Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  6

  THE LIGHTS OF THE VALLEY flickered and the air was scented with that perfect mixture of chlorine and eucalyptus. The Spanish style house with those ceramic half pipes on the roof appeared in silhouette, dark upstairs, the lights on in the living room. Farrell knocked on the heavy door, and while he waited his fingers touched the rough grain of the door, which had the pattern of trees in a jungle, all parallel, all dark.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Terry. That movement of his eyes from the valley below to Farrell and back again.

  “Before I come in the house or even think about it,” said Farrell. “We’ve got to get something straight.”

  “Sure, buddy, what’s that?”

  “The card. Did you get the c-c-card from Alaska?” said Farrell.

  “What’s the big deal?” said Terry. “Why the hard-on about a postcard?”

  “Did you get it?” said Farrell.

  “I got it,” said Terry.

  “I want to see it,” said Farrell.

  “We got another problem,” said Terry.

  “No. We don’t have any problem. Unless you let me see the card,” said Farrell.

  “Okay, okay,” said Terry.

  He brought out the card and offered it. The picture was of snow-capped mountains, the color of them a little dim in the light that came from the door. A bear stood in front of the mountains, its face to the camera, eyes indifferent, or threatening. Not a grizzly, but lighter in color. A Kodiak. Even in the dim light the white snout showed. On the message side, it said, “All right, Big T-ster, I made it back in one piece, so you don’t have to worry anymore. Warm weather here. Love, Mary Jones.” The dot above each i was either a heart or a smiley face. Postmarked in Anchorage. Note written in purple ink. Farrell held the card, flipped it over, then put it in his pocket.

  “Hey,” said Terry. “Why are you keeping that?”

  “Let’s go inside,” said Farrell.

  “I want to keep the card,” said Terry.

  “Let’s go inside,” said Farrell.

  The living room still had the white sofas and white carpet with deep pile, the glass table, the walls covered with posters of movies that Terry had been in, a map of Hollywood, a painting of a nude woman on the young side, and a map of London, where Terry had studied at the Royal Academy for six months.

  Terry sat at the glass table, where a copy of the Los Angeles Times was open to the photograph of a man, Karicek was his name, who had been arrested. Farrell hesitated over the photograph and the headline that said, “Man Arrested on Morals Charge. Young Women.” Terry folded the newspaper, a little huff of air coming out of the pages as they settled on the table. Farrell guessed the mugshot in the paper made Terry more tense, his eyes shifting from the window to the two young women, or girls really, who sat on the sofa.

  The first one had a stage name, but then mothers here gave stage names at birth. Portia Blanchard had a nose job and looked like she was a throwback of some kind with her hair dyed red, her nose with a piercing. She wore a tight white tank top and a red skirt.

  She held her hands together, looked away, licked her lips, bit them, and then tried to look at Farrell with a glance that was cold and arrogant, as though she had a natural cunning and didn’t tolerate anything or anyone getting in her way unless they were looking for trouble. It left her, in this elegant room, with a perfect expression of the parochial nature of her desire. That is, parochial by Los Angeles standards, which, Farrell thought, were pretty definite. Snobby, condescending, fueled by a belief in glamour and beauty, as though these were the real gifts of the gods. And now, she had the air of something else, not terror, not yet, but surely she was worried. Farrell swallowed.

  “Who’s this?” said Portia.

  “My producer sent him,” said Terry. “He’s going to make it all right.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Farrell said.

  Portia’s eyes were a storm-cloud blue, and maybe she had a number of different colors for her contact lenses. What’s more convincing than a dark, brooding stare?

  Charlene was the other young woman. She was blond, seemingly wholesome, sort of sweet, really, if you didn’t do more than just glance at her.

  “What’s his name?” said Portia to Terry.

  “Just plain Mr. J-j-jones,” Farrell said.

  “That’s a funny name. No one is really called Jones,” she said.

  “Where’s the mother? Wasn’t a mother supposed to be here? Yours, Portia?” said Farrell.

  Farrell glanced at Terry’s hands, his brittle movement, his look of getting close to the worst precipice.

  Farrell had the impulse to feel sorry for Portia and the other girl, since neither one knew what they had gotten themselves into. He touched the card in his pocket from Mary Jones.

  “Charlene?” Farrell said.

  “How do you know our names?” said Portia.

  “I talked to my producer about you,” said Terry. “I guess he talked to his guy.”

  He gestured to Farrell.

  Beyond the window, the lights in the valley had a cold, starlike twinkle.

  “Where’s your mom?” Farrell said.

  “We thought we’d leave her out of this,” said Portia.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” said Portia. “Maybe she can’t handle some things.”

  “Maybe we want to do something on our own,” said Charlene.

  “Get out your phone and call your mom,” said Farrell to Portia. “Tell her to come right over.”

  She looked one way, then another, at Terry, the Valley, the blue hump of the San Gabriel Mountains.

  “Go on,” said Charlene.

  “Why?” said Portia. That little quaver in her voice.

