Self-Defense (34 page)

“Fine,” I said. “Oh, glorious youth.”

I drove back to Malibu thinking of
something Doris had told me.

“I like Nevada.”

A serious gambler? Was that where the
payoff money had gone? If there’d ever been any.

Her leaving town under Tom Shea’s escort
right after I talked to her made me sure I was on to something.

Giving Lucy’s dream new credence, I
thought about the three men. Lowell and two others, one of them almost certainly
Trafficant. Probably the one with his back turned.

So who was Hairy Lip?

Maybe just another guest, but more likely
someone who knew Lowell and Trafficant well enough to be invited to the private
party.

Member of the club.

Another Sanctum Fellow?

When we got home, I reread the newspaper
coverage of the Sanctum opening while Robin brushed her hair and got into her
nightgown.

Three names, no pictures:

Christopher Graydon-Jones, the English
sculptor.

Joachim Sprentzel, the German composer.

And Denton Mellors, the aspiring American
novelist. The sole reviewer to praise
Command: Shed the Light.
He’d also
lauded Trafficant’s book. His fellowship payback, just as Trafficant’s had
been?

The more I thought about it, the more it
made sense.

Lowell and his two star pupils.

Maybe he’d coached them in something other
than writing. But where to go with it?

Robin was in bed, curled on her side.

I slipped out of my clothes and got in
next to her, wrapping my arms around her.

She mumbled.

I held her and felt her drift off to
sleep.

I woke up before sunrise, thinking about
Lucy’s dream. She and Ken were spending some time together today, and her next
session would be tomorrow.

I made breakfast for Robin and myself and
brought it to bed. While she showered, I called New York and made another
attempt to locate Trafficant through his publisher. All I learned was that
out-of-print authors don’t garner much respect.

Robin was ready to leave for the jobsite
at 8:30. As her truck pulled away, Spike’s flat face pressed up against the
passenger window. I was right behind in the Seville.

At Bel Air, she continued east and I
turned off at the university. I walked into the research library at 9:25. A few
early birds were studying, but plenty of computer terminals were available. I
accessed the periodicals index and typed in names, starting with my most likely
candidate, Denton Mellors.

Not a word. I checked
Books in Print,
academic journals, every sublist I could find.

Nothing. If he’d ever published his novel,
there was no record of it.

I went on to Christopher Graydon-Jones.

Three citations, the first twenty years
ago when the sculptor had received a commission from a company called
Enterprise Insurance to create a bronze and iron piece for the lobby of its
corporate headquarters in downtown L.A. Minor coverage in the
L.A. Times
arts supplement, no picture.

Two years after that, a business journal
had him working for the same company as Assistant Deputy Director of Marketing,
an interesting transition. Five years later, he’d advanced to Chief Operating
Officer at Enterprise, and a publicity photo showed him looking older than his
thirty-five years: balding, with a long face, wide pouchy eyes, and a weak
chin. Clean-shaven.

Next: Joachim Sprentzel. The German had
taught composition at Juilliard before committing suicide eight years ago, in
Hartford, Connecticut. A
Hartford Courant
obituary cited a “protracted
illness” and noted Sprentzel’s “commitment to textural atonalism and chromatic
adventure.” His parents still lived in Munich. No wife or children.

A ten-year-old Juilliard faculty shot
portrayed an intense-looking man with a very strong square jaw, bushy dark
hair, and nervous eyes behind tiny wire-frame eyeglasses.

Above the jaw, a thick drooping mustache.

Remarkably similar in shape and color to
Diggity Dog’s.

Hairy Lip.

Suicide after a protracted illness. A
single man.

My gut assumption was AIDS, but it could
have been anything.

Dead. Another avenue closed off.

I photocopied all of it and checked in
with my service. Messages from two lawyers, a judge, and Sherrell Best. I saved
the Reverend for last. He wasn’t home, and a woman at the Church of the
Outstretched Hand said he was out making food deliveries.

I returned the phone to its cradle.

Three men at a gravesite.

Lowell, Trafficant, and Sprentzel?

All three out of reach.

I reviewed the photocopied articles.

It was a long shot, but maybe Christopher
Graydon-Jones was still working downtown.

I looked up Enterprise Insurance in the
Central L.A. book. No listing. But a scan of the yellow pages revealed an
address on 26th Street in Santa Monica and the subheading “Specializing in
worker’s compensation plans and corporate liability.”

I called the number and asked for Mr.
Graydon-Jones. To my amazement I was put through to a happy-sounding secretary.
When I asked to speak to her boss, she managed to stay happy while getting
protective.

“What’s this in regard to, sir?”

“Mr. Graydon-Jones’s fellowship at
Sanctum.”

“What’s Sanctum, sir?”

“An artistic retreat run by the novelist
M. Bayard Lowell. Mr. Graydon-Jones was a sculpture fellow there, quite a while
ago. I’m a freelance writer working on a biography of Mr. Lowell, and I’m
attempting to reach—”

“An artistic what?”

“Retreat. A place where artists can go to
pursue their art.”

“You’re saying Mr. Graydon-Jones was once
an artist?”

“He was a sculptor. He did the sculpture
in the lobby of Enterprise’s corporate office downtown.”

“We haven’t been downtown for years.”

“I realize that, but Mr. Graydon-Jones was
commissioned back in—”

“Is this some sort of joke, sir?”

“No. Could you please give him the
message? He may want to speak with me.”

“He’s out right now. Your name, sir?”

“Del Ware. Sandy Del Ware.” I gave her my
number.

“Very well, Mr. Del Ware,” she said, too
quickly. Then she hung up.

