The Glitter Dome (30 page)

“How old is that?”

“She's forty-two.”

“Is she your lover?” Martin Welborn asked.

“Whadda you think?”

“Does she approve of the fact that you hustle tricks?”

“No. She has a good job. She's been trying to talk me out of it. In fact, I hardly ever do it anymore. This guy in the truck just wouldn't let up. Practically waved the money at me.”

“Let's forget him for the moment,” Al Mackey said. “Tell us all you can about Lloyd in the black Bentley.”

“He's just a guy offered me an acting job, is all. I didn't know he was some big criminal or something. He was an outcall massage. Asked for me by name. Didn't even take the massage. Just met me, paid me, and gave me the phone number.”

“How old is Lloyd? How tall? What color hair? Describe him,” Al Mackey said.

“It's hard for me to tell when a guy's thirty or forty if he's in good shape like Lloyd. I think he has light hair, maybe even gray. But he's youngish. Like you,” she said to Martin Welborn, which made Al Mackey wince, being two years younger.

“Why don't you know for sure what color hair he has?”

“He never took off his cap both times I saw him. One a those caps like Scotch or Irish people wear in movies. Tweedy like. And he wore it down close to his glasses. He wasn't anxious to be too recognizable, that's for sure. He had a grayish moustache and tinted glasses. Big wire-rimmed goggles.”

“What color tint?”

“Brown. Made his brown eyes harder to see.”

“Good girl,” Martin Welborn said. “And you only saw him twice?”

“Twice. And I
never
tricked with him. He never asked for it. First, he picked me up at Sunset and La Brea and took me by my dad's restaurant.”

“Why did you ask him to take you there?”

“There were some things a my mother's she left behind when
she
ran away from home. I wanted them. I figured with Lloyd along, my dad wouldn't make no fuss and try to get me to stay. I mean, Lloyd wasn't a guy to fuck with, in that big car and all. And afterwards he dropped me back at Sunset and La Brea and gave me twenty dollars just to call a number and ask for Sapphire Productions. Said to tell the guy that answered who I was and where to meet the next time.”

“That's when you met the producer?” Martin Welborn asked. “Where did you go and what was his name?”

“His name was Mister Silver. We met at this house clear up on top of Trousdale. I used to have two massage customers up there.”

“Did he live there?” Martin Welborn asked.

“I don't think he did. Once he had to go to the bathroom and he opened the hall closet by mistake.”

“Very good, Peggy,” Martin Welborn said. “What did you and Mister Silver talk about?”

“About me playing a part in this movie they were making in Mexico. A small part, but Lloyd said they'd pay me a thousand a day for three days' work. Said they'd drive me down and bring me back.”

“
Drive
you down?” Al Mackey said. “It wasn't far enough to fly?”

“I got the impression it wasn't far from the border.”

“Was anyone else at the house in Trousdale?”

“Just Lloyd. He was assistant producer or something.”

“Was it a porn flick?” Al Mackey asked.

“I guessed it probably was,” she said. “I didn't ask. But I wondered why they wanted to shoot the movie in Mexico. Unless it was kiddy porn.” Then she added, “I ain't in favor a kiddy porn, you understand. Makes me wanna barf. Some a those little girls and boys, eight, nine years old. I had some tricks once,
had
to see that stuff before I could make them come off. I almost grossed out. I never take a trick a second time if he makes me watch kiddy porn. They take those little kids and drug them out and make them do …”

“Yes?”

“Everything they make
me
do,” she said quietly. “
Everything
. And they're babies.”

“Yes,” Martin Welborn said. “But you were going to do the movie?”

“I thought maybe it wasn't
real
kiddy porn, you know? Maybe just a bunch a teenage actors. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old. I don't call that kiddy porn. You're fourteen, you're old enough to do what you want.”

She
looked
fourteen, Martin Welborn thought. Although they knew from Flameout Farrell that she was telling the truth when she said she would legally be an adult on the first of the month. Her skin had the translucence of antique china. She was very frail and had the huge cautious eyes of an antelope. She was so delicate she probably wouldn't be able to order a drink unchallenged until she was thirty years old. She was not pretty in any ordinary way. But she was most peculiarly exquisite.

