by Al Roker
“The thing is, viewers like you, Billy. They find you friendly and sympathetic. They’ll be tuning in to see you. Which means they’ll also be sampling the guest hosts. We’ll get a much better idea of who to anoint. I don’t understand your reticence.”
“Hello? I’ve got a restaurant to run. Not to mention Wake Up. And the cable show.”
“The morning show can wait. We can do repeats of the cooking show. And as far as the Bistro goes, I was there last night, and Cassandra had the place spinning like a top.”
Having run out of all the other reasons for me not to do the show, I decided to tell her the truth, sort of. “Gretch, I don’t want to do the show because I’m afraid.”
“Please, Billy, stage fright?”
“Hell, yes. Frightened that the stage could blow up again! Suppose that was only the first bomb?”
Gretchen and Vida, at opposite ends of the country, stared at me with identical expressions of surprise.
Gretchen was the first to speak. “Why would you think such a thing?” she asked.
“Listen to our newscasts,” I said. “Hate’s very big right now. Suppose some crazy has a hate on for WBC.”
“The police must be looking into that possibility,” Vida said. “Did they mention it to you?”
“No. But it’s not like they go jabbering about their plans to every handsome chef they meet.” I couldn’t tell them what Brueghel had been jabbering about. They were, after all, in the news business. If word of my involvement—or worse, Roger being a suspect—broke before Brueghel gave the go-ahead, there’d be two people wanting to kill me in L.A.
“That reminds me,” Vida said. “There’s that bunch of freaks who did everything they could to stop the renovation. The Save the Margo Channing Theater Society. They protested, picketed, even tried to get the building declared a historic monument. They went totally aggro when Carmen sicced the cops on them. Came back that night and spray-painted graffiti all over the front of the theater. I could see them thinking they could stop the show with a little boom, then overdoing.”
“There are so many disturbed people today,” Gretchen said. “Especially out there. Maybe we should hire that fellow who took care of Tonette when her fiancé was giving her all that grief. You remember, Vida, the pretty-boy investigator who wore those ridiculous, loud Hawaiian shirts and had an office full of Disneyland junk.”
“Hard to forget a hottie like that,” Vida said. “Man talked a good game, but it was his buddy with the funny tattoos who got the job done.”
“What’s the situation with the FBI?” Gretchen asked.
“They were there,” Vida said. “I got the feeling they were willing to take a step back and let the LAPD run with the investigation.”
“I suppose we should do the same,” Gretchen said. “Regarding your fears, Billy, beginning tomorrow afternoon—I guess it’s actually this afternoon—you’ll be doing the show from a studio on the WBC lot. So right away, the security will be tighter. We can even add an extra guard or two on site. It won’t be a big deal getting audience members to pass through a metal detector. It’s not like they’re paying customers. And our insurers will be telling us that’s something we should have had in place at the theater.”
“Okay, Gretchen,” I said. “But I beg you: Don’t keep me out here longer than a couple of weeks.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Billy. The contracts will be on Wally Wing’s desk by noon. I’ll be talking to Carmen about beefing up the security. Is there anything else?”
“Who’s going to be hosting the show?”
“The comedy writer. What’s his name? Gibby Lewis.”
Interesting. Des’s demise couldn’t have worked out better for the writer than if he’d planned it.
“Gibby, huh?”
“You say that like it’s a mistake.”
“No. I was just … no.” There was no reason for me to rain on Gibby’s parade.
“Max seems to think he can do it. And if he doesn’t work out, we’ll just replace him.”
“It’s your sandbox.”
“I didn’t mean to sound harsh. The late hour. The lack of sleep. Take care of yourself, Billy.”
The image of Gretchen faded and the screen went to black. Vida clicked off the TV and said, “Well, Billy, shall I drive you to your car? It’s probably freed up by now.”
“It’s … not working.”
“What do you mean? We can call Triple A.”
“It’s … well, the detective in charge of the investigation wants to make sure it’s safe to drive.”
She frowned. “He thinks what, that it could blow up?”
“Maybe, but he’s just being cautious. It was parked near the theater.”
“A bodyguard might be a good idea.”
“No. Really. No bodyguard. I may change my mind if they do find … anything in the car.”
“Then I should drive you home.”
“Actually, there could be a bomb out there.”
She stared at me. “Lame, Billy. Almost high-school lame.”
“It’s not a line. I can stay at a hotel, I guess.”
“At this hour? I wouldn’t put a dog in a hotel at this hour. Get your little bag and come on.”
I picked up my overnight bag and followed her down a hall to a nice peach-colored room with windows that looked out on the city, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a king-size bed.
“You wouldn’t have pajamas in that bag?” she asked.
“No. Just a razor and a toothbrush and a tuxedo that I’ll never wear again.”
She opened a drawer near the bottom of the chest and withdrew a dark green box with a Polo horsey logo. She opened it and removed a pair of black silk pajamas that she tossed on the bed. “They may be a little large,” she said.
They still had tiny white tags attached. “These are new,” I said. “And they look expensive.”
“I’m glad they’ll be getting some use. They’ve been in that drawer awhile.”
“It’s a shame to wear something this nice and just go to sleep.”
