A Savage Place (14 page)

Candy sat in an armchair in the living room and looked out at her pool with her eyes squinted to slits.

“How about just coffee?” I said.

“No.” She held her head quite still. “I need a Coke, or… is there any Coke?”

“No.”

“Anything? Seven-Up? Tab? Perrier?”

“No. How about a glass of water?”

She shivered, and that seemed to hurt her head. “No,” she said, squeezing the word out.

“How about I go up to Schwab’s and get you some Alka-Seltzer?”

“Yes.”

I finished my bagels and went out and got her the Alka-Seltzer. Then I poured another cup of coffee and sat on her couch with my feet on the coffee table. She drank her Alka-Seltzer. I read the L.A. Times. She sat still in the armchair with her eyes closed for maybe an hour, then got up and took two more Alka-Seltzer. “Two every four hours,” I said.

“Shut up.” She drank her second glass and went back to her chair.

I finished the coffee and the paper and stood up. She was still quiet in the chair with her eyes closed.

“Now,” I said, “about those house privileges.”

Without opening her eyes or moving anything but her mouth, she said, “Get away from me.”

I grinned. “Okay, do we have any other plans for today?”

“Just give me a little time,” she said.

“I’ll call Samuelson and see if there’s anything developed,” I said.

She said, “Mmm.”

Samuelson answered his own phone on the first ring. I told him who I was and said, “Do you mind if I call you Mark like John Frederics does?”

Samuelson said, “Who?”

I said, “John Frederics.”

He said, “Who’s John Frederics?”

I said, “News director? KNBS? Calls you Mark.”

“TV newspeople are mostly turkeys,” Samuelson said. “I don’t know one from another. What do you want?”

I said, “Well, Mark-”

He said, “Don’t call me Mark.”

“Any sign of Franco Montenegro, Lieutenant?”

“No. And he should be easy, a stiff like him. He’s gone. Nobody on the street knows where.”

“Would people talk about him?” I asked.

“I get the impression he’d be vengeful.”

“Vengeful? Christ, you snobby eastern dudes do speak funny. Yeah, he’s vengeful, but there’s people on the street would tell on Dracula for a couple bucks, or a light sentence, or maybe I look the other way while they’re scoring some dope. You know the street, don’t you? They got a street in Boston?”

“Boston’s where they send,” I said, “when the job’s too tough for local talent.”

“Sure,” Samuelson said. “Anyway, us local talent don’t have a clue where Franco is.”

“You think it’s just him, Lieutenant?”

“More and more,” he said.

“Then how come he scragged Felton?”

“Yeah,” Samuelson said, “that bothers me too, but everything else is right. The more I ask around, the more I look at all the angles, the more it looks like a small-time shakedown that went sour.”

“You got a theory on why he scragged Felton?”

“No. Maybe I never will have. I’m a simple copper, you know. I don’t think everything always fits. I take the best answer I can get. Guys like Franco do funny things. They aren’t logical people.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it still bothers me.”

“Bothers me too,” Samuelson said, “but I do what I can. You hear anything, let me know. And try and keep the goddamn broad out of the way, will you?”

“She’s been taken off assignment,” I said. “This afternoon we’re going out to cover a pet show at the Santa Monica Auditorium.”

“Good,” Samuelson said. “Try not to get bit.” He hung up.

I looked at Candy. “Nothing on Franco,” I said. “Samuelson doesn’t like him killing Felton either.”

The phone rang and I picked it up. “Sloan House,” I said.

The voice of an elegant woman said, “Miss Sloan, please. Mr. Peter Brewster calling.”

I said, in my Allan Pinkerton voice, “One moment, please.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said to Candy, “Peter Brewster?”

She stared at me a minute as if I’d wakened her. Then she said softly, “God,” and then got up and walked over firmly and took the phone.

“Yes?… Yes… Hello, Mr. Brewster… It’s okay, Mr. Brewster…” The color began to come back into Candy’s face as she talked. “No, it’s okay. I understand. Lots of people have that reaction… Yes. I told him that.” She looked sideways at me for a moment. “Why, certainly… I’d love it. Sure. Four North Wetherly Drive. I’ll be ready… Thank you… Yes. You too. Bye.”

