People Like Us

by Dominick Dunne

  “If you think I have any curiosity about your pecker, old man, give it another thought,” said Hubie.

  “You’re disgusting, Hubie,” said young Laurance Van Degan, his face acquiring the haughty Van Degan expression that Juanito could mimic so well.

  Hubie, seeing it, laughed. “Asparagus for lunch, huh?” he asked.

  “Have you become psychic in addition to your other worldly successes?” asked Laurance.

  “No. Your piss stinks,” said Hubie.

  “You’re disgusting, Hubie.”

  “You put those three inches of yours away so fast, Laurance, you forgot to shake it off, and now you’ve got a big wet urine stain all over your grays.”

  Laurance, red-faced, headed for the door.

  “You better hurry back to Laura, Laurance. It must be time to breastfeed the baby again.”

  “I can remember the Depression only too well,” said Cora Mandell. “We had to sell half the land in Bar Harbor. I couldn’t go to school in Switzerland, and Uncle Joe Leyland had to pay for my debut dress.”

  “It’s a terrible thing to have a great name and not enough money,” said Ezzie Fenwick. Then he turned to Dodo Fitz Alyn and asked, “Don’t you think so?”

  Dodo, poor always, blushed.

  “A perfect world for me would be where everyone I know and cared for had about forty million dollars,” said Ezzie. “With forty million you can do everything you want to do and go everywhere you want to go, but you’re not up there with Rochelle Prud’homme and Elias Renthal, thank the good lord. How do you suppose the Renthals got here? They made a big fuss about sitting on the bride’s side, did you notice?”

  “Mrs. Renthal fired me, then begged me to come back,” said Cora, looking over at Elias and Ruby.

  Ezzie Fenwick often used the word frightfully in conversation. “Frightfully funny,” he’d say about an amusing story. “Frightfully nice,” he’d say about some people. “Frightfully grand,” about others. Or, “frightfully common.” He said frightfully common more often than he said frightfully funny or frightfully nice or frightfully grand.

  “Frightfully common,” said Ezzie Fenwick.

  “Who?” asked Cora Mandell.

  “Mrs. Renthal, that’s who. Look at the size of the ring on her finger. If that rock is fake, it’s silly, and if it’s real, it’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s real, all right,” said Cora. “I can assure you of that.”

  “Bernie and Justine are dancing, Cora. Do you want to come and look?” asked Tucky Bainbridge.

  “I’m perfectly content to sit right here and listen to Ezzie criticize everyone’s clothes,” said Cora.

  “Talk to me, Elias. We can’t stand here like we don’t know anyone,” said Ruby.

  “Why do mice have such small balls?” asked Elias.

  “So-few-of-them-dance-well. You already told me that one, Elias.”

  “I’m just trying to make it look like we’re having a conversation, Ruby. Don’t bite my head off because you already heard the fucking joke.”

  “My God, Elias, here comes Loelia Manchester to speak to us. Don’t tell her any of your jokes, and don’t say fuck.”

  “I get along with Loelia Manchester just fine, Ruby,” replied Elias.

  Loelia, approaching them, was struck anew by the change in the appearance of Elias Renthal, a change far more profound than could be brought about by expensive tailoring and barbering. What she saw in the florid face that she had once considered vulgar was the unmistakable look of power, and she was drawn to it.

