Hollywood Hills hs-4

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Raleigh had been forced by circumstance to write several NSF checks, and after that was straightened out, the IRS got on them like a swarm of leeches, sucking their blood and tormenting them for over a year until a criminal case for fraud and tax evasion was filed in federal court. Raleigh had done the manly thing at that time and taken the bullet for both himself and Nellie, claiming to authorities that she knew nothing about the “edgy paperwork” that had helped to keep them afloat temporarily.

  He’d been sentenced to one year in prison to be served at the Federal Correctional Complex in Lompoc, California, and the night before he had to report to federal marshals, Nellie gave him a tearful good-bye and thanked him for saving her ass. She promised to write and to visit him often. But she’d seldom written and never visited, and she married a house painter two months after Raleigh was behind bars. And he didn’t even get a farewell blow job.

  Raleigh had served eight months of his sentence, gotten paroled, rented a cheap apartment in a risky gang neighborhood in east Hollywood, and lived by hiring out as a waiter to various caterers he’d known when he was in the business. Then he’d stumbled into the position with Julius Hampton as what the old man called his “gentleman’s gentleman.” Julius had seen too many English movies, Raleigh figured, but he made sure his diction was always up to par when he was in his boss’s presence.

  The dinner party in the Hollywood Hills that night turned out to be disastrous because the lawyer homeowner had hired a Mexican caterer to serve what was supposed to be Asian fusion. As far as Raleigh was concerned, there was nothing more dangerous than a Mexican with a saltshaker, and everything tasted of sea salt. Raleigh played his role to the hilt, but Stephen Fry as Jeeves the butler couldn’t have saved this one. His feet and knees were killing him when the night finally ended and he could get home to bed.

  The next morning Raleigh was up early and on his way to pick up Julius Hampton to take him to Cedars-Sinai for a checkup with his cardiologist. After that, they went back to the Hampton house, where the old man had his afternoon nap, and he was raring to go again when he woke up and remembered that it was the night for his weekly lobster dinner at the Palm. Raleigh had never been crazy about lobster but he could have a rib eye and a couple of Jack Daniel’s to get him through the rest of the evening at one of the west Hollywood gay bars that the old man still liked to frequent at least one night a week.

  By the time they’d finished dining and arrived at the gay bar, it was filling up with other customers also arriving after dinner, and they were lucky to get a small table. The sweating waiters couldn’t deliver drinks to the customers fast enough. Raleigh and his elderly boss were sipping martinis close enough to the three-deep bar patrons for the old letch to gawk at all the muscular buns in tight pants, some of which Raleigh figured were butt-pad inserts. Many of the younger hustlers wore tight Ralph Lauren jerseys with jeans or shorts, and the old boy gazed at them with melancholy. Raleigh was certain that their crotch mounds were from stuffing socks in their Calvins. He figured the youthful hustlers must buy socks by the gross at Costco.

  Julius Hampton recognized Nigel Wickland before the Beverly Hills art dealer recognized him. “Nigel!” he said as the art dealer was passing their table on his way back from the restroom.

  At first Raleigh thought that Nigel Wickland was about sixty years old, but up close, he looked more like sixty-five. He was tall and fashionably thin, with a prominent chin, heavy dark eyebrows, and a full head of hair so white that it looked mauve under the mood lighting. He wore a tailor-made, double-breasted navy blazer, a pale blue Oxford cotton shirt, and an honest-to-god blue ascot impeccably folded against his throat. Raleigh wondered if the blazer was Hugo Boss or maybe Valentino, or was it a Men’s Wearhouse copy? And how about the shoes? Were they O.J. Simpson Bruno Maglis or knockoffs? Nigel Wickland wore his clothes so well that you couldn’t tell if they were the real things.

  Then Raleigh’s attention was drawn to the man’s exquisite hands. The fingers were long and tapered, the nails beautifully manicured, and there were no prominent veins to be seen, which there should have been on a man his age. Raleigh wondered if guys even had cosmetic surgeons do their hands around here, and if so, whether they called it a hand job.

  The art dealer stroked his chin and seemed nonplussed for a moment, probably thinking that Julius was just another dotty old queen who frequented the west Hollywood clubs, until the octogenarian said, “It’s me, Julius Hampton. Remember? We played bridge at the Bruegers’ a couple of times before Sammy passed away.”

