“I found out what I could about him,” said Skink after a few minutes checking out his databases. “Born in Ohio, graduate of Northwestern, started off as a reader for Paramount before latching onto his current position.”
“How old is he?”
“Mid-twenties.”
Ouch. Not the right guy, not the right guy at all. So much for my phony-name theory. “What’s his job?”
“Vice president.”
“Vice president of what?”
“Acquisitions, apparently.”
“Oh, I bet. Just the job for a kid in his twenties. The new Irving Thalberg. He’s an errand boy. That’s why he was dealing with Darryl the Realtor. Who does he work for?”
“The big boss at Zarathustra is a guy named Purcell,” said Skink. “Theodore Purcell.”
“Theodore, huh?”
“It’s his place. Apparently he’s been in the business for decades.”
“How’s the company doing?”
“Used to be big. Remember Tony in Love, huge hit back in the early eighties?”
“That sentimental piece of garbage about two doomed lovers where everyone ends up in tears?”
“It made me cry, too, mate. I’m not ashamed to admit it. That was Theodore Purcell. And Piscataway with Gene Hackman, the one with the car chase. And then The Dancing Shoes.”
“The Dancing Shoes?”
“Apparently things have gone a bit downhill since.”
“Not a surprise with those turkeys. What’s his background?”
“Can’t tell. All I get are filmographies, and they all start with him buying the book and then producing Tony in Love.”
“How’d he get the dough to buy the book?”
“Don’t know.”
“I bet I do. And he was even too cocky to change his first name. Do you have an address?”
“I’ve been looking. Nothing. He doesn’t want to be found.”
“How about on Stanford Quick’s phone? Any numbers match up with Purcell?”
“Nothing directly. But there does happen to be a number what came in to his phone a few times and what is seriously unlisted. Can’t get a thing on it. And when I calls it, the voice what answers won’t give me any info. Just wants to know who the hell I am and tells me not to call again. Quite rude, actually. Chinese guy, by the sound of it.”
“Give it another call. Tell the guy who answers that you have a package for Mr. Purcell. A gift basket from Universal, but you’re having a hard time finding the house. Try to get specific instructions on how to get there. Maybe he’ll give up the street and the number.”
“You think he’ll fall for it?”
“One thing I know about Hollywood, they love their gift baskets.”
THE HOUSE was high in the Santa Monica Mountains, overlooking the ritzy compound of Malibu. The ride was winding and steep, switching back here and there as we rose ever higher alongside the ravine, brown desert spotted with green. I stopped by the squawk box in front of the rusted gate. Beneath the intercom was a mailbox without a name or a number, and atop the gate, off to the right, sat a camera, pointed directly at our car. I leaned over to press the squawk-box button.
Nothing.
I pressed it again and then again.
Still nothing.
“Are you sure this is it?” said Monica. “Maybe we passed it already.”
“This is it,” I said, and pressed it again.
“What you pressing so much for?” came a voice from the box, the voice tinny and from the East, not the Northeast but the Far East. Not quite Chinese, but something. “We not deaf. We hear you. Now, what you want?”
“We’re here for Mr. Purcell,” I said.
“You have appointment?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what you pressing button for? Go away. Mr. Purcell not here for you.”
“I think he’s expecting me.”
“No he’s not. Mr. Purcell resting. Mr. Purcell ill. Mr. Purcell in New York. Mr. Purcell not here for you. What you got, script? We don’t take script unless we ask for script, and we never ask for script. Put in box, and we won’t get back to you. Go away now. Mr. Purcell has headache and cannot be disturbed.”
“You must have a law degree.”
“Why you want to insult me, when I just do my job?”
“Tell Mr. Purcell that Victor Carl is here to see him.”
“Victor Carl?”
“That’s right.”
“You Victor Carl?”
“That I am.”
“Ah, Mr. Carl. About time.”
“Excuse me?”
“We been expecting you for days. Hurry, hurry. Mr. Purcell waiting for you.”
“I bet he is,” I said as the gate swung slowly open.
When it had opened wide enough to pass through, I drove slowly forward. The drive headed up and then around, through a rising, overgrown landscape of thick flowers and shade tress and weed-strewn patches of sun-dappled lawn.
“I guess he’s going the charm route,” I said as we made our way up the drive.
“I think I’ll be immune to Mr. Purcell’s charms,” said Monica.
“Don’t be so sure. He’ll lay it on thick. But however charming he might be, don’t ever forget.”
“Forget what?”
“That he’s a liar. If the secret to success in Hollywood is to never say an honest word, then he’s found his perfect place. He’ll be convincing, his sincerity will flow free and threaten to drown us in its earnestness, he’ll peer into our eyes with the most unaffected gaze, and every instinct will tell us to trust him. We’ll end up liking him and we’ll want to believe every word he says. That’s how good a liar he’ll be. But don’t ever forget that he’s a liar, pure and simple, born to it, like the snake is born to crawl and the tiger is born to kill.”
“So why are we here in the first place, Victor, if all we’ll get is lies?”
