“I know,” said Margolick.
“He’s going to have one hell of a book when this is over, if he hasn’t been mysteriously murdered first,” said Gus.
“He asked me to write it with him,” said Margolick.
“He asked me, too,” replied Gus. They laughed.
“I’m still shaky, and I cry a lot, which is very embarrassing,” said Gus to Larry Schiller when Larry embraced him in the hallway. The guests were outside by the pool.
“Everybody was saying their prayers for you,” said Larry.
“I know. That’s what saved him, you know—prayers,” replied Gus.
“Come on outside,” said Larry. “Kathy’s going to want to give you a hug.”
Outside, everyone told Gus how happy they were. Everyone told him they had prayed for Zander. There were hugs and kisses.
“At Robin Clark’s memorial service, Linda Deutsch asked everyone to be quiet for a minute and say a prayer for your son,” said Shoreen Maghame.
“Thank you, Linda,” said Gus.
“Some of us thought Zander might have been kidnapped,” said Linda.
“Good God,” replied Gus. “You mean kidnapped because of me? Because of what I’ve written and said? I’m glad that thought never occurred to me during the five days.”
“You didn’t miss much at the trial,” said Shoreen. “Except for Gretchen Stockdale. You would have loved her, Gus.”
Back in court on Monday morning, Johnnie Cochran, who didn’t like Gus, shook his hand and said he was glad his son had been found. Carl Douglas, who really didn’t like Gus, did the same. Barry Scheck hugged him. Robert Shapiro hugged him. Robert Kardashian, whom Gus had often described as the man “who walked off the Rockingham property with Simpson’s Louis Vuitton carry-on the day after the murders,” sent a father-to-father letter to Gus that made him cry. “As a father of four,” he wrote, “I can only imagine the grief and anguish which you have suffered over this past week.” Judge Ito began the day by saying from the bench, “Welcome back, Mr. Bailey.”
“I was overwhelmed,” said Gus over the telephone to his friend Karen Lerner in New York. “It was a lesson to me about good behavior. I mean, I’ve written very critically about these guys, and I’ve been pretty mean, too, and they all were so nice, even Cochran.”
“How about F. Lee Bailey?” asked Karen. “Did he hug you, too?”
Gus laughed. He and F. Lee Bailey had long since stopped speaking. “Actually, he wasn’t in the courtroom, but I think I have less chance of a hug from him than Bob Shapiro does.”
23
In his “Letter from Los Angeles,” Gus wrote:
Anthony Pellicano, the renowned Los Angeles private detective, whose name usually appears in every criminal case of consequence in the city, has been acting as Mark Fuhrman’s adviser and spokesperson during the detective’s current ordeal. Although he admits in the press to being as shocked as anyone else by the excessive use of the word nigger, as mouthed by Fuhrman, in Laura Hart McKinny’s “blockbuster” tapes, he continues to defend him. About the rest of the material on the tapes, he said, “Mark was trying to impress this McKinny woman. He was trying to be Macho Man and Supercop rolled into one, for her lousy screenplay. At that time of his life, Mark hated everybody. He was an equal-opportunity hater.” I have known Anthony Pellicano for years. I once hired him to follow Lefty Flynn, the man who murdered my daughter, when he was released from prison after serving only two and a half years.
“Gus, it’s Bernice, from the New York office. You had a call here from a man in Florida that I thought you should know about. So many of the people who call you here at the magazine sound like nutcases, but this man sounded very intelligent. He said it concerned something that was in your last article that he had to talk to you about. He made it sound as if it was urgent. As I said, he was a nice man. He had nice manners. I hate to bother you when you’re so busy at the trial, but I thought you should know. This is the number in Florida. Oh, by the way, his name is Goodhue. Albert Goodhue.”
“Hello!” The man who answered sounded annoyed at the intrusion of the telephone.
“Mr. Goodhue?”
“Who is it?” The sound of annoyance continued.
“Augustus Bailey.”
“Oh, Mr. Bailey, forgive me for the way I answered. I have been under the most terrible stress.”
“Is your distress caused by something I have written?”