  “This guy,” said Charlene. She gestured to Farrell. “Can take care of things . . .”

  “Shut up,” said Portia. “Let me think.”

  The sullenness between them was the variety that only two scared teenagers can have.

  Portia sighed. Then she tapped a name in the contacts section of her phone, sulked while she waited, and then said, “It’s me. You better get up here. We’re talking things over.”

  So, thought Farrell, the mom doesn’t need the address.

  “She’ll be here in twenty minutes. Traffic, you know.”

  “That’s fast,” said Farrell. “Where do you live?”

  “North Flores. West Hollywood,” said Portia. “You can make it in fifteen minutes if you’re lucky.”

  Particularly if the mother was waiting for the call, thought Farrell. At least she was on her way. They sat like strangers in a waiting room. Terry said the weather was nice for the fall, and then they decided that it was better not to say anything.

  The girls glanced at one another as a way of communicating, but more than anything else it was an argument conducted by glances, by a grimace now and then, with a shake of a head. Charlene sighed, gestured to Farrell said to Portia, “I think he can help . . .”

  “I don’t know,” said Portia.

  She squirmed in her seat.

  “There’s some problem? Beyond you and Terry?” said Farrell.

  “I told you to shut up,” said Portia to Charlene.

  Terry blew up his cheeks and then exhaled between his lips, as though he was trying to whistle and couldn’t quite make it. His lips were too dry.

  Farrell considered Charlene, a nice kid who at least remembered what it was like not to be in this room with whatever surprise was coming.

  “Remember,” said Portia to Terry. “We didn’t want to do anything.”

  “We’ll get it straight,” said Terry.

  The knock on the door came with a light tapping, as though it was a sign for a private club.

  Farrell opened the door.

  Cherry Blanchard stepped inside. No greeting aside from a glance. She appeared as though she had come to the end of the line. Plastic surgery wouldn’t do any more for her. Another one who had come to the end of hope. Or del
usion. Farrell shook his head and wanted to comfort her, but he knew that would have to wait. Still, in other circumstances Farrell would have understood, even been sympathetic. He would have bought her a drink and agreed that this was a tough town. Breasts enlarged, probably lips augmented, a new nose. But of course, while each feature was enhanced, the underlying pattern, or face, or whatever it was that you are born with was still there, a sort of medical pentimento. You could see Portia there.

  “This is Plain Mr. Jones,” said Portia.

  Cherry put out her hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “You’re the one to talk to, right?”

  “Yes,” said Farrell. “Aren’t you at Universal?”

  He didn’t say a word about her being a receptionist. Which, Farrell thought, must have been hell on earth for someone who had come to LA with ambitions and then was left to sit behind a desk and watch people she saw in People walk by without so much as a glance.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good,” Farrell said. “So, let’s get things straight.”

  “Okay,” said Cherry.

  “Now the first thing is no one tells a lie,” Farrell said. “If you do, I will give you a warning, and the second time, I’m walking out of here.”

  “I never lie,” said Cherry.

  She ran her hand through her hair, which had been bleached and streaked.

  “So, what are you going to do?” said Cherry.

  “I really don’t know yet. A lot depends on you. How did the girls get up here?” Farrell said to Cherry.

  “We hitched,” said Portia. She sniffed, touched her nose piercing. Farrell reached for a box of Kleenex and held it out. Her sullenness had a ray-like quality, focused on Farrell. Mixed with that dread. It was as though she thought the way to deal with the world was to show it how superior she was. That ought to keep them in line, the losers. At the same time, she had a contradictory mood, since she was afraid that the world was about to fall in.

  “Cherry?” Farrell said. “Is that right?”

  “If that’s what they say,” said Cherry. She looked at Farrell with same sullen air, as though it was genetic.

  “Didn’t you drive them up here?” Farrell said. “And why didn’t they drive themselves? Don’t they have a license? Aren’t they sixteen?”

  “Just learner permits. They’ll get a license soon. If they said they hitched up here, they did.”

  “And you think it’s a good idea to let sixteen-year-old girls hitchhike in this town, up, say, Laurel Canyon?”

  “Probably not,” said Cherry.

  “So, you drove them up here?” Farrell said.

  “Why, how could you suggest such a thing . . . as though I’m participating . . . or was participating . . .”

  “I said, no lies. That’s the first warning,” Farrell said. “Now, did you drive them up here or not?”

  Cherry looked out at the valley below.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I drove them last night. They hitched up here tonight. What I said was true, though, they just have learner permits.”

  “In a month,” said Charlene.

  Portia looked at her as though Charlene had bad breath.

  The valley shimmered there like every false hope imaginable.

  “We aren’t going to have any problems here, are we?” said Terry.

  “We could go to the cops,” said Portia.

  Cherry nodded.

  “No,” Farrell said. “You won’t.”

  “Why not?” said Portia.

  “Listen to him,” said Charlene. “Just listen.”

  “Why don’t you just shut up,” said Portia. “I’m warning you.”

  “So, when were you the boss, huh?” said Charlene.