I looked at my watch. Twelve-fifteen.
Graydon-Jones out to lunch? Or sitting behind a big desk shuffling papers, a
busy, important man.

I had plenty of time.

Enterprise’s headquarters was only a
twenty-minute drive.

The building was just south of Olympic, in
a high-end industrial park favoring electronics companies. Five stories, brick
and glass, with a restaurant on the ground floor called Escape, specializing in
expensive burgers and tropical drinks.

Enterprise was just a suite on the second
floor. The door was locked and a sign dangling from the knob said OUT TO LUNCH
UNTIL 2P.M.

I went back down to the ground floor. No
sculpture. The door to the restaurant was open, and the odors from within
weren’t bad. I decided to have lunch and then try again.

A hostess looked me over and said, “Just
one?”

I gave her my best aw-shucks lonely-guy
smile, and she put me in a tiny corner table near the rest rooms. The place was
teeming with suits and smiles, the air ripe with alcohol and gravy. Paper palms
on white walls. Gauguin prints hanging alongside travel photos of blue water
and brown bodies.

I ordered a beer and a Tahiti Burger and
was working my way down the foam when I saw him across the room in a booth with
a woman.

Older, balder, the little hair he had left
iron-gray. But definitely the same long face, mournful eyes, and a chin that
had lost even more bone, receding into a stringy neck. He wore a dark blue suit
and a tie so bright it seemed radioactive.

The woman was in her thirties, honey-blond
and well put together. No food in front of them, just red drinks with celery
sticks and piles of paper.

I ate and watched them; then the woman
collected the papers, shook Graydon-Jones’s hand, and left.

He ordered another drink and lit up a
cigarillo.

I left money on my table and approached.

“Mr. Graydon-Jones?”

He looked up. The sad eyes were blue.

I repeated the pitch I’d given his
secretary.

He smiled. “Yes, I got your message.
Sanctum. How strange.” English accent, tinged with working-class cadences that
wouldn’t mean much here but would pigeonhole him back in the U.K.

“What is?” I said.

“Hearing about that place after all this
time. What was your name again?”

“Sandy Del Ware.”

“And you’re writing a biography of
Lowell?”

“Trying to.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“No, sorry. I’m a freelance.”

He tapped ashes into an ashtray. “Trying?
Does that mean you have no contract?”

“Several publishers are interested, but my
agent wants me to submit a thorough outline before he negotiates a deal. I’ve
been able to get all the basics on Lowell except for the time period when he
opened Sanctum. In fact, you’re the only Fellow I’ve been able to locate.”

“That so?” He smiled. “Please sit down.
Drink?”

“No, but I’d be happy to buy you one.”

He laughed. “No, thank you. Two at lunch
is my limit.”

He called for the bill, ordered coffee for
both of us, and scrawled something on the check.

“I appreciate your talking to me,” I said.

“Only for a few minutes.” Looking at a big
Rolex. “Now, why on earth would you want to write a book about Buck?”

“He’s an interesting character. Rise and
fall of a major talent.”

“Hmm. Yes. I suppose that would be nicely
ironic. But to me he was rather a bore. No offense, but one of those eternal
children Americans seem so fond of.”

“Well, hopefully they’ll stay fond and buy
my book.”

He smiled again and buttoned his jacket
over his thin chest. The suit looked to be one of those highly structured
English affairs that costs thousands. His shirt was white with horizontal blue
stripes and a high white collar, probably Turnbull
&
Asser. The conspicuous tie was patterned with artist’s
brushes and palettes on black jacquard silk. Simulated dabs of paint supplied
the color: scarlet and orange and turquoise and lime-green. “So what would you
like to know about the Bug Farm?”

“Pardon?”

“The Bug Farm. That’s what we called the
place. It was infested with bugs: beetles, spiders, whatever. And we were all
buggy back then. Bugged out—a bit crazy. The old man probably selected us for
that. How’s he doing?”

“Alive but ill.”

“Sorry to hear that... I suppose. Anyway,
there’s not much I can tell you. The bloody farce only lasted one year.”

“I know,” I lied. “But no one’s been able
to tell me why.”

“The old man lost interest is why. One
year we were his prize pigeons, the next we were out on our arses. Best thing
that ever happened to me. I learned about the real world.”

“How were you selected?”

“I was an artist back then—or at least I
thought I was.” He looked at his hands, long-fingered, powerful. “Bronze and
stone. I wasn’t half terrible actually. Won some awards in England and got a
contract with a gallery in New York. The owner heard about the retreat and
recommended me to Lowell. In lieu of paying me for two pieces.”

“From sculpture to insurance,” I said.
“Must have been an interesting switch.”

He crushed out the cigarillo. “There’s art
in everything. Anyway, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. As I say, it was a
foolish year.”

“Do you have any idea how I can locate the
other Fellows? Not Joachim Sprentzel, of course. He’s dead.”

He scratched his neck. “Really? Poor chap.
How?”

“Suicide. His obituary said he’d been ill
for a long time.”

“AIDS?”

“Was he gay?”

“As springtime. Not a bad sort. Kept to
himself, writing music all day—no piano or violin, just scratching away at that
funny lined paper.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me
about him?”

“Such as?”

“Personality characteristics that might be
interesting in a book?”

“Personality,” he said, touching the side
of his nose. “Quiet. Withdrawn. A bit gloomy, perhaps. Probably because there
were no boys to play with. And, of course, being German.... That’s about it. He
didn’t socialize much—none of us did. Buck gave us each a little cabin and told
us to “wax brilliant.’ Isolation was encouraged. It wasn’t a sociable place.”