by Alan Russell
His hair was combed back and down, not parted on the left as usual. He was wearing wire-frame reading glasses that he’d picked up that morning from a drugstore, glasses that were giving him a slight headache. He had on a blue herringbone jacket and gray slacks. All Graham was missing were pony shoes for the ultimate preppie outfit, but his penny loafers would have to do. He looked at his watch and picked up his briefcase.
Graham walked in the opposite direction Lanie and her nurse had traveled, then made his way over to Ocean Avenue. He set up his second observation spot at a bus stop kitty-corner from the restaurant. The women arrived before his bus. For an actress, Lanie didn’t have the insouciant pose down very well, looking nervous as she entered the restaurant. Graham waited several minutes before he was certain they weren’t under observation, then crossed the street. A pretty blonde hostess greeted him at the door with a smile. Graham spoke before she could.
“My name’s Bunyan. I have a reservation for two, but I imagine my friend’s already here.”
“Yes, Mr. Bunyan, if you’d just follow—”
“No need,” he said, walking by her.
Per his reservation request, Lanie was seated in the back. The nurse, four tables away, seemed to be the only one looking her way. Lanie was studying her watch and not appearing happy with what she saw. At his approach, Lanie looked up for a moment, took him in at a glance, and turned her head. She probably figured he was a diner heading toward the restroom. When Graham sat down in the booth she looked at him a second time and registered surprise.
“You clean up well,” she said.
“I molted.”
“Estelle was just being protective when she described you as a snake.”
“I know.”
This was the first time, Graham thought, that they’d been alone together. Death had been hovering around them their first meeting, and Estelle was there for the second. With a camera in his hands, Graham was never intimidated by star power. Without his equipment, he felt at a loss.
“I hear the food’s good here,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
Graham motioned with his head. The nurse was monitoring both of them. “If you don’t eat, I get the feeling she’s going to come over and force-feed you.”
“I’m afraid you might be right.”
Lanie picked up the menu and started scanning it. Graham followed suit. They finished their looking several moments before a waitress approached.
“We can skip hearing about the arugula and lentil special,” Graham said.
“Very good,” said the waitress, and turned to Lanie.
“I’ll have the arugula and lentil special,” she said.
The waitress’s pen hung in the air. “I’m sorry—”
Graham tried to unsuccessfully suppress a laugh. “I think that was directed at me,” he said.
“I’d like the Caesar salad with chicken,” Lanie said. “Dressing on the side. And iced tea, please.”
“Make that two iced teas,” said Graham, “and I’ll have the grilled shrimp and swordfish brochette.”
As the waitress left their table, Graham said, “I shouldn’t have spoken for you.”
“I didn’t take umbrage. I think I just wanted the opportunity to say the word ‘arugula.’ ”
“Feel free to slip it in the conversation anytime.”
Lanie reached into her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. “For my protection, I need to record what’s said. Is that all right with you?”
Graham shrugged and nodded. She activated the recording app and said, “You’ll need to respond verbally, Mr. Wells.”
“Yes, I agree to the recording of this conversation.”
“Please give your full name for the record, as well as the date, time, and location where this meeting is taking place.”
“You’re good at this,” Graham said.
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” He moved his head slightly closer to the phone and answered all that was asked of him. When he finished, he added, “For the record, let me state that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist Party.”
“What I’m more interested in knowing is whether you currently have me under surveillance, and whether you are recording this conversation.”
“You are the only one doing any recording.”
“I also need to be assured that during this meeting I will not be photographed surreptitiously either by you or one of your associates.”
“I get the feeling you’re going to be reading me my Miranda rights any moment.”
“I’m sure you are familiar with those words.”
“I come unarmed. I don’t have a camera. Okay? And I don’t have any partner shooting pictures from behind a menu.”
“Thank you.” She reached for the phone and clicked off the recording app.
Graham said, “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
“What?”
“You got me thinking about Miranda.”
Their iced teas arrived, and Lanie seemed to take refuge in her drink. To get her eyes out of its russet well, Graham said, “Arugula.”
She looked up, but she didn’t look amused. “Why don’t we get down to business? Show me the photos.”
“I’d rather wait until after our meal.”
“I’m not hungry. The only reason I am here is because of what you have, or don’t have, in your briefcase.”
There was no compromise in her expression. Graham reluctantly reached over, opened his briefcase, and handed her a sealed manila envelope. She used a bread knife to cut it open, and then withdrew the first glossy. Graham couldn’t see which picture it was, but he did see her reaction. She paled noticeably. Her lips trembled and her eyes watered.
“Why don’t I hold that package for a little while,” Graham said.
