by Neil Russell
I put the phone down. “You want to talk?”
“Maybe later,” she said. “You have a name?”
“Rail.”
“First or last?”
“First. The last is Black.”
“Rail Black. You do anything like…ordinary?”
“Actually, it’s Rail Sheridan Black—after my grandfather, but without the ‘Lord’ in front of it.”
“You some kind of royalty or something?”
“Mostly the ‘or something.’”
“And you are?”
“Kimberly York.”
“Okay to call you Kim?”
“Ordinarily, no, but I make an exception when I’m wearing the guy’s clothes. So who’s Rhonda?”
I saw that she was looking at the gift card she found in the wine basket. “A friend. Rhonda Champion. Tomorrow’s my birthday. We were planning to go bonito fishing. That was lunch.”
“From the tone of this, I think Rhonda was expecting to be dessert.”
“Could be.”
“You and Rhonda serious?”
“Well, I couldn’t just sit around waiting for you.”
That got a laugh, and it was as nice as I’d expected it would be. So we sipped our PlumpJack, and she ravaged the rest of the basket while tow trucks and ambulances came and went up ahead of us. There’s something I’ve always liked about watching a very pretty, extremely ravenous, young lady eat. And this was a tall, healthy girl who went at it with both fists and talked with her mouth full.
After a while, the emergency workers had a couple of lanes clear, and the geysers shut down, so the highway patrol started waving people through.
“Where can I drop you?” I asked.
“Where do you live?”
“Beverly Hills.”
“Then your place will be fine.”
2
Sexy Elevators and Killer Pastrami
Beverly Hills is a city of 35,000 halfway between downtown L.A. and the Santa Monica pier. But it’s not your ordinary town. It’s not even your ordinary rich people’s town. From its beginnings as a Native American spiritual site called “The Gathering of the Waters” through its cattle ranching days and finally as home to some of the wealthiest people on the planet, it’s a place of boom, bust and mythmaking.
It’s also as Balkanized as any city in America, but not by race, ethnicity or bloodlines. All that matters here is money and celebrity. Pick the first, and regardless of how many banks your family robbed back in Dubuque, presto, you’re a leading citizen. Pick the second, and your white-trash in-laws can hang their tattooed asses out the window of your twenty-million-dollar mansion and get applause from appreciative tourists.
I’ve got a friend, Richie Catcavage, who’s a brilliant screenwriter and a brilliant drunk—and not necessarily in that order, which is why he keeps turning up on my doorstep. In one of his many unproduced scripts, he wrote a piece of dialog.
“Beverly Hills is a place where nobody runs for president because they don’t want to move to a smaller house.”
A drunk or not, he’s probably right.
I turned north off Sunset and wound my way up the hill to Dove Way. A fire engine sat at the corner, but its emergency lights were off, and the crew was busy rolling up hoses. About a dozen people were standing outside my neighbor’s house, which had its gate open and lights on. I recognized one of the men as the owner, and when he saw me, he smiled and waved. A television truck sat nearby, its crew taking shots of mostly nothing. But that’s Beverly Hills. A movie star burns his toast, stop the presses.
My place sits on two landscaped acres hugging a hillside, but the ten-foot ivied walls, thick privacy foliage and screened gate keep it from being seen from the street. It’s a 17,000-square-foot Spanish hacienda with a little Hollywood eccentricity thrown in.
Elevators in private homes were pretty rare in 1922, especially ones between the master suite and an underground sixteen-car garage—with both entrances hidden. But whoever had needed this kind of egress had also been particular about lift aesthetics. On the ceiling, there’s a painting of a bare-chested, gold-helmeted conquistador astride a rearing, fire-snorting stallion. And clutching him from behind is a Vargas-inspired, exceptionally buxom, mostly unclad young lady, head thrown back in ecstasy, a rose clenched between her teeth. Add in the extra-thick tapestries on the walls, and the effect is apparently to render the conveyance both erotic and soundproof—a design nuance I have yet to see fully explored on HGTV.
