We waited a couple of minutes, then, ignoring the maitre d' who was trying to seat us, continued after them. The doorway gave onto a corridor that led past the kitchen. We walked along, doing our best not to answer the curious stares of the cooks and dishwashers, to a fire door. I pushed through it into an alley just behind a Dempster Dumpster. Chantal joined me, and we looked down to the end of the alley, which was blocked by a graphite Mercedes limousine. Nathanson, still in his wheelchair, was facing the rear of the limo, where a gray-haired Korean in a blue suit was sitting with the window opened. I could hear them talking to each other, but I couldn't distinguish the words. I was about to move closer, when I heard the sharp flick of a blade.
"Hey, smart dog, we meet again."
It was the Chu's Brothers. With all their knives and chains.
"Get inside," I yelled to Chantal. She didn't move. "I said get inside. " She still didn't move. She was frozen.
"What ya doin' here, smart dog? Come to see the Reverend?" He started backing us toward the dumpster while his partner edged between us and the door.
"Reverend?"
"Don't play dumb with me, smart dog. I know why you're here. Jesus Saves, right?"
"Right."
"And talk in tongues. I know you can talk in tongues, right, smart dog?"
"Sure." I looked over from the two Chu's to Chantal. Down at the end of the alley I could hear the sound of a motor turning over.
"Do it," he said.
"Do what?"
"Talk in tongues. I wanna hear you talk in tongues. You're a religious person. You're here to see the Reverend, get his advice and counsel. Talk!"
He moved toward me, grinning and pushing upward with his knife. A door slammed. I glanced down the alley. Nathanson was being loaded into the limousine next to the gray-
haired Korean.
"What's the matter, smart dog? Cat got your tongue? Can't speak in tongues and the cat's got your tongue. I think they're Satanists, Brother Chu. I think they're on the wrong side!"
The silent Chu pulled a chain from under his leather jacket and started advancing on Chantal.
"I can speak tongues," she blurted suddenly, clasping her hands in front of her and talking a mile a minute. "I'm a Catholic girl. Raised in a convent. In Quebec. By nuns. Strict nuns. And mean Jesuits. With rulers. Made us pray every fifteen minutes. On our knees. Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Body and blood. Holy Communion. Feel the stigmata. Feel the presence. Mary, Mary, full of grace."
"That's not tongues. This girl's bullshittin' us, isn't she, Brother Chu? That's sacrilege! Get that sister of Satan!"
The silent Chu started whipping the air with his chain, swirling it within inches of Chantal.
"Help! Help, police! " she screamed.
The Chu's whirled around. I kicked the verbal Chu in the stomach, stunning him just long enough to chop his partner in the neck and grab Chantal, pulling her back into the restaurant.
"Holy Mother of . . ." she shouted and ran like a gazelle down the restaurant corridor, nearly knocking over some busboys and a patron waiting to use the pay phone. I slammed through the front door after her and dashed across the parking lot. She didn't say another word until we had reached the car, I had locked all four doors, and we were out of the parking lot.
"I quit," she said. "I can't do this. I'm a coward. I'm afraid of flying. I'm afraid of the dark. I'm afraid of snakes. I'm afraid of goddamned spiders. What the hell do I want to be a detective for?"
"That's a good question." I was driving around the block, looking for the graphite limousine, but there was no sign of it. "Actually, you didn't do too badly under the circumstances. You kept your cool."
"Yeah, but right now I feel like I'm ready for the intensive care unit . . . I'll need a gun," she said.
"A gun?"
"We're gonna deal with creeps like that, I'm gonna need a gun. For self-defense. A thirty-eight."
"A thirty-eight will take your arm off. You'll be feeling the recoil for a month. Besides, most people can't hit an elephant at five yards with a gun like that."
"Then I'll get one of those little derringers like Miss Kitty had on Gunsmoke. And I'll go out for target practice every morning until I can hit all the tin cans off the garden fence. Who were those guys?"
