“Yeah … and it … nothing.”
“What?”
Ben sighed, and started to walk again, the young cop tagging along. “Ah, it kinda … took me back. It sounds stupid, but … shit, I could hear the damn Medevacs.”
“Helicopters, you mean.”
“Yeah. Now you think I’m nuts.”
“No. Not at all. You served your country. You got a raw deal.”
“All I did was my duty. I killed, you know? But it wasn’t my idea. I did what they told me. Was I wrong? I got blood splashed on me, twice.”
“Over there?”
“No, here. Some protesters splashed blood on me once and called me a baby killer.”
“Dirty damn hippies.”
That sounded funny to Ben, coming from somebody so young.
The cop asked, “What was the other time?”
Ben swallowed. “When I held that poor girl in my arms, after the car run her down.”
They stopped again, simultaneously this time. The lapping waves and the muffled sound of the Beach Boys formed an eerie duet.
The young cop put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Did you get a good look at the back of that car?”
“Yes, but … I don’t remember….”
“We have techniques. Hypnotism can bring back details like that. Would you be willing to sit still for that?”
Ben thought about that. They were nearing the bright lights of the pier. “Sure. Why not? Anything to bring the killer of that nice girl to justice.”
“You’re okay in my book, Ben … listen … can I advance you a few bucks?”
“Of course, you can, but … look, let’s do it out of sight, okay? I don’t want anybody thinkin’ I’m takin’ a payoff from a cop.”
Or from some homo, Ben thought, but didn’t say it.
“Sure. No problem.”
They walked under the pier. Sometimes there were people under there, but tonight the tide was too high, up to their ankles, and he and the young cop had the place to themselves. Above them the music and noise of the pier, the amusement park in particular, blared. Oldies music from his high school days—they played that a lot on the pier.
“Freddy Cannon,” Ben said.
“What?” the young cop said. He was getting his billfold out, fishing out a twenty.
“That song—it’s ‘Palisades Park.’ ’62! I was in junior high. Freddy ‘Boom Boom’ Cannon.”
“Sorry. Never heard of him.”
“Hell, son—he never heard of you, either!”
Ben took the twenty from the young cop, and was stuffing it in his pocket when the kid sidled next to him, slipped an arm around his shoulder.
“I appreciate your help, soldier,” the cop said.
“Hell, you’re okay yourself, Ed.”
Then the cop’s arm slipped around Ben’s neck and caught him in a grip so tight, the world turned instantly red. Knees buckling under him, Ben was held up only by the young cop’s powerful grip, although Ben suddenly wasn’t sure this was a cop at all….
The kid was saying, “I’m just doin’ my duty, Pops. Not my idea …”
Was that regret in the young voice?
Ben began to fail but his breath was choked off, there was no screaming, and he felt himself being thrust forward, splashing into the water, and the viselike arm around his neck was joined by a hand on the back of his skull as he was held under, face-first, water rushing into his mouth and nose, and he shut his eyes, choking, coughing, gagging, processes that only encouraged the salt water’s terrible acrid invasive presence, inundating his lungs….
He thrashed as he died, as had so many fish on the pier above him, and the sound of his own gurgling death brought the Medevac blades churning into his consciousness one last time.
PART III
After
“California Dreamin”
(The Mamas & the Papas, #1 Billboard, 1966)
The woman who exited the Kafer Building on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills—with her trim, yet amply top-heavy figure, Baywatch blond hair, pert nose, full lips and dewy skin—might have been thirty, even a gloriously well-preserved thirty-five years of age; but certainly not fifty-six.
Even in this town abundant with beauties—where waitresses who looked like the Penthouse Pet of the Year moonlighted as porn kittens, and the streets seemed littered with Midwestern D-cup beauty queens with C- high school averages, B-movie futures and A-list aspirations—this was a singularly striking woman.
Though she was fairly conservatively dressed in a blue linen suit, Joy Lerner’s subtly hip-swinging gait caused men with younger women (younger than thirty-five, that is) to crane their necks as she strolled down the sidewalk and into the parking garage, where her company-owned Jaguar awaited. There she got into the sleek, silver car, to head home after another productive day in a fulfilling, fascinating job.
Life was good.
She’d been at the Kafer agency just over six months, and had loved every minute of it; just today she had had lunch with a Warner Brothers vice president of development, and tomorrow a honcho from Fox TV was on her menu.
And her performance excelled; her new and improved body made her feel more aggressive and powerful, yet at the same time more feminine. Best of all, her peers at the office seemed to marvel at such insight and maturity coming from one so relatively young. Not to mention that among the firm’s older clients, she was the one they repeatedly asked for, because she connected so well with them.
And from the very first day, she’d been the boss’s favorite.
C.W. Kafer himself, the “old man,” that tall, slender graying fox with the James Coburn smile and the keenest advertising mind in America….
She had not met him until—at the senior vice president’s behest—she made her first formal presentation in the boardroom. All the senior account officers were present, lining either side of the endless conference table, coldly smiling Yuppies and Yuppettes in suits any one of which had cost more than her monthly rent in Studio City.
None older than forty—except for the Gray Fox himself, who was a grandly well-preserved sixty-two.