“By a name in your most recent article. I don’t read Vanity Fair. It’s not a magazine I have come in contact with. Two days ago I was in my dentist’s office. Just as I was to go in for my appointment, an emergency came in, a little girl, and they took her ahead of me. I had to wait almost an hour. There on the table was a copy of Vanity Fair. I saw your name on the cover of the magazine. I’ve watched you on television, and I agree completely with your stand on this case, and so I read your article, the ‘Letter from Los Angeles.’ ”
“Yes,” said Gus.
“There is a name in the piece that interested me very much,” said Mr. Goodhue.
“Who is that?” asked Gus.
“Lefty Flynn.”
“Oh?” Gus was taken aback; it was the last name he had expected to hear. Whenever the name Lefty Flynn was mentioned, which was rarer and rarer as the years went by, he experienced a feeling like a stab wound. He had put in the reference to Flynn, the man who had murdered his daughter, in his description of Anthony Pellicano, the private detective, as an aside to his editor in New York. He fully expected it to be edited out, as it didn’t relate to the story of O. J. Simpson, but Wayne Lawson had said, “Let’s keep it. It roots you to the story.”
“What about him?” asked Gus in a tentative voice.
“Does he live in Seattle?” asked Goodhue.
“I don’t have any idea where he lives,” answered Gus. “Will you tell me what this is about?”
“My daughter is engaged to be married to a man called Lefty Flynn,” said Goodhue. “When I read that name in your article, I nearly fainted. I had to know if it was the same person.”
“It’s John Flynn,” said Gus.
“John, yes. That’s his name. There are fifty John Flynns in the book. You don’t know if he lives in Seattle?”
“My sons and I let go years ago,” said Gus. “None of us wanted our lives to be about revenge. I don’t know where he lives. What does this guy do for a living?”
“He’s a chef at a fancy restaurant in Seattle,” said Goodhue.
“That’s him,” said Gus. “Have you spoken to your daughter?”
“I am going to call her now,” he said. “What do you think I should tell her?”
“Tell her to get the hell out of there,” said Gus. “Guys who beat up women don’t stop doing it. Will you let me know what happens? I’m at the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood. I’ll give you the number.”
* * *
When Gus got out of the station wagon at Wyntoon, Veronica Hearst was waiting. Gus kissed her on both cheeks. “This is so beautiful, Veronica,” he said, raising his voice over the roar of the river that twisted through the vast estate. He looked in all directions. There were four small castles built side by side in the Bavarian style, giving the appearance of a village of castles. Wyntoon was the little-known Hearst ranch. San Simeon was the famous Hearst ranch.
“It used to be much larger,” said Veronica, “but during World War Two the Hearsts gave the government a hundred thousand acres, and they were never given back.”
“What was left over seems ample,” said Gus. “We drove for over half an hour after we turned in your road off the highway, and Wayne, the driver, said it was all yours, as far as I could see in any direction. Tell me about these castles.”
“Actually, they’re all guest houses. You’re going to be in that one,” said Veronica. “It’s called Angel Cottage.”
“Which one is yours?”
“Oh, you can’t see ours from here. Ours is miles away,” said Veronica.
