A Savage Place

by Robert B. Parker

  I said to Candy, “Would it violate the terms of my contract if I told that guy to shut up about his goddamn roast beef?”

  Candy smiled. “I think you’re just supposed to concentrate on protecting me. I think you’re supposed to give etiquette instructions on your own time.”

  When we left, the middle-aged man was eating a piece of rare rib roast and talking with his mouth full about the weaknesses of French cooking, and the problems he’d had with it on his last trip to Europe.

  With a little pull from the Sound of the Golden West we had gotten Candy, under a phony name, the room adjoining mine at the Hillcrest. As we drove, the streets in Beverly Hills were as still as an empty theater in the night. The lobby was deserted.

  We were alone in the elevator.

  At her door I took her key and opened the door first. The room was soundless. I reached in and turned on the light. No one was there. I opened the bathroom and looked behind the shower glass. I opened the sliding closet door. I looked under the bed. No one was there either.

  Candy stood in the doorway watching me. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

  “Sure. Just because it’s corny to hide under the bed doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t do it.”

  I slid open the doors to the small balcony. No one there either. I went to the door connecting my room with hers. It was locked. “Before you go to bed, remember to unlock this,” I said. “No point me being next door if I can’t get to you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ll unlock it now.”

  “No,” I said. “Wait until I’ve checked out the room.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Of course.”

  “I’ll go over now. Lock the corridor door behind me and chain it. I’ll yell through the connecting door if it’s okay.”

  She nodded. I went out, went into my room, and made sure it was empty. The connecting door was bolted from each side. I slid my bolt back and said, “Okay, Candy.”

  I heard her bolt slip and the door opened. She was on the phone, the phone cord stretched taut across the bed as she had to reach to unbolt the door. As she opened the door she said, “Thank you,” into the phone and hung up.

  “I just ordered a bottle of cognac and some ice,” she said. “You want a drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Your place or mine?”

  “This isn’t a pass,” she said. “I’d just like to sit on the balcony and sip some brandy and talk quietly. I’m a little scared.”

  I thought about the balcony. We were seven floors up, on a corner; there was no balcony beyond us. The one next to us on the other side was mine. The ones on the next floor were directly above. It would be a hard shot. And you’d have to have been smart enough or lucky enough to get a room above us with the right angle. I said, “Okay, the balcony is good. But we’ll turn the lights off. No point in making a better target than we need to.”

  The bellhop brought the bottle of Rémy Martin, a soda siphon, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. I watched while Candy added in a tip and signed the bill. Then we shut off the lights and took the tray out onto the balcony.

  Lights speckled the Hollywood Hills. There was a faint sound of music from the rooftop lounge above us. On Beverwil Drive a cab idled. I opened the bottle and poured two drinks over ice with a small squirt of soda. Candy took one and sipped it. She had kicked her shoes off and now she put her stockinged feet up on the low cement railing of the balcony. She was wearing a plum-colored wraparound dress, and the skirt fell away halfway up her thigh. I stood leaning against the doorjamb and watched the other balconies. Mostly.

  “Tell me about yourself, Spenser.”

  “I was born in a trunk,” I said, “in the Princess Theatre in Pocatello, Idaho.”

  “I know it’s a corny question, but it’s still a real one. What are you like? How did you end up in such a strange business?”

  “I got too old to be a Boy Scout,” I said.

  I could smell flowers in the soft California evening. Candy sipped her brandy. The ice clinked gently in the glass as she rolled it absently between her hands. Mingled with the smell of flowers was the smell of Candy’s perfume.

  “That’s not an entirely frivolous answer, is it?” she said.

  “No.”

  “You want to help people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Makes me feel good,” I said.

  “But why this way? Guns, fists, hoodlums?”

  “Because they’re there,” I said.

  “You’re laughing at me, but I will proceed. It’s why I’m a good reporter. I keep asking. Why not be a doctor or a schoolteacher or”—she spread her hands, the glass in one of them—“you get the idea.”

  “Systems,” I said. “The system gets in the way. You end up serving the medical profession or public education. I tried the cops for a while.”

  “And?”

  “They felt I was too creative.”

  “Fired?”

  “Yes.”

  Candy poured herself another drink. I squirted in some soda. “Are you attracted to violence?” she asked.

  “Maybe. To a point. But it’s also that I’m good at it. And there’s a need for someone who’s good at it. Someone needs to keep that fat guy from smacking you around.”

  “But what if you meet someone who’s better?”

  “Unthinkable,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “It isn’t unthinkable at all. You’re too thoughtful a man not to have thought of it.”

  “How about unlikely then?”

  “Maybe, but what happens? How do you feel?”

  I took in a deep breath. “Talking about myself seriously has always seemed a little undignified,” I said. “But …” The cab on Beverwil got a fare. Must be going a long way. I had the feeling Beverly Hills closed at sundown.

  “But what?” Candy said.

  “But the possibility that you’ll meet somebody better is part of”—I gestured with my right hand—“if that possibility didn’t exist,” I said, “it would be like playing tennis with the net down.”

