Dead Seed (5 page)

“Agent? For what? Grange hasn’t worked in years.”

“We didn’t talk about that! Grange called him from some place yesterday and told him about this Lacrosse business. He wanted to know what we knew about it. I told him you knew more about it than we did. He’ll probably phone you.”

I smiled. “I’ll bet you didn’t clear it with the Chief.”

“Not yet. I will. He went home early. Now tell me what’s new at this end.”

I hesitated.

“Tell him, Brock,” Jan said.

I told him the Corey Raleigh story.

He shook his head. “So now you’ve added the Sheriff’s Department to your enemy list. Do you have to alienate
everybody
with your big mouth and bulging muscles? Won’t you
ever
learn diplomacy?”

“We weren’t all born with your sweet disposition, Bernie. Your glass is empty.”

“Fill it,” he said, “and we’ll talk about something else. Thank God it’s Friday. I’ll have two days of peace.”

Chitchat about the weather and the Lakers and the novelty of having a movie star in the White House and then he went home to his two days of peace.

Sidney Morgenstern phoned a few minutes before dinner and asked if it would be possible for him to see me tonight. I gave him the directions to our house and told him eight-thirty would be fine for me.

“If,” Jan said at dinner, “you are going to continue to work, I think you should start charging your clients. After all, you are a professional. Don’t you still have your license?”

“I do. I don’t consider this work. I consider it being neighborly.”

“Of course!” she said. “I’m
so
sorry.”

I gave her my abused-husband look.

“I’ll apologize,” she said, “if you will admit that you’re not that neighborly. It’s the action you like, isn’t it?”

“Yup. You, too. Right?”

“Guilty,” she admitted. “I guess we’re more alike than I realized.”

Bernie had called Morgenstern a very classy gentleman. I had the driveway lights on and saw his car as it pulled in. It was a 1961 Ferrari 250 California three-liter sports car. That was class.

He was a tall man, about seventy, with white hair and a thin, hawklike face. He was dressed in almost the same shade of gray flannel that Vartan Sarkissian had worn.

Jan was watching television in the den; we sat in the living room.

“I was surprised,” I told him, “when Lieutenant Vogel told me you were Fortney’s agent. Is he still working?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I was his agent for forty years and also his friend. I am still his friend. Have you known him long?”

“Only a few days. But I’ve always been a fan of his. Where did he phone you from?”

“He didn’t say. He told me about this Lacrosse woman. It so happens that her husband was having a showing of his latest work at the Roquel Gallery in Beverly Hills, and I was lucky enough to catch him there. He told me some things that I would like to relay to Fort and Miss Medford.”

“Private things?”

“I’m sorry. They are.”

“Is Lacrosse still down in Los Angeles?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt it. Yesterday was the last day of the exhibition, and the owner told me Lacrosse rarely stays in one place very long. You might call the gallery.”

“Did Grange know Lacrosse?”

“No. But Lacrosse knew who Fort was from his pictures. I had the feeling it was Miss Medford that the Lacrosse woman was threatening.” He paused. “Her husband is not a very communicative man, and I didn’t pry. I learned what needed to be learned.”

There was another pause and then he smiled. “I refuse to share my knowledge but ask you to share yours. That is unfair, isn’t it?”

“I guess. There isn’t much that I know. Her son suddenly deserted her and joined a cult up in the hills above here.”

He nodded. “Lieutenant Vogel told me that. There is one favor I could ask of you. You could alert me if Fort and Miss Medford return. You could ask him to phone me here in town. I’ll be here for a few days to visit friends and look for a house. I want to retire here. I’m at the Biltmore.”

“You didn’t tell Grange on the phone that you’d be staying over?”

His eyebrows lifted and he smiled. “Obviously not.”

Obviously—? I thought,
don’t get too classy, Sidney.
I said, “My question wasn’t as obvious as you read it. What I meant to say was—why the hell not?”

He laughed. “I can be a superior ass at times, can’t I? I didn’t tell him I was staying in town because I hadn’t planned to stay here when he phoned me.”

“Okay, you’re forgiven. Would you like a drink? Whiskey, cognac, rum, beer, Coke, Seven Up?”