“You must have asked Mister Silver how you were selected, didn't you?”

“Yeah. He said he didn't know. Then Lloyd said one a my massage customers told him I was special. He didn't say who the customer was. I didn't ask. I musta massaged a thousand guys. He said several other girls and guys were being interviewed. In fact, Lloyd looked at his watch after we were there awhile and said he better take me back, pick up the next girl for Mister Silver to see.”

“Then what happened?” Al Mackey asked.

“Nothing. Lloyd took me back.”

“To Sunset and La Brea?”

“Yeah. I don't want nobody to know where I live.”

And then the detectives exchanged glances. It was time to turn the screw a bit. They had to keep in touch with Peggy Farrell, the only lead they had.

“You know, Peggy, you
are
technically a juvenile until your eighteenth birthday.”

“So?”

“So we have to release you to a parent.”

“You can't call my dad!” she said.

“We have to release you to a responsible adult.”

“I don't
know
no responsible adults!” Peggy Farrell cried, revealing the story of her life in six words.

“I suppose we could release her to the woman she lives with, couldn't we, partner?” Al Mackey said to Martin Welborn.

“Perhaps.”

“I don't wanna embarrass Lorna!” Peggy Farrell said. “She's the only person cares about me. The only person I care about.”

“Well, we're not permitted to release a juvenile except to a parent or an acceptable adult. I think we could drive you home and maybe leave you with Lorna. That, or your father.”

“Will you have to tell Lorna about, you know, that guy in the pickup? I promised her I'd quit turning tricks.”

“No, we'll just tell her you were …”

“Tell her I got caught with some grass in my purse!”

“That's what we'll tell her,” Martin Welborn said. “What does she do for a living?”

“She's in the movie business.”

Al Mackey gave Martin Welborn another glance and said, “In what capacity?”

“She's a script supervisor. Worked on millions a movies. They're the people sit there when they're shooting and tell the director which way someone should look. Like camera left, camera right. What color tie the actor had on when they shot the beginning of a scene yesterday. Feed the actors their lines, stuff like that. She took me to see them shooting on a sound stage once. It was terrific.”

“And what studio does she work for?” Martin Welborn asked.

“They work at all the studios, not for any particular one, those script people.”

“What did she think of your movie offer?” Martin Welborn asked.

“She got real mad. Asked me as many questions as you guys.
Real
mad. Said it was kiddy porn for sure. And I'm stupid. And pretty soon I was crying and … we made up.”

“Did you promise her you wouldn't do it?” Al Mackey asked.

“That's why I didn't contact them again like I was supposed to,” Peggy Farrell said. “I figured I had the job if I wanted it. But I promised Lorna. She told me Sapphire Productions was probably some fly-by-night production company into kiddy porn on the side.”

“Could you find the Trousdale house again?”

“It was night. All those winding streets up there? All those white houses that look just the same? No way.”

“And exactly how did you contact Lloyd?”

“I called that number of the studio and asked for Sapphire Productions. Some guy answered and I told him Lloyd gave me the number and for Lloyd to call me back or meet me.”

“Would you know Mister Silver if you saw him again?”

“Maybe. He had bushy black hair and a big beard and glasses that might all have been phony.”

Al Mackey removed a picture of Nigel St. Claire from the case envelope in his plastic briefcase. It was a corporate portrait taken just six months before his death. He wore a somber dark suit and tie and was seated on the corner of his desk with a bevy of gleaming Oscars behind him. He looked to Al Mackey like all the glamour in the world. When Al Mackey looked at that man he invariably thought of the Riviera, private jets, limousines, French maids who looked like Bardot used to look.

And violent death. They had
other
pictures of Nigel St. Claire. Peggy Farrell studied the picture for a moment, started to shake her head, but picked it up again.

“It
is
Mister Silver?” Al Mackey exclaimed.

“No,” she said.

“Damn.”

“But I
know
this man.”

