Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 02 - Alone

by Loren D. Estleman

  “He’s in the projection room, watching movies on university time.”

  “That’s part of his job.”

  “That’s not a job. Mopping floors is a job. Which reminds me: Leave your key. The cleaning crew’s coming in today.”

  He put it on her desk. “Make sure they sweep behind the credenza. The spiders have built an entire condominium back there.”

  “Nice to know someone’s working on this floor.”

  He didn’t feel he had the moral authority to press the issue. Lying to Harriet had left him with a knot in his stomach. Hoping to loosen it with food, he gave Ruth the envelope to give to Broadhead and went to lunch at his and Broadhead’s favorite restaurant, a blatant tourist trap plastered with stills and posters and everything on the menu named after a dead star or director; but the prices were moderate and the food was good, even if the Hitchcock Loaf had been discontinued for lack of interest because the chef insisted patrons remain in suspense about what it contained. But the knot was Gordian, and not being able to stop thinking about his appointment with Spink did nothing for his appetite. He pushed away his plate and made a decision.

  Back at the office, he found the cleaning crew had taken its standard lick and a swipe and moved on. He opened the top drawer of his desk, groped inside, pushed it shut, and opened all the others in turn. He looked in his wastebasket, but in that instance the crew had been thorough; it was empty. With a sinking feeling he got out the Yellow Pages and then the metropolitan directory and looked through the business section. The listing he needed wasn’t there.

  He went back out to the reception desk. “Ruth, I think I accidentally threw away something important. Are the cleaners still here?”

  “They just left.”

  He cursed beneath his breath.

  “I heard that.”

  “Do they start here and work their way down to the ground floor, or is this their last stop?”

  “How should I know? We don’t trade professional secrets.”

  He went to the elevator, got out at every floor, quizzed receptionists, knocked at doors where the desks were unoccupied, and finished at ground level, where too late he realized he should have come straight there. He stepped outside just as a maintenance van rolled away. Standing in the middle of the paved drive he waved his arms, but the driver either didn’t look in his mirror or ignored him.

  When he turned back toward the building, he saw a white-haired man in coveralls raking leaves on the little patch of grass. The half-grown maple tree planted there seemed hardly worth the effort. Valentino asked him if he knew where the trash was taken. The man stopped what he was doing, considered, then inclined the handle of his rake toward a Dumpster standing next to the building.

  By the time he found what he was looking for, Valentino had a pretty clear idea of the dining habits of his fellow employees; it remained only to connect the faces he saw every day with the Chinese take-out cartons, chip bags, granola wrappers, salad containers, and barbecued spareribs gnawed to the bone. Other tastes were more difficult to pin down. High Times, Forbes, Cosmopolitan, and Superstars of Wrestling were all bunched together as if they’d come from the same floor, and apparently two people had decided simultaneously to rid themselves of a VOTE REPUBLICAN button and a Dixie Chicks CD. He thought he really ought to socialize more often with his neighbors.

  At length he scraped a glop of macaroni and cheese off a glossy advertising brochure and was relieved to unfold it and find a business card tucked inside.

  When he stepped off the elevator on his floor, Ruth did a double take. “You look like you’ve been out on the town with Mickey Rourke.”

  He told her he had an important call to make and not to interrupt him.

  “Okay, boss.”

  Locking his door behind him, he decided she wasn’t being ironic. Wading up to his armpits in garbage seemed to have given his tone an edge of authority.

  “Red Ollinger, Midnite Magic Theater Systems.”

  Valentino introduced himself and told him what he wanted.

  There was a brief pause on the other end. “Normally, we arrange demonstrations at our own facility. Grauman’s was a big order, so we made an exception there, but—”

  “How big a deposit would you need?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  “Never mind, I’ll pay it. I need it set up this weekend.”

  “That soon? I’m not sure we can—”

  “Mr. Ollinger?”

  “Red.”

  “Red, you work on commission, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. Here’s my shopping list.” Valentino opened the brochure.

  18

  WHEN THE WORKERS were absent, the full weight of The Oracle’s desolation came down like a leaden curtain. Only the echoes of Valentino’s footfalls greeted him from distant corners; the abandoned ladders, drop cloths, and buckets of paint drew a stark picture of progress halted, for days, months, possibly years.

  Not so long ago, throngs of women struggling in ordinary circumstances had swooned before the desert dash and smoldering sexuality of Rudolph Valentino, and men and women had recoiled from the naked face of Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera and believed Al Jolson when he told them aloud that they hadn’t seen nothing yet. Hundreds of blonde chorines had formed Busby Berkeley’s intricate test patterns while time-stepping to the tunes of Harry Warren and Al Dubin, Errol Flynn and Johnny Weissmuller had swung from vines, Cary Grant had swept Irene Dunne off her feet, James Cagney had dragged Joan Blondell across the floor. Humphrey Bogart had gone straight, Rock Hudson had pretended to, Marilyn Monroe had set the screen aflame in Technicolor, and scores of cowboys, Indians, and U.S. cavalrymen had galloped and shot and tumbled from their saddles through the talents of about three stuntmen. Charlie Chaplin, Jerry Lewis, and Dustin Hoffman had rocked the auditorium with laughter; Garbo and Barbara Stanwyck and Debra Winger had drenched it in tears. For the price of a ticket, America had come there asking Hollywood to cast a spell upon it every night and on Saturday afternoon, chapter by chapter, with cliffhangers to keep it coming back. And Hollywood and The Oracle had complied.