"The Chu's Brothers."
"Them again. What were they doing around here with Nathanson and that warlord in the limo? Is he the Reverend? And what was that about? I feel like I'm in the middle of an episode of Terry and the Pirates. Are those guys punkers or Jesus freaks or what?"
"Beats me," I said. She was starting to smile now, in spite of herself. "Maybe they're born-again bikers. B again B just like Nastase's thing."
"Wasn't that B for B?"
"Right. B for B. Brains for billions. Beans for Boston . . . Wait a minute—Bibles. There were boxes of Bibles in Nastase's house. Boxes for Bibles. That doesn't make much sense."
"How about Bibles for Billy? He's an undercover agent for Billy Graham."
"Or Bibles for Bonzo. It's a remake of the old Reagan movie."
"That's it," said Chantal, grinning. "The crazy chimp starts ripping pages out of Deuteronomy until Nancy gets wind of him and locks him up with Mike Deaver and Betsy Bloomingdale at the Santa Barbara ranch .... Wait a minute. Where are we?"
"Santa Monica and Western."
She checked her watch. "I've got to be at the Fun Zone in five minutes."
"The Fun Zone?"
"Yeah. I'm on tonight at nine-thirty and twelve. I've got to be in makeup. If you don't mind dropping me off, I'll ..."
She stopped, noticing my expression. "Hey, look, we're not exactly Interpol yet and entertainment is my business."
"Is this your idea of partnership? We're in the middle of a case here."
"Hey, I know. But a girl's gotta keep all her balls in the air. You don't expect me to give up my shot at the Carson show for a little cops and robbers. I mean it's not interfering or anything. And I won't stop thinking about it for a second. I promise."
"Uh-huh."
There was an uncomfortable silence as I hit the freeway, getting off at Highland and jogging over Sunset to the Fun Zone. I dropped her off at the club with a quick peck on the cheek.
"See you later," she said. "And don't worry. We'll lick this thing." She ran straight to the stage door without looking back.
I sat there a moment, staring over at the Albergo Picasso, the image of Ptak flying over the penthouse wall describing a parabola in my mind. It seemed less and less like suicide, but who had pushed him over? Not Nastase, that was clear. More likely someone who had been using the poor slob and thought nothing of removing him the minute things got hot, someone bloodless enough to send that contra retread chasing me all over New York. I sure hoped it wasn't Nathanson. I started to pull out of the Fun Zone lot when I heard a tap on my rear windshield. It was Koontz. He walked around and let himself into the passenger side without waiting for an invitation.
"Well, well, Art Koontz, comedy's friend. Can't keep this man away from the yucks. You ought to try the Catskills on your next vacation."
"Actually, I just stopped by on my way back from the Learning League. I'm taking this terrific course in integrated business software. You should try it. It's—"
"Save it, Koontz."
"AII right. All right. But don't say I never gave you any sound advice. Maybe you'd listen if I were that fancy headshrinker of yours."
"At the moment, I doubt it."
"Well, that's an improvement. Anyway, I'm glad I saw you, because it's going to save me a phone call. If you continue to muck around in the King case, I'm going to have to get a restraining order."
"You're what?"
"Look, it's nothing personal, but this isn't a situation for the little guy. Everybody's in it now—the FBI, the DEA. They issued another warrant this morning."
"For whom?"
"King King. According to the U.S. Attorney's off
ice, thanks to information we brought them, he's nailed up the giggy. But you know what? He wasn't there. As of yesterday, just about the time his brother butchered Bannister, the great, impregnable King King flew the coop. Remarkable coincidence, isn't it'?"
"Any leads?"
"Leads? He's probably down on Copacabana Beach fucking little girls until his pecker falls off. Great justice, huh? Or do you sympathize with him, too, just because he's b1ack."
"Ease off, Koontz."
