A Savage Place (10 page)

“I didn’t. He found me.”

“And Mickey?”

“I see. He found Mickey too. I’d talked to Felton, and I’ranco showed up. Mickey talked to Felton and, we assume, Franco showed up again. Are you saying I should talk to Felton again and make a target of myself?”

“You or me.”

“It shouldn’t be you,” Candy said. “Mickey wasn’t your friend. You didn’t come out here to be a what, a-”

“Sitting duck, clay pigeon, sacrificial lamb.”

She nodded. “Any of those. No. It’s my job.”

“Okay,” I said.

“No big macho talk about ‘man’s work’?”

“Nope. In fact it makes no difference. I do it, and I have to protect me and you. You do it, and I have to protect you and me.”

She stopped drumming her fingers and looked at me without expression for a moment. “Yes,” she said. She looked at me some more. “Yes, that’s true. I may not like it, but it’s the way it is. You can protect me a lot better than I can protect myself. I want to do it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I thought you would.”

She walked to the glass doors and stared out at her blue pool. Her fingers were drumming again on her thigh.

“You know, I’ve lived in this house three years and I’ll bet I’ve been in the damn pool twice.”

“When this is over,” I said, “we’ll have a victory swim.”

“When it’s over,” she said. Her back was still to me. “Christ, I wish it were over a long time ago.”

I was quiet.

“When I first came up with this story and started on it, I was so excited. Celebrity, advancement, money.” She shook her head and stared out at the pool. “Now I wish it were done. Now I have to finish it, and all it does is scare me.”

“There’s no business like show business,” I said.

She turned from the window.

“Maybe,” she said, “I’d better learn to use that gun.”

I went out to her car and got it out of the glove compartment and brought it back into her living room. She looked at it without affection. I pressed the release button and dropped the clip out. Then I ran the receiver back and popped a shell out of the chamber.

“Had a round chambered,” I said.

“If you’re going to teach me anything,” Candy said, “you’ll have to speak a language I understand.”

“Sure. I just mean he had a bullet up in the chamber, ready to fire. Usually you would leave it in the magazine till you were ready to shoot. Safer that way.”

“Are you saying, when they trailed us into the Farmers Market, they were ready to shoot us?”

“Maybe, or maybe they were careless and stupid.”

“Is it loaded now?”

“No. Try it out.”

She snapped the empty gun several times, aiming at the far wall. “The trigger’s not hard to pull,” she said.

“Not the way you mean,” I said.

“You mean, it’s hard to shoot someone?”

“Can be.”

“Is this all I do, point it and shoot?”

“If it’s loaded and cocked, yes.”

“Show me how to load it.”

I showed her how to slide the magazine into the handle.

“It’s heavier with the bullets,” she said.

“A little,” I said.

“If I pull the trigger now, will it go off?”

“No. You’ve got to jack a round up into the chamber. Look.” I showed her how. “Now if you pull the trigger it will shoot.” I took it from her and took out the clip and ejected the chambered bullet and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with an empty click. Then I handed her the pistol.

“Okay, you do it.”

She put the magazine in, ran the action back, and looked at me. “Now I can shoot.”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to push the thing back every time I shoot?”

“No. Only the first time. Then it does it by itself. After the first time you just keep squeezing the trigger. When it’s empty, the breech will lock open.”

“What if I need more than, what is it, six shots?”

“Yes. If you do, you can reload the magazine. But if you’ve fired six rounds and need more, you probably won’t have time to reload. I advise flight.”

She practiced loading and cocking a couple of times. Then she pointed the empty gun and practiced a couple of clicks. “Am I doing it right?” she said.

“Yeah. Try to shoot from close. Don’t waste time on shooting from very far. The gun’s not made for it, and neither are you. Shoot for the middle of the body. It allows the most margin of error. You might want to shoot with both hands, like this.” I showed her. “Or if it’s sort of a far shot, you might do it like this.” I showed her the target-shooting stance and told her how to let out the air, and not breathe, and squeeze the trigger. “All of that is unlikely,” I said. “What you’ll want to hit with the gun, if you need to, will probably be very close up and hard to miss. What you need to do most of all is remember you’ve got it, and be willing to use it. Keep in mind that they want to kill you.”

“You’ve shot people?”

“Yes.”

“Is it awful?”

