Country of Old Men (20 page)

“Thank you,” Dave said. The hike down hallways from her office seemed long, and as he pushed out of the building into noon sunlight, he was suddenly dead-tired again.

Ninety minutes later, numb with fatigue, he dragged himself up the outside stairs of a Sunset Boulevard motel and came dishearteningly close to shuffling to the unit number he’d been given. He knocked. He knocked. He knocked again. At last, the scuffed red door jerked open, and a naked young man squinted at him. His long dark hair was tangled from sleep and he was pawing strands of it from across his face.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’m Brandstetter,” Dave said. “Didn’t Kalish tell you I was coming?” Kalish was the agent, a man with frizzled red hair and too many clients, too many telephones. He worked in an enormous Beverly Hills agency, and Dave had napped in a leather armchair in his handsome vestibule for an hour waiting to get to see him. “He said he’d phone ahead.”

Brice Tyner nodded and backed into the room. “He phoned ahead. That didn’t mean I don’t have to sleep, did it?” He wasn’t self-conscious about his nakedness. Why should he be? His body was perfect as a Greek marble. It reminded Dave of Kovaks’s body long ago. “Come in,” Tyner said. He found a muslin shirt on the carpet, picked it up, flapped into it. Its tails were almost knee-length. He didn’t trouble to button it. He sprawled on a couch. “What’s this about? Ol’ Cricket?”

“He won’t get any older,” Dave said. “Somebody shot him to death the other night.” A television set was in the room. Dave glanced at it. “It was on the news.”

“I missed it.” Tyner yawned. “Anyway, last I heard he was in jail.”

“You never wrote to him there,” Dave said.

“Listen, we weren’t buddies.” Tyner jumped up and went away for a moment. Dave heard a hard stream of urine crash into a toilet. The toilet flushed. Tyner came back with a Diet Pepsi and plumped down on the couch again. “We had a trio for a while, five, six years ago. ‘A and B and the Cricket.’ It never went anywhere. We broke up.” He shrugged. “Nobody cried. It was strictly a business deal. We used to see each other at recording sessions sometimes. Cricket just for the hell of it made some arrangements for the three of us. We gave it a try.”

“Alan Marsh did write to him in jail,” Dave said.

“That right?” Tyner blinked at Dave over his soda can. He appeared surprised. “Well, you never know.”

“Never know what?” Dave wondered.

“I thought they were both straight,” Tyner said. “I’m the gay one.”

Dave smiled thinly. “I’d never have guessed.”

Tyler smiled back, stretched, and the shirt fell open. “I was hoping you would.”

Dave said, “I’m flattered.” Dear God—the child was Kovaks more than just in body. “But my sleeping partner wouldn’t like it. At the musicians’ union, they told me Marsh has dropped out. Where is he, do you know?”

Lazily, watching Dave with his mind on something else, Tyner scratched his lean belly. “I ran into him once—someplace, last year, year before?” He stood up, came and stood in front of Dave, the shirt open, his hands on his narrow hips, grinning. His penis stirred and swelled. “Bedroom’s just in there,” he said. “The sheets are clean.”

Dave stood up quickly. “Where was it you saw Marsh?”

“Some store.” Tyner dreamily caressed himself. “The Gap? Miller’s outpost? Clothes, okay?”

“Did he say how he’s making his living?” Dave said.

“He said”—Tyner smiled—“‘Why work when you don’t have to?’ Cricket had introduced him to somebody with lots of money who needed help around the house—something like that.” Tyner leaned forward and put a kiss on Dave’s mouth. It tasted of the heavily sweetened drink. He tried to take Dave’s hand. “Come on. I’m lonesome. ‘The Lonesomest Girl in Town.’ You ever hear that? Some old singer called Kay Starr. You ever live in motel rooms? It’s the pits.”

“I know,” Dave said. “How did Marsh look?”

“Different,” Tyner said. “No more long hair. No more beard.”

“Thanks. Keep well.” Dave put a light kiss on his mouth, and left.

When he reached Horseshoe Canyon trail, he drove past his own place up to Hilda Vosper’s, a brown cottage tucked in among trees, on the downhill side of the road. He turned in, so the Jaguar nosed her garage doors, and climbed wearily out. Hilda Vosper had a little raggedy brown dog. Now on the other side of the front door, the dog barked in bright, nonstop excitement. There was no need to press the bell button. After a moment Hilda’s cheery voice called that she was coming. And soon the door opened. Wiggling happily, the little dog sniffed Dave’s shoes and pants cuffs, gave him a bark, and bustled away on some errand of his own.