  Candy drank her brandy and soda and got another from the tray, and when she had the drink rebuilt, she looked at it and then looked at me. She took a sip and then held the glass against her chin with both hands and looked at me some more.

  “It’s a kind of game,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “A serious game,” she said.

  I was quiet. I poured a small splash of brandy in my glass and added a lot of ice and a lot of soda. Be embarrassing to pass out in front of the client.

  “But why can’t you play that same game inside a system? In a big organization?”

  “You’re talking about yourself now,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said. The final s slushed just barely.

  On the rooftop someone had apparently opened a window or a door. The music was louder, the Glenn Miller arrangement of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

  “I can work in a system just fine,” Candy said.

  “I imagine so,” I said.

  “So what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing.”

  We were quiet. The band on the roof was playing “Indian Summer.” The smell of flowers seemed to have faded. The smell of Candy’s perfume was stronger. My mouth was dry.

  “Is dancing too systematic for you?” Candy said.

  “No.”

  She got up and reached out toward me, and we began to dance, moving in a small circle on the narrow balcony, with the music drifting down. With her shoes off she was considerably smaller and her head reached only to my shoulder.

  “Are you alone?” she said.

  “Out here?”

  “No, in your life.”

  “No. I am committed to a woman named Susan Silverman.”

  “Doesn’t that cut down on your freedom?” Candy rested her head against my shoulder as we turned slowly in the darkness.

  “Yes,” I said. “But it’s worth it.
”

  “So you’re not completely autonomous?”

  “No.”

  “Good. It makes you easier to understand.”

  “Why do you need to understand me?” I said.

  She took her right hand out of my left and slid it around to join her left hand at the small of my back. Unless I was willing to dance around with my left hand sticking out like a figure in a Roman fountain, I had nothing to do but put it around her. I did.

  “I need to understand you so I can control you,” Candy said.

  “Your present technique is fairly effective,” I said. My voice was hoarse. I cleared my throat slightly, trying not to make any noise. “For the short run.”

  “Throat a bit dry?” Candy said.

  “That’s just my Andy Devine impression,” I said. “Sometimes I do Aldo Ray.”

  My throat felt tight, and there seemed to be more blood in my veins than I had begun the evening with. She giggled softly.

  “Would you care to help me undress?” she said.

  “Spenser’s the name, helping’s the game,” I said. I sounded like Andy Devine with a cold. I could feel that old red obliterative surge I always felt at times like this. The band on the roof was playing “The Man I Love,” featuring someone, not Lionel Hampton, on vibes.

  “There are two buttons,” Candy said. She took my hands in hers. “One here.” We continued to move slowly with the music. “One here.” She let the unbuttoned dress slide down her arms and drop to the floor behind her. There was moonlight amplified by some spillover from the hotel windows and the roof lighting. Her bra was the same plum color as her dress.

  “Three snaps,” she murmured. “Hooks and eyelets, actually, in a vertical line.”

  The bra slid down her arms in front of her and fell to the floor between us. “The panty hose while dancing will be a challenge,” I whispered. I wasn’t being secretive. It was the best I could talk.

  “Try,” she said. She stood almost still, her upper body moving slightly with the music. Her hands guided mine. It’s hard to be graceful removing panty hose. We didn’t fully succeed. But we got it done, and when I straightened, she wore only the gold around her neck. I felt oafishly overdressed.

  “Now you,” she said.

  “Always hard to know what’s best to do with a gun in this situation,” I wheezed.

  We were both naked finally, dancing on the balcony. The gun lay holstered on the table beside the cognac bottle. If an assassin broke in I could reach it in less than five minutes.

  “What’s that they’re playing?” Candy said in my ear.

  “ ‘I’ll Never Smile Again,’ ” I said.

  “I wish it were Ravel’s ‘Bolero,’ ” she said.

  “At my age,” I croaked, “you may have to settle for ‘Song of the Volga Boatmen.’ ”

  “Pick me up,” she said. She was whispering now too. “Carry me to bed.”

  “Before I do,” I said. “This is what it is. It leads nowhere. It means nothing more than the moment.”

  “I know. Pick me up. Carry me.”

  I did, she wasn’t heavy. I snagged the gun, too, from the coffee table and took it with me when we went into the bedroom.

  Chapter 10

  We were having corned beef hash at Don Hernando’s in the Beverly Wilshire. Candy had insisted that it was the world’s best, and I was willing to let her think so. She had never breakfasted at R.D.’s Diner in South Glens Falls, New York.

  Candy sipped her coffee. When she put the cup down, there was a lipstick imprint on the rim. Susan always did that too.

  “Any guilt?” Candy said to me.

  I ate a forkful of hash, took a small bite of toast, and chewed and swallowed. “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “What about the woman you’re committed to?”

  “I’m still committed to her.”

  “Will you tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will she mind?”

  “Not very much,” I said.