“Why? I’m sure you have copies.”
“Because the pictures don’t get any prettier. Because in a few minutes you might be better ready to view them. Because if you get any more upset, I’m afraid Nurse Ratched is going to come over here and deck me.”
Lanie replaced the photo in the envelope. She looked up to see the nurse’s scrutinizing eyes. Almost instantaneously she transformed her appearance, somehow even managing to get color in her face. Her sorrow vanished from view, replaced by a relaxed, even happy visage. Still, when Graham retrieved the envelope, she didn’t object.
He needed to stop her ruminating, distract her somehow. “That’s a neat trick,” Graham said.
“What is?”
“The way you did the ‘Janus face,’ as my father calls it. He is quite practiced at it as well.”
“Is he an actor?”
“No. He’s a recently retired foreign service officer.”
Incredulous: “A diplomat?”
Graham nodded. “At the moment he’s living in England, but he’ll be moving to India soon. I’m afraid his retirement is going to be more like the country du jour. I thought he’d settle down after all these years, but old habits are hard to break. The two of us lived around the world while I was growing up.”
“What happened to your mother?”
Graham fudged the truth. “She passed away when I was a boy.”
“That must have been hard.”
He shrugged.
“A foreign service officer’s son turned paparazzo. That’s hard to believe.”
“No one’s ever accused me of being a chip off the old block.”
“Maybe you took after your mother’s side.”
“No.” His answer was too quick and vehement, but he hoped she didn’t notice.
Lanie was looking at him, but he couldn’t tell how deep her scrutiny went. “Have you set a price for your pictures?”
He shook
his head. “And I’m not being coy. It’s just that I have been too busy trying to stay alive.”
“You seem to have succeeded.”
“I was lucky. I can’t count on that. Those two men I told you about filled me up with vodka, and then tried to make a crispy critter out of me before sending me off the road. I need to know who they are and why they wanted me dead.”
“They were just scaring you.”
“I’ve tried to believe that. It doesn’t wash. Tell me about those men. You said they were with the Mossad.”
“I was mistaken.”
“Why did you think they were with the Mossad?”
“I don’t remember saying that. It was probably the meds speaking.”
“Do those two men have something to do with your attempting suicide?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Graham’s eyes strayed down to the manila envelope, then looked back at her. “Yes, you do.”
“What I did, I am responsible for.”
“Are you talking about your suicide or something else?”
“I didn’t come here to have this conversation.”
Graham had a sudden insight. “Did you think by killing yourself, you could atone for something?”
Lanie reached for her purse.
“Don’t go,” Graham said. “I won’t push it any further.”
She hesitated for a moment, but then pushed her chair back and stood up.
“It’s personal for me,” Graham said. “My mother committed suicide.”
He watched her weighing his words, deciding whether to believe him or not, and what to do if she did.
“It’s true.” Graham rose to his feet and pulled back the chair closest to him. “Sit down and I’ll tell you the story.”
He gestured again, and she took a seat in the offered chair. Graham fiddled with the silverware in front of him. “Uh,” he said, thinking where to begin. When he finally started, he didn’t look at her, choosing instead to talk to the empty seat across from him.
“It happened when I was almost ten. It was the second time she abandoned me.
“The first time was when I was three. My mother had the acting bug. She said she left me to pursue her destiny. My father described it as ‘moth syndrome.’ She was attracted to the brightest lights on the planet: Hollywood.
“My mother was very young, and very beautiful, when she married my father. He was ten years older, urbane and sophisticated, but he still had to use all his diplomatic persuasion to win her over. You see, even then my mother had her dream to be in pictures. She was only nineteen. I am sure she thought her life was going to be exciting, almost like the movies, but it didn’t turn out that way. Money was tight, and when my father got his placement overseas she became homesick. Their young marriage was further complicated when Mother became pregnant with me.
“We were living in Denmark when she announced to my father that she wanted a divorce so that she could go back to the States and pursue the acting career she always wanted. My father says the biggest failure in his diplomatic career was not convincing her to stay so that they could work out their situation.
“She didn’t give him much of a chance, though. When she made her announcement, her bags were packed. Only one other matter needed to be attended to. She told my father that he would have to raise me. She also left it up to him to explain everything to me.”
Graham took a sip of his iced tea, and then put the glass down. He seemed in no hurry to say anything else.
“You were three?” Lanie asked.
He still didn’t look at her. “Three and a half.”
“Did you see her again?”