“Dave!” his little owner cried. “How nice! Come in.”

“I’ve come for a favor,” Dave warned her.

“Anytime, you know that.” Her very blue eyes blinked at him, concerned. “You don’t look well.”

“I’m a little tired,” he admitted.

“Come outside with me,” she said, walking brisk as a girl across a comfortable living room, and out French doors to a rear deck set among treetops. It was a beautiful spot. Years ago, when Cecil was recovering from gunshot wounds, he’d spend a lot of time down here, in the calm and quiet, getting his strength back. There was a good smell of pine and eucalyptus in the air. Today, Hilda had set up an easel, a work stand, and a canvas director’s chair for herself. There was a second chair of the same kind. She motioned Dave to it. “Sit down. I’ll get us some tea in a minute.”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Dave said.

“The water’s heating,” she said. “Just let me try something here to see if it works.” She picked up a brush, dabbed it in a mound of paint on the tabletop, and tilting her head touched up a clump of greenery on the canvas. It wasn’t a picture of her backyard she was painting. She was working from a photo attached to the easel above the canvas. Somebody’s house by the ocean, and far down the beach two people riding horses. “I feel these days if I stop working, I’ll keel over and never be heard from again.”

“I know the feeling,” Dave laughed.

She stepped back to study what she’d done to the green. “Yes,” she told herself, “that was what it needed.” And she laid the brush down, and turned to look at him. “Now—satisfy my curiosity. What favor can I possibly do you?”

“You’ve done several.” Dave laughed.

She smiled. “I couldn’t have my favorite neighbor kidnapped by thugs in the middle of the night—now could I?”

He took the snapshot from his pocket and held it out. “You showed it to me once—a projector you’ve got that blows up photos so you can trace them on canvas.”

She took the picture and studied it. “Yes, I remember. It was new then, and I was so pleased with it.”

“Is it still working?” he wondered.

“Oh, yes. You want a painting of these boys?”

He pushed to his feet, stood by her, put a finger on the picture in her hand. “That one in particular.”

“The one with the beard?” She gave him a smiling nod, took the picture away with her into the house. “Let me get the tea.” Dave sat down and was asleep when she returned with the tray and set it on a squatty rough redwood table among potted plants. “You are tired, poor man,” she said, seating herself and pouring from a wicker-handled blue-and-white pot into matching cups, cups without handles. She handed him one. “I brought cookies. You look as if you could use a cookie. You’re too thin.”

“Thank you.” The cup was hot. He set it on the table and bit into the cookie. “It doesn’t have to be a painting. I don’t want to put you to that trouble. Just a drawing will be fine.” The cookie did taste good. She was right. He was hungry. He ate it in two bites and reached for another. “But I’m going to impose on you to make two.”

“Ah, well, I can use my copying machine,” she said. “It’s wonderful the machines we artists have these days to help us out. When I was a girl I never imagined it all.”

“I don’t mean two the same,” Dave said. “I mean two different. Please.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Different? How?”

“On one,” Dave said, “give him a shave and a haircut.”

W
YNN-MADDEN REAL ESTATE WAS
up a small side street off Sunset Boulevard in the heart of Hollywood. Or it had been. The name was still on the window, but the glass was dirty and rain-spotted. A
Closed
sign hung on a string inside the glass door. The sign was fly-specked. Beyond it stood desks with nothing on them but dust. The floor was strewn with papers and glossy black-and-white photographs of houses, photographs that were turning yellow. In a corner three white telephones waited on the floor, their cords wrapped around them. A red-and-white pasteboard
For Rent
sign sagged against the window. The word
Owner
and a telephone number had been lettered on it in black marker pen. It was fading away. Dave found a pay telephone on Selma Street and called the number. He learned what he expected to learn, and went back to the Jaguar.

Chaim Chernov wore pajamas and a robe this morning, and on his hairless skull rested a black-and-red smoking cap. Its silk panels had long lost their gloss, and the tassel was moth-eaten. From his wheelchair in the doorway, he blinked at Dave against the bright sunlight. The Santa Ana winds had blown again in the night and scoured the sky. The day was dazzling. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Dave Brandstetter,” Dave said.