  “Would you mind if it were the other way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that fair?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with fair,” I said, “or unfair. I’m jealous. She’s not. Perhaps it’s a real recognition that hers would be an affair of the heart, while mine is of the flesh only, so to speak.”

  “My God, what a romantic distinction,” Candy said. “So flowery too.”

  I nodded and drank some coffee.

  “More than flowery,” Candy said. “Victorian. Women make love, and men fuck.”

  “No need to generalize. We did more than fuck last night, but we’re not in love. For Susan it wouldn’t have to be love, but it would involve feelings that you and I don’t have: interest, excitement, commitment, maybe some intrigue. For Suze it would involve relationship.

  “I can’t say for you, although I bet it had a little something to do with the agent you used to sleep with. For me it was sexual desire satisfied. I like you. I think you’re beautiful. You seemed to be available. I guess we could say that what was involved for me was affectionate lust.”

  Candy smiled. “You talk well,” she said. “And it’s not the only thing.”

  “Aw, blush,” I said.

  “But if you tell—what’s her name?”

  “Susan.”

  “If you tell Susan, won’t it make her a little unhappy to no good purpose?”

  “It may make her a little unhappy, but the purpose is good.”

  “Easing your conscience?”

  “Pop psych,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The world’s not that simple. I tell her because we should not have things we don’t tell each other.”

  “Would you want to know?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And if you knew, would it be the end?”

  “No. Dying is the only end for me and Suze.”

  “So you’re not so all-fired wonderful. You don’t risk that much by telling her.”

  “True,” I said.

  “But?”

  “But what.”

  Candy’s hash was barely nibbled. She poked at it with her fork.

  “But there’s more,” she said. “I’ve oversimplified it again.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell me.”

  “What difference does it make?” I said.

  “I want to know,” Candy said. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I want to know.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything I couldn’t tell her about.”

  “Are you ashamed of this?”

  “No.”

  “Would you do something that would make you ashamed?”

  “No.”

  She poked at her hash some more. “Jesus,” she said. “I think you wouldn’t. I’ve heard people say that before, but I never believed them. I don’t think they even believed themselves. But you mean it.”

  “It’s another way of being free.”

  “But how—”

  I shook my head. “Eat your hash,” I said. “We have a heavy crime-busting schedule. Let’s fortify ourselves and not talk for a while.” I ate more hash.

  Candy opened her mouth and closed it and looked at me and then smiled and nodded. We ate our hash in silence. Then we paid the check, went out, got in Candy’s MG, and drove to Century City.

  Oceania Industries had executive offices high up in one of the towers. The waiting room had large oil paintings of Oceania’s various enterprises: oil rigs, something that I took for a gypsum mine, a scene from a recent Summit picture, a long stand of huge pines. On the end tables were copies of the annual report and the several house organs from the various divisions. They had titles like Gypsum Jottings and Timber Talk.

  There was no one in the reception room except a woman at a huge semicircular reception desk. Her fingernails were painted silver. She looked like Nina Foch.

  “May I help you?” she said. Elegant. Generations of breeding.

  I
asked, “Are you Nina Foch?”

  She said, “I beg your pardon?”

  I said, “You left pictures for this?”

  She said, “May I help you?” Stronger this time, but no less refined.

  Candy gave her a card. “I’m with KNBS. I wonder if we might see Mr. Brewster.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” Nina said.

  “No, but perhaps you could ask Mr. Brewster …”

  Nina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Mr. Brewster sees no one without an appointment.”

  “This is rather important,” Candy said.

  Nina looked even more severe, but patrician. “I’m sorry, miss, but there can be no exceptions. Mr. Brewster is—”

  “Very busy,” I said, ahead of her.

  “Yes,” she said. “He is, after all, the president of one of the largest corporations in the world.”

  I looked at Candy. “Gives you goose bumps, doesn’t it,” I said.

  Candy placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. She said to Nina Foch, “Some very disturbing charges have been leveled at Mr. Brewster. I should like, in the interests of fairness, to give him a chance to deny them before we go on the six o’clock news with the story.”

  Nina stared at us in a refined way for a moment and then got up abruptly and went through the big bleached-oak raised-panel door between the painting of the pine trees and the painting of the oil wells. In maybe three minutes she was back.

  She sat behind her big circular reception desk and said, “Mr. Brewster will see you shortly.” She didn’t like saying it.

  “Freedom of the press is a flaming sword,” I said.

  Candy looked at me blankly.

  “Use it wisely,” I said. “Hold it high. Guard it well.”

  “A. J. Liebling?” Candy said.

  “Steve Wilson of The Illustrated Press. You’re too young.”

  She shook her head again and did her giggle. “You really are goofy sometimes.”

  A tall man with platinum-blond hair and a developing stomach came into the reception room and hustled by us toward the bleached-oak door. His glen plaid suit fit well, but his shoes were shabby and the heels were turned. He went through the oak door and it closed behind him without sound.

  Nina Foch was erect at her desk, without expression and apparently without occupation. She looked elegantly at the double doors that led out of the reception room to the ordinary corridor beyond.