Hollywood and Levine (15 page)

When I walked through the open door she was standing in the foyer, staring at me quizzically, her hands dug deep into the pockets of her wet raincoat.

“Hold me, Jack,” she said, and I did so, wrapping my arms around her strong back. She kept her hands in her pockets and rested her head on my shoulder.

“A long day,” she said quietly. “You must be exhausted.”

“You, too.”

“Nobody smacked me on the head.” Mrs. Adrian lifted her head and put her hands on my shoulders. A long finger stroked my ear. “It's the attention that exhausted me, know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“All that attention,” she repeated. “It can drive you nuts.” She dropped her hands and took a step back. “Why don't you draw yourself a bath and I'll bring you some cognac, okay?”

“Sounds terrific.”

A rich and tired smile tightened her eyes into small, contented points of green.

“Good. Jacket?”

She took my sports jacket and hung it up with her raincoat, then tossed her hair and headed for the living room. I stood by the stairs and watched her walk. She knew it, and turned to face me.

“Go take your bath, Jack.” She smiled. “Step on it.”

I kicked off my shoes and climbed the stairs, a fat bald child on the night before Christmas.

Her knock surprised me. I was half-asleep in the tub, lulled to dreaming by the scalding water I had drawn.

“Cognac girl,” she announced.

I drew the curtain, leaving only my head visible, and beckoned her in. Mrs. Adrian entered carrying a silver tray with two large snifters of brandy. She placed the tray on the closed toilet.

“This is how they do it in the best restaurants,” she said.

I yawned.

“Were you asleep?” she asked, placing a snifter into my wet grasp.

“I'm at the point where I don't know if I'm awake or asleep. Are you really in here?”

Mrs. Adrian sat down on the edge of the tub.

“It's me and you know it. So modest; I heard the curtain closing.”

“I didn't want you to see the little tugboats.”

She chuckled deeply, a little wickedly.

“Such a card,” she said. “Mr. New Yorker.”

I sipped some cognac and leaned my head against the white enamel, resting the stem of the snifter upon my submerged chest. My muscles were relaxing, loosening; peace suffused my limbs and nerves.

My eyes closed again, briefly; I caught a short warm gust of sleep.

When my eyes opened, Mrs. Adrian was standing and pulling off her sweater. She reached behind her and un-snapped her brassiere, and caught my stunned, foolish gaze.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Just for a second.”

“Shucks, I wanted to surprise you. Watch out, I'm coming in there with you. Hide the ducks.”

I swallowed a bit more cognac, then placed the snifter on the tile floor beside the tub. Mrs. Adrian bent over and stepped out of her slacks and white panties, then pulled the shower curtain open.

“Ta-ta.” She hummed her own fanfare, maybe to cover her embarrassment, maybe to cover mine. She had taken her clothes off with such speed and determination as to suggest an act of will. To slow down, to mull it over, might have been to stop altogether.

Mrs. Adrian stuck a tentative toe into the water. “Christ, that's hot.”

And there she stood, leg arched in the water, a supportive hand upon the curtain; my September Morn. She had a wonderful body, with the small flaws and soft slackenings of a woman who has lived well, and screw the hourglass curves. She was somewhat high-waisted, with a fairly flat posterior and large, firm breasts. And she could read my mind.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Me. My body.”

“Very nice. You coming in?”

She paused for a last moment and then came hurriedly into the long tub, with many oohs and much splashing.

“Aah,” she aahed, settling in. There was a rubber pillow on the rim at her end. She rested that startling head upon it.

“And here we are,” she announced, “the private eye and the grieving widow.”

“That's a hell of a way to look at it.”

“I know.” Mrs. Adrian took a hefty swig of cognac. “I'm indulging myself. But there is a certain amount of guilt going on down at this end.”

“There'd have to be,” I offered cautiously.

“Yes,” was her equally neutral answer. “When Walter was alive, I felt guilty because I didn't love him. Maybe it'll get worse now.”

“I think not; you're a pretty tough girl.”

She thought it over.

“You ever married, Jack?”

“For six years.”

“And then?”

“Listen, I'm the shamus.”

She laughed and splashed some water my way.

