The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes

by David Handler

  We had officially arrived in L.A.

  Sunset skirted along the northern edge of UCLA before it dipped under the San Diego Freeway into Brentwood. I rode past Bundy Drive and Kenter Avenue before I found North Rockingham, where I made a right and started my way north of Sunset into a canyon of ultra-high-end estates surrounded by manicured carpets of green lawn. Not so much as a blade of grass or a leaf was out of place. They were the usual L.A. mash-up of Spanish, Mediterranean, Tudor, Gothic, Cape Cod and Greek revival, along with a smattering of modern architectural non-masterpieces. Monette’s house was set so far back on a corner lot behind a six-foot-high stone wall that I couldn’t see it from the street. There was a wide wrought iron front gate and, around the corner, a narrow service gate for tradespeople and other lowly serfs. An LAPD black-and-white was parked outside the front gate with two uniformed officers sitting in it. Four other cars were parked there that belonged to four tabloid photographers who were standing around smoking four cigarettes and chatting aimlessly.

  My arrival at the front gate on the Indian Chief with Lulu riding shotgun caused a bit of a stir. The paparazzi snapped my picture and shouted at me, demanding to know who I was. I didn’t respond. It’s not my job to do their job for them. A cop got out of the cruiser and asked me if I was expected. When I told him that I was, he buzzed the house on an intercom that was built into the wall next to the security code keypad. A voice responded. I said my name into the intercom, the gate swung open and with that I entered what I would quickly come to think of as Aintree Manor.

  It was quite some spread. Five, maybe six acres, which is the Ponderosa by Southern California standards. It was also a Merry Olde England theme park. The long, curving driveway was made of aged cobbles that had thatches of weeds growing between them in an artfully haphazard way. After the cobbled driveway had made its way past a formal rose garden, topiary garden and tennis court, it crossed over what appeared to be an old stone bridge spanning what appeared to be an actual babbling brook, before it finally arrived at a massive Georgian manor house of weathered brick with periwinkle blue shutters and ivy and honeysuckle growing up its walls. The house had a conservatory appointed in gleaming copper. Everyone should have one of those. A matched pair of crouching marble lions flanked the front door. Everyone should have two of those. The driveway changed over to pea gravel as it neared the house and widened out enough to accommodate a dozen or more cars, though there were none there now. I pulled to a halt, shut off the bike and climbed off. Lulu hopped out of her sidecar. I climbed the bluestone front steps and rang the doorbell, half-expecting Bertie Wooster to come flying out of the door with a red-faced Honoria Glossup in hot pursuit, waving a mashie niblick at him.

  But it was the housekeeper who greeted me. Unless, that is, she was the live-in dental hygienist. She was dressed like one in her short-sleeved yellow smock, matching yellow pants and spotless white Nikes. She was a Latina in her early twenties, about five foot seven, slim and quite lovely with gleaming dark eyes, flawless skin and shiny black hair that was tied back in a ponytail.

  “Welcome, Senor Hoag. I am Maritza. I shall make you settled,” she said, slowly and carefully. Her English was fair. She was working hard at making it more than that.

  “Nice to meet you, Maritza. Make it Hoagy, okay?”

  “As you wish, Senor Hoagy.”

  “And the short one with four legs is Lulu.”

  Maritza’s face lit up. “Such a pretty, pretty girl.” She knelt down to pet Lulu, then drew back, her eyes widening. “Dios mio, her breath . . .”

  “She has rather strange eating habits.”

  “When I unpacked her food I expected she would be a cat. I mean no offense.”

  “None taken, I assure you. Are those photographers always camped outside?”

  She nodded. “Day and night. You are seeing only the small crew because they know the senora is not here. When she returns from work, there are many more. She will be home from taping today’s show by six o’clock. Senor Joey and Senorita Danielle ride the bus home from Brentwood School and shall be here by four o’clock. I can show you around now, if you would like.”

  “I would like. How long have you been working here, Maritza?”

  “I arrived from Guatemala City six month ago. I am very happy here. Senora Monette is so kind to me. I wish to take classes soon at Santa Monica City College. I should like to be a schoolteacher someday.”