“No. It’s fashionable to say so, but no. It’s not awful. Often it’s fairly easy. Not messy like stabbing or clubbing or strangling, that sort of thing. It’s relatively impersonal. Click. Bang. Dead.”

“Don’t you mind?”

“Yes, I mind. I don’t do it if I don’t have to. But I’ve never shot anyone when it wouldn’t have been a lot worse not to.”

“Do you remember the first time?”

“The time, not the person. It was in Korea. He was just a shape on a night patrol.”

“And it didn’t bother you?”

“Not as much as it would have if he’d shot me.”

“It’s always in context for you, isn’t it?”

“What. Right and wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that ethical relativism?”

“I think so,” I said. “Can you shoot if you have to?”

“Yes,” Candy said. “I believe I can.”

WE WENT DOWN to the hall of justice the next afternoon and spent an hour and a half explaining to Samuelson that our investigation of the moving picture business had nothing to do with Mickey Rafferty’s death. I don’t think Samuelson believed it, but there was nothing much that he could do about it, and he knew it and he knew we knew it so he ushered us out after an hour and a half with a fair amount of grace. Candy drove us up over what was left of Bunker Hill and down to Fifth Street and then to Figueroa and then onto Wilshire.

“I know it’s dumb,” I said, “but I kind of like downtown L.A.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It feels more like a city is supposed to.”

“I never come down here except for a story, but I don’t really like cities.”

“You’re in the right place,” I said.

We drove west on Wilshire past the big old Ambassador Hotel with its brown stucco cottages. Bobby Kennedy had been shot there, on the way out of the ballroom, after a speech.

“I know Felton’s home address,” Candy said. “The first time I saw him, I went to his home.”

“Want to cruise on up there and see if he’s home?”

“Yes,” Candy said. “If he isn’t, we’ll wait.”

I looked at my watch. Four thirty. “Maybe we should stop someplace and get a few sandwiches to go. In case it’s a long wait.”

She nodded. In Beverly Hills we stopped at something that appeared to be a French delicatessen. I went in and bought cheese and bread and country paté and an apple and a pear and a bottle of red wine. They put all this in a paper bag that had a strawbasket design printed on the side, and I took it out, slipped it into the trunk, and got back into the passenger’s side beside Candy.

“We’re armed and provisioned, baby. Let’s roll.”

We turned up Beverly Drive, heading north toward the hills. Candy was quiet as she drove. Across Santa Nlonica I looked at the houses. They were close together and quite near the street, but looking down the driveways and peering around shrubs as we went past, I could see the depth of the lot. Ample room for pools and tennis courts and hot tubs and patios and croquet lawns.

“What do you call the place where croquet is played?” I said to Candy.

“Excuse me?”

“Is it a croquet field or a croquet court or what?”

“I don’t know.”

“My God, next thing you’ll tell me you don’t play polo.”

She shook her head. I looked at the houses some more. They were often Spanish with a touch of Tudor. They frequently had both wood and stone siding, and the small lawns in front were consistently well tended. Palm trees were metronomically regular in their spacing and identity along the narrow border between the sidewalk and the street. And nothing moved. It looked like an empty set. No dogs sitting in the front yards with their tongues out looking at pedestrians. No cats. No children. No bicycles. No basketball rims on garages. No baseballs, tree huts. No squirrels.

“Place looks like Disneyland after hours,” I said to Candy. “Deserted.”

“Oh, yes. It always is.”

“What are they doing in there,” I said, “watching a videotape of people living?”

Candy smiled but not like she enjoyed it. “I guess so,” she said. “I never thought much about it.”

We crossed Sunset. The Hills began.

“That mansion still here on Sunset where the guy painted explicit genitals on the nude statues out front?”

Candy nodded. “A realist,” I said.

“Spenser,” Candy said, “I just don’t feel like making amusing conversation right now, okay? My friend is dead. I may be dead soon. I’m scared and sad and I don’t see how you can talk about nonsense as if nothing had happened.”

“I could keen,” I said.

She frowned. “Keen?”

“You know, as in `keening and wailing and gnashing of teeth.‘ ”

“You know you’re probably being cheery, but please don’t joke now. Let’s just be quiet.”

“How about I just gnash a little bit. Very softly. You’ll barely hear me.”

She smiled slightly.