1001 Dove Way is one of the original “North of Sunset” properties, and over the years, it’s had a litany of owners, including some fairly famous ones. But to me, none of the prior inhabitants is as intriguing as J. C. Stinson, Howard Hughes’s personal attorney.
Legend has it that during Howard’s early paranoid stage, to avoid subpoenas, he lived in Stinson’s pool house. And since it doubled as a screening room, he spent months lying naked on one of the couches, watching Citizen Kane over and over.
Personally, I think if he was watching anything, it was a picture of his own, like The Outlaw, instead of one done by a guy he hated—but Kane makes a better metaphor. That’s what I mean about Beverly Hills mythmaking. When was the last time anybody cared what John D. Rockefeller watched and what he wasn’t wearing while he watched it? And even if they did care, where else would it be bold-printed in the real estate listing?
I bought the house—furnishings and all—six years ago. The previous owner had had a little problem with the tax man and was going to be spending the next decade as a federal guest if he didn’t get out of town—fast. He’d kept the house in his secretary’s name, and I was a cash buyer, so there wasn’t much haggling. The last I heard, he was living in Belize with a Norwegian underwear model.
Little by little I’ve brought the place back to its past glory. I say little by little, because it’s nearly impossible to find craftsmen who can duplicate the original work. If I were counseling young people, I’d tell the ones who weren’t headed for college to forget everything they’ve been told about technology and learn the old trades. The supply of talent that can work with hardwoods, stained glass, hand-made fabric and countless other one-of-a-kinds you can’t buy at Home Depot is practically nonexistent.
Anyone with any skill at all has a backlog of projects that runs into years. And because clients almost always have heavy money, you can charge whatever you like, and people will line up to pay it. Not a bad way to earn a living and get some creative satisfaction in the process. And woe be it unto the billionaire who gives his craftsmen a hard time. They simply walk out and leave him with a half-restored terra-cotta fresco or a marble staircase to nowhere. The rich generally aren’t very careful about the way they treat people, but believe me, they kiss artisan ass.
As I passed through my gate and wheeled up the tree-lined drive, I saw Mallory coming out the front door. He’s my houseman, valet, confidant and friend. He’s been with me almost from the day I was born, and his power to anticipate my needs is uncanny. I have no idea how I’d get along without him, and I try never to think about it.
As soon as I stopped, he was already unloading my weekend gear from the Rolls, and in typical British fashion, he didn’t register so much as an arched eyebrow at the young lady who climbed out of the car wearing my shirt and nothing else.
“Kim York, this is Mallory,” I said.
Kim stuck out her hand, and Mallory took it as if he were greeting a marquesa—not a half-dressed young lady with mud on her feet.
His clipped accent is as impeccable as his manners. “Welcome to the Black home, Ms. York. I knew some Yorks once. Sir Elliot and his lovely wife, Margaret.”
“I don’t believe I know El and M,” Kim answered, “but we Yorks are a reserved lot, so it’s possible we were just never properly introduced.”
I think Mallory was amused, because as he turned to go inside, he winked at me.
Kim had gaped at the house when we’d arrived, but once inside, she stopped dea
d in her tracks. She took in the oval foyer’s marble and murals, then looked up the thirty feet or so at the massive crystal and wrought iron chandelier suspended from a long, thick chain. After a moment, she said, “There’s dust on the bulbs.”
I laughed and said to Mallory, “Put Ms. York in the Toledo Room and see if you can scare up something for her to wear. Then let’s attend to that dust.”
“Toledo Room? Pray tell?” Kim asked.
“The previous owner had a real thing for Spanish steel. You’ll understand when you see it. Why don’t you grab a shower and come down for a snack and a nightcap.”
As the two of them mounted the stairs, I stole another look at Kim’s long, tanned legs, and for the second time that night, I was impressed. When Mallory returned, I asked him if there was anything to eat.
“I’ll set something up in the kitchen. If I may say so, it’s good to have you back, sir. It’s never quite the same when you’re gone.”
“I take it the quake didn’t cause any damage.”