“Ah, the man who found Rachel. Did you know? She is no longer suspected of murder. I have paid her bail, and she is, for the present, a free woman.”

“Yes, I know,” Dave said. “That’s good news.”

“A great relief,” Chernov said. “Such a magnificent voice. The world needs music, Mr. Brandstetter.”

“I agree,” Dave said. “Is Arthur here?”

“He is at the supermarket.” Chernov backed his chair. “I expect him soon. Come in.”

“Thank you.” Dave stepped inside and shut the door. The broad living room with its handsome furniture, carpets, paintings, was chilly. Chernov was studying him with his blurred old eyes. Dave asked, “What is it, Maestro?”

“I—I was just wondering if—” But he didn’t finish. He shut the question down. He seemed embarrassed.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Dave asked.

“Well—I—have a little mystery,” Chernov said, and laughed at himself. “It’s nothing, really. But you are a skilled investigator. Yes.” He nodded, and the smoking cap slipped, and he reached up to settle it with a trembling hand. “Let me show you.” The wheelchair hummed off down the room. “Come with me.”

Dave followed him. “A mystery? You mean there’s been a crime?”

Chernov laughed. “Has there, hasn’t there? Who can say?” He stopped the chair in the dining room. “Things go missing, Mr. Brandstetter, and then they reappear as if they had been here all along. What kind of thievery is that?”

“Which things?” Dave said.

“On that wall”—Chernov pointed—“hangs a small Manet landscape, a watercolor sketch.”

Not now. Now a flower painting hung there. Vuillard, by the look of it. Dave stepped around the long table and lifted the picture down. It was the same size as the dark rectangle around which the wall’s paint had faded slightly. He hung the flowers back, turned, and searched the old singer’s ravaged face. “Are you certain, Maestro?”

“You think I am losing my wits?”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Dave said.

“The Manet has always hung in that spot.”

“What about the Vuillard?”

“In the second bedroom,” Chernov said.

Dave got his directions, found the second bedroom, looked around, called back, “There’s an empty space for a picture in here.”

“Just so,” Chernov said. “What does it mean?”

Dave went back to him, shaking his head.

“You see?” Chernov exulted. “Isn’t that a mystery?” He lost his smile. “Or do you think as Arthur does—that it’s the medication addling my wits? I tell you, things disappear, and then they’re back again. You’ll see. Tomorrow or the day after, the Manet will be in its rightful place again. It’s happened over and over.”

“Yes, I expect it has.” Dave glanced around. “Anything else besides the paintings?”

“Ah, you see, how well the trained professional mind works. Yes, indeed.” He made a gesture at a sideboard where an elaborate silver service shone. “Those—all of them—vanished one day, and were back the next.”

“I believe it.” Dave smiled at him. “But it’s not much of a mystery.”

Chernov’s eyes opened in surprise. “You have solved it—so soon?”

Dave nodded. “I have information you don’t have. That made it easy. It’s my reason for being here this morning—to share this information with you. It will take a little time. Are you comfortable here? You want to go back into the living room? Or perhaps you’d like to lie down.”

The old musician shook his head impatiently. “No, I’m all right. I’m bored to death with lying down.”

Dave drew out a chair and sat at the polished table. He laid on the table the big white envelope Hilda Vosper had fastened with a pushpin to his door early that morning, before he and Cecil were awake. “First I have something to show you,” and he opened the envelope and slid out a drawing. He put it in Chernov’s hands. The old man’s dim eyes peered at it, and he smiled.

“Why, it’s Arthur,” he said. “And very nice work, too.” He squinted, looking for a signature. “Who is the artist?”

“A neighbor of mine,” Dave said. “Hilda Vosper.”

“I don’t understand. Is this a gift for me?”

“I don’t think you’ll want to keep it,” Dave said. Chernov frowned. “What do you mean? Why not? This young man has become a son to me, Mr. Brandstetter. My life would have ended long ago if it weren’t for Arthur Madden.”

“The young man in that picture is named Alan Marsh.”

Chernov looked blank. “What are you saying?”

Dave took the snapshot from the envelope. “Can you see this clearly? Examine it, please.”

The old singer glanced at the windows, turned his chair so the light from the windows fell on the smiling images of A and B and the Cricket on that sunny outdoor stage, and held the photograph close to his eyes for a time. Dave said nothing. He waited. At last Chaim Chernov sighed, lowered the snapshot, and gazed at Dave with tears in his eyes.