“The shamus. What happened to the marriage?”

“Nothing sensational. She wanted a nine-to-five guy and a house full of kids. Now she's got both.”

“You bitter?”

“What for?” I heard myself say. “I don't blame her; she just should have known what she was getting into, marrying a private dick.”

“Private dick,” Mrs. Adrian cooed. “Has a nice ring to it.”

We were a pair, all right, doing our little mating dance. I was still apprehensive, half-expecting a monsoon of tears to come blowing my way, but decreasingly so. I was getting used to the fact of our nakedness, getting comfortable with the strangeness of it all.

Some minutes later, I got very comfortable indeed, when Mrs. Adrian's smooth foot burrowed soundlessly into a watery bed beneath my dozing balls. She wiggled her toes. I cackled delightedly. It felt awfully good.

“Hello,” she said, her eyes at once innocent and eager. This was some sweet baby.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I interest you in a vacuum cleaner?”

She giggled and kept wiggling those educated toes. Then her other foot joined the party. I casually reached over and took another sip of the warming brandy.

“You're so jaded,” Mrs. Adrian said, greatly amused. “Such a bore, isn't it?” She lowered her eyes to the water. “Well, lookee here.”

A circumcised periscope had surfaced, poking its blind eye through the darkening, glassy currents of the bath water. It pulsed. It throbbed. We studied it thoughtfully, as if it were a newly arrived guest.

“How lovely,” Mrs. Adrian said, and curled her hand around it. I closed my eyes and tipped my hat to the fates.

“I've done my best with it,” I said gravely. “Tried to raise it right.”

“No more jokes, Jack,” she said, both hands on it now, running wet fingers up and back.

I opened my eyes and moved forward in the tub. I raised her legs easily in the water and with the unencumbered grace of true love's dumb luck, I entered the lady in one smooth motion. Like turning a soft lock with a soft key. We lay joined in the water, our hands on each others legs, staring at each other curiously but contentedly, feeling, I think, that this crazy thing was happening simply because it deserved to happen.

We began to rock each other slowly, barely moving, creating small waves that broke over the side of the tub and soaked the floor. Helen closed her eyes, her front tooth biting down softly on a bottom lip drawn into a mellow smile. She made little sounds, clucks of acknowledgment, rising and falling in the shallow water like someone floating in the Rockaway surf. There was at first a weightless, careful quality to our lovemaking, but with the first stirrings of urgency, we left our histories behind and let our bodies take over.

And then we were sea lions, in full, shiny frolic, staying one bristling and barking leap ahead of each other. The leaps grow longer, the arcs higher; we began to lose ourselves in the act. Except for one brief and unsettling moment in which I felt a sudden, peculiar estrangement from the beautiful woman flopping so blissfully about in the water. Who was she? What the hell was I doing? But the moment passed quickly and so did its aftertaste of wonder and doubt—as if losing a familiar, yet indeterminate face in a subway crowd.

Our steady rising and yielding grew more intense; our brains flowed sweetly to the very tips of ourselves. The water in the tub had all but vanished, and we thumped in a shallow pool on the white enamel. Helen bit her lip a little harder, flushing pink. “Jack,” she said, and then again, “Jack!” She thrashed the remaining water out of the tub, as I took my last leap in a thunderous surf; released, cresting, breaking, and then descending back to the ocean floor, emptied and warm.

And there we lay on the bare enamel, still joined, glistening like a pair of triumphant wrestlers: Jack the Skull and Helen the Red.

“Mmmm,” she said. I said something like that. Helen smiled and disengaged herself from me, then came crawling on over to my end. She placed her head on my chest and curled up like a small girl seeking safety, which she probably was. We lay there for a few minutes, nearly dozing off, but then grew chill and decided to get out of the tub.

We dressed silently in the bathroom, our water-wrinkled bodies redolent of a pool locker room. I hopped around on one foot trying to get into my pants. Helen giggled.

“Don't assault my dignity,” I told her. We beamed at our reflections in the mirror, happy and more than a little confused.

Five minutes later, seated on a stool in the kitchen, I remembered what I was doing in California: investigating the murder of Helen's husband. I felt no guilt, just a little negligence. The widow was spooning coffee into a percolator, her red hair spilling over a green dressing gown.