“The only beer I drink is
Einlicher,”
he said, “and very few people have it.”

Now I knew he was a classy guy. “I have it,” I said.

Over the
Einlicher,
he told me about some of the old stars he had represented and some of the nonstars. Most of the stars were now dead, some of the nonstars still seeking work. “Even the small parts I get them,” he explained, “make me so happy I hate to take my commission. But it would look like charity if I didn’t. And they would resent that.”

“Vanity, you mean?”

“Pride would be a better word. They’re children you know, playacting.” His voice was low-pitched. “But think of the dreams they’ve brought to all of us. How many supporting players have you seen dozens of times—but can’t name?”

“Too many,” I admitted.

“Those are mostly the people I represent now,” he said. “They’re still chasing the dream. They know the quality of their peers. They remember actors with far less talent who are now household words. One lucky break, one meaty part in a major picture, one supporting role in a successful television series—”

“And they can die famous,” I finished for him.

He nodded. “And that’s why I keep on working. The commissions I’ve been earning the past few years don’t even pay my office expenses. When the last of my aging hopefuls has exhausted his last big chance at stardom, that’s when I’ll move up here and retire with my memories.”

“It’s the right town for that,” I said. “Another
Einlicher.”

“Thank you. I’d like one.”

He was halfway through it when he said, “A friend of mine in town told me you are married to the former Jan Bonnet. She is no longer working, is she?”

I nodded. “She went back to work a couple months ago. But she doesn’t have her own shop any more. She works for Kay Décor.”

“That’s wonderful!” he said. “I’ve seen some of the houses she has done in Belair and Beverly Hills. I hope she will be available when I find the house I’m looking for up here.”

“Follow me,” I said, and stood up.

He followed me to the doorway of the den. There, I said, “I am bringing you a customer, Jan. I am bringing you one with taste—for a change.”

I
T WAS ANOTHER CLOUDY
night, another sunny morning. The radio informed us at breakfast that rationing had been decreed by the county water district, starting Monday. No lawn or garden watering, except in agricultural areas, would be permitted between eight o’clock in the morning and four in the afternoon.

A lack of available water was what kept our town’s growth limited. It was an ill wind that blew somebody good, to mix the metaphor and the elements. If we could get more water, all the eager-beaver real estate dealers and developers in town would convert our sanctuary into another San Fernando Valley.

I was on my second cup of coffee when Corey phoned. He had a new assignment from Mrs. Lacrosse, he told me. She wanted him to join The New Awareness and work from the inside to get her son out.

“Don’t be foolish,” I said. “They’ll put you into their incubator and you’ll wind up with daisies in your hair.”

“I have a different angle. I went to high school with a girl who works up there. She thinks she can get me a job. She’s the secretary to the boss and there’s nothing kooky about her. You see, this way I’d be an employee, not a convert.”

“A slim girl with wheat-colored hair?” I asked.

“Right. You know her?”

“I met her. If I were your age and single, I’d still be up there. Be careful, though. That goon at the gate could be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful. What I was wondering—would the five bucks an hour extra still hold with you if I’m up there?”

“Well—” I said doubtfully.

“Four bucks?” he suggested.

“I don’t know—”

“Make it two dollars an hour and we’ve got a deal,” he said.

“Okay. Only because I want to keep a comer like you in the profession. Now, damn it, be careful!”

“Of course. Stop fretting! I’m no kid.”

Of course he wasn’t. He was a seasoned investigator with his own telephone in the garage office of his parents’ home. Why was I such a worry wart? If he landed a job there he would be getting pay from three sources. That was a lot better than I had done at his age.

The Levon Apoyan I had miscalled my chauffeur when I was conning Sarkissian was the man who had told me about Armenians. He had been a teammate of mine at Stanford, a second-string quarterback. His name was Levon, but we all called him Lee. He now ran a carpet and Oriental rug store in Van Nuys. I phoned him there and asked if he knew Vartan Sarkissian.

“I know of two people by that name, but not personally. Do you mean the one who is running the cult up in your town?”

“That’s the one.”

“I know him only by reputation.”

“Which is?”

“Shady and slick. He’s run a lot of scams but never been convicted. He’ll break his father’s heart one of these days.”

