Natural Causes (10 page)

"Helen," Jack said gently.

She'd begun to cry. Real tears, this time. "I
killed him," she said. "I hounded him to his death--the
poor, sweet bastard. I made his last months a living hell. Christ,
how we fuck with other people's lives."

Jack put Helen Rose to bed. I'd wanted to ask her a
few more questions, but she'd had it for the night. Frankly, I didn't
see how she would possibly make it through the next day--she seemed
that raw and depleted.

But when I said something about it to Jack, he didn't
seem concerned. "Don't worry about Helen, Harry. She's used to
living on the ragged edge. She's a helluva lot tougher and more cagey
than she looks. Don't believe for a minute that she meant everything
she said tonight about Dover, by the way."

"She was lying about him?" I said.

"Not exactly. She's a schmoozer, not a liar. She
believes in what she's saying while she's saying it, but the belief
doesn't go very deep or last very long. Look at the way she behaved
tonight. One minute she's screaming about how Quentin betrayed her
and the next she's crying because he's dead. Her feelings don't make
any sense until you remember that she's playing the part of a
producer--a man's role. With Helen, you learn to listen through the
bullshit--the 'darlings' and the 'babys' and all the melodramatic,
self-congratulatory scenes. You sift through it and try to figure out
what's really bothering her, because that's who she's always talking
about. Herself, I mean her real self--the part that she thinks she
has to hide. In this case, she's just gone through a hellish three
months with a troubled show. So dying has been on her mind a lot.
That's what she was really crying about. The show, not Quentin."

I could accept that the woman had been talking about
herself most of the time, that the innocence and screwball integrity
she'd read into Quentin's life were apologies for the compromises
that she'd had to make in order to survive in a world where even the
cops and the bellboys would do anything to become stars. But I wasn't
completely willing to accept, with Jack, that she hadn't meant what
she'd said. She'd seen Dover from the top down; Jack had seen him
from the bottom up. And she had enjoyed him for putting up the front
that disgusted Moon. It made me realize that Jack had had a much
tougher time adapting to Quentin Dover's world than he'd wanted me to
believe. I'd already seen him have a tough time adapting to Helen
Rose.

He must have been thinking about the same things, as
we wandered back down the flower-scented paths of the Belle Vista
gardens to the lobby. There weren't any lights along the paths, which
surprised me a little; it was so dark that I could scarcely see him,
even though he was standing beside me.

"Wouldn't you think?" he said softly, "that
you could find a job that you actually enjoyed doing? That doesn't
seem like much to ask for, does it? Just good, interesting work? And
I don't mean something cushy or purposeless. I mean a normal,
nine-to-five job that you were suited for, that fit what little
talent you had. That doesn't seem like much to ask for, does it?"

"In one way, it doesn't," I said. "In
another, it's asking a lot." I thought of what Helen Rose had
said about Jack expecting to turn a corner and find justice.

"Frank Glendora's got it," Jack mused. "So
does Helen. And so did Quentin Dover. He just changed the rules some
and lied his way into a suitable position. He was a good liar--I
can't take that away from him. And I'm not."

He said it sadly, as if he were pronouncing a
sentence of doom on himself.

"Would you like to have a nightcap, Jack?"
I asked.

I could see his teeth glimmer in a smile. "Yes.
I think I could use one. I've been wondering, though."

"Wondering what?"

"Wondering how you ever became a detective."

I laughed. "I wonder about that, too."
 

12

It was three-thirty A.M., Cincinnati time, when we
got back to the Marquis. Jack was pretty stewed and so was I. But
mostly I was tired.

"You're a good guy, Harry," Jack said,
clapping me on the back. "A good guy. I used to be a good guy,
too, until I joined this goddamn circus."

"Oh, c'mon, Jack," I said. "You're
still a good guy, and you know it."

He threw his hand at me. "That's what you think.
I'm a rat. A rat in a tinsel maze. And what I don't understand is how
come what you do doesn't make a rat out of you. How is that?"

"Let's talk about it tomorrow," I said with
a yawn.

"You think it's a flaw in my character? A fatal
flaw?" He began to laugh. "You know what the worst sin is?"

"Keeping somebody up past his bedtime?"

"Naw. That's venial. It's sloth, Harry. You
know, sloth? Acedia? Going along with it when you know it isn't
right? Going along with it because you're too scared not to, because
you need the security of a job, of a few measly bucks."

"Then we're all sinners, Jack. And I'm going to
sleep."

I left him berating
himself in the hotel lobby and took the elevator up to my room. There
was an envelope marked "Message" under the door. Frank
Glendora had phoned at eight P.M. to check up on me. I was glad I
hadn't been there to take the call. I had nothing to report, except
that Quentin Dover was still safely dead. I chucked the envelope in a
wastebasket, lay down on one of the king-sized beds, and fell asleep.

***

There was another message envelope on the floor when
I woke up at nine the next morning. This one was from Jack Moon,
telling me that he'd already gone to the Belle Vista for a meeting
with Walt Mack and Helen and that I should join them there for lunch
around noon. After what I'd heard about him the night before, I was
looking forward to meeting Mack. As far as I was concerned, the Dover
case was a subculture freak show and, by all reports, Mack was one of
the main attractions. I didn't want to leave Los Angeles without
taking him in--it would have been like going to Coney Island and
skipping the rollercoaster ride.

I had a crate of California produce for breakfast
Jack hadn't been wrong about that--and after showering and shaving I
phoned Harris Sugarman, Quentin's agent. The fact that Dover had come
to L.A. two days earlier than usual was just about the only thing I
had to go on. And what I'd heard the night before--about Quentin's
problems on 'Phoenix'--made it that much more interesting. I got
through to Sugarman's secretary and managed to talk her into letting
me speak with her boss. The man had a soft, weary, vaguely
dissatisfied voice that made him sound as if he'd just got done
talking to someone he didn't like.