“Not unless you count the jar of pickles I dropped when I grabbed onto the counter. Other than the food, will you be needing me for anything else?”
“No, Mallory, I don’t believe so. Thank you.”
“Then good night, sir.”
I went upstairs and grabbed a quick shower and a change of clothes, then slipped some Wynton Marsalis onto the house sound system. The best jazz artist of today was just easing into something low and slow when Kim reappeared. She was wearing a long, teal silk robe with a pair of matching slippers. I hadn’t seen those clothes in a long time, and I felt the sadness well up. It always came when I least expected it. Turning a corner and catching a glimpse of copper hair. Seeing a profile in a passing car.
Kim turned to model her outfit. “You must have quite a budget for drop-ins. It only took Mallory about five minutes to come up with an entire wardrobe.”
I tried to keep my voice light. “He’s resourceful.”
Kim had pulled her still-damp hair back and gathered it with a strand of white lace. There was a matching strand tied around her neck, its trailing ends hanging down her back. I recognized the lace as the tiebacks from the draperies in the Toledo Room.
“Nice touch, the lace,” I commented.
She fingered the strand at her neck. “I couldn’t resist. It’s Alençon.”
The blank I drew must have shown, and she shook her head again. “Made by French nuns and almost priceless. I thought the robe needed a little something.”
Looking at the way the silk clung to her, I said, “Groucho wouldn’t have been able to resist that line—especially when you threw in nuns. But I’d probably get my face slapped.” Shifting gears, I said, “The accommodations up to your standards?”
“That room is just flat-out magnificent. All those swords hanging on the walls. Very Ali Baba.” She paused. “I think everyone should have a completely unexpected place in their home, don’t you?”
“What’s yours?”
“I don’t know you well enough yet.”
It didn’t sound like she was being coy, so I dropped it. “Well, if the Mongol hordes try to take Rodeo Drive, we’ll mount our Ferraris and drive them back to Malibu.”
She laughed and saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. By the way, I was impressed with the Vettriano over the fireplace, too. The Letter, isn’t it? I’m sure you know that the last time one of his originals was offered, it brought well over a million.”
“I bought it for a friend. It was her favorite.”
“Not Rhonda.” It wasn’t a question.
“No, not Rhonda.”
“Then it must have been the one in the photograph Mallory was hustling out of the room when I wasn’t supposed to be looking.”
“I’ll have to tell him he’s slipping,” I said with as much lightness as I could muster. I knew which picture it was.
We’d gone riding along the beach that morning. Mallory had packed a picnic lunch, and we stopped under a copse of trees. But each time we began a conversation, a large blue macaw above us would interrupt with loud, maniacal chatter. Eventually, we got to laughing so hard we couldn’t eat.
Figuring it was looking for a handout, she kicked off her shoes and stood on her saddle to offer it a banana chip. Our antagonist wolfed it down and squawked for more. I snapped the picture just as she looked back at me. The copper-haired girl and the blue macaw. Two hours later, she would be dead.
“French lace and Scottish artists. You’re full of surprises,” I said to change the subject.
“I just read a lot, that’s all. Is that it? Just plain Mallory?”
“No, but I’ve never heard anyone call him anything else.”
“It’s appropriate somehow. Subject change. If you don’t mind my asking, just how the hell tall are you?”
“You have any questions you get tired of?”
She grinned, “Like, Can I borrow twenty till payday? That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“Let me guess, hoops.”
“You only say that because I have a good jump shot.”
That made her laugh again, and I decided it was a sound I could get used to.
“Actually, I swim.”
“Ah, a contrarian.”
“I was just better at it, that’s all. But you can’t be my size and not have had someone stick a basketball in your hands, so once upon a time, I did play. It’s a terrific sport played by some of the best athletes in the world, but the shoe jackals have seduced an entire generation of gullible kids into believing that the ticket out of desperation is through a playground instead of a library.”
“And what do you really think?”
I smiled. “You asked, you got.”