“Because a great liar doesn’t make up his lies out of thin air. In every effective lie will be a kernel of truth, and that’s what we’re looking for. The kernel of truth about what that bastard did to your sister.”
52
The man from the squawk box was waiting for us at the front entrance of the house. He was short and thin, with a shock of very black, very false hair perched uneasily atop his wrinkled skull. He wore sandals and a scowl, white pants, a loose flowered shirt. He had to be at least ninety, maybe more. The oldest Filipino houseboy in the world.
“You Victor Carl?” said the man, clearly not impressed with what he was seeing.
“That’s me.”
“And your lady friend?”
“A friend.”
“I think Mr. Purcell happier to see lady friend than you. I know I am. Leave car in front and come with me.”
The entranceway of the house looked like something from an upscale boutique, or a very upscale bordello, a circular portico floored with marble covered by a maroon awning. It would have been impressive if not for the thick clumps of weeds growing between the marble slabs.
We were led through the double wooden doors, into an empty central hallway, and then to a wide parlor that was bare of all carpeting, with only a single white couch sitting before a fireplace. A wooden crate served as a coffee table. The walls were dark, with patches of unfaded paint where paintings had once hung. Lined along the edge of the floor were photographs in silver frames, photographs of lovely tan men with gleaming teeth and women with deep cleavage.
“Where is everything?” I said.
“Out for cleaning,” said the man.
From another room we heard an affected voice call out, “Lou, is that Anglethorp?”
“Not Anglethorp,” said Lou with a barking laugh. “Victor Carl.”
“What the hell?”
We heard a chair scrape and something fall to the floor before a man appeared, a young man in cream-colored slacks. He was thin and blond, very tan, and his face was weirdly devoid of personality.
�
�You’re Victor Carl?” said the man in the blazer, drawing out my name as if I were a great disappointment.
“That’s right.”
“I thought you’d be different. Bigger, maybe. And with a hat. How’d you get here?”
“We flew in from the coast, and, boy, are our arms—”
“I told you he come, Mr. Winters,” said Lou. “You owe Lou another hundred. Pretty soon I own your car.”
“Try collecting, you little lemur.” Reggie Winters turned to Monica with a dispassionate gaze. “And you are?”
“My associate,” I said.
“The Derringer of Derringer and Carl?”
“Close enough.”
“The whole firm has come to us for a visit. How pleasant. But you’ve come at a bad time. Where are you both staying?”
“We got a couple rooms by the airport. Why?”
“Mr. Purcell is in the middle of something right now and can’t be disturbed,” said Reggie. “I’m sure you understand. Why don’t you give us the number of your hotel, and he’ll get in touch with you when he can.”
“Are you serious?” I said. “Lou, is he serious?”
“Oh, Mr. Winters, he very serious young man. Always. No kid in him.”
Reggie Winters sniffed. “You just can’t barge in here like a herd of—”
“But I already have, haven’t I, Reg? Where’s the boss man, Lou? He out back?”
“By the pool,” said Lou. “I show you.”
Reggie Winters glared for a moment and then stalked past us, to a stairwell at the end of the room. Lou shook his head and led us in the same direction.
Down the dark set of steps, across a large room emptied of furniture except for a dying tree in a pot, dried leaves scattered across the wooden floor. Past a billiards room with mahogany walls, Lou turned right and led us outside, through a passageway covered by a wooden pergola overgrown with roses and lilacs. Just beyond was a large swimming pool, its water murky and green. Weeds grew through cracks in the stone surrounding the pool, a few deck chairs, straps hanging loose, sat forlornly by the edge of the water, a hot tub was set off to the side, its water becalmed. And in the distance, far below, the desolate expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
“Ahh, you don’t have a week to read it,” came a growly mumble from off to the left. “I need to know tomorrow.”
A small man in a terry cloth robe was sitting with a woman at a wrought-iron table beneath a green umbrella. The man sat with his back to us, talking into a headset. A wreath of smoke rose around him. The woman, who was quite pretty, was taking notes and holding a phone. The presence of Reggie Winters standing at the edge of the table identified the man exactly.
“Ahh, trust me. Best script I read in years,” the man said. “Brilliant. And I gave it to you first, kid. Remember that at Oscar time.”
He prefaced almost every sentence with a guttural stutter, as if his voice were gearing up to release a flock of words into the sky, and when they finally did come out, they came out fast and skittish.
“Ahh, but I need to know ASAP. Come on over tomorrow night, we’re screening my latest. Big party. Tell me what you think then…. That’s right…. Okay. Ahh, do me a favor and fuck that new wife of yours for me.” Laughter. “You know I am. Ahh, we’re going to make a flick, baby…. Right. Tomorrow.”
The man waved his hand, the woman pressed a button. The man stuck a thick cigar in his mouth and said to the woman, “He’s going to screw me, I know it. Ahh, get in touch with George and tell him I have a script for him.”
“We have a problem,” said Reggie.
The man took off his headset and turned to Reggie. “Ahh, can’t you deal with it, kid? I don’t have time right now. What kind of problem?”
“I think he means me,” I said.