And then there was anxious pacing outside the interrogation room while Peggy Farrell was given a bottle of soda pop, and five minutes alone to study the picture of Nigel St. Claire to try to remember which “massage” it was. Because where else would she meet a man who looked as important as this one? The Weasel and Ferret, even Schultz and Simon, had decided to hang around.

Finally the door opened and Peggy Farrell timidly emerged, holding the empty pop bottle.

“Well?” Al Mackey said.

“I gave him a massage. It was an outcall. He tipped me thirty dollars.”

“Where?” Al Mackey asked. “When?”

“A couple months ago. The Magic Carpet Motel. They don't ask no questions there. Don't even make you register. I don't think they could help you find him, if you're looking.”

“How do you remember him, Peggy?” Martin Welborn asked. “The thirty-dollar tip?”

“No, not the money,” she said, looking at the picture. “He said such pretty things to me. He said I had the most beautiful skin he ever saw in his whole life. He said he slept with some a the most beautiful women in the world, but he never saw skin like mine. He said I was something really special. …” The girl stopped and looked at the six policemen staring at her. “A course all tricks bullshit you and all, but …”

“Well, we might as well split,” the Weasel said to the Ferret, as Schultz and Simon also decided to call it a day.

“We'll take you home to Lorna now,” Martin Welborn said.

“You won't tell her about the trick?”

“No.”

As they were heading for the door, the Ferret came back and said, “This guy in the black Bentley, he ever with a partner? A Vietnamese guy?”

“No. He was alone when I was in the Bentley.”

“He ever mention a Thai restaurant?”

“What's that?”

“Thai. You know, Thailand? A restaurant near Melrose and Western?”

“No.”

“Shit!” the Ferret muttered.

“He could speak Chinese though. He
might
go to those restaurants.”

“How do you know?” Martin Welborn asked.

“Cause he said a few words to the houseboy that brought us the drinks up in Trousdale that night.”

“
What
houseboy?” Al Mackey cried. “You said only Lloyd and Mister Silver were there.”

“I don't count a houseboy,” Peggy Farrell said.

“How do you
know
it was Chinese he talked?” the Ferret demanded.

“I
don't
know. Mighta been Japanese. Whatever.”

“What did he
look
like?” the Ferret yelled.

“I don't know! Stringy Oriental guy, is all. I remember one thing. He smiled when he brought me a martini and he had a
mean
smile.”

And then Peggy Farrell
really
got scared because the bearded cop with the bandaged hand was jumping around and running toward another table and tearing open drawers and muttering.

And Martin Welborn was saying, “Ferret! Easy, boy. Easy, lad.”

Then the narc came running back with his ponytail flying and shoved a police mug shot in front of Peggy Farrell and said: “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Is this Lloyd?”

“Easy, Ferret,” Martin Welborn said with more authority in his voice. “Let
us
handle this, son.”

And the Ferret sat down but drilled holes through Peggy Farrell, who was so astonished she started shaking again. She looked at the mug shot. Police mug shots were scary-looking. The seconds passed. Six detectives were so still the hum of the wall clock sounded like a car engine.

Peggy Farrell held her hand over the hairline. “Do you have any more pictures of him?”

“Isn't that enough?” the Ferret cried.

“I mean, can I draw on this one?”

“Draw on it? Sure!” the Ferret exclaimed, and the Weasel put his hand on his partner's shoulder to keep him in orbit. Draw on it! Fold it! Spindle it! Eat it!

Peggy Farrell picked up a felt marker from the table and drew a crude moustache and glasses and hat on Just Plain Bill Bozwell. When she was finished she looked at the picture again, nodded, and said, “It's really
scary
when you see someone you
know
in one a these police pictures.”

Lorna Dillon had a two-bedroom bungalow in Benedict Canyon, bought years before the real estate boom. She had a garden, two oak trees, an avocado tree, an orange tree and two olive trees. Her home, her garden, her life, were in perfect order. Except for the past six months, after she met Peggy Farrell while having lunch in a sidewalk cafe on the Strip.