At one end of the table, next to the VCR and TV on their stand (where she would display the tape she’d assembled), she had stood, making her pitch. Way down at the other end, smiling throughout, arms folded, had been Kafer.
Wearing an outlandishly expensive black Donna Karan jacket, white silk blouse and slim, short skirt—all of which she planned on returning to Saks the next day—Joy gazed down at the shiny table, where her presentation, neatly typed and organized, awaited; and in the table’s mirror-finish, the face of a beautiful, young woman looked back, giving her such confidence that she didn’t refer to the papers once.
Better, anyway, to look from the corner of her eye at the TV screen, so she could properly time her delivery … one misstep, one point made with the wrong image juxtaposed on the screen, and the effectiveness of her presentation—and the impression she wished to make—would fizzle like a cigarette dropped in a toilet bowl.
“Ladies … gentlemen,” she said, in a clear, strong voice, looking down the line of unfriendly smiling faces. “As competition in the drug industry continues to intensify, and pressure mounts for those companies to build profits, a unique opportunity has come our way.”
Everyone in the boardroom was aware of the recent decision by the Food and Drug Administration to loosen its restraints on television and radio commercials for prescription drugs.
“In the past, drugmakers never considered using celebrities to market to consumers, because the industry’s sole focus was promoting their products to doctors who prescribe the medications. But we’re soon going to see that change…. And the ad agency who can snag these pharmaceutical companies first will be the one to ride this new wave!”
She pushed PLAY on the VCR. Images tailored to her words popped onto the screen, as perfectly, as gracefully, as a well-rehearsed ballet.
“The use of celebrity product endorsem
ent, of course, is as old as advertising—on the radio, Fibber McGee and Molly extolled the wonder of Reynolds Wax, and Jack Webb hailed the health benefits of smoking Chesterfield cigarettes….” She smiled, nodding at various faces around her, and added, “Tough, of course, none of you are old enough to remember the Golden Age of Radio….”
Kafer, in his gently rumbling bass, interrupted. “Some of us are, Joy—that is, one of us is.”
Everyone laughed, nervously—except Joy, who just returned the boss’s knowing smile.
“Then television came along, and Uncle Miltie hawked Texaco Gasoline,” she continued, “and the Old Redhead made drinking Lipton Tea de rigueur.”
Grainy images of Milton Berle and Arthur Godfrey popped perfectly into place behind her words.
“But the general public understood that these celebrities had to push these products because they were their sponsors. Alfred Hitchcock even made a joke out of it, kidding his sponsors, mercilessly—very hip for its day.”
On the TV, Hitchcock’s shadow filled his caricatured outline.
“Then came celebrities who were simply paid for their services…. But by this time the consumer had become wise, weary, jaded, and the only products that really did well were those the public believed were really used by the celebrity … like Jane Russell wearing the twenty-four-hour Playtex bra, and Bill Cosby liking Jell-O because he actually ate the damn stuff on the air.”
Kafer’s smile remained in place, but he was squinting— thoughtfully, nodding, almost imperceptibly.
She continued. “The answer to a successful drug ad campaign lies in celebrity testimonials: firsthand accounts by actors, politicians and sports figures who actually have the disease or affliction that the drug they’re being paid to advertise is supposed to cure or contain. Bob Dole and Viagra have opened an important door—now we need a Dawson’s Creek actress who has migraine headaches, and makes it to the set thanks to her medication, and a star athlete who needs his sinus medication to make it through the big game.”
One after another, the faces of current celebrities popped on and she identified them with their ailment: “Diabetes … asthma … hay fever….”
“Herpes,” someone interjected.
A smirking young account exec.
“Why not?” Kafer said, and bellowed a laugh. “I’d venture to say this boardroom has seen its share of sexually transmitted diseases!”
The rest of them picked up on Kafer’s laughter, once they sensed it was genuine—like the minions around Al Capone’s table roaring with insincere laughter, to avoid a blackjack or a bullet.
And then Kafer began to applaud.
As, of course, did the rest of the execs around the table.
Later, when she was called to Kafer’s office—a wood-and-steel inner sanctum smaller than a Hilton ballroom—she sat with her handsome boss on a leather couch. His arms were folded and yet his gray Brooks Brothers suit did not wrinkle; he was supernaturally natty (to use a term she dare not speak aloud, except with irony).
“You hit a home run, little lady,” he said. He was smoking a Cuban cigar and had not asked her permission to do so.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Chuck. Call me Chuck—when we’re alone.”
Would that be often? she wondered. He did remind her of Henry … that same elegant, worldly flair only an older man had.
“That’s not going to be easy … Chuck. I have too much respect for you—I’ve admired you, I’ve read about you—”
“Yes, I know—since you were a little girl. You know, if I were twenty years younger—or you were twenty years older … well, to say more would be legally imprudent in these days of sexual harassment.”
“You can say more … if you like.”
“I didn’t bring you here to seduce you, Joy—or to be seduced. My wife, Linda—my fourth, actually—is thirty years old and has even nicer tits than you do. I ought to know—I paid for them.”
She laughed. “Too bad.”