“Phoebe Hearst, William Randolph Hearst’s mother, built Wyntoon, not William Randolph, who was Randy’s father. He rarely came here. He much preferred San Simeon, which he was still building at the time of his death, but Marion Davies liked it here. She liked to get away from San Simeon from time to time. By the way, we’re taking the two planes and flying over to San Simeon for lunch on Sunday. How was the plane? I hope everything was comfortable for you. Isn’t it glorious, landing right at the base of Mount Shasta like that? Who was the pilot? I think it was Pete, wasn’t it? Randy thinks Pete’s the best pilot around. Oh, no, no, Gus, the boys will do all that with the bags. Don’t you worry about anything. We saw you on TV. You looked so tired. We just want you to rest and not even think about that awful trial. Wayne, or Bill, either one, take Mr. Bailey’s bags to Angel Cottage. He’s in the Tartan Room. Rose will unpack for you. I’m so glad your son is safe, Gus. Everyone I know Was praying for you. Was it awful? Do you hate talking about it? Everyone’s out swimming, or golfing, or playing tennis, or sailing, or hiking, or whatever. The rest of the house party flew out on the other plane from New York. I think you probably know everyone. Chessy Rayner. Duane and Mark Hampton, John Richardson, the Boardmans, Audrey Hepburn’s ex-brother-in-law. And Betsy Bloomingdale. Is everything all right with you and Betsy? Mark Hampton said on the plane on the way out that there was a little trouble between you and Betsy after your book? Jerry Zipkin made a terrible fuss about you at the time, Mark said. But Chessy said it’s all straightened out. Now here’s the plan. The whole house party’s meeting up for drinks at eight-thirty in Angel Cottage on the balcony overlooking the river. You’ll see the sunset. It’s so divine from there. Then the vans will take you up to the big house for dinner. That’s where Randy and I live. There’s a masseuse, Lisa, divine, absolutely divine. She’s waiting for you. Don’t be surprised if she walks on your back. I’ll see you up at the big house. Jacket but no tie. That’s the way Randy likes it. Dressy for the ladies. Oh, and tomorrow lunch. There’s going to be a picnic deep deep in the forest by the side of the river, and the boys are going to catch the fish we have for lunch. By the way, Randy’s dying to talk to you about the trial. Everybody is. Did you know that Randy hired F. Lee Bailey to represent Patty after she was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army, and Bailey lost the case, and Patty had to go to prison?”
“Yeah, I knew that,” said Gus.
At dinner in the Big House, which looked like one of Mad King Ludwig’s Bavarian castles, the New York crowd discussed New York things. Everyone’s favorite topic was the scandalous divorce of the very rich Frank Richardsons, whom everyone knew.
“Can you imagine why Nancy’s giving out all those interviews to the magazines?” “Did you read the one where she was quoted as saying, ‘We were never happy, but we were a perfect couple’?” “Do you remember when all that Astor furniture ended up in Texas?” “Anne Bass has been very loyal to her.” “Frank must have been out of his mind to keep a diary.” “Exactly how much is Frank worth?” “Does anyone here know Judge Kimba Wood?”
Gus knew Judge Kimba Wood, who had become known as “the other woman” in the Richardson divorce, and liked her, but he didn’t reply. He had been away from New York for so long that New York social news was less interesting to him than it had been before the trial began.
John Richardson, the art historian and biographer of Picasso, who was not related to Frank Richardson of the divorcing Richardsons about whom everyone was talking, had not been friendly with Gus for years, ever since People Like Us, when offense had been taken and nasty things said. Although no words on the subject of Gus’s book were spoken, the two began to speak in a friendly manner for the first time in years. Richardson was fascinated by the O. J. Simpson case, and Gus filled him in on the sort of stories about the trial that never got into the newspapers.
“I can’t get a reading on the Brown family,” said John.
“They’re actually all quite nice, but it’s a difficult family to categorize,” replied Gus. “It’s unusual when an innocent victim’s family is so unsympathetic. They rarely come to court. When Tanya, the youngest sister, who couldn’t be nicer, finally came, after a little prodding from me, she brought her fiancé, a hot number called Rico, and they necked in the courtroom, right in front of the jury.”
“You can’t be serious,” said John, delighted.
“They couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” said Gus. “At one time, Rico had his legs spread apart like this, and Tanya, who was in a miniskirt up to here, placed one of her legs between his two legs, and Rico had his hand on Tanya’s thigh. This is not a great look for the sister of the victim, when the African-American females on the jury don’t have a very high opinion of Nicole in the first place.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What are those two talking about over there?” asked Veronica.
“Gus is probably telling O. J. stories,” said Chessy.
“You can’t get Gus for dinner in L.A., he’s booked so far in advance,” said Betsy. “Everyone wants to hear about O. J.”
“Gus, you know my old editor, don’t you? Verna Arkoff?” asked John Richardson.
“Yes, I know Verna,” said Gus.