  “Julius!” Nigel Wickland said. “Of course I remember. How are you?”

  As they shook hands, Julius Hampton said, “Still upright, more or less, with the help of my man here. I’d like you to meet Raleigh Dibble. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Sit down and join us.”

  The art dealer extended his graceful hand to Raleigh and said, “Nigel Wickland. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same here, Mr. Wickland,” Raleigh said.

  “Nigel, please,” the art dealer said to him. “And may I call you Raleigh?”

  “Of course,” Raleigh said.

  Raleigh wondered if the toffee-nosed accent was legit or something the art dealer affected for L.A.’s west-side nouveau. Raleigh had spent nearly six months bumming around Europe as a young man and had lived in London for a summer, waiting tables at a bistro. He’d even considered affecting an Oxbridge accent like Nigel Wickland’s when he’d been in the catering business but decided that it could backfire if his customers found him out. They liked their phonies to be less obvious phonies around these parts.

  “What’ll you have?” Julius Hampton said to the art dealer, and Raleigh noticed that the old man’s bony hands were trembling most of the time. It was hard for him to hold a martini glass anymore without spilling it.

  Nigel Wickland ordered a banana daiquiri and chatted with Julius Hampton about the bargains now available at the Wickland Gallery. Raleigh Dibble figured he knew the Nigel Wickland type well enough. The west side of L.A. was full of them. Given the art dealer’s obvious ego, the gallery would of course bear his name. And even though a man as old as Julius Hampton would be an unlikely prospect for a sale, Nigel Wickland seemed compelled to chat him up about the treasures to be had just a few blocks away on Wilshire Boulevard. Raleigh figured that the art dealer was constantly chumming the waters in case any of Julius Hampton’s less grizzled friends or neighbors was ever tempted to take the bait.

  “The bloody recession is forcing people to sell for indecently low prices,” Nigel told them, and signaled to the waiter for another round when his glass was still half full.

  Boozer, Raleigh thought, but then reminded himself that in the gay bars everyone seemed to drink more to bolster their courage for encounters that were often risky.

  It was then that Nigel Wickland said, “Have you been to the Brueger house since Sammy passed? I sometimes wonder how Leona is really holding up.”

  Old Julius Hampton cackled and said, “The merriest of widows is dear Leona. I understand she sometimes dates a filmmaker named Rudy Ressler when he’s not molesting children at UCLA, where he lectures at the film school. He’s one of those people who make cheap indie films that probably go straight to DVD.”

  Raleigh had been impressed many times by his employer’s knowledge of the movie business as well as any other business that was peculiarly relevant to Angelenos. Like his father before him, Julius Hampton had made his fortune as a real-estate developer, and the Hampton brokers bought and sold to real Hollywood names on a regular basis, not to second-raters like Rudy Ressler. As Julius Hampton and Nigel Wickland chatted about people they knew in common, Raleigh excused himself and went to the restroom.

  While Raleigh was gone, Nigel Wickland said, “Nice chap. Seems competent.”

  “Very,” Julius Hampton said, with just enough drink in him to gossip. “His catering business failed some time ago and he’s eking out a living now. He’s basically very honest bu
t he got in some tax trouble with Uncle Sam back then. Had to spend some time locked up in federal prison. I have a PI do a background on everyone I hire. I’ve never questioned Raleigh about his past even though I know a lot about it. I can tell you that he cooks like Julia Child.”

  “The poor fellow,” Nigel Wickland said. “That is certainly a spot of bother to live down, isn’t it? Still, many people around here have had similar problems with the IRS. That doesn’t make him a criminal.”

  When Raleigh returned from the restroom, Nigel Wickland started paying more attention to him than to Julius Hampton. Raleigh didn’t sense that it was a gay thing. It just seemed that Nigel Wickland wanted to learn about his work history. Nigel asked if this was his first job as a butler/chef. And he seemed very interested in Raleigh’s former catering business, saying he thought he remembered Raleigh’s employees catering some soirees at the Wickland Gallery. Raleigh thought that was just bullshit until he remembered that Nellie had catered a fancy gig at a Beverly Hills art gallery. They’d lost money on it when she’d failed to anticipate the amount of champagne needed, and she’d had to quickly run to the nearest liquor store and buy cases at retail. Was that the Wickland Gallery? He couldn’t remember.