  Stripped of its program, with streaks of acid rain weeping from the ducts of cast gargoyles, Greek masks, and cherubim, the building was only a barn where the remains of forgotten civilizations were stored. A sparrow fluttered from the Chinese Imperial Gardens in faded oils to the mouth of a gilded lion where it was building a nest, throwing its shadow on the new screen Valentino had just had installed. The pure white of the synthetic material brought out the dust and tarnish and tatters by contrast.

  “Bit early for finishing touches, isn’t it? I ought to cite you for that. No work is to be done until the most recent violation has been corrected and approved.”

  Dwight Spink’s accent, an unpleasant mix of low cockney and West End affectation, turned Valentino away from the screen. The inspector was making his way up the center aisle, a hunched figure who led with his shoulder. He seemed to walk sideways, like a crab.

  Valentino put his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to try it on for size. I’d hoped you might overlook one little whim in honor of our understanding.”

  “I overlook nothing.” Spink stopped and swiveled his football-shaped head right and left, his eyes shifting like ball bearings, searching corners and the spaces between the rows of rotting seats. At length he seemed to have satisfied himself that the two were alone. He closed the distance between them. “I still think this place ought to be razed. Even wicked Rome offered bread with its circuses. You’ll charge people five dollars for a small bag of stale popcorn.”

  “The real money’s in the concessions; everyone in the industry knows that. I’m surprised you disapprove. If I didn’t think the place would show a profit, I wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting.”

  “I’m glad to see you’ve given up that pose of preserving the arts. The usher who caught me sneaking into Irma La Douce in Manchester di
dn’t bore me with speeches. He boxed my ears and threw me in a filthy alley. I was ten years old.”

  “You should’ve bought a ticket.”

  “I’d have got worse from my parents if I had and they found out. We hadn’t money to throw away on trifles. As it was I got a caning for coming home with a rip in my trousers. They thought I’d been fighting.”

  “Don’t make me feel sorry for you, Spink.”

  “That wasn’t my intention, but hear me out. No doubt you think I’m a low character.”

  Valentino said nothing.

  Spink went on as if he’d agreed. “I wore patches on my clothes all through school; badges of dishonor that made my childhood a living hell on the playground. I thought things would be different when I emigrated here, to the land of equal opportunity. Your movies sold me that load of cobblers.” His eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, when I began clerking in a government office I managed to scrape together a few shillings to attend a matinee from time to time.

  “Equality is a despicable myth, Mr. Valentino; aided, abetted, and packaged for profit by the industry whose lies you intend to preach from this pulpit. I wear the best suit I can afford on a civil servant’s salary. It might as well be covered with patches when I knock on a door in Beverly Hills. That tune changes when I click my little pen. And how will you greet the first little boy who sneaks past the ticket booth to gobble up your propoganda?”

  “Well, I won’t offer him a bribe to stay away. Unless he grows up to be like you.”

  The little man’s face grew feral. The corners of his lips lifted to show his eyeteeth. “But isn’t that the American way?”

  “Can we get this over with? I have a salary to earn, and I’m not much better off than you. Worse, probably. I’ve gone into a hole on this place as it is and I haven’t seen the bottom yet.”

  “Not so bad as that, surely, or you wouldn’t be in a position to meet my terms.”

  Valentino drew a thick envelope from his inside breast pocket. “This is every penny I have left. I’ve already had to take on commission work to keep this project going. My employers are understanding, but their patience won’t last if it starts affecting the work they pay me to do.” He pulled it back when Spink stuck a hand out. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  The inspector reached inside his own coat and brought out a long fold of stiff paper. He held it close to his breast. “The envelope, please.” He wiggled the fingers of his other hand.

  “I want to be sure what I’m buying. In return for this money, you’re giving me a certificate signed by you, stating that all the construction performed on these premises has met the requirements of the Los Angeles County Building Code, and that no further approval is necessary from your office to complete the project and open the building to private and public occupancy. Is that correct?”

  Spink nodded.

  “Say it, please.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to be absolutely clear on what I’m getting for my money. Forgive me for being frank, but you don’t impress me as the kind of man I can do business with on a handshake.”

  Spink was as suspicious as any burrowing creature. Once again he looked all around, and bent his knees to obtain a viewing angle of the maze of catwalks and crosspieces above the stage. In that position he resembled nothing so much as a tarantula. Finally he straightened, nodded, and repeated what Valentino had said, changing only the pronouns.

  “You have a good memory. Something tells me you’ve done this before.”

  “That’s none of your business, Mr. Valentino.” He looked at his Timex. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, the industrial park in the Valley. I imagine this is chicken feed compared to that.” The archivist thumbed open the flap of the envelope and fanned out the corners of the bills inside.

  The inspector’s lips moved; he appeared to be counting the denominations. At length he nodded and let the fold of paper fall open so Valentino could read the legend and see the county seal in the corner next to his angular signature.