“Give it a rest, Billy,” she said. “Literally.”
She opened a door that led to a black-and-white tile bathroom. “All the comforts of home,” she said, and left me to my room with a bath.
I splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth, and put on the silk pajamas, which were only one size too big. Not the worst thing for pajamas. I turned out the light in the bathroom but left the bedroom table lamp on. Then I pulled down the oatmeal-colored covers and slid into the bed.
It was one of those Posturepedic numbers, slightly hard but with a pliable top layer that conformed to your body, a bruised and bomb-weary body. I lay there, wondering if the night was over or if there might be more to come.
Just as I was drifting away into sleep, I felt the bed move slightly, then realized Vida was lying beside me. She was wearing a very thin, see-through gown, and there was a lot to see through it. She rolled toward me and, holding my face in both hands, kissed me hard. I put my arms around her and pulled her on top of me.
There was one little problem. She was also on top of the covers. We stayed like that for a minute. Then I said, “It’s nice and warm under here.”
“I bet it is,” she said.
“I think you should join me.”
“I want to.”
Then she rolled away and got up from the bed. “But not tonight.”
“Why not?”
She paused at the door. “It’s just our first date,” she said. Then she added, “Sleep well,” and was gone.
I lay in priapic misery, thinking, I never saw that coming. But the whole night had been like that, chock-full of things I never saw coming.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
“There were hundreds of prints at that multimillion-dollar joint where you’re staying,” Detective Brueghel informed me on our drive to Malibu the next day. “But none of them Charbonnet’s. Still, we’re checking ’em all. Maybe w
e’ll get lucky and find a perp he hired to plant the rat.”
“Roger was at Malibu Sands that afternoon.”
“I know. The security guards showed us the log. They didn’t note or remember anybody entering with him. But he drives a Rolls. Lots of room for a guy to hide behind the front seats, and a vehicle that expensive intimidates even real cops. I’m sure those bozos didn’t bother to give it a second’s glance.”
For the next few minutes, we drove in silence. I watched sun-dappled gulls swooping low to the choppy, bottle-green Pacific. With just a flick of their wings, they soared up into a cloudless blue. The birds reminded me of discarded wrappers picked up from a grimy Manhattan sidewalk and sent skyward by a sudden blast of subway-stirred air. The sad thing was that I missed even the litter of New York.
Nostalgia? Or depression? Maybe both.
Another glum mood. Another day.
I had woken just before nine, feeling a little let down to discover I was all alone in the hillside house. Alone but not forgotten. Before heading to work, Vida had left enough Starbucks French Roast heating in the carafe for two cups, along with Pop-Tarts resting beside the toaster. The latter were filled with grape goo and had sprinkles, neither of which I fancied. But the thought was kind.
Vida had also left a hastily scribbled note: “Want to chance a second date? Call me.” She added a P.S.: “The front door locks itself.”
“P.P.S.: You have a cute snore.”
My phone call caught her on her way to Yorba Linda, a coastal city some forty miles southeast of L.A. It was famous for being the birthplace of Richard Nixon and, more recently, the discovery of what the media had labeled “Satan Prep,” a private school that was, per the L.A. Times, “rumored to be staffed by demon worshippers who forced their young students to commit acts of depravity.”
Vida told me she’d covered the story for Hotline when it broke. She and a cameraman were headed back because after more than a month in prison, the supposedly satanic teachers were finally getting their day in court. Vida was hoping to interview them and their families, their accusers, and folks on the street who, she said a bit gleefully, “must be bummed at what the whole thing is doing to the city’s rep as one of the safest (and wealthiest) in the U.S.”
I told her that sounded like she’d be there for a while.
“Why? What’s on your mind?”
“Dinner tonight.”
“Tonight probably won’t work,” she said. “What about Saturday night?”
“What about Thursday night? Or Friday?” I asked.
“Saturday’s our best bet,” she said. “Besides, you won’t be doing a show. We could have a nice dinner at my place at a normal hour.”
“I’ll miss you, but Saturday it is.”
“I’ll make it worth the wait,” she said.
We ended on that pleasant note. Then I made the mistake many gamblers do. Instead of quitting while I was ahead, I decided to answer some of the calls that had come in last night.
Wally Wing, once he’d breezed through a perfunctory inquiry about my post-bombing physical condition, began to chastise me for not letting him renegotiate the details of my updated O’Day at Night contract. “I’m sitting here getting sick to my stomach looking at this … thing Business Affairs calls a contract,” he said, and went on from there. I hung up, freeing Wally to do his thing with the Business Affairs pirates at WBC.
Next I called Kiki, expecting the worst—a showdown about my imaginary objection to her imaginary romance with Stew Gentry. Instead, it was a different complaint. She’d watched the show and had stayed up all night worrying about me. Why the fuck hadn’t I called?
I apologized humbly, then said, “About you and Stew …”
“Cassandra told you, huh?”
“She mentioned you think I—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Billy. I’m mortified that I said those things. I was feeling very vulnerable at the time. And maybe a little tipsy. I know you better than to think you’d interfere with my happiness just to keep me working for you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.
“Then you forgive me?”
