flowers and neon and pretense. And off to the northeast, beyond the Hollywood Hills, above the smog, and far from Disneyland were the mountains with snow on their peaks. I wondered if there was a leopard frozen up there anywhere.

The top was down and the wind was warm on my face. I turned down La Brea and parked and walked along Wils.h.i.+re to the La Brea Tar Pits with their huge plastic statues half sunk in the tar. There was a museum there, and I went in and looked at the relics and the dioramas and the graphics until about four. Then I went back outside. A young man wearing Frye boots and a cowboy hat who had never seen a cow was playing banjo loudly and not well. He had the banjo case open on the ground near him for contributions. It wasn't very full. In fact what was in there was probably what he'd seeded it with. Some kids hung around while he played "Camptown Races" and then drifted off. The banjo player didn't seem to mind.

I got back in the MG and drove back to Candy's apartment feeling friendly toward L.A. It was a big sunny buffoon of a city; corny and ornate and disorganized but kind of fun. The last hallucination, the I dwindled fragment of-what had Fitzgerald called it? -"the last and greatest of all human dreams." It was where we'd run out of room, where the dream had run up against the ocean, and human voices woke us. Los Angeles was the b.u.t.t end, where we'd spat it out with our mouths tasting of ashes, but a genial failure of a place for all of that.

I had drunk two beers in Candy's living room when she called and asked me to pick her up.

"Dress up," she said. "I'm going to take you to dinner."

"Tie?" I asked.

"It's permitted," she said.

Chapter23.

WE HAD DINNER at Ma Maison, which looks like the cook tent for a Rotary barbecue and is so in that it has an unlisted phone. There were several famous people there and many young good-looking women with older out-of-shape men. The food was admirable.

"You don't see Rudd Weatherwax in the restaurant, do you?" I said to Candy.

"I never heard of him," she said.

"Sic transit gloria," I said. "Is that... ?"

Candy nodded. "Somewhat more of her these days."

"She shouldn't swim during whaling season," I said. Candy smiled. We finished our asparagus vinaigrette. The waiter brought us veal medallions and poured some more of the white Bordeaux we'd ordered.

"Good," Candy said. "What kind is it?"

"Graves," I said.

"I've got the goods on Peter," Candy said.

There were pan-fried potatoes with the veal that were the best I'd ever had. I ate one. "The goods?"

Her face was bright. "Yes. I've got him, I think. But I need you to help."

"Glad to," I said. "It'll ice my merit badge. What have you got him for?"

"One reason I've tried to be with him every night is I wanted to get him won over before you got bored and went home. I knew I'd need you and I had to hurry."

"Bored? Me? I haven't even been to Knott's Berry Farm yet."

"Well, last night it paid off. He got drunk and started talking about how powerful and important he was. He's gotten blackout drunk every time I've been with him. I think he might have thought he was being sly, and seeing if I would talk about my interest in him. But he kept drinking and he got carried away. Every time it's the same. We make love. Then he drinks and struts around and conducts a monologue on how important he is. Talked about his connections, with politicians, with mobsters, movie stars. How he could get anything fixed or have someone killed if he wanted to. He bragged about some of the actresses he'd slept with."

"Mala Powers?" I said.

"No."

"Phew."

"But I was in good company," she said.

"Did he get specific about other things?" I asked.

"Yes. He said, for instance, that he knew where Franco was. He used his full name."

"Montenegro," I said.

"Yes. He said he knew how to get Franco Montenegro. He said Franco had made a mistake, and he was going to regret it."

"And?"

"And, well, it's boring to do it word for word, but I found out that Franco called him and demanded money or he'd tell the police about Peter's Mob connections. Brewster's going to meet him tomorrow."

"And Brewster's going to go himself?"

"Franco insisted."

"Where is he going to meet him?"

"I don't know," Candy said. "But I'm having dinner with Peter tomorrow, and if I can find out when he's going to meet Franco, I thought we could follow him."

"If Franco spots us behind Brewster, he'll think he's been sold out and might air old Peter right on the spot."

"It's a chance I'll take." Candy said.

"As long as you can nail Brewster to the floor," I said.