  I nodded, wondering if she were here illegally. Many of the live-ins on Park Avenue in New York were. The same was true here in sunny Southern California. It was a mixed blessing. It got them away from a bad situation at home, but it also turned them into modern-day indentured servants.

  The two-story entry hall featured a marble bust of a bygone nobleman who wore six, seven, eight vintage straw hats stacked high atop his head in a manner that I suppose was meant to be whimsical. Next to him there was a blue porcelain urn filled with walking sticks and umbrellas. The floor was made of wide oak planks. Old ones by the look of them. There was a tall clock, an ornate gold mirror, a long bench that looked a lot like a repurposed church pew. A grand, winding staircase led up to the second floor. The stairway walls were lined from floor to ceiling with framed covers of TV Guide, People, Parade and other magazines featuring the famous lady of the house as well as her famous husband, who was currently residing elsewhere. It was the sort of display that you’d expect to find in someone’s workplace, not home. I found it a bit odd. I would have opted for formal oil portraits of dead English gentry. Or possibly Jimi Hendrix posters.

  “If you will follow me, please,” Maritza said.

  We followed her, Lulu’s nails clacking on the oak floor as Maritza led us into an immense, sun-drenched living room where the walls were painted red, the curtains were white lace and the rugs were Persian and stylishly worn. There was a great deal of decorative molding and wainscoting. A chintz-covered sofa and two armchairs faced the marble fireplace. There was a glass coffee table piled with copies of magazines such as Town & Country and Architectural Digest. Fresh flowers were displayed in vases here, there, everywhere.

  “Nice little place. How old is it?”

  “It was built three years ago, I believe,” Maritza replied.

  The conservatory, which was off the living room, had a Steinway grand piano. The walnut-paneled library had two walls of bookcases lined with leather-bound tomes and an eighteenth-century mahogany writing table set before tall windows framed by purple velvet drapery. Matching leather sofas and a pair of armchairs faced a marble fireplace. In the billiard room I discovered yet another marble fireplace. They sure had a lot of fireplaces considering that it’s seldom cold enough in Los Angeles to curl up in front of one. Hanging over this fireplace was a framed photograph of Patrick Van Pelt yukking it up with Burt Reynolds on the set of a 1970s action comedy that they’d made together. The billiard room, I gathered, was his room. There was an antique pool table with leather pockets. A ten-foot-long carved mahogany bar with an ornate mirror behind it and glass shelving that was stocked with leaded glass decanters filled with a generous assortment of what I imagined to be good liquor. Unless it was just colored water. You never know about these things when you’re in L.A. It felt a whole lot like the bar of a proper gentlemen’s club in there. Except, that is, for a low-slung sofa from the 1950s over against one wall that had arms and legs of tubular chrome and leopard-skin upholstery. It didn’t go with the rest of the décor at all. Looked like something you once might have romped around on with Eartha Kitt.

  Maritza noticed me studying it. “Is Senor Patrick’s. The senora does not like it, but he insists.”

  I nodded, wondering why it hadn’t departed the premises with Patrick. Or ended up in pieces out in the street. Possibly he had every intention of moving back in. Possibly Monette had every intention of letting him. There’s just no telling with married couples. I happen to know more than I want to about these things.

  The dining room was suitably huge and form
al with stenciled walls, more lace curtains and more decorative molding. The dining table, which could seat two dozen healthy eaters, was covered with a spotless white linen tablecloth. For a centerpiece there was a pitcher of heavy cut glass filled with fresh-cut pale pink camellias. The kitchen was open, airy and decidedly more country casual than the rest of the place, or at least Monette Aintree’s idea of country casual, which is to say that the floor was slabs of slate and the exposed beams in the cathedral ceiling were rough and hand-hewn. Old chestnut by the look of them. Assorted baskets and bunches of dried herbs were hanging from the beams in a manner that was way too artsy and self-conscious to come across as casual. The rustic table that anchored the kitchen was of scrubbed pine. The kitchen cupboards were of scrubbed pine as well. The counters were butcher block. The stove was a mammoth AGA. The stainless-steel refrigerator and freezer looked adequate enough to supply the needs of a modest-sized hotel.