She hung up. I was standing with my arms folded, looking at her.

She said, “Peter Brewster wants to take me to dinner.”

I raised my eyebrows.

She said, “He’s sorry he overreacted the other day and wants a chance to behave better.”

“Where are you dining?” I said.

“I don’t know. He’ll pick me up here at seven.”

“Okay, leave me your keys and I’ll tail you.”

She widened her eyes at me. “You think it could be dangerous?”

“Even if it isn’t, it’ll be good practice for me,” I said

Candy nodded absently. “Okay,” she said. “What shall I wear?”

“A gun,” I said.

BREWSTER SHOWED up at 7:02 in a black Cadillac sedan with a driver. Democrat that he was, Brewster came to the door personally. I was already in the MG when he arrived, around the corner on Phyllis Street with the motor idling. I couldn’t see any reason for Brewster to harm Candy, but I hadn’t seen any reason why Franco would want to harm Felton either. So I’m not Philo Vance, so what?

He took her to Perino’s. I owed myself a beer. I’d bet either Perino’s or Scandia. The driver let them out and drove away. I parked on Wilshire heading downtown and watched the front door of the restaurant in my rearview mirror.

There was little traffic on Wilshire. There was no one walking. The stars came out and the moon gleamed at me. I idled the motor and listened to a Dodger game and thought about things. Brewster could be taking Candy out to dinner because she was good-looking and sexy, and he wanted to get her into bed with him. Or he could be taking her out to dinner to see if he could find out how much she really knew about his affairs so that he could decide if she was a danger to him. Brewster was a good-looking guy, and he had money and power, and he was probably used to getting along well with women, which got me nowhere because it covered either possibility. Brewster probably wouldn’t do Candy any damage himself. If he decided she was dangerous, and he wanted something done, he’d have it done. He was, after all, an executive. Still, there was no harm sticlcing close. Better safe than sorry, my mother used to tell me. Although I think she was talking about girls.

At nine forty-five the Cadillac rolled up in front of Perino’s. Small airplanes could land on its hood; in case of war all of Liechtenstein could escape in it. The maitre d‘ opened the front door and acted solicitous, and Candy came out ahead of Brewster. She had chosen a bright green tuxedo-looking suit and a beaded something-or-other with no straps for a blouse and very high-heeled silver shoes. The light from the open restaurant door made her blond hair gleam.

She carried a small silver purse and in it, I knew, was the Colt .32 I had taken from the late Bubba. We’d had a brief weapons drill about five o’clock, just before she started getting ready to go out. She hadn’t been too keen on it. It was heavy and made a lump in her purse.

“Why will I need it at Perino’s?” she had said.

“The soup may be cold,” I had said. And we had argued until she was in such a rush to start getting ready that she had given in.

She was laughing when she came out, her head thrown back a little toward Iirewster behind her. Apparently she hadn’t had to use the gun yet. She was holding his hand. The driver got out and held the door of the Caddy open for them, and they got in. The driver went around and got in and drove west on Wilshire. I U-turned and followed them. At ten o’clock on a Wednesday evening Wilshire Boulevard was so empty of traffic, you could have U-turned a nuclear Submarine without a problem. That made trailing them a little harder because there wasn’t much traffic to hide in. I dropped a long way back until a third car pulled in between us from a side street, and then I closed behind the third car.

Brewster lived on Roxbury Drive between Lomitas and Sunset in a big stucco and frame house with an arched portico on one side over the driveway. The Caddy went up through the portico, and I drove on past. I parked at the corner of Sunset and watched in the mirror. The Caddy didn’t reappear. I cruised back down Roxbury Drive and looked in under the portico. There was no sign of the Caddy. Must be around back. Probably had its own hangar.

I drove on down to Lomitas and parked around the corner and looked back at Brewster’s house.

I had a problem. Maybe several. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where a strange car can park for hours without a cop stopping by and looking in on you. And God only knew what would happen if the Bel-Air Patrol caught me. I could try to slip in and get a look at what was happening in Brewster’s house, but in this kind of neighborhood, and Brewster being that kind of guy, the place would be burglar-alarmed and electronically protected. Probably dragons in the moat.