  Cautiously each man took a step forward and extended his prize. The exchange took place in a simultaneous snatch and a crackle of paper.

  Spink counted the bills again, whispering to himself. He tamped them all back in, tucked in the flap, and slid the envelope into his pocket. He pointed with his chin. “You’ll want to replace the control panel backstage. The switches are corroded and something’s been chewing at the wiring. I was considering red-tagging it on my next visit.”

  “Well, now that’s none of your business, is it?” Valentino folded his paper.

  “Just so.” Spink started to turn. Then his narrow chest collapsed and filled, in and out, releasing a scratchy, broken wheeze through his throat, like an out-of-tune cello warming up. Valentino stared. He seemed to be having some kind of seizure. Then the wheeze broke into a high-pitched cackle. He was laughing.

  “Do those bills tickle, Spink?”

  “Forgive me.” The noise stopped, although his sharp little eyes held their glitter. “It amuses me whenever someone who’s had so many more advantages than I trades his last shekel for a dead pig in a poke.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t the first theater I’ve inspected. That honor belongs to that miserable little enterprise in Manchester I was privileged to condemn after all those years. Gild and gussy it up all you please, this tower of Babel will fall back into disrepair when no one patronizes it and it closes its doors once again. Why should anyone bother to put on a shirt, fight traffic, and circle the block for ten minutes looking for a place to park just to pay ten dollars to see a feature he can download for two and watch at home? The snacks are cheaper and you don’t have to put up with the loudmouth in the balcony.”

  “Your opinion, Spink.”

  “History’s, Mr. Valentino. It’s a fossil. All fossils crumble in time, and in this town they crumble faster than most. It may even happen soon enough for me to be the one who recommends demolition; but that’s wishful thinking.”

  He patted his pocket. “With this and what I’ve gotten from your predecessors and one or two more, I plan to retire early. My life’s experience has made me a frugal man, but I’ll be able to afford to take in a matinee before the place closes, for old times’ sake and to refresh a pleasant memory. One of your American westerns, perhaps, where the humble are exalted and vice versa—through the intervention of a man of justice.” He offered Valentino a mocking salute from his high bald brow and turned toward the exit.

  Valentino raised his voice a notch. “Phil.”

  The auditorium flooded with light. A hidden speaker crackled.

  “With this and what I’ve gotten from your predecessors and one or two more, I plan to retire early.”

  Spink turned back. The new screen was illuminated. His long face filled it from side to side and from just above his eyebrows to just below his pendulous bottom lip, an extreme close-up, Sergio Leone style. The high-definition digital reproduction showed his ivory-colored eyeteeth in stunning detail; Valentino was impressed by so much performance from a webcam no larger than the human eye. He was less pleased with the sound quality, which echoed tinnily and buzzed from a speaker installed too close to a wall, but the technicians had been in a hurry, and in any case the voice was readily identifiable. The tiny gun microphone had captured every word.

  “Go back a little, Phil.”

  The image reversed action at quadruple speed. A confusing array of shots and angles flashed by.

  “Stop. Play.”

  Spink again onscreen. “In return for this money, I’m giving you a certificate signed by me, stating—”

  “Forward a bit. There!”

  The angle was different, a two-shot courtesy of a camera set farther back: Valentino and Spink trading an envelope for a piece of paper.

  “How close can you come in?”

  The camera appeared to pounce. A face much more benevolent than Spink’s filled the screen: Ben Franklin’s st
eel-point image on a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Down a little and to the right. Tight in.”

  Franklin vanished, replaced instantly by the gold county seal and the inspector’s signature in royal blue ink.

  “Amazing,” Valentino said. “You just can’t get detail like that on celluloid. Thanks, Phil. We’ll save the rest.”

  The screen went dark. The shaft of light crawling with dust motes disappeared from the aperture belonging to the projection booth upstairs. Spink turned his head that way.

  “I took down the plywood and put it back up after Phil climbed the noncompliant stairs,” the archivist said. “I suppose I’m in trouble with whoever takes your place as building inspector.”

  Spink was still staring at the booth. A somewhat bullet-shaped silhouette showed against a light inside. One hand came up in a wave.

  Valentino said, “I borrowed Phil from Matthew Rankin. He’s a pro; he mastered the new technology in just one weekend. I could have operated it myself by remote control, but I didn’t want to run afoul of the projectionists’ union on top of that other violation. My life’s experience has made me a law-abiding man.”

  Dwight Spink said nothing. When his face turned back it was gray and his mouth had fallen open to expose the tilted headstones in his bottom jaw.

  19

  “YOU FORCED HIM to resign?” Broadhead said.

  Valentino nodded. “After he gave me back the money. That was the price of not turning my evidence over to the county for prosecution.”

  “Isn’t that obstruction of justice?”

  “Only the legal kind. He was bound to talk in return for a lesser charge. Why get a lot of desperate people in trouble just for agreeing to his terms? I was almost one of them. Anyway, I needed the money back. Midnite Magic demanded a stiff deposit to install all that equipment on a temporary basis.”

  “You returned it?”