  Whatever reservations most of the guests of Lil Altemus and the Van Degan family might have about people like Elias Renthal and his third wife, there was the beginning of a noticeable change in the whispered information about them whenever someone asked, “Who in the world is that?” or “How do you suppose they got here?” Elias Renthal, it was now said, was a wizard in business, and his comments about “interesting situations” in the stock market, with which he was selectively generous, were to be acted upon by all means if one was so favored. Indeed, it was said that Laurance Van Degan himself, that most conservative of bankers and investors, had made a killing on a stock tip from Elias Renthal. Then, of course, there was the much discussed Renthal apartment, as yet unseen, but tales of its splendors were constantly circulated. “The furniture, my dear, is priceless,” said no less an authority than Jamesey Crocus. Dolly De Longpre had spread the word in her column that Elias Renthal had also purchased Merry Hill, the magnificent estate and horse-breeding farm that, years ago, had belonged to a family called Grenville, and already dozens of masons and carpenters were at work to enlarge and refront the mansion from Tudor to Georgian as a fitting residence for his beloved Ruby. There was also, one heard, a house in the tropics, and apartments in London and Paris, where Elias’s business interests took him frequently, always on his own plane with its own computers and telephones and other equipment so that his work day need never be interrupted. Certainly there was money, seemingly limitless money, and no disinclination on the part of either Mr. or Mrs. Renthal to spend it. Mrs. Renthal wore the largest gems in New York and traveled to and from her hairdresser and to and from her other appointments in a pale blue limousine of foreign make that was the only one of its kind in New York. Her wedding gift to Justine Altemus and Bernie Slatkin was of such extravagance that Lil Altemus insisted it be returned, and only the intervention of Laurance, her brother, who suggested that it would be “unseemly” to return the gift, a gold tea service that had once belonged to the Empress Josephine, prevented Lil from carrying out her threat.

  “Hello, Elias,” said Loelia, and Ruby was thrilled with the proximity of her, as well as the vocal tones that announced her utter perfection of birth and breeding. Loelia Manchester’s attire was simplicity itself, as Dolly De Longpre said the next day in her column, but she was by far the best-dressed woman in the room.

  “Loelia, this is Ruby,” said Elias.

  “Your husband was so charming to me, Ruby, when you were away. I’ve looked forward to meeting you.”

  “Same here,” said Ruby. “Love your outfit.”

  “Love your ring,” said Loelia, and the two ladies laughed.

  “We were wondering, Mickie and I, if you and Elias would dine with us on Monday and go on to the opera.”

  “Monday?” asked Ruby. She looked at Elias. Monday was the night of the birthday of Elias’s daughter by his first marriage. Their eyes met. He nodded that it would be all right.

  “We’d be delighted, Loelia,” said Ruby in her smartest voice.

  “Jaime’s coming,” said Loelia.

  “Hymie?” answered Ruby.

  “You’ll adore Jaime.”

  “Hymie who?”

  “The Honduran ambassador.”

  “Have some champagne, Gus,” said Lil Altemus. “There’s going to be toasts.”

  “I have my old faithful here,” said Gus, clutching a glass of fizzy water. Gus always held his water glass as if it were a cocktail.

  “Oh, I always forget,” said Lil. “One glass can’t hurt, surely?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Do me a favor, will you, Gus?” asked Lil. “Will you talk to those Renthals. They don’t know anyone here, and Laurance is determined that they have a good time, God knows why.”

  “Loelia Manchester is dancing with Elias Renthal,” said Gus.

  “Loelia? Really? That’s a new one. Be a love and go dance with what’s-her-name, his wife,” said Lil.

  “Ruby,” said Gus.

  “Yes, of course, Ruby,” said Lil, who had known her name was Ruby all along.

  Ruby was thrilled to dance with Gus. Her conversation with Loelia Manchester had made her feel for the first time that she was going to be able to make it in New York.

  “I’m just an old fox-trotter,” said Gus. “I’m not up on all the new steps.”

  “You and Elias,” said Ruby.

  “You’re looking great, Ruby. I read about you
in the papers all the time.”

  Ruby laughed. “How’s everything with you?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  “You feel tense to me.”

  “Our mutual friend, Lefty Flint, is up for a parole hearing on the thirteenth of next month,” said Gus.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. The color drained from her face.

  “It’s true.”

  “Are you going out for the hearing?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got an automatic release. A perfect jail record. Everybody’s little darling.”

  “You know he’s going to do it again, don’t you?” she said.

  “I do.”

  “Where’s the hearing?”

  “The Men’s Correctional Institute. Vacaville, California.”

  Ruby looked at Gus, as if she were going to say something.

  “My husband’s about to cut in on you,” she said.

  When the drummer from Peter Duchin’s orchestra rolled the drums for silence, Lil Altemus went to the microphone with a glass of champagne in her hand and made a charming speech, even if she didn’t believe what she was saying, which she didn’t, saying how much she liked Bernie Slatkin and how perfect she thought he was for Justine, and how glad she was to have Bernie’s aunt and uncle, Hester and Sol Slatkin, in the family. When Bernie got up to deliver his speech, he said he thought he was the luckiest man on earth to be married to Justine Altemus, and his dimple was admired by all of Justine’s friends as he raised his glass to toast his beautiful new wife.

