“Lovely.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll ring, Dudley, if Miss March changes her mind. Will you put on the lights in the sculpture garden?”
“Yes, sir.”
Alone, they were silent. She wished she had not come.
“This is van Gogh’s White Roses,” Jules said, finally, pointing to the picture over the fireplace.
“Such thick paint,” she said, looking up at the picture. “Didn’t I read somewhere that that picture is worth about forty million dollars?”
“That’s what that article said, yes.”
“My, oh my,” she said.
There was a silence again.
“This room we’re in is the library. It is where we spend most of our time when we are alone,” said Jules, who also felt the awkwardness of the situation. He was used to giving tours of his house to the many museum people who visited Clouds, but he could not think of the appropriate descriptions and comments he usually made to say to Flo.
Flo looked around the room, without moving her position.
“Beautiful appointments,” she said in a whispered voice.
Jules hated the word appointments when it was applied to the decorative arts, but he understood the extent of Flo’s discomfort and, for once, did not correct her. Instead, he squeezed her hand and she was grateful.
“I guess I better be on my way,” she said.
“On your way? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“That’s okay.”
The lights went on in the garden outside. She turned to look through the windows toward the grounds. “You must see the sculpture garden, at least,” said Jules. “It will look odd if you leave so soon.”
The telephone rang. Jules made a move toward the instrument.
“I thought in swell houses like this the butler always answered the phone and said, ‘The Mendelson residence,’ ” said Flo.
“He does, but that’s my private line. It’s Sims Lord, I’m sure. He was looking into something for me, about the house on Azelia Way,” said Jules, looking at her to see if what he said had registered on her. He picked up the receiver. “Hello? Oh, Pauline. How are you? How is your father? What? No, no, there’s no one here.”
He looked up at Flo, and their eyes met. She opened the door to the terrace and walked out, as if to go to see the sculpture garden.
“What’s that?” continued Jules, on the telephone. “You are? Oh, good. When? Yes, fine. I’ll make arrangements for the plane to leave for Bangor in the morning. I’ve missed you.”
When he finished the conversation with his wife, he rose and went out to the terrace, where Flo had gone. He passed the Rodin, which had once belonged to his grandfather. He passed the Henry Moore, running his hand over its smooth surface as he did so. He did not see Flo. He continued on to the Maillol, behind the orange tree. “Flo,” he called out. “Flo!”
From behind him the terrace door opened and closed. He looked back and saw Dudley crossing the lawn to come toward him.
“Were you looking for Miss March, Mr. Mendelson?”
“Yes. She came wandering out here when I took a telephone call. I forgot to warn her about the dogs and didn’t want her to be frightened.”
“Miss March left, sir,” said Dudley. “She said she had seen everything.”
“Oh,” said Jules.
Later that night, when Jules was undressing, he removed from the pockets of his suit jacket his wallet and change and handkerchief and keys and placed them on the top of a bureau in his dressing room. As he hung his jacket on a valet stand, he noticed an envelope in the inside pocket, which he had forgotten he had placed there. He took it out. On the top left-hand corner of the envelope was the name of the private detective, Trevor Dust. He tore it open and found inside the computer printout of the hotel guests at the Chateau Marmont on the night that the taxi driver from the Valley Cab Company told Trevor Dust he had dropped Flo March off at that address. He scanned the list. Flo March was not registered. His eyes continued down the list. He was startled to find the name Philip Quennell. A blind, hot rage welled up within him.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Jules Mendelson had Miss Maple place a call to the office of Marty Lesky at Colossus Pictures. For several minutes the two busy men exchanged pleasantries, and then Jules got down to the purpose of his call, which had nothing whatever to do with the Los Angeles County Museum, as Marty Lesky had anticipated.
“There’s a man working at your studio called Philip Quennell,” said Jules.
“What’s he do at my studio?” asked Marty.
“He is a writer, they tell me, who is writing a documentary film for Casper Stieglitz.”