  French doors led from the kitchen to an outdoor dining area that was set under a grape arbor. We were making our way out there when a buzzer went off somewhere.

  “Please, one moment. It is the dryer.” Maritza darted through a doorway off the kitchen into the laundry room. A door next to the laundry room led to a bedroom. Hers, I imagined.

  She returned quickly and outside we went. Beyond the patio dining area there were some lemon trees, very pretty, and the babbling brook that I’d crossed on the old stone bridge went babbling on by.

  “Is that brook real or fake?”

  “It has a generator and pump to move the water around. But it is real.”

  “Spoken like a true Los Angeleno, Maritza. You talk the talk.”

  She flashed a cautious smile at me. “Thank you. I pick up much from watching Regis and Kathie Lee.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “Also Kermit the Frog and the Cookie Monster.”

  “Okay, that was a much better answer.”

  A bluestone path lined with rose bushes led to the swimming pool, which was quite large and inviting. Teak lounge chairs with spotless white canvas cushions were lined alongside the pool in a manner that you would associate with a four-star resort hotel. On the other side of the pool was the pool house, which was built of old brick just like the main house.

  As we approached it, I heard the rusty creak of a gate being opened. It was the narrow service gate that I’d noticed when I arrived, located adjacent to a fenced enclosure where the trash barrels were kept. A squatly built Latino, maybe thirty, came in toting a bag of peat moss over one shoulder. He wore a sweat-stained short-sleeved khaki shirt, jeans and work boots. In a leather holster on his belt he carried a pair of pruners.

  “Hola, bonita!” he called out to Maritza, grinning broadly. “Hola, Senor! I am Hector. I make everything look nice here. And you are . . . ?”

  “He is called Hoagy,” Maritza informed him coldly. “Here to help the senora.”

  “Glad to know you, Hector.” I shook his hand. He had a grip of iron. On his left wrist he wore a Rolex Submariner with a steel-linked band. Nice timepiece for a gardener. “The short one’s Lulu.”

  “She won’t leave messes in my flowerbeds, will she?”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  He turned back to Maritza and said, “Tell me, how is it possible that you look even more beautiful today than yesterday?”

  “The senora told you not to speak to me, remember?”

  “But the heart wants what it wants,” he protested, winking at me.

  She turned her back on him and marched toward the pool house.

  Hector let out a huge laugh, heading off with the bag of peat moss.

  “Is Hector your man friend?” I asked when I caught up with her.

  “No, he is not. He is a married man. And I do not trust him. You see that fancy watch he has on? He told me Senor Patrick gave it to him as a present.”

  “Why would Patrick give Hector a Rolex?”

  “So Hector will keep his eye on the senora for him is why.”

  Maritza used a key to unlock the pool house. She opened the shutters to reveal a décor that was Early Nothing, which made for a welcome change after all of the high-octane fauxness of the main house. There was a seating area with a loveseat and an armchair covered in blue canvas. A kitchenette with a bar sink, mini fridge, microwave and coffeemaker. A tiny kitchen table. A manila envelope lay on the table.

  She handed me the key. “For you.”

  “Do I need to keep my door locked?”

  “The senora likes for her guests to know they have privacy.” Maritza also handed me a business card that had numbers scrawled on it. “The security code,” she explained. “So you may come in the gate without buzzing.”

  She’d already stowed Lulu’s provisions in a kitchen cupboard. I opened the fresh jar of anchovies and gave Lulu one so she’d feel at home, then put the jar in the mini fridge, which was stocked with milk, orange juice, Perrier, Dos Equis and a bag of freshly ground French roast coffee beans.

  I filled Lulu’s water bowl and set it on the floor, then followed Maritza through a doorway into a small bedroom that was thoroughly crammed with a queen-sized brass bed, two nightstands, dresser and desk. She’d unpacked my suitcases and garment bags for me. My suits, jackets and slacks were hanging in the closet along with my silk target-dot dressing gown. My dove gray trilby and handmade straw Panama fedora awaited me on the top shelf, my shoes in a neat row on the floor down below. My shirts, ties, socks and underwear were neatly folded in the dresser drawers. The items from my toilet kit were laid out in the adjoining bathroom. Grandfather’s straight-edge razor and strop, my Floris No. 89 talc, toothbrush and so on. The bathroom was considerably nicer than the one in my apartment, but you come to expect that in Los Angeles. If having a nice bathroom is important to you, then L.A. is the place for you, not New York.