  “You should be off, Justine,” said Lil.

  “After I throw the bouquet, Mother,” replied Justine.

  “Throw it to poor Dodo,” said Lil.

  “Isn’t it sweet the way she takes care of Grandfather, wiping all the drool off his mouth all the time,” said Justine.

  “Where’s Bernard?”

  “Dancing with his aunt.”

  Lil Altemus and her daughter both looked toward the dance floor. Bernie, dancing with Hester, gave Justine a wink. At that moment a late arriving guest entered the ballroom. Wearing a turban, she had an exotic look about her. She appeared to be looking for someone.

  “My God, there’s that horrible woman,” said Lil. “What’s she doing here?”

  “What horrible woman?”

  “In the yellow dress, and the turban. Mrs. Lupescu. Did you invite her?”

  “I certainly didn’t invite her, Mother.”

  “She’s surely not one of Uncle Laurence’s business acquaintances, like Elias Renthal.”

  “Do you suppose Constantine de Rham is here too?”

  “He’d better not be. Consuelo was one of my best friends. That woman crashed. I never heard of anyone crashing a wedding reception before. That’s the tackiest thing I ever heard. Throw your bouquet, Justine. I want to wind up this party.”

  * * *

  “Oh, hello, Gus. I’m sorry I’m so late,” said Yvonne Lupescu.

  “Late?” asked Gus, surprised to see her.

  “I was so thrilled when you asked me to come. Poor Constantine wasn’t feeling well. He’s been so depressed, and he thought it would be marvelous for me to get out. So sweet of you, Gus,” said Yvonne.

  Gus looked at Yvonne. She smiled at him and linked her arm in his and looked at the dance floor. “Shall we dance?” she asked.

  “No,” said Gus. “I don’t like to dance.”

  “I bet you’re a marvelous dancer.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, look, Gus, Justine’s going to throw her bouquet. Let’s go watch.” She took Gus by the arm and led him into the room.

  Justine, with Bernie by her side, stood on the stairway of the club, her train wrapped around her arm, and looked down at her friends. People pushed Dodo Fitz Alyn and Violet Bastedo to the front. There was a drumroll from Peter Duchin’s band, and Justine raised her hand and threw the bouquet. Dodo, crimson with embarrassment, reached her hands up in the air. Violet, already twice-married, squealed with excitement as she held up her arms. In an instant, Yvonne Lupescu stepped in front of both ladies and grabbed the bouquet just as it was about to land in Dodo Fitz Alyn’s hands.

  “Oh, how marvelous,” said Yvonne. “Wait till Constantine hears. Gus, isn’t it exciting?”

  Gus, speechless, stared at Yvonne Lupescu.

  Meanwhile, Constantine de Rham’s body, as yet undiscovered, lay in a pool of blood on the floor of the den in his house on Sutton Place.

  18

  The next morning, Gus was rushing for the airport to go to Los Angeles, in response to a message Detective Johnston had left on his answering machine. At the same time Innocento was arriving in the lobby of his building with Gus’s standing order of three containers of coffee and the morning papers. “I’ll be gone for a few days, Innocento,” said Gus, grabbing the papers and the coffee and heading for the car that he had ordered to take him to the airport. “I’ll call you when I get back to start up the papers again.”

  “Have a good trip,” called out Innocento, but by that time Gus was telling the driver not to put his bag in the trunk of the sedan but to keep it on the seat next to him, as he was late, so that he could just make a run for it when he got to JFK. The driver, who looked Hispanic, nodded as if he understood Gus’s instructions, but he didn’t understand Gus’s instructions and put the bag in the trunk of the sedan anyway.

  “Innocento,” Gus called out. “Tell this guy I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an eight ten to catch.”

  If the plane hadn’t been late, Gus would have missed it, but planes were always late these days, and he arrived at the airport in plenty of time, although not on speaking terms with his driver.