“Oh, right. I met him the other night. He was at Casper’s for dinner. Wrote the book on Reza Bulbenkian. What about him, Jules?”
“Send him home.”
“Where’s home?”
“I don’t know where home is, but wherever it is, send him there.”
“A good writer’s hard to find, Jules.”
“No, he’s not, Marty. You told me yourself once. ‘You can always get another writer,’ you said.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, you did. I remember it distinctly. Send Mr. Quennell home.”
“I gottahava reason, Jules. This is not Andover. He was not caught smoking a joint. This is a studio I’m running here. I don’t just send guys home with no reason.”
“When’s your meeting for the new museum wing?”
“Tuesday. Your secretary phoned in your acceptance.”
“I’m not going to be able to make it, Marty.”
“Oh, come on, Jules.”
“About my pledge to the museum, Marty.”
“You can’t welsh on a pledge, Jules. Even Jules Mendelson can’t do that.”
“Fuck my pledge, Marty. What do I care about a wing with your name on it?”
“What was this guy’s name, Jules?”
“Quennell. Philip Quennell.”
Flo’s Tape #16
“Clouds. My God, what a house! I only saw it once, and I don’t think I was even there for half an hour, but I saw enough. I mean, it was perfect. Every detail. Everything in its right place. Everything beautiful. When they make Hollywood movies about rich people, they never get the sets to look like Clouds looked.
“There are some of those ladies you read about in coffee table books, like Mrs. Paley, and Mrs. Guinness, and the Duchess of Windsor. They knew how to run those great houses for their husbands and for their friends. Well, I have to hand it to Mrs. Mendelson. She was right up there with those other ladies when it came to putting a house together and knowing how to run it in the grand style.”
17
It was Bettye, Casper Stieglitz’s secretary, who told Philip Quennell over the telephone, when he happened to call late in the afternoon to see what Casper’s reaction had been to his first draft of the documentary film on the proliferation of drugs in the film industry, that Casper had decided to go with another writer.
“What does that mean, he has decided to go with another writer?” asked Philip.
“In other words, you’re fired,” said Bettye.
“I rather thought that was what you meant,” said Philip. “No offense, Bettye, but I’d like to get fired by my boss, not my boss’s secretary.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Quennell, but Mr. Stieglitz is in an important conference,” replied Bettye.
“Of course he is, that busy fellow,” said Philip. “Will you ask him to call me?”
“How soon will you be vacating your junior suite at the Chateau Marmont?” asked Bettye.
“Who said I was vacating it?”
“I have informed the hotel that as of midnight tonight, the studio will no longer be picking up the charges for the room,” said Bettye.
“What an active day you’ve had, Bettye,” said Philip.
“I’m just doing my job, Mr. Quennell,
” replied Bettye.
It did not surprise Philip that the several telephone calls he made to Casper Stieglitz at his home were not returned. That evening he drove to Casper’s house on Palm Circle, although he was sure he would be told by Willard, the butler, that Casper was not at home. When he buzzed the intercom at the gate, a red light went on on the closed circuit television. He heard Willard’s voice. “Yes?”
“Willard, I’d like to talk to you for a moment,” said Philip quickly, looking up into the camera.
“Mr. Stieglitz is not at home, Mr. Quennell,” said Willard.
“It’s you I wanted to see, Willard,” said Philip. “I have learned some interesting information from Lonny Edge about Hector Paradiso’s death, and I need some help from you in identifying someone.”
Willard’s voice became confidential. “Listen, Mr. Quennell. I’m not supposed to let you in here if you come by. I don’t know why, but I was told to say that Mr. Stieglitz is not at home and not to let you in.”
“I had the idea you were anxious to clarify the death of your friend Hector,” said Philip.
“I am.” There was uncertainty in his voice.
“I’ll only stay a minute, Willard,” said Philip.