“Call her, and she’ll tell you this story firsthand. She has a friend in New York who used to be a very high-class hooker in L.A. Very expensive. Good-looking. Great legs, all those things. Apparently, according to Verna, whom I’ve always found to be highly reliable with news of this kind, the friend used to do threeways with O. J. and Nicole on a fairly regular basis, and it was pleasant and agreeable for everyone. Then she said O. J. started to change. She was sure he was on some drug. She said she became afraid of him. She thought he went a little crazy when he was high, and she stopped seeing him. Call Verna. I’m sure she’d introduce you to her friend.”
“That’s the second threeway story I’ve heard about O. J.,” said Gus, entering John’s story in his green leather notebook.
Gus was having lunch in his favorite booth at the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel with his son Zander.
“You’re looking pretty good, Zander,” said Gus. “A lot better than when I saw you at the hospital in Tucson. How’s the back?”
“Okay. Not perfect, but okay,” said Zander. He looked around the room. “I don’t think I’ve been in the Polo Lounge since my eighth-birthday party.”
Gus smiled. “I remember that,” he said. “We ran a movie in the projection room first, The Sound of Music, I think it was. Then the ice cream-and-cake part for all the little boys was here in the Polo Lounge. Michael Lerner came. Brook Fuller. Little Tyrone Power the third. Somebody threw up. I have pictures of that in my scrapbooks in Prud’homme. That seems like another lifetime ago to me.”
“It sure was,” said Zander.
“It ain’t been easy for you boys, I know,” said Gus. “An invalid mother. A failure father, drunk and bankrupt. A murdered sister.”
“We’ve managed,” said Zander. “And you can’t call yourself a failure anymore. Every time I turn on the television, there you are.”
“Thank you, O. J. Simpson,” replied Gus. “One of these days, I want to hear what it was like for you lying there for five days. Did you eat leaves? Did you think about dying? What was it like when you saw the helicopter with your name painted on it, and you couldn’t move to signal it? You have to talk about it.”
“I know,” said Zander. “I only meant to go for the afternoon. I knew I didn’t have any food or water, but I kept going on. I kept telling myself I should stop and turn back, but I had this desire to just reach the next peak, and when I got there, I’d say just one more and then I’ll go back, and then it got dark, and that’s when I fell.”
“I really think that you should write about it,” said Gus. “Describe it all. Even if you never show it to anybody. Maybe we all should, you and Grafton and I. Actually, I have. A
fter the fourth day, I really thought you were dead. Grafton didn’t, but I did. I was even wondering if you should be buried in Westwood next to Becky, or in Nogales, where your mother’s family is. That’s the state of mind I was in.”
“God,” said Zander.
“It’s amazing what goes through your mind at a time like that,” said Gus. “I kept thinking about when you were little kids and we lived in the house on Walden Drive. I kept wishing we’d stayed home more nights and had dinner with you kids instead of going out to a party every night the way we did. Your mother wanted to stay home more. I was the one who was always pushing. And lately, I’ve been so obsessed with this trial that I haven’t checked in like I should. You’re writing your first novel. Grafton’s directing his first movie. These are all important things, and I haven’t been there.”
Just then, Kathryn Lethbridge from Old Prud’homme, Connecticut, stopped by Gus’s table to say hello and to be introduced to Zander.
“Everyone in Prud’homme was praying,” she said.
After she went on to her own table, Gus said to Zander, “Saved by the gong in that serious conversation we were starting to get into.”
“Listen, Dad, Grafton and I were talking. You’re not going to fall apart, are you, if O. J. gets acquitted?” asked Zander.
“He’ll never be acquitted, Zander,” replied Gus. “It’ll be a hung jury. I’m sure of that.”
“Grafton says that if you ever do another murder trial after this one, he’s going to have an intervention,” said Zander.
In his after-dinner talk that evening in the garden of Mrs. Murray Ward’s house in Bel Air, Gus paid the proper compliments to his hostess on the beauty of the evening, acknowledged his old-time friends at the party, like Bob and Rosemary Stack, and then segued effortlessly into what he called his floor show.
Another City Not My Own Page 26