  “When was the last time you were on a plane that wasn’t late starting?” asked the pretty middle-aged advertising executive who was sitting next to Gus in the business section, looking up from some copy she was revising with a pink Hi-Liter. She was wearing a tailored suit and gold jewelry, and her nails were perfectly manicured. And she was ready for some cross-country conversation.

  Gus smiled politely and said, “I can’t remember.” Then he picked up the newspapers that Innocento had brought him and buried his face in them, starting with the tabloids, saving the Times, because he didn’t want to get into a conversation about late planes and the reason for their lateness, and because he knew, from instinct and experience, that by the time the plane had flown over the border of the state of New York, the woman would have told him about her impending divorce, her husband’s girlfriend who used to be her best friend, her daughter’s abortion, and her ideas for the new advertising campaign of a cigarette company her agency had just taken on.

  It was then, aloft, that Gus read about the suicide attempt of Constantine de Rham. De Rham, dying, had been discovered by his Filipino butler, who had returned early to the house on Sutton Place from his day off, because he was feeling unwell. The butler, Ramon Enrile, 62, found de Rham when he began turning on lights in the darkened house, lying in a pool of blood on the floor of his den, beneath a painting of a stag being torn apart by hounds. In his left hand was a revolver. A single shot had been fired into his stomach. At first the butler thought he was dead. He went to look for Mrs. Yvonne Lupescu, Mr. de Rham’s companion, who was a visitor in the house, but she was not there. He then called the police. De Rham was in the intensive care unit of New York Hospital under police watch. No note had been found near the body nor was any reason given as to why the 50-year-old de Rham should wish to take his life. When Mrs. Lupescu returned to the house, she was informed by police of the suicide attempt and became hysterical. She blamed herself, she said, because she had decided to leave him. It was later ascertained by police that at the time of the suicide attempt Mrs. Lupescu had been attending the society wedding reception of the Van Degan heiress, Justine Altemus, to the television anchorman Bernard Slatkin at the Colony Club.

  Gus, stunned, put down the tabloid and stared out the window of the a
irplane! In his pocket, on a sheet of expensive but plain white paper, typewritten, was the name, address, and telephone number of a man in Los Angeles called Anthony Feliciano. It had arrived in the mail the day before in an unmarked envelope, with no accompanying letter, several hours before Detective Johnston’s message had been left on his answering machine telling him the date Lefty Flint was to be released from prison. Gus knew that the sender was Constantine de Rham.

  Gus approached Los Angeles with dread. He always approached Los Angeles with dread. Once he had lived there. Once he had worked there. Once he had raised a family there. Once he had been happy there. But that was long ago and far away.

  There were several places Gus could have stayed. Peach, possibly, would have him. Peach no longer lived in the house where they had lived when they were married. Several years earlier she had moved to a smaller house in the part of Beverly Hills known as the flats. She did not enjoy guests, but the house had a guest room, which she called a spare room, to discourage guests, as well as a small apartment in the pool house that she let out to students from U.C.L.A. so that there would always be someone on the property, and Gus happened to know that the apartment was empty at the moment. But Gus didn’t want Peach to know he was in town until after he had done what he had come to do.

  He thought about staying at Cecilia Lesley’s house in Bel-Air, but Cecilia, who was the daughter of the film mogul Marty Lesky, as well as an old friend of Gus’s, was always giving parties, or going to parties, or having people drop in from noon until two in the morning. There were times when he enjoyed Cecilia Lesley’s land of pandemonium, but this was not one of them.

  Then there were his friends Nestor and Edwina Calder, who had rented a house in Malibu while Nestor was writing the screenplay for the mini-series of Judas Was a Redhead, but being with Nestor and Edwina would have meant having to answer questions about his trip to Los Angeles, and he did not wish to either lie to them or be questioned by them.

  In the end Gus decided to stay at a hotel on the Sunset Strip where it was unlikely he would run into anyone he knew, as he most certainly would have if he had stayed in any of the well-known hotels in Beverly Hills or Bel-Air, where even the waitresses in the coffee shops all called him by name. Checking in at the Sunset Marquis, he was pleased to find out it was within walking distance of the address that Constantine de Rham had given him for Anthony Feliciano.