"What exactly do you want to see me about?"
he said after I'd told him who I was and why I was in L.A.

"About Dover," I said.

"And what do you expect me to tell you? That the
man was a saint?"

"I have some specific questions."

"Yeah, sure you do," he said grumpily. "All
right. I'll have a drink with you. But I'm not doing it for Frank
Glendora or for United. I'm doing it for a dead friend."

The way he talked, I had the feeling that most of his
friends were dead. I arranged to meet him at the Belle Vista at
eleven, then dressed and went down to the Marquis lobby.

Outside it was a bright, cloudless, beautiful August
Thursday, without any of the Cincinnati stickiness that turns a
summer day into a rite of passage between air conditioners. I caught
a cab to the Belle Vista and instead of going straight to the bar, I
spent ten minutes walking up Green Canyon Road--the street I'd seen
through the gate in the hotel wall. Unless Dover had spent all day
Saturday fasting in his room, he must have come out sometime, just to
get a bite to eat. I thought, perhaps, he might have slipped out
through the gate. But there weren't any restaurants on Green Canyon.
It was a residential street, full of tall oak trees and private
drives, circling up into the green walls of the canyon. I followed it
for about half a mile, and when my ambition gave out, I walked back
down to the Belle Vista.

On the way back I stopped at the gate and peered
through it into the courtyard. At that time of the morning, the oak
trees didn't shade the lawn, and the whole court was drenched in
white sunlight. The smell of the flowers drifted through the gate
like the aroma of spices from a kitchen cabinet. There wasn't a
person in sight--on the street or in the court. And the only sound
was the hammering of woodpeckers high in the oaks. The place couldn't
have been more deserted if it were in the middle of Montana.

I followed the wall around to the parking lot in
front of the hotel. It was a large lot, full of Porsches, BMW's, and
several Rolls Corniches. Given all the cars, I was surprised again at
how tranquil and unpeopled the place seemed to be. The very rich were
also apparently the very demure. The only person in sight was the
parking lot attendant-a slick-looking kid in a white shirt and
black pants, who was leaning against one of the struts of the canopy
above the bridge. I walked over to him and he straightened up and
smiled.

"Can I help you?" he said. He was the same
kid whom Jack had tipped the night before--the one who wanted to be
in the movies. I thought someday he might make it. He looked a little
like a young Dennis Hopper, with a touch of Mexican blood.

"How come it's so quiet?" I asked him.

"House rules," he laughed. "Didn't I
see you here last night?"

I nodded. "You've got a good eye for faces."

"What else is there to do?" he said with a
shrug. "Except stare at the cars."

"Do you remember a man named Quentin Dover? He
was a regular here, I think."

The kid gave me the kind of blank look that I'd
learned to read over the last fifteen years. It was like the place on
the menu where they say the price varies with the season. I pulled a
twenty out of my wallet, and it started to come back to him.

"Sure, I remember him. He was the guy who
croaked in 310."

"That's him, all right."

"You a reporter?"

I shook my head. "I'm a P.I."

"No shit," he said. "I thought maybe
you were with The Enquirer. Sometimes they come around after somebody
in show business croaks. They give good bread."

"Were you working here last weekend?" I
asked.

"Every weekend," he said. "I don't
mind. I see it as an investment in the future. Somebody might spot
me, take an interest. You know?"

From the look of him I wasn't sure what kind of
interest he meant. I supposed it didn't matter, as long as they gave
good bread.

"Did you see Dover on the weekend?"

"I saw him here on Friday when he checked in,"
the kid said. "I got one of the rental cars for him that night."

"He went for a ride?"

"I guess."

"Did he have anything with him when he left? A
briefcase or a valise?"

"Nope."

"Did you see him come back?"

"Naw, I checked out eleven-thirty, a quarter of
twelve. But the car was back in the lot on Saturday morning when I
came in."

"Did you see any more of him that weekend?"

The kid smiled. "Only on Monday, when Maria
found the body. I took a couple of snaps, you know?"

"Just in case The Enquirer came around?" He
smiled. He was one sweet kid, all right. "Is Maria working here
today?"

"I think so. The cops hassled her some because
her work permit expired. But I think the hotel fixed it up." He
gave me a speculative look and said, "She's a good piece of ass,
Maria."

"Where could I find her?" I heard myself
say.

He looked at his watch. "It's ten-fifteen, so
she's probably working the south quadrangle. They may be quiet around
here, but they don't come any different than you or me. The sheets
get just as stiff and sticky."

I guessed that was one way of saying that the rich
put their pants on a leg at a time. I gave him the twenty and he
slipped it into his shoe.

"You know Maria don't turn tricks while she's on
duty," he said, straightening up.

My conscience got the best of me and I said, "That's
not why I wanted to see her."

"Sure," he said with a smirk. "Well,
if you need anything else, just let me know."

I walked over the bridge to the lobby, where the
prim-looking woman was sitting at the front desk.

"Hello again," she said cheerfully. "Are
you here to see Miss Rose?"

"I'm going to meet her for a drink."

"Fine."

"Do you happen to remember what room she's in? I
forgot to look last night."

"She's in 302."

"That's the south quadrangle?"

"Yes, sir."

I walked out the French doors into the first
courtyard. The building behind it was apparently the Belle Vista's
bar and restaurant. It had picture windows set in its stucco facade.
Although the glass was heavily tinted, I could see the outlines of a
few tables inside.