“Not really. Better to take the romance out of the workplace; sex, too. I’ve been looking for someone like you for years.”
“You have?”
“A young woman who understands today but still has a grasp of yesterday. The sense of history you displayed … well, I was goddamn well and truly impressed. You keep at it, Joy. Just watch out for these fucking sharks.”
“I will.”
He blew a big fat Cuban smoke ring. “You see, Joy, I’m on the lookout for the right somebody to replace me—oh, I’m a good five to eight years away from that … but I need the right man. Or woman. Today … well, today you made my short list.”
From time to time, Kafer would invite her into the office and talk shop—some mild flirtation accompanied it, but she knew he would be a mentor, not a lover. He made that clear. He loved his wife, or anyway was weary of divorces and the financial and emotional strain they carried with them.
And because she was the boss’s favorite, she got her ass (as Kafer would say) well and truly kissed by everybody else. She was so popular with the Gray Fox, no one dared backstab. She had never encountered such a smooth and easy work situation, even at the height of her success at Ballard.
It was only after her workday was over that she felt something missing, as she made the drive each day in bumper-to-bumper traffic over Laurel Canyon and down into Studio City, where she lived in that minuscule rented bungalow. How ridiculous it seemed to have an expensive Jaguar sitting in the driveway; she often hid it away, in the sagging garage, so it wouldn’t get stolen.
She had fixed up the ramshackle Hobbit house as best she could, with furnishings from Good Will, and told herself it was charming. Many who saw it were nice enough to say, “Oh, how wonderful! Retro!” Even so, she could barely afford the rent after she sent X-Gen their monthly check.
After a typically spartan dinner of fresh fruit and/or salad, she would relax for a while, sometimes vegging out in front of her 19-inch portable TV (rabbit ears—no cable), other times heading back into Hollywood to browse the used-bookstores or secondhand boutiques, looking for castoffs from the wealthy. Appearances must be maintained.
On the weekends, she would drive to Santa Monica and spend the day at the beach, using the highest sunblock known to man, or would engage in other activities that were free—a play or concert was out of the question, unless it was an outdoor concert or college theatrical production. She splurged on a movie now and then (a matinee) sans popcorn and beverage (unless she smuggled in her own).
Actually, Joy didn’t mind not having much money; it reminded her of when she was first on her own after college. She found herself surprisingly good at adjusting to this new life; with this new face and body, she was, after all, a new person—on the outside, anyway.
But when her old eyes, Joyce Lackey’s eyes, looked back at her in the mirror in her tiny bathroom, she was reminded of the one thing she could never adjust to: growing old.
Once a month she paid a visit to X-Gen’s health clinic near the Beverly Center, where a nurse drew her blood and gave her another month’s supply of “vitamins”—clear capsules, taken twice daily, to keep her skin moist and wrinkle-free. The nameless drug was obviously experimental—this was no prescription, rather a sturdy silver-capped plastic medicine bottle refilled at the clinic itself—but she didn’t let that worry her.
The pills worked. That was all she cared about. They were the Fountain of Youth. Life in a capsule.
Not that the wonder drug was without its drawbacks.
Dr. Green—a physician with a round face echoed by round-framed glasses, his skin as unwrinkled as a bisque baby’s—had warned her that if she stopped taking the drug, her skin would react with a vengeance, quickly drying up.
“That’s the only nasty little side effect of this medication,” Green said with a bland, inappropriate smile.
“You mean, I’d be left looking more wrinkled than I did before?” she asked. Movie images of vampires hit by sunlight strobed through
her mind’s eye.
“In a word … yes.”
She would have liked a more in-depth explanation, and had joked, “Then how did you get this stuff past the FDA?”
“We didn’t.”
She knew Dr. Green wasn’t exaggerating about the risks of ending the medication. Once, she had forgotten to take a capsule in the morning and went merrily of to work. By the time she got home in the evening she could see a marked difference in the texture of her skin. After that, she carried the pills in her purse.
While Dr. Green’s bedside manner may have been clipped, he did show an interest in, and even concern about, her welfare. When, on the regular visits, the nurse would finish Joy’s blood test, Dr. Green—looking too young to be out of medical school— would come in and ask Joy if she was having any personal problems. Because of his tender age, she felt skeptical about discussing anything of that nature with him; and, anyway, would she want that kind of thing recorded in her folder?
But the third time she saw him, and he asked that same question, she blurted, “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed to slits behind the glasses and he leaned toward her, stethoscope dangling from his neck, and said, “Tell me.”
“Well … I’m lonely.”
A smile appeared in the bland balloon of his face, not making a single dimple or crease. “Is that all?”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “So date, already. You’re an attractive woman. We’ve seen to that.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That, well, shit—you know … that they’ll find out how old I really am.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently; something like compassion appeared in the doctor’s eyes. “Just be careful. And don’t get too attached to any one man. Remember the terms of your contract.”
There it was again…. Terms of that damn contract; the only contract this businesswoman had ever signed before reading it in detail. Which made her furious with herself.
What exactly would they do, if she broke the contract? Sue her for everything she had? She didn’t have anything! Take away her job?
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