Chapter Fifteen
It was tricky getting to Ridpath’s house in Tarzana on the bus; anything in the Valley was sort of a no-man’s-land for people without cars. Vish had pored over the map of the public transit system online before settling on a route he thought would work, and even then he wandered through residential neighborhoods for a couple of miles, consulting the little map he’d printed from the MTA’s website and trying to find something that looked familiar from the time he and Troy had gone to Ridpath’s barbecue. He didn’t have a phone number, or even his full address. He remembered the nearest major intersection, he thought, and he hoped he could navigate his way to the right house from there.
After a few wrong turns, he found the place, a cute two-story cottage in dusty blue with cream trim. There was a lemon tree in the front lawn, graceful and fragrant. He rang the doorbell and heard answering barks. Ridpath had pugs, two of them.
A man’s voice spoke something unintelligible. The barking ceased. The door flew open. Ridpath, shirtless and glistening, grinned at him. “Vish!”
“Hi, Ridpath. I’m sorry to just drop by like this. I didn’t have any other way to contact you.”
“No, it’s no problem. I was just doing some free weights. Come on in. Something to drink?”
Vish squeezed in past the dogs, who milled about and sniffed his shins. Ridpath led the way into the kitchen. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Fine.”
“You got a little banged up,” Ridpath said.
Vish touched the purple welt on his forehead. His ribs had some yellowing bruises on them, and he felt stiff, but that was the extent of the damage. “I got mugged,” he said. He tried to make it sound light.
Ridpath stopped. “No kidding. Really? When did this happen?”
“Day before yesterday. I was walking on the beach in Venice. It’s fine. I wasn’t badly hurt.”
“Was Troy with you?” Ridpath opened the fridge and started rooting around. “Beer, bottled water?”
“Nothing for me. Thank you.” Vish watched as Ridpath twisted the cap off a bottle of water and took a long pull from it. “No. Troy and I… we broke up.”
Ridpath set the bottle down on the counter and stared at him. “Sorry to hear that,” he said at last. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, other than it was her idea. She’s… not really speaking to me anymore.”
“You want to sit down?” Ridpath asked. He gestured for Vish to follow him into the living room. “Well, that’s too bad. I thought you two were good together.”
“So did I,” Vish said. He sank down into an armchair, which absorbed him into its cushiony chenille depths.
Ridpath settled on the couch. His upper body was a triumph of fitness, crisply defined ridges and taut skin, not a visible trace of unwanted flesh anywhere. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No,” Vish said. “You’re Troy’s friend. You know her better than you know me. I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to discuss her with you.”
Ridpath nodded. “Good call,” he said. “So…”
Vish thought this through in advance, rehearsed it in his head during the long bus trip here, made sure it sounded plausible. “I talked to one of the guests at Kelsey’s party, this manager, I think he’s a friend of hers. He asked me to send him some of my writing, but I lost his phone number.”
“And you want me to see if Kelsey has it?”
“If you don’t mind, yeah. I hate to ask, but since Troy’s not talking to me, I don’t know any other way to contact her.”
“Sure, no problem. I can do that.” He thought for a moment. “This guy doesn’t have anything to do with Troy, does he? He’s not why she left you?”
“No. Not at all. Nothing like that.”
“Good. I like you just fine, but I’m not putting myself in the middle of some messy breakup drama.” He smiled. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Sparky Mother.”
Ridpath snorted. “Easy to remember, I guess. Sparky a nickname?”
“Probably, but as far as I know, everyone calls him Sparky.”
Ridpath picked his phone up off of the coffee table and handed it to Vish. “Okay. Give me your phone number, and I’ll give you a call when I talk to her.”
“Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.” Vish entered his information into Ridpath’s phone. “Hey, do you think the show’s ever coming back?”
“Nope. I think the network’s looking for an excuse to let it fade away. This season’s been a big embarrassment for them.”
Vish nodded. “Are you all right with that?”
“I think so.” Ridpath considered. “Steady paycheck, that’s awfully nice, but it’ll be a relief to be done with it, honestly. I suppose there’s a chance the writers will get their act together during this hiatus.” He raised his eyebrows at Vish. “Though I’d guess you’d have a better idea about that?”
Vish shook his head. “They won’t,” he said.
“No surprise there.” Ridpath shrugged. “Maybe we’ll work together again on something better.”
Nice thought, but Vish couldn’t see it happening. His job had been an out-of-the-blue fluke, a gift from the skies that had come along with Troy. It seemed very unlikely another such gift would ever come to him again.
Ridpath called the next day. “Sorry for the delay,” he said. “Kelsey had to check with her party planner. Anyway, yeah, she knew who you were talking about, this Sparky Mother dude, though she’s really just met him at other parties and stuff. She wasn’t even sure what he does, other than he’s in the industry.”
“Did she know how to contact him?”
“Not exactly. Here’s the thing: She didn’t invite him, or her party planner didn’t invite him, or however that works. The invitation went to some big-league agent who couldn’t make it, so he passed the invitation along to Sparky. This agent called Kelsey’s planner ahead of time and got Sparky on the guest list.”
“Who was the agent?” Vish asked.
“His name’s Lon Hartford. He used to have his own agency, but he’s retired. He represented Kelsey when she was a kid. Or more of a kid, anyway.” Ridpath snorted. “He still shows up at events, but he’s no longer active in the industry. Maybe your friend Sparky used to work with him or something? Anyway, he’d know how to get in touch with him.” Ridpath read off a phone number; Vish jotted it down on the back of a magazine.
“Thanks, Ridpath. I owe you.”
“Hell, that wasn’t anything. Take care of yourself, Vish.”
Ridpath hung up. Vish sat on his couch and stared at the wall, stumped. What was his next move? Was this crazy, chasing down Sparky this way?
He dialed the number. A bright female voice answered, perky yet professional. After Vish fumbled his way through an explanation, she put him on hold for a very long time.
“Mr. Hartford doesn’t give that kind of information out over the phone,” she said when she returned.
“Ah.” Well, that made sense, didn’t it? Lon Hartford didn’t know Vish; he had no incentive to give him information about one of his friends, or employees, or whatever Sparky was to him. “I see. Well, thank you.”
“But if you were to drop by his home tomorrow after two, he’ll be available,” the bright voice continued seamlessly.
She rattled off an address. Vish fumbled to grab a pen and write it down. Beachwood Canyon, high in the Hollywood Hills. Tough to reach by bus. “I’ll be there. Thank you very—”
He was talking to a dead line. The efficient woman had already disconnected the call.
Vish searched online for Lon Hartford. What with the nebulous cloud surrounding Sparky Mother, it was comforting to see hundreds of results come back for Hartford, who seemed to be wholly legit. Vish found articles in the trades mentioning his past deals, photos of him at parties, quotes from him in the Los Angeles Times speculating on next year’s Oscar nominations.
Once
again, he Googled Sparky.
One result.
Weird.
Wrong City Page 15