by Neil Russell
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so. I dropped and crawled around the side. Nobody came out, and no lights came on.”
“Where are you now?”
“Up the street a block.”
I was standing now. “Okay, the first thing we’re going to do is get you out of the neighborhood. Think you can run another couple of miles?”
“Shit, with this much adrenaline, I can run to fucking Miami. That is, if I don’t pee myself first.”
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do. Go west two blocks, then down to Santa Monica Boulevard and head toward the ocean. You know the Fairmont Miramar Hotel?”
“Haven’t got a clue.”
“It’ll be on your right. Northeast corner of Santa Monica and Ocean Avenue. You go too far, you’ll run off a cliff.”
“So either way, I’m gonna be okay.”
I liked this girl’s moxie, but I guess if you’ve lived with a Russian thug who blinded you, you’re not going to fold up easily. “No matter what happens, don’t get off Santa Monica. Somebody pulls up alongside, cross the street. But do it behind the vehicle, got it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re actually going to run past the main gate and turn right on Ocean. About half a block up you’ll see a side entrance. There’s a ladies’ room straight back on your right.”
“I really appreciate the plan, but I hope there’s a bigger finish than a john.”
I laughed. “When you’re ready, go out the main entrance. You can’t miss it. There’s a long driveway facing Santa Monica Boulevard. Then dial my number and hand the phone to the doorman.”
“What the fuck for?” she spit.
“I lost my wallet, and I want to see if he found it.”
That stopped her for a moment. Then she laughed. “Okay, boss, whatever you say. But is there some reason I can’t just go in the front door?”
I could tell by her breathing that she was already jogging. “Because if there’s a chance you’re being followed, I don’t want you entering and leaving the same way. You get lonely, buzz me back, I’ll be here.” I hung up.
I dialed the home number of D. J. Kaplan, owner of Symphony Limousine, and a member of my board. Five minutes later, I was talking to a guy who identified himself as Billy Mack Tulafono, doorman at the Fairmont. Then I called the yacht club.
My next call was to Mallory, but as I started to dial, I saw Bert coming back along the dock, walking purposefully. He saw me topside and waved, and I heard him mount the wooden stairs to the Sanrevelle. It was late, so if we were going to talk and not disturb anyone, it needed to be inside.
I met him in the salon. He was already at the bar pouring himself a glass of cognac. He asked if I wanted one. I shook my head and got myself a bottle of water.
“Brittany explained what happened with Rhonda. I gotta tell you, I missed the whole thing.”
“I know.”
Bert shook his head. “Sometimes when I’m wound up, I don’t pay attention to anything except the sound of my own voice.”
“It’s one of the keys to your success. Single-mindedness of purpose. If you came over to apologize, it’s not necessary. Just do me a favor and don’t try dragging me into any more of your bullshit hypotheticals.”
“I noticed you don’t drag.” He sipped at his cognac. “Deal, no more bullshit hypotheticals. Sorry about Rhonda.”
“Don’t be. It would have happened anyway.”
“That’s what Brittany said.”
“Smart girl. You should listen to her more often.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“So are we done?”
“You expecting somebody?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t beat around the bush.”
I looked at him. His hands were shaking. “What is it, Bert?”
“Goddamn it, Rail. I’m fucking dying.”
I thought for a moment he meant in the conversation, and I was about to agree, but then I realized he meant for real. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been real clumsy lately. Fell on the boat a couple of times. Again coming out of Ruth’s Chris. Brittany kept telling me to go to the doctor, but I figured I just needed to be more careful, maybe cut back on the booze. Then all of a sudden, I noticed I had muscle spasms. Little ones, like after you work out real hard. But they were all over. Back, arms, everywhere.”
He raised his leg, and I saw a muscle twitch in his calf, then another in his thigh. “See what I mean?”
I did, and I knew exactly where this conversation was going.
“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” I said.
He looked at me hard. “Fuck, do you believe it? I sure fucking don’t.”
“When did you find out?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“And, of course, you haven’t told Brittany.”
“I don’t know what to say. She’s everything to me.”
“And what? You think she’ll leave?”
“The doctor says I’m pretty far along. I got eighteen months, maybe less. And the end’s gonna be ugly. She’s ten years younger than I am and pretty as hell. What if she doesn’t want to sit around spooning baby food into a vegetable?”
“Pardon me for saying this to a guy who’s sick, but, Bert, you’re a fucking jerk.”
“Huh?”
“Jerk. Capital J, capital E, capital R…”
I could see his face flush. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? Jesus, I thought you were my friend.”
“Bert, she already knows.”
He was reeling. “What do you mean, she knows?”
“She came to see me a month ago. Worried sick it was ALS. Couldn’t get you to a doctor. Wanted my advice. Jesus Christ, Bert, she’s got a computer. All she had to do was type in the symptoms.”
He sat back in his seat, his cognac forgotten. Finally, he said, “What did you tell her?”
“Same thing I’m going to tell you. Go home and make love. Hold each other every chance you get. Don’t miss a moment together.”