I went around the block again. Three doors down from Brewster was a house with a flat-white front that looked like a pumping station for the Guadalajara Water District. It had several days worth of newspapers scattered on the front lawn. I pulled into the driveway and parked. There was no activity in the house. The newspapers were a giveaway. If there was somebody in the house, it was probably a burglar. I got out of the car and walked back toward Brewster’s. There were no lights showing in front. I walked briskly up the driveway, under the portico, and around back. The Caddy was parked on a brick turnaround near a garage that was built to look like a stable. It was empty. There was a second story to the garage, and in one of the windows a light shone. Chauffeur’s quarters. The vard rolled away to my left. No wider than a football-field, but at least as long. Down toward the other end zone was a swimming pool and some tennis courts and a cabana beyond them. Closer to me in the bright moonlight was a croquet lawn. At the far end of the house, on my right, a light shone in a corner room. I walked down toward it, trying to look like 1 was supposed to be there. I needed a clipboard. If you have a clipboard and three pens in your shirt pocket you can go anywhere and do anything and no one will bother you.

There were some flowery shrubs around that corner of the house. I slipped inside them and looked in the window. Candy and Brewster were on the couch. On a coffee table in front of them was a bottle of Gourvoisier, a siphon of seltzer, a bowl of ice, and two glasses. Candy and Brewster weren’t drinking. They were necking. On the couch. I blushed. The. necking got heavier. Inelegant. Not classy, like dancng on a hotel balcony. I looked away and leaned against the house. Now what? Candy didn’t seem to be in real danger unless Brewster was planning to feel her to death. But what about later? I looked back in the window. Candy was partially undressed. I felt like the photo editor at Hustler. I looked up at the moon. On the couch? I thought. Jesus Christ! The sophisticated superrich. I looked once more. They were naked. Making love. On the couch.

I had a full file of Dick Tracy crime-stoppers at home, but none of them that I could remember covered this. What would Allan Pinkerton do? What would I tell the Bel-Air Patrol if they put the arm on me here in the bushes? My palms felt a little sweaty. I squinted a little to blur things and took a quick peek. They were still at it. Private eye was one thing, Peeping Tom was another. I headed for the car.

I was still sitting in it in the driveway of the empty house at twenty minutes of four when the Caddy pulled out of the driveway and turned right. It turned right again at Sunset, and I could see it heading east on Sunset when I turned the corner as far behind it as I could get without losing sight. I couldn’t see who was in it, and it could have been a fake to lead me away, but the best guess was that it was taking Candy home. It was also the right guess.

I waited up on Sunset while the chauffeur opened the door and escorted Candy in. He came back out, got in the Caddy, went on down Wetherly, and disappeared around the corner on Phyllis. Then I pulled up in front of Candy’s house and parked.

Candy let me in on the first knock. “Were you behind me all the way?” she said.

“All the way,” I said. She looked about as she had when she left nine hours ago. Her lipstick was fresh. Her clothes were neat. Her hair was smooth. She smelled wonderfully of perfume and good brandy, and her eyes sparkled.

“I didn’t dare look for you. I saw you outside Perino’s but that’s all. It’s a funny feeling being shadowed.”

“That’s me,” I said. “The shadow. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit.”

“He’s a really charming man,” Candy said. I nodded.

“He’s very sure, if you know what I mean. Very in-charge. He seems to have been everywhere. He seems to know everyone.”

“Who knows,” I said, “what evil lurks in the hearts of men.”

“I can’t even remember that program. I’ve just heard nostalgia records.”

I said, “So you like old Peter, do you?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t like him at all. But he likes me and he thinks I like him, and I’m going to let him keep thinking so until I can nail him right to the floor.” As she spoke her face looked very flat and tight, and the cheekbones seemed more prominent.

I found a beer in the refrigerator and draped myself in Candy’s armchair and let one foot hang over the arm and drank some beer.

“Did you get a sense of what he was after?” Nice phrasing.

Candy nodded. “I think he’s trying to find out what I know.”

“He any good at it?”

“Not bad,” Candy said, “but I’ve been hustled by people who were better. Although most of them were just after my body.”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry you had to sit around outside until four in the morning,” Candy said.

I shrugged.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did in there until four in the morning?”

“I know already,” I said.