“Remind me not to ask if I look fat in this robe. Hey, what have you got to eat in this palace? I’m ravenous again. And I could use another glass of that Plump stuff. It was almost as good as sex.”
“Mallory said there’d be something in the kitchen. Take a left through the dining room, and I’ll fetch another bottle of orgasms.”
3
PlumpJack Gets You to Toledo
Mallory had done his usual stellar job: Jerry’s Deli pastrami on onion rolls with sides of coleslaw and potato salad. The only thing people in laid-back L.A. tend to be passionately myopic about—other than the interminable Lakers/Clippers debate—is their deli. Factors, Nate & Al’s, Junior’s. Pick one, get an argument. Jerry’s may not be the Carnegie or the Stage, but for my money, it’s as close as you’re going to get on this coast. And the one on Beverly Boulevard across from Cedars-Sinai is open until 4:00 a.m., which in itself is cause for celebration in a city that rolls up the sidewalks after Wheel of Fortune.
While we ate, we small-talked, and after a couple of glasses of wine, I saw Kim start to relax. When we’d wiped the last dabs of mustard off our mouths, she said, “I’d kill for a cigarette, but as you may have noticed, Capt. Black, I came aboard without pockets. Is it too much to hope for that amid all this wretched excess there might be a Benson & Hedges? Or are you one of those California assholes who starts coughing and yelling cop if they see something being fired up that isn’t a joint?”
“Actually, I’d like a cigarette too. And my position on tobacco is pretty much my position on everything that’s legal—and a few things that aren’t. It’s none of my business what you do. I only smoke two or three times a month, but if I wanted to go through four packs a day, as long as I’m not doing it in a nursery school, it’s between me and my butane salesman. I can’t help you with Benson & Hedges, though. When I want a cigarette, I want to taste it. So it’s English Ovals or nothing.”
“Bring ’em on.”
“I should warn you, they’re not filtered.”
“Then it’ll be like when I used to sneak my stepfather’s Camels.”
“Okay, let’s sit outside. I’ll turn on the pool lights.”
It was a beautiful night. Warm and full of stars. We sat, had another glass of wine and smo
ked. I let her get back to the events of the evening on her own.
“Dante and Tino,” she said. “Who the fuck ever figures you’re going to be kidnapped at Ralphs?”
“When did it happen?”
“About 5:30 this afternoon. The one on Olympic behind the Fox studios. Instead of doing what I usually do, which is park in the open lot in front, the sun was still really hot, so I pulled into the parking garage underneath and took the elevator up. I was in the salad aisle when this woman walked up and said, ‘Excuse me, miss, but is that your silver Mustang downstairs?’”
Kim stopped, seemed to falter. “Jesus, it’s like I’m watching a movie in my head.”
“Sometimes that happens. It’s why it’s usually better to tell a story instead of just answer questions. Now close your eyes and freeze-frame on the woman. Tell me about her.”
She swallowed a couple of times, seemed to work up her nerve, then closed her eyes. “Slender, maybe five-five. Attractive, but not drop dead. Black pantsuit, lime green blouse. Silk, I think.”
“How about her hair?”
“Shoulder-length. And she’s wearing a scarf. Designer. Also lime with red geometrics. Jesus, it’s too fucking hot for a scarf.”
“Don’t get sidetracked. Concentrate on her face.”
“Sunglasses. Those ugly-as-shit Valentinos with the creepy butterflies on the temples. I call them the M. Night Shyamalan Collection.” She hesitated. “Terrible makeup choice too. She’s got olive skin, so her lipstick should be dark. Especially with the lime. But it’s bright pink.”
“Jewelry? Birthmarks?”
“Her ears are pierced, but there’s nothing in them. And her breath smells like cigarettes. Strong ones.” Suddenly, without warning, Kim burst into tears. After a moment, she got herself back under control. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“Emotional release. Healthy.”
She took a sip of wine. “After I told her I did have a silver Mustang, she said, ‘I thought I saw you get out of it. It’s none of my business, but some guy in a van ran into it, and he’s down there now leaving a note.’”