Tears started to roll down his cheeks, but they weren’t tears of self-pity, they were tears of relief. “Rail…”
I held up my hand. “Every minute you spend fumbling around with me is a minute you’re not spending with her. Read my lips, go home.”
Just then my phone rang. I answered it. “Billy Mack, is that you?” I listened. “How’s she look…besides scared?”
Billy Mack, the doorman at the Miramar, said that Archer was shaking, so he’d put a blanket around her. That would be the adrenaline wearing off.
“Thanks,” I said. “You can do me one more favor. Anybody looks like they’re trying to follow her, jot down the license number. Maybe impede their progress a little too, if you can. Thanks, Billy Mack.”
I turned back to Bert, who was getting unsteadily to his feet. “I’m taking your advice, Rail. Going home.”
When he had trouble going down the stairs, I decided I better walk him to his boat. We didn’t talk, just moseyed along, like a couple of guys with nothing but time. The Once More With Feeling loomed up over the dock like a small hotel. We shook hands, and Bert got onto the electric lift that would take him up to the deck. A few seconds later, when he stepped off, he looked down and waved.
I waved back and turned away. Of one thing I was sure. It wasn’t going to take eighteen months.
With my binoculars, I saw the limo come down Newport Boulevard and turn onto Pacific Coast Highway. A few minutes later, the parking valet was leading Archer down the dock, a blanket draped over her shoulders.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain,” she called out.
“Only if you’re willing to take a shower. I recall being insulted along those lines once upon a time.”
She laughed. “Can’t wait. That poor limo driver.”
After she’d used up most of the hot water, she slipped into the white terrycloth Dolphin Bay bathrobe the club had sent down along with a basket of
women’s toiletries and a new pair of snow white Uggs.
As she looked around the salon, she let her eyes linger on some of the more interesting furnishings. “This is Kelly Wearstler, isn’t it?”
“That obvious, huh? The broker must have dropped her name thirty times before I finally figured out he wasn’t talking about a Dallas wide receiver.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head like she couldn’t believe anyone could be so obtuse. “Did your broker also happen to mention that something designed by her probably doubles its value?”
“It wasn’t that kind of transaction.”
She had found a pair of Ray-Bans somewhere and put them on to cover her eye. I thought about the similarities of this arrival with her sister’s but didn’t say anything. “If you’re hungry, there’s some leftover Chinese.”
“Thanks, but all I really want is a beer.”
“Those we have plenty of, and they’re icy.”
I got her one of the Coronas, and we went up top. She sat next to me in the other captain’s chair and sipped her beer.
“So how did it go at the hotel?”
“Do you know that doorman?”
“Who, Billy Mack? No, we’ve never met, but his accent sounded Samoan.”
She held her arms all the way open. “His shoulders must have been a yard across. He saw me shivering and sent some underling for a blanket. And when the limo showed, he almost threw a cabdriver across the lawn to get him out of the way. Then he stood in the middle of the drive, blocking traffic until we turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. I saw the limo driver hand him an envelope. Just curious, how much?”
“A couple of C-notes.”
“Nicely done.”
“At your house, did you happen to see any unfamiliar cars?”
“I was a little busy trying to get my heart out of my throat.”
“Perfectly natural.”
“I did notice one thing, though. One of the guys in my living room was wearing some kind of headband. Red, I think.”
“Headband-man,” I nodded. That’s what I expected.
“You know him?”
“Name’s Tino. The other guy is Dante. But that’s the extent of my book.”
“They had something to do with Kim’s death, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but they’re only a part of it.”
She looked off toward the channel. “Gives me a chill. It’s like my stepsister and I are finally connected.”
Suddenly, I remembered. Mallory. I had been about to call him when Bert had shown up.
He answered on the third ring.
“Sorry if I woke you, Sleeping Beauty.”
“I wasn’t asleep. Is something the matter?”
I heard another voice behind him. A woman’s. Mallory has a Danish girlfriend, Jannicke Thorsen, who’s in her fifties and drop-dead stunning. She runs a fur import business, which has earned her a prominent position on PETA’s blood-splash list, but she just shrugs and goes on with her life.
Her primary office is in Copenhagen, but when she’s in L.A., she stays with us. It’s a big house, and I’m glad for Mallory. I also like having her around. She doesn’t get jokes, but she’s a wonderful conversationalist, and she always brings Danish sausages. None better.
I said to Mallory, “Tell Jannicke I’m thinking about a full-length sable for après shower.”
I heard Mallory talking to her. “She says to call her next time you’re bathing, and she’ll come up and do the measuring herself.”
I laughed. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, Don Juan, but I want you to leave the house.”
“Tonight?”
“As soon as you can throw a few things in a suitcase.”
“May I ask why?”
Suddenly I heard Jannicke’s lilting Danish accent. “There it is again.”
I said to Mallory, “There’s what again?”
“We heard a noise out by the gate. I was just on my way outside to check when you called.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. I almost shouted, “Don’t go outside!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“In the den, playing the new Grand Theft Auto. The graphics are incred…”
I cut him off. “Listen to me. Take Jannicke and go upstairs right now. Use the back stairway. And bolt yourself in my bedroom.”