  “Don’t be so lame,” said Portia.

  “So, you were here last night?” said Farrell.

  “Yeah,” said Charlene.

  “Is that right, Terry?” Farrell said.

  “Well, yeah, in a manner of speaking,” said Terry.

  Farrell looked at him.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “They were here last night. Let’s not make a federal case out of it.”

  Farrell swallowed.

  “So, we’ve been talking over what we want,” said Portia.

  “I thought you were supposed to leave things like that to me,” Farrell said to Terry.

  “In this new movie, we want some lines,” said Portia.

  “Five lines apiece,” said Charlene.

  “And a card,” she said. “In the titles with our names on it.”

  “The script has already been done,” Farrell said.

  “That’s not our problem,” said Portia.

  “We haven’t talked about money,” said Charlene. “Yet.”

  “So, it’s five lines apiece, a separate card, and some unspecified amount of money.”

  “Yeah,” said Portia. “Unless we think of something else.”

  “How does that sound to you, Terry?”

  “Five lines isn’t so much,” he said.

  A copy of the script was on the glass table, the top of which seemed to have a film from dust or from use, like dirty glasses. Portia picked up the script and flipped the pages.

  “There’s a place . . . let me find it . . .”

  The house had slight noises, the hum of the high-end freezer in the kitchen, the occasional car on Mulholland, some slight burble in the plumbing, a dripping in the shower . . . Portia read the script.

  “You know, Terry, you have a six-a.m. call . . .” Farrell said. “You remember that, don’t you? Maybe you should get some sleep.”

  “I better stay around,” he said. “To see what’s what.”

  “So, Mr. Jones, do we have a deal?” said Portia.

  Her eyes were like the color of the Aegean at noon.

  “My jeans are stained,” Portia said.

  “Stained?” Farrell said.

  “From him,” she said. Her head bobbed toward Terry. She kept that gaze on Farrell.

  “So, this morning you went home, left the jeans there, and came back?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Jones,” said Portia. “We won’t wait long before going to the cops.”

  “I don’t think you want that,” Farrell said.

  “No?” said Portia. She bit her lip.

  “It’s up to you,” Farrell said.

  “Jesus,” said Terry. “What the fuck are you saying?”

  Portia looked like she was about to burst into tears, then pulled herself together. Farrell felt sorry for her, but that didn’t change things too much.

  “I want this fixed soon,” said Portia.

  “Yeah,” said her mother.

  “The problem is that you lied to me once,” said Farrell. “Now I have to do a little work to be able to know what’s going to happen.”

  “It wasn’t much of a lie,” said Cherry.

  “You think so?” Farrell said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Maybe I don’t want anything to do with this . . .”

  “What?” said Portia. “What?”

  That look between Charlene and Portia.

  “Why are you so frightened?” Farrell said.

  “We’re not frightened,” said Portia. Then she bit her lip again.

  “Listen to him,” said Charlene. “He can fix this . . .”

  Portia stared at the hills in the distance, which were covered with the bright specks of houses and streetlamps. The effect was like a dark hump covered with strings of white Christmas lights. Peregrine, Charlene, Portia, and Cherry sat around that table. The valley shimmered with that beguiling promise, as though it was a charm that could be invoked.

  “Take out your phone,” Farrell said to Portia.

  “Why?” said Portia.

  “Call the cops.”

  Portia’s eyes were like that moment just before dark, when the sky is blue on the verge of black, when the first star is visible.

  “Dial,” Farrell said. “C
all the cops.”

  Farrell got out his phone and called a number.

  “Howie? It’s me. Sorry to bother you at home, but I’m going to need some legal advice. Can you call me back when you get a chance? We’re going to have to do that thing we did a couple of years ago. You know, when we fixed that kid? The Youth Authority bit. So, call me.”

  Farrell hung up. Portia stared back. Just tell me, thought Farrell.

  “Go on,” he said.

  She sat there, her hatred seeming to feed on itself. Peregrine ran his hand through his hair. Charlene trembled.

  “Look,” said Charlene to Portia. She gestured to Farrell. “This guy can fix things. You know? Maybe he can take care of it?”

  “Be quiet,” said Portia.

  “You think it’s just going to go away?” said Charlene.

  “The first thing is to tell me what else went on here,” said Farrell.

  Terry cleared his throat and glanced at the valley. Still, Portia’s fingers were shaky, too, and she blinked again to stop tears from showing.

  “Let’s trust him,” said Charlene.

  “I’m going to handle this,” said Portia.

  “Let’s take a big, deep breath,” said Cherry. For a moment she looked like she was at her yoga class.

  “So,” said Farrell. “You aren’t calling the Hollywood station. That means something.”

  “What the fuck does it mean, Mr. Jones?” said Portia.

  “You remember I said the first rule is that you don’t tell me any lies.”

  “Everybody lies,” said Portia. “It’s how money is made. If we didn’t lie, three-quarters of the money in the world would disappear tonight. So, what’s the big fucking deal? Tough guy?”