"The DEA's going up the wall. Ten fucking years they've been trying to get that scumbag. Ten fucking years! They find you mucking around in this, they'll hang us both out to dry before they even know your name. So, my old friend"—he tapped me on the arm—"I'm serious about that restraining order. Stay out of this one. In fact, do yourself a favor and get out of this racket altogether. You're a bright boy. This is the eighties. Most of your old comrades are running corporations by now. Think positively. Think—"
"Don't tell me. Integrated business software."
"Right," he said. And got out of the car.
I made a U-turn for his edification, as if I were heading home, but then doubled back a few blocks off to pay a surprise visit to Emily Ptak. Cars were in the driveway and the lights were on when I arrived at the Tudor estate at the end of West Wanda. I parked in front of the guard gate and pressed the intercom button. I was answered in a few seconds by the voice of the nanny as, simultaneously, I saw a video camera go into surveillance mode. Life in the big city.
"May we help you?"
"Yes. My name is Moses Wine. I used to work with Mrs. Ptak. I know it's late, but it's very important that I ask her a few questions."
"One moment, please."
I stood there a few minutes, staring into the darkness before the voice came back on.
"I'm sorry. Mrs. Ptak is reading her daughter a story and does not wish to be disturbed."
"Tell her I'll wait."
"I don't think that would be advisable, Mr. Wine."
"Tell her there are some problems to resolve regarding her visit to the Bonaventure Hotel the day before yesterday."
The intercom went silent again. After a longer wait, the gate opened. I got back into my car and drove through, pulling in behind an Audi diesel that looked about two months old. Emily was waiting at the door when I got out. She was wearing a maroon housecoat with gray piping and she looked tired.
"Hello," she said, her voice as cool as dry ice as she led me inside, making a quick left turn into a pine-paneled den that was right off the foyer. The room was lined with books and framed memorabilia from the career of her deceased husband. She shut the door and pointed to a leather armchair. "Let's make this brief. As far as I'm concerned, we have nothing left to say to each other."
"We never said much in the first place. Emily, how was your relationship with your husband?"
"Ambivalent. Ambivalence is the natural condition of the state of matrimony. Surely you're old enough to know that."
"Maybe, but I'm a romantic."
"What exactly do you want, Mr. Wine?"
"Who was the man with you in Room Seven-fifteen of the Bonaventure?"
"That's my business."
"Emily, several capital crimes have been committed here. Sooner or later there are going to be grand jury investigations, trials. You're certain to be subpoenaed."
"My private life at the Bonaventure or anywhere else has nothing whatsoever to do with any crime. Or is there a law against having a libido in this blue-stocking society?"
"It's only curious that less than two weeks after the death of your husband, you're having a hotel tryst with another man. I would assume this was going on before he died."
"And?"
"And some ninety percent of murders take place within the family."
"Among people who are ruled by their emotions. I've spent five years and an embarrassing amount of money in this obscenely privileged society of ours to make sure I am not. Besides, I'm sure you're aware that we're all capable of loving more than one person at a time. Sometimes with equal intensity. Our children teach us that. It's just that some of us deny ourselves that joy."
"You learned that in therapy, no doubt."
"Among many other things."
"Then if you've got this all so rationalized, I don't understand why you had any objection to seeing me tonight."
"This whole episode is becoming more and more bizarre and violent. Lurid. Right out of the National Enquirer. The one great problem Mike and I always had was I hated the public life, hated the exhibitionism. That probably drove us apart more than anything. Right now it's driving me crazy. I can't stand it. I don't want to hear any more about this. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to see anyone connected with it. I just want to do my best to forget the whole thing, hard as that may be, and disappear."
"Then no more fancy benefits with Eddy Sandollar."
"I resent that, Mr. Wine. Those benefits exist for a greater good. Not for anybody's personal aggrandizement."
"And you'll keep your affair buried forever?"
"That affair is over. It ended that very day at the Bonaventure. And I can assure you, it has no chance of rekindling. Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to go back to reading my daughter Babar. " She went and opened the door for me.
"Can you answer one last question?"
"That depends."