I said, very softly, “Gnash.”

She smiled more and her shoulders shook slightly.

“Gnash.”

She laughed. “Okay. Okay. You are, in fact, as loony as I thought you were. We’re setting ourselves up like two worms on a hook, and you’re riding around saying ‘Gnash.’ ”

We swung off Beverly Drive and into Coldwater Canyon. The road was steeper now, and when we swung onto Linda Crest, we began going up steeply in a series of reverse curves. Candy shifted up and down as the MG hugged the turns.

“This is what it was born for,” I said.

“This car? Yes. It’s always fun to drive it up here. I always feel like Mario Andretti or somebody.”

“Better looking though.”

“Thank you.”

Sam Felton’s house was the last one on the street. Beyond it the hills terraced back down toward L.A., and the city spread out below it. There was a stucco wall with an iron gate in it. When we rang, a voice came out of a small speaker in one of the gateposts.

“Who’s calling, please?” it said.

“Candy Sloan to see Mr. Felton.”

“Mr. Felton is not home now. Would you leave a message?”

“We’d prefer to come in and wait,” Candy said.

“I’m sorry, that isn’t possible. I don’t know when Mr. Felton will be home. If you’ll leave a message, I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

“No thanks,” Candy said. A small sign beside the speaker said PROTECTED BY THE BEL-AIR PATROL. “We’ll wait.”

There was a click from the speaker and then silence. Candy shrugged. “He’ll have to come in or go out sometime,” Candy said.

“Back way?” I said.

“Not in these hills,” Candy said. “You’d have to drive over someone’s roof.”

I nodded. We waited. We ate our picnic. At ten of seven a dark green BMW sedan drove into a turn in front of Felton’s house and stopped. A man peered out at us through the front windshield.

“Felton,” Candy said.

He got out of the car and waddled toward us. “Something I can do for you?” he said.

“Mr. Felton, it’s Candy Sloan, KNBS, remember? I spoke with you before about movie racketeering.”

“I remember. I thought that was finished.”

“There’s been some new developments, Mr. Felton. I’ll need to discuss them with you before we broadcast them.”

“I don’t believe I know this gentleman,” Felton said.

“Mr. Spenser is helping me with the investigation.”

Candy said.

Felton nodded at me. I said, “Glad to meet you.” Felton looked at the gate and then looked at us and then looked at his car. If he opened the gate to go in, would we go in with him? It would be embarrassing to get back in the car and drive away. Could he stall till the Bel-Air Patrol galloped by? He looked at me again. There was nothing he could do with me. I was twenty years younger and four inches taller. He opted for dignity.

“Come on in,” he said. “We’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Thank you,” Candy said.

Felton unlocked the gate with a key that hung on a retractable key chain, attached to a clip on a big wide Western-style belt. He had a large stomach, and the belt was cinched right across the middle so that there was an unseemly bulge both above and below the belt. The belt held up some brand-new baggy jeans and was supplemented by wide red suspenders. Glamorous. He had on a white collarless shirt with a pleated front. His hair was shoulder length. On his feet were sandals. No socks. He held the gate open, and we went through and preceded him up the path. At the front door he used a different key, and then we were inside.

The house was cool, elegant, and expansive, gleaming with brass and ebony, filled with Oriental objets d’art, with parqueted and marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows providing a view from almost every room.

An aging Mexican woman in a green housedress and a white apron appeared in the foyer. She stood quietly by an arched entry that appeared to lead into a dining room.

“What will you drink?” Felton asked us.

“White wine,” Candy said.

“Beer,” I said.

Felton spoke to the woman in Spanish. She smiled and disappeared.

“Come on in the living room,” Felton said. “We can get comfortable and then we can talk.”

There was an enormous black marble fireplace in the far wall of the living room. On either side were French doors, thinly curtained, through whose translucence the lights of Los Angeles glittered in the gathering evening.

Candy and I sat together on a huge white couch highlighted with bright green satin casual pillows. I tucked two behind me to keep from sinking into the quagmire of cushions. The Mexican woman brought in a large silver tray. On it were a glass of white wine and a bottle of Carta Blanca beer and a glass, and what I took to be a glass of tequila on a saucer with a wedge of lime and a small dish of salt with a silver spoon beside it. She placed the tray on a low glass coffee table and smiled and left.