  Then Nigel Wickland started to wheeze. He took a few short deep breaths that didn’t seem to help him. He muttered, “Please forgive me,” and took an inhaler from his trousers pocket, turning away from Raleigh and Julius Hampton. He put the inhaler in his mouth and pressed the canister, simultaneously inhaling deeply, holding the steroid in his lungs as long as possible.

  When he exhaled, he turned back to them and said, “I’m sorry. Adult-onset asthma. It started three years ago. Part of the indignities of advancing age.”

  Julius Hampton said, “You think you’re old? Like Willie Nelson said, I’ve outlived my dick. I wouldn’t want to outlive my liver. Without a decent martini, what’s the point in any of it?”

  Nigel Wickland then said to Raleigh, “Did you ever think about starting up your catering business again? I don’t mean in the middle of this recession but later.”

  “It takes starter money to get a business like that going,” Raleigh said. “I’d have to win the lottery or something.”

  “Still, there’s nothing like the feeling of independence that being one’s own boss can give. Especially with men of a certain age, like you and me.”

  Julius Hampton said, “What it all boils down to is relevancy. All the elderly understand that. You will, too, sooner than you think. Marty Brueger always talks about it. He says when he started feeling irrelevant, he knew he was through with living. That’s what he’s doing in Leona’s guesthouse-waiting to die.”

  “Well, you’re not irrelevant, Mr. Hampton,” Raleigh said quickly.

  Nigel Wickland said, “Hear me, god. Save us all from irrelevance.”

  As Nigel returned to pumping the chubby butler about his work history, Julius Hampton began getting restless at being left out of the conversation. After the second martini, the old man said, “Well, Raleigh, is it time to go home and see what’s on TV tonight?”

  Then Nigel Wickland said quickly, “Raleigh, here’s my card. Give me a ring and I’ll show you around the gallery. Any time at all. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  When they were driving home, Julius Hampton said, “Well, well, Nigel Wickland seemed smitten with you, Raleigh. What’s the secret of your attraction?”

  “Unless he likes Pillsbury Doughboys, it couldn’t be physical,” Raleigh said, patting his belly. “I’ve got so much flab spilling over my belt that my hips look like a muffin top. I think he was just being friendly, Mr. Hampton.”

  “Nigel doesn’t strike me as the overly friendly type,” Julius Hampton said, looking at Raleigh as though he certainly couldn’t figure out Nigel’s interest.

  The next afternoon before taking his nap, Raleigh’s employer told him he could take the afternoon off. Raleigh couldn’t decide whether or not to visit Sharon, his older sister in San Pedro. His other sister had died of lung cancer when he was in prison, and both parents were gone, so Sharon was the only close relative he had left. But she was an Evangelical Christian who always spent at least half of every visit trying to bring him to Jesus. He decided he didn’t feel up to it today.

  He thought about going to a movie in Westwood, or maybe visiting an old friend who used to work for him and Nellie in the catering business. She was a busty Brazilian in her midforties. Alma was hopelessly clumsy and had broken more glasses than the Sylmar earthquake, but she’d sleep with him if she was in the mood, and he loved to kid her that she had tits from here to paternity. Raleigh couldn’t remember the last time he got laid and was almost horny enough to buy a knobber from one of those Asian masseuses on Hollywood Boulevard. He phoned Alma but the number was no longer in service, so on a whim he drove his Toyota to the Wickland Gallery and popped in unannounced.

  A prim young woman in a jacket and skirt and very sensible heels said, “Good afternoon, my name’s Ruth Langley. Is there anything I can help you with today or would you just care to have a look around?”

  “Mr. Wickland’s invited me to stop in for a personal tour of the gallery,” he said. “The name’s Raleigh Dibble.”

  When she escorted him to Nigel Wickland’s office, the art dealer stood up, came around his massive mahogany desk, and shook hands energetically.

  “So glad you came. You’re just in time to come and have a drink with me,” Nigel Wickland said, donning his linen blazer, the color of a martini olive.