“Of course. And you can do me a big favor, Kiki. Please spread the news of my good health to all my friends on the morning show. And my non-friends.”
“Will do. But I’m going to call Stew first,” she said. “He’s very concerned.”
“You talked to him today?”
“Yes,” she said brightly. “We’ve been … talking. In fact, he invited me to spend the first week in September with him in Spain. Just before he starts a new movie.”
“Ah,” I said. “Glad that worked out for you.”
“No fear. I’ll use my vacation days.”
My next call was to Cassandra, who surprised me with an initial display of compassion. “Oh, God, Billy. I’m so happy you’re okay. I actually stopped off at Old Saint Pat’s this morning and lit a candle.” I thanked her for doing that. Then I mentioned that I was going to be staying in L.A. a little longer than anticipated.
“Of course you will,” she’d replied. “And let’s see: What would be keeping you there? The bombings? The earthquakes? The dry winds that suck all the moisture out of your body? Or could it be brain-dead bimbos doing all the sucking?” And she was back in form.
Brain-dead bimbos, especially the sucking variety, were odd subjects to be on the mind of someone who’d visited Old Saint Pat’s that very morning. But I didn’t bring that to her attention. Instead, I tried to repeat all the reasons Gretchen had given me last night for staying. I even passed along Gretch’s compliment about how splendidly she, Cassandra, was running the Bistro.
“About that, Billy. I was not hired to run this place by myself. If you’re going to be continuing your … dalliances in movieland, I want an assistant.”
Oooooh. Good one. A new employee meant paperwork, insurance, at least a minimum salary. “I’ll be here only a few more weeks,” I said.
“And then you’ll be off somewhere else. I could put an ad in the paper today.”
“Why don’t I just give you a raise instead?”
“How much?” she asked.
We settled on a figure that was less than half of what an assistant’s assistant would cost.
I was putting my razor and toothbrush back into my overnight bag when Brueghel called to say that no incendiary device had been found in the Lexus. “Where are you right now?”
“At a friend’s.”
“Why don’t I swing by and pick you up? We can drive out to get your things, and then I’ll drop you at your car.”
Which was why I was in his Ford Crown Victoria, heading for Malibu Sands, on a cloudless, sunny day, thinking wistfully of dirty old New York.
“Charbonnet doesn’t have such a good alibi this go-round,” Brueghel said with a rare grin. “Claims that at the approximate time Des O’Day went misty, he was at his place, waiting for a lady to show.”
“What’s her name?” I asked, wondering if it might be Stew’s daughter, Dani.
“Zeena Zataran or Cataran or Trashcan, one of those cable reality-show hotties. She was at his place in Brentwood when I dropped by at around one last night. In his hot tub. Naked, of course. Looked like she had cantaloupes floating in front of her. Shameless little female. Asked me if she could stay in the tub while we talked. I had no problem with that.
“Didn’t have much to say, though. Just that she got a call from him around nine-thirty. He wanted to know where she was. She told him she was at a party at the Chateau Marmont, helping to launch a new brand of vodka. He reminded her that she’d agreed to have dinner with him at his place.
“She told him she didn’t remember making the date. In any case, her agent had booked her for the vodka gig. But the party was winding down. If he was still in the mood for a booty call, she could make it to his place a little later. She just had to spend a few more minutes with the dudes who were paying her ten grand to show up at their lame part
y.”
“What time did she get there?” I asked.
“She thinks it was somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven. Charbonnet was waiting with a shaker full of sour orange daiquiris, her current favorite.”
“So it would have been tight, making it to Brentwood from the theater by ten-thirty. But doable.”
“That’s my take,” the detective said. “The girl said she thought he was at his place when they spoke at nine-thirty, that there was geezer jazz music he likes playing in the background. My guess is he was sitting in his car outside the theater, playing the radio, when he called.”
“ ‘Geezer jazz music,’ ” I said. “She sounds like she’s easily bored, self-absorbed, and spoiled by celebrity. The perfect match for Roger. Was he naked in the hot tub, too?”
Brueghel didn’t think the question was frivolous. “He answered the door dry as a bone and fully dressed,” he said. “Which I found interesting, because it suggests he might have been expecting somebody like me to drop by.
“Of course, he pretended to be surprised. And he did this other thing, a little too clever by half. He pretended he thought I was there for another go-round on the Arden case. He asked if I was ‘digging through those old bones again.’ ”
“Nice choice of words to describe the woman he swears he loved.”
“Exactly. I explained I was digging through new bones that had belonged to Desmond O’Day. He said he knew who O’Day was and he thought he’d met the comedian once, in Vegas. But he hadn’t heard about the murder. Or the bombing. And he didn’t know why I was bothering him about it at one in the morning. He had absolutely no reason for wanting the comic dead.
“That’s when I told him about O’Day changing places with you at the last minute.”
“And his reaction to that?”
Another rare smile. “He said he now understood why I was there. And the interview was over. If I wanted to talk with him further, his lawyer would have to be present.”
“And that was that?” I asked.
“Well, I—” He paused to pull his cellular phone from his pocket. It must have been on vibrate, because there’d been no ringtone. “Brueghel,” he said.