“You know his father?”

“I do. He’s a minister in the Armenian Apostolic church. Is it true what I heard, that you hit it big?”

“I guess you could say I’m solvent.”

“Well, I’ve got this twelve-by-eighteen Kerman, old buddy, an antique Kerman that I can let you have for a lousy—”

“Stop it, Lee. I really am your buddy. This is old Brock.”

“I forgot. Chintzy Callahan. How’s it going?”

“Fair enough. Next time you’re up here selling some rich Montevista widow, give me a call. We’ll play some golf.”

“On you?”

“On me. Golf, booze, dinner, the whole bit on me.”

“Maybe you’re not so chintzy any more. I get a stroke a side, same as before? Maybe a hundred-dollar Nassau?”

“Maybe a five-dollar Nassau, with two presses. I’m still a little chintzy.”

When I hung up, Jan asked me, “Was that Lee Apoyan you were talking with?”

I nodded.

“You should have told me you were going to phone him. I have a client who’s been looking all over town for an antique Kerman. Maybe Lee has one.”

“He’s got one,” I told her. “He tried to sell it to me. Here’s the phone number of his store.” I handed her the slip I’d made.

I can relate only Jan’s end of the dialogue. It went like this: “Brock told me you have an antique Kerman. What size?” A pause. “Oh, I was hoping it was a twelve-by-fifteen.” Pause. “No, no. The room is large enough, but she has this Kashan runner she wants to put at one end.” Pause. “I know that’s dumb. She’s dumb.” Pause. “That’s right, dumb but rich. What color is it?” Pause. “Oh, that would be perfect for the room. Damn it!” Pause. “No, I’m not going to give you her name. She’s
my
customer, Lee.” Pause. “All right. You phone me before you come up, and I’ll arrange for us to see her together.”

Jan hung up and looked at me. “What are you smirking about?”

“I was wondering if that woman really planned to put a runner at the end of her Kerman.”

Jan said haughtily, “She suggested it once. I promised not to complain about your business. I would appreciate it if you would stay out of mine.”

I had a feeling that if Jan had been at Stanford with us, and male, second-string quarterback Lee Apoyan would have been demoted to third-string. And then the sobering thought came to me that Jan had matched wits with a peer, while I had taken advantage of novice Corey Raleigh. And the even more sobering thought followed that they had earned their money; I had inherited mine.

We had a diet lunch and went out for our Saturday afternoon run. I had been exercising a lot more than Jan, but she was no more bushed than I was when we finished.

“It’s your weight,” she explained to me. “You’re overweight. I’m not.”

She went to the shower. I went to the den and put down on a sheet of graph paper the names of all the characters I had met since Carol and Grange had left town, plus one I hadn’t met, Carl Lacrosse.

I drew lines to connect the obvious and lines to cross-connect the less obvious trying to find a pattern. None emerged. The main characters were on the road, carrying their secret with them.

It didn’t make sense that an angry former maid would come all the way from Arizona on a peeve because she had been fired. There had to be another reason. It has to be a long time ago, before she had married Lacrosse and had her child. Carol was obviously lying.

And Carol had obviously run. Why? With the insulation of her wealth, the expensive attorneys she could hire—why? She was a butterfly but not a nitwit.

I was still checking the cast of characters when Mrs. Casey came to tell me one of them was on the phone. It was Sarkissian.

He said, “Don’t bother to come up again, Mr. Callahan. Joel has told me he has no Tryden relatives. He saw you leave here yesterday and he saw your name on the mailbox of the house next to the Medfords’.”

“He also lied about being related to Carl.”

“That was before he learned to trust me. I have to assume that you are working for Dwight Kelly.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Give my regards to your father.” I hung up.

Dwight Kelly was another character I hadn’t met. If I could get to him when Mrs. Lacrosse wasn’t around, maybe I could be Lester Tryden again. It was a role that needed further polishing.

I phoned the “office” number Corey had given me. There was no answer. I phoned his house and his father answered. He told me that Corey had driven his mother to the grocery store; they should be home soon.

“I’m glad you are taking an interest in my boy, Mr. Callahan,” he said. “He worries me. I sometimes think he is about six or seven cards short of a full deck.”