The man in terry cloth swiveled in his chair and fixed me with a startled expression. He wore big round glasses that magnified his blue eyes, his hair was black and slicked back, a gold medallion hung on his bare chest. The skin of his face was dark with sun and as shiny and taut as plastic wrap stretched across a bowl of fruit.
“Who the hell are you?” he said.
“Victor Carl,” I said.
He took the cigar out of his teeth and looked me over. “Lena,” he said, “go on up and get ready for Anglethorp.”
The woman at the table stood, smiled at us before heading into the house.
When she was gone, Purcell said to me, “Ahh, what the hell took you so long?”
“You weren’t so easy to find.”
“Easy enough, apparently, for a Philly kid. Didn’t I tell you, Reggie? There’s nothing a Philly kid can’t do so long as you get him out of Philly.”
“You told him, Mr. Purcell,” said Lou. “And now he owe me hundred dollar.”
“Pay up, kid. That’s the way we do it around here. We always pay our debts.”
“I’ll pay, all right,” said Reggie.
“Next it be your car,” said Lou.
Purcell’s eyes latched onto Monica and gave her the up and down and up again. “Who’s the dish?”
“Her name’s Monica,” I said. “Monica Adair.”
“Adair, huh?” I thought the name would land like a punch in the solar plexus, but it fazed him not at all. “Cousin?” he said.
“Sister,” she said.
“I didn’t know she had a sister.”
“I was born after Chantal disappeared.”
“Interesting. But it looks like you made out okay. Ahh, more than okay. What do you do, Monica Adair?”
“I work in a law office.”
“What a waste. You ever make a movie?”
“No.”
“You ought to test. You got a look. Healthy. Like Connelly before she went anorexic. The teeth, we can fix. Did you two bring your swim trunks?”
“We’re not here for recreation,” I said.
“This is L.A., kid. Everything here is recreation. But I got no time now. Anglethorp’s on his way. We’ll talk later. Just the three of us.”
“We need to talk now,” I said.
“I’d like to, really would, got lots to say, but I can’t. Just can’t. Ahh, Lou, set these two up with towels and suits. Make sure hers is nice and tight. And give them something to drink. You drink, Victor?”
“Not well,” I said.
“Then learn. You going to make it in this town, kid, you got to be able to drink the money boys under the table and then steal them blind. Fix them something hard, Lou. We’ll chatter later, I promise. But right now I’m in the middle of something big. When was Anglethorp due?”
“An hour ago,” said Reggie.
“Bastard. Hey, Victor, while you’re waiting, take a gander at this.” He picked up a set of bound pages and tossed them at me. “Just came in. Brilliant. Genius. Let’s see if you got an eye.”
He stood up from his chair and walked swiftly past us, toward the pergola and the house. He was shorter than I thought, almost a foot shorter than me. Reggie walked behind him and to the side, like a subservient wife.
“Did you call twice?” said Purcell.
“Twice,” said Reggie.
“What did he say?”
“No answer.”
“Ahh, the son of a bitch would be late to his own orgasm.”
“What happened to my sister?” said Monica loudly.
Purcell stopped, turned around, stared at her for a moment with those big eyes. “I didn’t have to let you in, kid,” he said finally. “I’ll get to it in time, you have my word, but in this business, business comes first.”
“We’re not going away,” I said.
“I’d be disappointed if you did. That tattoo Lavender told me about, was that painted on or is it the real thing?”
“The real thing.”
“Is there a story behind it?”
“I’m still trying to find out.”
“I bet you are. You’re a bulldog, kid. I admire the type. Philly boys are tough enough to make noise in this town.”
He waved to the pool and the ocean beyond. “But just because you got your teeth in a bone doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the scenery.”
He put the cigar in his mouth, sucked it for a moment, then turned around again and kept on walking until the two men disappeared under the pergola. Quick as that, in a puff of smoke, the astonishing Theodore Purcell was gone.
“I take care both of you,” said Lou, “find bathing things that fit.” He gestured us toward a small, low cabana by the side of the pool. “This way. In here you change.”
53
You might think that I told Lou where to stick his bathing suits, that I charged after the inscrutable Theodore Purcell demanding answers, that I determined then and there to get to the bottom of the whole rotten mess, but you’d be wrong. I could give you all the strategic reasons for biding my time, but strategy would only be part of the reason. The other part was that it was hot and my suit jacket was sweaty and the idea of a swim, even in the murky waters of Teddy Purcell’s pool, didn’t seem such a terrible idea. It was L.A., baby, and if this wasn’t the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, it was as close as I was ever going to get.
With a borrowed swimsuit, a terry cloth robe tied tight like a trench coat, sunglasses on and the script in my hand, I stepped out of the cabana to the edge of the pool. The sun was hanging hot and fat over the Pacific. In the torpor of the afternoon, with the weeds and the heat and the color of the water, the deserted deck felt like the pool of a second-rate hotel in a Third World country. I looked down. My feet glowed in the sunshine like startled albino mice.
“Why is the water green?” said Monica, sidling up next to me.
“Maybe the pool boy has been taken out for cleaning, along with everything else in the house,” I said.
“Didn’t this Purcell in effect just admit that he did something to my sister?”
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