Candy put her fork down and looked at me. "Don't use that tone with me," she said. "Peter Brewster is a completely corrupt man, and I'm going to catch him. If there's risk to him in that, so be it. Life's sometimes risky."

"What exactly are we going to catch him at?"

"I don't know the legal mumbo jumbo. Consorting with a known criminal. Abetting an escaped felon. Conspiracy. You should know better than I do."

"Brewster won't go alone to see Franco," I said.

"Franco said he had to, or he'd go straight to the cops."

I shook my head. "Franco won't go to the cops and Brewster knows it. Brewster will bring somebody, probably Simms, and if he's as bad as you say he is, he'll try to hut Franco away."

"Why doesn't Franco go to the police?"

"Because he's desperate. Because he needs money bad enough to risk blackmailing Brewster, and he's not going to throw it away. If Franco goes to the cops, he's lost his blackmail. And Brewster will kill him if he can-or if he and his helpers can-because as long as Franco is out there, he's like a loaded gun pointing at Brewster."

The waiter brought us a pear tart and coffee. "Franco needs money to get out of town," Candy said. It was a half question.

"I'd guess," I said. "Or maybe just to live. When you're hiding, it's hard to earn a salary."

"But if Simms helps him kill Franco, then won't Simms know that Brewster's"-she spread her hands-"a criminal?"

"Sure, but he probably knows it now. If Brewster's Mob-connected, then I'd guess Simms is probably a Mob watchdog anyway."

"You mean the Mob owns Peter?"

"It's rarely the other way around," I said.

Candy paid the checks and we left Ma Maison. A kid brought Candy's car around and we got in. Candy drove. We went out Melrose, across Santa Monica to Doheny, and up Doheny to Candy's place. Neither one of us said anything as we drove.

In her apartment Candy said, "Shall we have a little brandy and soda?"

I said, "Sure."

She made two drinks. We took them out and sat by the pool and drank.

"You've been on the couch for some time now," Candy said.

"Yes.

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"Sort of," I said.

"I'm sorry," Candy said.

The pool filter made a small slurping sound as water trickled into the skimmer.

"Not your fault," I said. "Furniture makers have no pride of craftmans.h.i.+p anymore."

"I mean that I've been away with Peter, not with you."

"A job's a job," I said.

"Would you care to move into the bedroom to night?" she said.

I shook my head. "No," I said. "Thanks, but I'll stick with the couch."

Her face went tight again, with lines around her mouth. "Why?"

"It's something I'd be ashamed to tell Susan."

"You weren't ashamed last time. Is it Peter Brewster?"

"Partly."

"It's not Susan, is it? You're just jealous."

"I don't think so," I said. "See, once, on a warm night in a strange city with music drifting downthat's fun. Or it was for me. But a live-in arrangement-'house privileges,' I think you called it-when you apologize for being"-I made a word-groping gesture with my hands-"inattentive-that's unfaithfulness."

"I think it's nothing that n.o.ble," Candy said. "You're no different that all the others. You're jealous. You can't stand sharing me with Peter."

"If that were true," I said, "what better reason to sleep on the couch. If we've gone to a point where I'm jealous of you, then I am cheating. I don't want to be jealous of anyone but Suze. I shouldn't be."

Candy shook her head. "That's c.r.a.p," she said. "You insist on making everything sound fancy. Always guff about honor and being faithful and not being ashamed. Everything you do becomes some kind of G.o.dd.a.m.n quest for the Holy Grail. It's just selfdramatization. Self-dramatization so you don't have to face up to how shabby your life is, and pointless."

"Well, there's that," I said.

"And G.o.ddammit, don't patronize me. When I score a point, you ought to be man enough to admit it."

"Person enough," I said. "Don't be s.e.xist."

"So you've decided just to joke about it. You know you can't win the argument, so you make fun."

"Candy, I am a long way past the point where I see the world in terms of debating points. I don't care if I win or lose arguments. Sleeping with you again would be cheating on Susan, at least by my definition, and by hers. That's sufficient. You're just as desirable as you ever were. And I'm just as randy. But I am stern of will. So lemme sleep on the couch and stop being offended."

"You self-sufficient b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"But you'll help me tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said.