“I’ll open the gate. But, please, don’t drive all the way up to the house. I’ll meet you in back of the pool pavilion,” said Willard.
When the gates opened, Philip drove up the driveway, past the tennis court. The night lights were on, and a game was in progress. He recognized the girlish laughter of Ina Rae and Darlene. Coming down the driveway from the house was Willard, wearing the long green apron he wore on silver-polishing days. He waved frantically to Philip to stop his car. “No, no. Don’t go up to the house,” he screamed. “I said to meet by the pool pavilion.”
Philip nodded in a friendly fashion, as if he didn’t understand, and continued up the driveway, leaving Willard behind. When he got to the courtyard, he saw that Willard had left the front door open. With great haste, he hopped out of his car and walked in the door, closing and locking it behind him so that Willard would be delayed getting in when he ran back.
He walked through the living room to the door that opened on the terrace and out to the projection room, where Casper spent most of his time. The curtains were drawn, and it occurred to Philip that Casper was screening a film.
Slowly he pulled back the sliding glass door. As he stepped into the rear of the semidarkened room, he saw Casper, wearing his dark glasses, rise unsteadily from his usual seat and go over to the bar. He was only half-dressed, wearing a black velour shirt but neither trousers nor undershorts. The heady scent of marijuana filled the air. It appeared to Philip that a session with the ladies on the tennis court had recently been completed. Casper looked at himself in the mirrored wall behind the shelves of bottles, as if he were admiring the remains of his good looks. Without removing his glasses, he turned his face carefully, first to one side and then the other, assuming an expression that erased the scowl line between his eyebrows. He held his mouth in such a way that the sagging beneath his chin vanished. Finally, satisfied with his looks, he lifted up his black velour shirt and began to urinate in the bar sink.
“That’s class, Casper,” said Philip Quennell, from behind. “And very sanitary, as well.”
“Jesuschrist,” said Casper, jumping. Through the mirror, he saw Philip walking up behind him. “You scared me. You made me piss all over myself and all over these glasses and bottles. What the hell are you doing here?”
“No, I won’t have a drink, thank you,” said Philip.
“Didn’t Bettye call you?”
“Actually, I called Bettye, and she relayed your message. I had never heard of being fired by a secretary before, and I said I wanted to hear it from your own lips, but she said you were in an important conference, so I just came over on my own.”
“I’m going to fire that fagola, Willard. I told him not to open the gates,” said Casper. He reached for a telephone.
“You mustn’t fire poor Willard, Casper. I’m afraid I played a trick on him to let me in. Good silver polishers are hard to find.”
“What do you want, Quennell?”
“Oh, it’s now Quennell, is it? I’ll tell you what I want, Stieglitz. I want to know why you fired me.”
“I just decided to go with another writer.”
“Bettye’s words exactly. Why is it I don’t believe them?”
Casper looked at Philip and adopted a comradely approach. “You and me, Philip. We just ran out of gas. Don’t take it personally. It happens all the time out here in Hollywood. Writers are an expendable breed. As Marty Lesky says, ‘You can always get another writer.’ Do you know how many writers I had on Candles at Lunch, for instance?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t care.”
Casper went back to where he had been sitting and pulled on his trousers.
“I want an answer, Casper.”
Casper nervously picked up a handful of cashew nuts from the coffee table and began to throw them in his mouth, several at a time. “I was disappointed with your interview with the narcs. I didn’t, uh, get a sense, uh, of the kind of obsession those guys have to catch the dealers in this war on drugs. Drugs, I don’t have to tell you, are destroying the youth of this nation.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding, Casper?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You beat the rap for possession of ten pounds of cocaine by having some of your crooked lawyers and influential friends, like Arnie Zwillman, the gangster, come down on Judge Quartz to suspend your sentence in return for making an antidrug movie, and all the time you’re taking drugs. I could blow the whistle on you, Casper, and, may I tell you, it wouldn’t read well in the trade papers.”