“I don’t under…”
I heard the sound of crashing glass. Then Jannicke screamed. I yelled into the phone, “Mallory!”
Through the open line, there was shouting, then running feet on wooden stairs. Jannicke screamed again. More shouts, then a door slammed, and a loud click. A dead bolt flying home.
“Mallory, are you there?”
He was out of breath, but he answered. “We’re here. Who the devil are these people?”
I could hear them beating on the bedroom door.
“How many are there?”
“Two, sir.”
From the sound through the phone, Tino and Dante were using something heavy and metal to try to get in. I guessed sabers from the Toledo Room. The door was four inches of solid oak reinforced with steel, but it wasn’t impregnable.
“Mallory, listen. The elevator. Go to the garage. How’s your driving, Sport?”
“If I take the Morgan, it’ll be as good as when I was sixteen.”
“Be sure to activate the front gate before you open the garage.”
I heard the elevator door close and the motor begin to whir. I said, “The good news is that if they were going to shoot you, they already would have.”
“How comforting,” Mallory answered as only a British retainer could.
“Get out of L.A. Go to San Diego, San Francisco, Vegas. Park the car in a downtown garage, and take a cab to the airport. Does your sister still live in Florida?”
“Yes, Palm Beach.”
“Then go there. Take Jannicke.”
“After the last few minutes, I’m not so sure she’ll…”
I listened as he got into the Morgan and revved it. I heard the garage door slide open. Then shouts, followed by the sound of screeching tires. I got a mental picture of the Englishman hunched over the wheel, Jannicke, beside him, blonde hair flying.
A few moments later, I heard Mallory shout over the wind, “We’re out, sir. Haven’t had this much excitement in years. And Jannicke says she’s never been to Florida.”
Just before he clicked off, he said, “And Mr. Black, I don’t really think you’re a schmuck.”
17
State Department on the Pacific
The next morning, Brittany came over to take Archer shopping. Archer had gotten up early and laundered her jogging gear. When she put it back on, it showed off her long, athletic body, and I told her so.
“Thanks,” she said. “You don’t get that many compliments when you run at night.” She pointed to her bad eye behind the Ray-Bans. “I like to keep from scaring kids.”
She’d slept in one of the two spare staterooms and looked completely rested. “I never knew I could sleep so soundly.”
“Sea air,” I said.
“Gotta take a bottle home.”
I told Brittany to get Archer whatever she wanted, and we’d settle up later. By the time they left, they were chatting away like they’d known each other all their lives. Another thing women are better at than men.
After Brittany started down the stairs, she stopped and came back. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled my face down to hers. Then she kissed me on the cheek. “Bert told me about your conversation. Thanks, Rail.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s with a real estate guy right now putting the warehouse on the market. Afterward, we’re never going to be apart again.” There were tears in her eyes.
I made some phone calls, then went up to the club. I found Emilio Rodeo in the kitchen ordering his underlings around like a Prussian drill sergeant with a Spanish accent. He used to cook at Horchow in Madrid,
the survivor of the old Berlin eatery, so Emilio’s menu sometimes looks like he can’t decide whether to flamenco or invade France. When he saw me, he came over, and we walked into the empty dining room.
“I need some provisions.”
“Ingredients or prepared meals?”
“Prepared. I’m dangerous around fire.”
“So I’ve heard. Mallory mentioned you ruined an entire set of cookware trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Too bad he didn’t get film.”
“Good luck to him if he asks for another vacation.”
Emilio chuckled. “What do you need?”
“Say, breakfast and lunch for five days. Dinner we can have out.”
“How many people?”
“Two.”
He smiled. “A little cruise to nowhere?”
“Who knows, maybe we won’t leave the dock.”
Emilio liked that. “Consider it done. This afternoon okay?”
“Sure.”
As I climbed back aboard the boat, my phone rang. It was Benny Joe. “I got your voice mail. The guy you want is Jacques Benveniste. He was born on that fuckin’ island you’re so interested in. But when I was talkin’ to him he called it somethin’ else.”
“Corse,” I offered.
“Yeah, that’s it. Corse. What the fuck? Either speak American, or shut the fuck up. Jackie used to be the State Department’s organized crime guy in the Med. Smart as they come but not one a them fuckin’ Ivy League dorks who tells you where he went to school before you’re done shakin’ hands. Ole Miss guy. So he won’t be lecturin’ you about how Karl Fuckin’ Marx had some good ideas, but there just aren’t enough Harvard PhD’s to get the word out. Goes by Jackie. No fuckin’ shit, I would too if my parents had laid Jacques on me. Fuckin’ frogs.”
“Benveniste? Small book. Corsican Jews.”
“Whoa, what’s that you’re always fuckin’ preachin’ about stereotypin’?”
“You mean like Ivy League dorks? Not the same thing, but nice try. How do I reach him?”
“Happens he’s retired some fuckin’ place out here. Dana Point. You know it?”