  Raleigh figured the ascot must be for evenings in gay bars, because the art dealer was wearing a white shirt with a forest-green silk necktie. He made Raleigh feel shabby in his off-the-rack rusty brown sport jacket worn over chinos, with black leather loafers that needed the heels replaced.

  They went to the bar at the Ivy and took a table. Just as before, Nigel Wickland ordered a banana daiquiri, and a second one before he’d finished the first. In the light of day Raleigh could see that the art dealer’s eyes were watery and there were broken veins on the sides of his nose. A juicehead for sure, he figured. Still, he was buying the drinks and Raleigh’s curiosity was killing him, so he ordered a Jack on the rocks.

  After he was half finished with the second drink, Nigel Wickland said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Raleigh, did you actually sell your catering business or…”

  “It tanked,” Raleigh said with a wry grin, starting to feel the Jack Daniel’s already. “I got nothing out of it. So here I am, a domestic servant.”

  “Hardly that,” Nigel Wickland said. “I’m sure you’re a valued employee to Julius. But I can’t imagine that the pay is very good.”

  “A living,” Raleigh said. “Sort of. But the food’s great because I buy and cook it for both of us. Mr. Hampton still has a young man’s appetite.” Raleigh drained the glass, and Nigel Wickland immediately signaled for another.

  “I’d like to rely on you to be discreet, Raleigh,” the art dealer said. “I know you’ve been with Julius a relatively short time, but I might be able to offer you a better position.”

  “With you?” Raleigh said. “I’m an art Neanderthal.”

  “I don’t mean in my gallery,” Nigel Wickland said. “After meeting you the other night I realized that you have exactly the qualifications that a client of mine needs at this time. You heard Julius and me mention her name. Leona Brueger?”

  “I vaguely remember that,” Raleigh said, getting into the second Jack, a delicious golden burn sliding down his throat and making him feel the glow coming on.

  “I’ve recently learned that Leona Brueger is deeply involved with Rudy Ressler, the filmmaker that Julius mentioned.”

  “The child molester?” Raleigh said. “That’s what Mr. Hampton called him.”

  Nigel Wickland smiled and said, “He doesn’t try to entice children with a kitten and chocolate bars, believe me. College coeds, his targets of choice, are not exactly children, even if they do behave that way. But Rudy’s
changing his ways and has been getting increasingly serious about mature women, especially the widow Brueger.”

  “It sounds like you know them pretty well,” Raleigh said.

  Nigel said, “I’ve come to know more than a little about Leona Brueger after having been contacted to appraise the late Sammy Brueger’s formidable art collection. I’ve been led by her to believe that she’s going to sell it all, along with the house, perhaps to marry Ressler and move to Napa, where she’ll grow grapes or whatever people do when they have more money than good sense.”

  “Nigel,” Raleigh said finally, “this is all very interesting, but I don’t see how I could possibly fit in here.”

  Nigel said, “Leona Brueger has been saddled with Sammy’s brother Marty, who is eighty-seven years old and ailing. Marty spends most of his time in Leona’s guesthouse, but occasionally he likes to get out and about. She needs the services of a butler/driver/companion who can cook three meals a day for him. Just as you do for Julius. Leona Brueger also likes an occasional little dinner party at home, but the people she’s hired have been unsatisfactory. It’s not so easy for her to find a man who can cook and manage a dinner party as well as do the rest of it for her brother-in-law. After we met, I realized that with your background and experience, you’re just what she’s been looking for. You’re a perfect fit, Raleigh.”

  “But I’ve got a job,” Raleigh said. “And it’s permanent, not temporary.”

  “If you’re happy where you are, forget I mentioned it,” Nigel Wickland said. “But Leona told me she’d pay seven thousand dollars a month to the right man, and of course you’d have luxury quarters to live in and meals you’d prepared yourself. You can buy anything you’d like from the markets and bill it to your employer’s account. You’d have no living expenses. The job would probably end around the first of next year. After that, she’s going to arrange for a luxurious retirement home for Marty Brueger when she sells the house. She’d do it now, but he refuses to go, and his lifetime care and contentment are prominently mentioned in Sammy’s will, so she must accommodate him. But by year’s end, his growing dementia will probably take care of things. The urgency here and now is that she wants to leave for a long holiday in Tuscany and she’s in need of the right man ASAP.”