"Did you ever have sexual relations with Eugene Nathanson?"
"There's no way I'd answer that. I believe the therapist-patient relationship is the most sacred bond in our society."
"Yeah. I wouldn't doubt you do." I started out. "Did Mike know about your affair?"
"Yes. Of course. We were married since we were twenty. He knew everything I did and I knew everything he did, even when he tried to hide it. I knew about his insecurities, the girls he fucked, his drugs, his debts, his self-destructiveness. He pissed it all away joylessly because he didn't think he deserved anything. There wasn't a penny left in his estate. Look it up in your records, Mr. Detective. The only thing he left me was this house. And even that's not worth much. It's on a fault."
"Then why were you so sure he didn't commit suicide?"
"He wouldn't have had the guts. Good night."
She closed the door in my face, leaving me standing there in the afterglow of her bitterness.
I was still feeling it when I unlocked the door of my apartment twenty minutes later. I went into my bedroom and played my messages. A private eye in Detroit wanted to know if I'd help him do a skip trace on a deadbeat named Jack Luchese. My son Jacob needed forty dollars for his Columbia application, and Nick Steinway called to ask how it was going and to say they were sending over something called a "deal memo" to sign concerning my short-term employment with Global Pictures. I could call him at his office tomorrow any time after five A.M. but not after six-thirty, because that's when he went into a staff meeting and then went off to London, Paris, and Tunisia and wouldn't be back in L.A. for thirty-six hours. This guy made Sammy Glick seem like Krishnamurti.
I sank down on the bed and pulled a joint out of the end table drawer. I was about to go into the kitchen for a match, but fumbling in my pocket, I found a book. I started to light the joint, when I noticed its jacket had a hand reaching out toward you with the words I WAS THERE-COMEDIANS & CHEFS BENEFIT FOR AFRICA/24-HOUR RELIEF HOT LINE-1-800-234-HELP. I lit my joint and dialed the number. It rang once before picking up with a recording of a now familiar voice. I could'hear what sounded like tribal drumming behind him as he spoke: "This is Eddy Sandollar talking to you live from Harar, Ethiopia. As I speak, rains have begun to fall, giving some respite to this benighted land. But do not be misled by falsely optimistic reports in the press. This is only a temporary lull in an ongoing struggle of mammoth proportions. We need nothing less than a Marshall Plan for Africa. It's our planetary responsibility.
Whether you pray to Buddha, Jesus, Yahweh, or the Spirit in the Sky, I know you will want to join me on this crusade against
world hunger. At the sound of the beep, leave your name, number`, and the time that you called, and one of our volunteers will contact you for your pledge the next working day. Namaste. "
Beep.
"This is Moses Wine, 555-4273. Tell Mr. Sandollar to call me."
I hung up and lay back on the bed, stopping first to punch "play" on my video deck. The Best of Mike Ptak was still in the machine, and the dead comic doing a George Bush imitation flickered onto the screen. I didn't know who was more boring—the original or the copy. But the net result was the same as my last attempt to study Ptak's work: within five minutes I went crashing off to sleep.
"Wake up! Wake up! I've got it!" said a voice, dimly piercing through my dream state. I forced my eyes open to see Chantal bursting with excitement, pacing at the end of my bed. It was just past two A.M. "I figured it out. Boy, was I brilliant. I mean, I usually don't toot my own horn, but tonight I killed them. They were on the floor. Stella Resnick's thinking about putting me in for a solo. Screw that esoteric Franco-Canuck garbage. This is the real thing, a unique act—comedienne/private eye. By day you're a bloodhound on the case and by night you describe all the weirdos you met while you were doing it. It knocked their socks off."
"It what?" By now I was sitting up in my bed with my eyes wide open.
"Hey, what're you so excited about? I told you I figured it out—B for B. It just came out of my mouth while I was free-associating. That's how it happens in stand-up. When you're cooking, things just pop out."
The Straight Man - Roger L Simon Page 13