  “Thank you for doing all of this, Maritza. It really wasn’t necessary.”

  “You have such nice things,” she said as she kept moving around the bedroom, careful to make sure that I was never between her and the door. I wondered if someone had given her a reason to be so careful. I wondered who that someone might be. “And the senora wishes you should feel at home.”

  “In that case you’ll have to do something about that,” I said, meaning the cat-puke-colored plastic Macintosh word processor that was parked on the desk.

  “You will need it for your work, no?”

  “No, I will not. And I won’t be able to sleep a wink with it staring at me. Please remove the printer and fax machine as well. All I need is my Olympia,” I said, rescuing it from the closet floor where she’d stowed it. “Is that princess phone on the nightstand a private line or an extension?”

  “It is private. Yours alone. Senorita Danielle and Senor Joey have their own lines also. Danielle is on the phone constantly. She has many friends.”

  “How about Joey?”

  “He does not believe in friends. Spends all of the time alone. He wishes to be a writer someday.”

  “Poor kid. We’ll see what we can do about that.”

  “I shall let you get settled.” Maritza returned to the living room. “This came for you by messenger an hour ago.” She handed me the manila envelope from the kitchen table, then bent down and patted Lulu on the head again before she left us.

  It was addressed to me care of Monette Aintree at this address on Rockingham Avenue. The return address was the Malibu High production office on the Radford lot in Studio City. Inside the manila envelope was a letter-sized envelope with my name written across it with a black marking pen. I opened it and removed a business letter that had been typed on Malibu High stationery with an IBM Selectric:

  Dear Hoagy—

  Real anxious to talk at you as soon as possible, dude. If you have time please meet me this afternoon at our location shoot. We’re at the Devonshire Grand Prix in Pacoima. Get off the San Diego Freeway at Devonshire and hang a right. It’s about a mile from there. Just ask a produc
tion assistant to point you to my trailer. Does 3:00 work for you? I should be available around then. Be a dude and please don’t say anything to Queenie about this, okay?

  See you soon,

  Patrick Van Pelt

  He’d signed it with that same black marking pen.

  I glanced at my grandfather’s gold Benrus. It was 1:45.

  I took off my flight jacket and opened some windows. Sat down on the brass bed and used my calling card to check my messages at home in New York. I was well within my contractual rights to stick Monette with the cost of any and all long-distance calls that I made, but if I did that then she’d have a record of them. I didn’t want her or anyone else to know with whom I was in contact. Just one of those little things I’ve picked up along the way as a ghost.

  I had messages galore thanks to the Times story that morning. Calls from not only three different Times reporters but reporters from Time, Newsweek, USA TODAY and the Washington Post as well as segment producers from all three of the network evening news shows. Everyone wanted me to call them back, which I had no intention of doing. Boyd Samuels had left a message, too: “Just wanted to make sure you got out there okay, amigo. Call me if you need anything, understand? You are my top priority right now!”

  Comforted. I felt incredibly comforted.

  There was no message from Merilee in Budapest yet.

  I changed from my khakis into a well-worn pair of jeans. Put my jacket back on, tucking Patrick’s letter into my pocket. Then I let Lulu out and took off, locking the pool house door behind me.

  Back in the postwar boom years, the San Fernando Valley had been the pot of gold at the end of America’s rainbow, a sun-kissed dreamland of orange groves and crystal-clear blue skies. As I crested at Mulholland on the San Diego Freeway, what was laid out before me on this December afternoon was a wasteland of tract houses and shopping centers as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t very far due to the thick, peach-colored smog that hung low and heavy over the valley floor. I could taste it on my lips as I made my way out into the sun-baked flats of Van Nuys and Panorama City, the Indian Chief cruising steady and smooth at sixty-five. Lulu sat happily in her sidecar, enjoying the wind and the admiring looks of the drivers who sped by us. Many of them waved at us, as if we were day sailors at sea. I waved back. Kids made funny faces. I made funny faces back.