“Helen, do you have Carpenter's address?” I asked.

“Dale?”

“Yeah, the cowboy.”

“I'm sure we do. Why?”

“I want to go see him.”

She finished measuring out the coffee and plugged in the pot. “Right now?”

“Right after coffee. I saw him earlier today at Parker's and I want to follow it up.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn't tell me Dale was there,” she said. “What was he doing?”

“A very relevant question. That's why I'd like to chat with him. I saw Carpenter ring Parker's bell. Parker came to the door and looked every bit as happy as if his fillings had just fallen out. But that's all I know because that's when my head came off.”

“Should I call Dale and tell him you want to see him?”

“Thanks, no. I'd prefer to sneak up on him. I don't really have the slightest idea why he visited Parker today, but it's not necessarily kosher. You call him and he'll just have time to invent excuses.”

“You think he might be in trouble?”

“Definitely.”

The coffee was mediocre, as it always is out of a percolator, but Helen's intentions were the best. We sat at the kitchen table and held hands. I was very tired. It was ten-thirty and I knew that if I didn't leave immediately, I'd go find myself a blanket and fade away. So I kissed the lady's cheek and got up.

“It wasn't very good coffee, was it?” she asked. “You can be honest.”

“Passable coffee, superb service. You going to be all right here alone?”

She shrugged. I don't think it had occurred to her that she would be by herself.

“I guess so. Could I come with you?”

“I'd prefer that you didn't. Let's not get into a ‘Thin Man' routine, not yet. You could use some peace and quiet. I'll be back soon.”

She took my arm.

“How soon?”

“Soon enough.”

“I'll read in the meantime.”

Helen looked up Carpenter's address—in the Hollywood Hills—and wrote out directions, then walked me to the door.

“Lock up,” I told her. “Front and back.”

“Stop trying to scare me, Jack,” she said chidingly. “I don't need it, really.”

“I'm being realistic. Something nuts is going on and I don't want you hurt. If there's a gun in the house …”

“There is.”

“Then keep it handy and don't let anyone in but me.”

I had made her afraid. It was for her own welfare, but I didn't enjoy doing it.

“Hurry back.”

I gave her nose a little pinch and left. Walking down the steps, I heard the bolts locking shut behind me. It was, and wasn't, a comforting sound.

9

T
he slip of paper said 20 Mockingbird Lane and it was a fifteen-minute drive from Adrian's house. Or should have been, according to Helen. I found myself driving in slow, majestic circles for an additional fifteen, before finding the little cul-de-sac off Doheny.

Mockingbird was a small, thickly wooded street, with perhaps a half-dozen large homes on each side. The homes looked to be of recent origin; new money had come here, with architect's plans, yellow bulldozers, and picture windows. Mounds of earth were still piled up next to several of the homes; one was only three-quarters finished.

Number 20 was at the very end of the street, which dropped off behind concrete and chicken wire to a striking view of Beverly Hills below. I parked the Chrysler by the overlook and got out. The rain had ended and the sky was clearing; some stars had appeared. I walked over to the fence and looked down over the quiet wealthy glow of Beverly Hills. I could see where the neon fire of the Strip ended and the muted, pearly street lamps of the Hills began. Los Angeles. I still had no sense of it, no handle. For two and a half days, I had been wandering through a fun house, losing myself, forgetting my mission for hours at a time. All I knew was that Walter was dead and that he had been a Communist, and that his death was significant enough to bring the FBI and Congress into the act. Beyond those facts and the fact of two serious attempts on my life, I didn't know a goddamn thing.

I turned and headed up the two-dozen winding steps to Carpenter's house. It was a large ranch-style affair, built on two levels, rising on the right side to a connected pool house. When I got to the top of the stairs, I caught a blue glimpse of pool, brightly dappled by breeze and underwater lights. The house had a Southwestern look, constructed at sharp jutting angles of a bleached-out pine that suggested mesas, cactus, and a canopy of cloudless sky. Bull's horns adorned the front door, hinged into a doorknocker. I pulled the horns down and knocked twice.