A nod. “Every other year I flew to LA for a two-week visit. She was always at a new house with a new man, usually some producer who was going to make her a star. Toward that goal she was willing to do anything. She took acting and voice lessons and worked out. And she tried to find a shortcut to the top through the casting couch, but the only thing it got her was the reputation of being a very pretty pass-around piece of ass. A Blue Page girl.”
Lanie knew the term. Every year thousands of young women travel to Hollywood hoping to become a star. People in the industry prey on them, promising them parts, or saying they will get them a reading. The quid pro quo is that they are supposed to go to bed with the person making the arrangements. The real tragedy is how seriously they prepare for their lines, for their big break. Their part comes out of the so-called blue pages. They never know that when they do their reading there is no film in the camera. Later, they are told their part was “cut,” or that someone else got it.
“She ended her life at a party in Newport Beach,” said Graham. “Over the years she had gone to hundreds of similar parties, hobnobbing with film people, auditioning as it were. In the days leading up to the party she came to the realization that her dream wasn’t going to happen. While the champagne flowed, she walked out into the surf beyond the breakers and took a midnight swim.”
Graham stopped talking for a moment. His voice changed, became a little less matter-of-fact. “There was no moon that night. When it’s dark on the beach, you don’t see the horizon. I wonder what she was swimming toward.”
“How can you be sure it was suicide?”
“She left an envelope. There was no note, just a list of people to be contacted.”
Their food arrived. “Saved by the bell pepper,” Graham said.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked. “Perhaps something to drink?”
The waitress directed her question, and her eyes, to Lanie. She was smiling, being overly exuberant. Lanie had been recognized.
“A martini suddenly sounds good,” Graham said.
When the waitress reluctantly left, torn between her duty and asking for an autograph, Graham turned to Lanie and admitted, “I don’t even like martinis. But it was my mother’s drink of choice.”
Lanie said, “I always remember what Dorothy Parker wrote about martinis: ‘After three I’m under the table, after four I’m under my host.’ ”
Graham shook his head. “I envy people who can pull verse like that off the top of their heads.”
“In my case, you can spare your envy. I played Miss Parker onstage. For six months I recited her lines. But I should have remembered them a little better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her verse was often morbidly funny. She wasn’t afraid to crib from her own pain. She attempted suicide several times, and lived to write about it.
“Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.”
Graham’s martini arrived. Lanie kept her eyes on the table, her body language making it clear that she didn’t want to be disturbed. The waitress lingered for too long. She obviously wanted to tell Lanie what a fan she was. When she finally left, Graham raised his glass, and Lanie reached for her iced tea. With their backs to the rest of the restaurant, to the rest of the world, he proposed a toast:
“You might as well live.”
“You might as well,” Lanie said, clicking glasses.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Jaeger stretched out, his first-class airline seat allowing him plenty of room. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit, complemented by a Turnbull & Asser shirt. His clothes were as stylishly conservative as they were expensive. By appearances, he was a successful young businessman, an entrepreneur shaping the new world. And just like them, Jaeger was out to make a killing.
He hadn’t expected to be returning to Los Angeles so soon, but circumstances dictated that the brothers keep out of sight for a few days. As slim as the possibility was, they could be identified by both the paparazzo and the actress. That wasn’t a chance they could take.
It was also why the paparazzo had to die.
�
�Would you like some sparkling wine, sir?”
The flight attendant flashed her dimples and tilted the bottle invitingly toward him. It was covered with a white cloth that hid its label.
On this trip, Jaeger was using his public school English accent. It was a good enough imitation that even when he employed it in Great Britain no one ever suspected he was anything but an upper-crust native.
“What kind is it?”
“A Taittinger Brut.”
Jaeger returned her smile, and took notice of her name tag. Angelica. She was attractive, petite enough to look good even in an airline uniform. Her dimples reminded him of someone.
“Taittinger,” Jaeger repeated, then shook his head reluctantly. He never deviated from his brand. “You wouldn’t have some Veuve Clicquot, would you?”
A shake of her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Then I’ll just have a bottled water.”
Angelica opened her mouth to offer him a selection, but Jaeger raised his hand to ward off her question and smiled. “I’m not particular about what kind of water you bring me. I am only fussy about my champagne.”
The flight attendant laughed. “That’s a good thing to be particular about,” she said. “I must make a note to try your champagne. What name did you say?”
“Veuve Clicquot. It’s a sentimental favorite of mine.”
Angelica had already noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but with men you could never tell whether they were married or not. “Let me guess: it was the champagne served with your wedding toasts.”
He shook his head. “But should I ever get married, that will certainly be what is served at my wedding.”
Each appraised the other. Angelica found herself beguiled by his speech and looks. Even his scar fascinated her. It covered much of the left side of his face, but made him that much more masculine.