“I do not take drugs,” said Casper indignantly. “I admit, in my past, I did try drugs several times, but I have not taken any drugs since the day of my arrest, which was, as everyone knows, a total miscarriage of justice, as well as a mix-up.” His voice had become strident.
Philip walked over to the coffee table and picked up from the floor an amber-colored bottle of cocaine that Casper had dropped there. He carried it back to the bar and emptied the white powder into the sink in the bar. “It ought to be even better with your urine mixed in with it.”
“Get out of here,” said Casper, frightened.
Philip stared him down. “Did Ina Rae run her fingers through your hair?” he asked. “Your rug is crooked. Kind of at a tilt.”
Casper, enraged, rushed at Philip. “Get out of my house!”
Philip leaned toward Casper and snatched his dark glasses off him, grabbing them by the bridge over his nose.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Casper. “I can’t see anything without my glasses.”
“I knew that behind those shades you’d have darty little furtive eyes,” said Philip.
Casper sneezed.
Philip held up his hands and stepped backward. “Oh, please. I can’t handle another mouthful of your half-chewed cashews all over my face, Casper. I’ve already had that experience once.”
“The studio isn’t paying for the Chateau Marmont after tonight.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Your Bettye told me that. Look, Casper, I don’t mind being thrown off your picture, but I have a feeling it wasn’t your idea, and I want to know whose idea it was.”
Casper looked at Philip but didn’t answer.
“Who told you to fire me? Or rather, who told you to tell your secretary to fire me?”
“Nobody, I swear to God,” said Casper.
“Oh, sure,” replied Philip. “You made this decision all on your own.”
“Yes, I did. I just don’t think you captured the interview with the narcs in the right way,” said Casper.
“That’s the same scene you told me you liked so much the day before yesterday, Casper,” said Philip. “Who told you to fire me?”
Casper shook his head.
Philip dropped
Casper’s glasses on the floor and stepped on them. “Oops, I broke your glasses.”
Casper went down on his hands and knees to retrieve his glasses.
Philip reached out and grabbed him by the neck of his black velour shirt. “You know, Casper, when I was at Princeton, I saw your film A Mansion in Limbo three times, because I thought it was so great. I used to want to meet you. And now I have, and you’re nothing more than a pathetic drug addict with a face-lift and a wig. What happened to you, Casper?”
“Let me up,” said Casper.
“Who told you to fire me?”
“No one, I swear.”
“Either you tell me, or I’m going to rip this rug right off your head and call your girlfriends in here from the tennis court to see their little sugar daddy without his hair pasted on.”
Casper, frightened, looked up at Philip. “Don’t. I beg of you, Phil. Ina Rae doesn’t know I wear a rug.”
“Who told you to fire me, Casper?”
It was a surprise to Arnie Zwillman when he did not hear from Jules Mendelson after their initial meeting at Casper Stieglitz’s party, so he telephoned him at his office to set up a second meeting to discuss further the proposition he had suggested to Jules. Miss Maple, Jules’s secretary, was unfamiliar with the name Arnie Zwillman and asked him all the questions that an unfamiliar person is asked by an overly protective secretary.
“Will Mr. Mendelson know what this call is in reference to?” asked Miss Maple.
“Yes, he will,” replied Arnie.
“Mr. Mendelson is in conference at the moment. May I have your number, and I will tell him that you called, Mr., uh, what did you say your last name was?”
“Zwillman. Arnie Zwillman. Ring through.”
“What?”
“I said, ring through to his conference and tell him Arnie Zwillman is on the phone. He’ll take the call, believe me, Miss, uh, what did you say your last name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“Just ring through, Miss I-Didn’t.” He chuckled at his joke.
When Miss Maple informed Jules that a very rude person called Mr. Zwillman was on the line and had insisted that she ring through, Jules turned to Sims Lord and said, “It’s Zwillman.”
An Inconvenient Woman Page 29