The Retrieval (2 page)

Jake’s expression slid from content toward sullen, which unfortunately made him look like a third-string Latin lover. “Los Angeles is full of snobs. I swear, one of these days I’m going to slug some--”

“Oh, calm down. Lower your fists, and enjoy the show instead. Before the Revolution -- our revolution -- all my swanky ancestors were just so many pretentious New World merchants pretending to be British squires by commissioning copies of Chippendale. Two generations ago, it was the western magnates who lacked refinement and bought like barbarians.” Charlie smiled to take some of the sting out of his lecture. “Now those same families are snubbing the studio chiefs and conveniently forgetting all the elephant-foot umbrella stands and hair brooches their grandparents bought. As for the rest of the so-called vulgarity their ancestors enjoyed, we now view it as the best art of its times. Today’s no different. Once you realize what you’re watching, aesthetic condescension is to laugh.”

“I’d laugh harder if the snubbing was only over new moolah and crude tastes.”

Charlie considered Jake. He knew the Mor ancestors weren’t anywhere near as Anglo-Saxon as they might have been. “Someone’s been playing a round of ‘those
people
in Hollywood’ while you were within earshot?”

“Try lots of someones.”

“Well, now.” Charlie tried staring upward in search of an adequate answer. He didn’t find it. “Such attitudes also change, but admittedly at a caterpillar’s creep. At least no one jeers at Dutchmen and Germans anymore, much. However, I still believe the humorous perspective, when possible, imparts an air of baffling superiority more maddening to the snobbish than outright hostility will ever be.”

Brows knit, Jake considered this. “Okay, I’ve seen that happen.” The concentration gave way to a smile. “You know, this is one reason I like your being in town. You make sure my head’s screwed on straight.”

“All it requires is a small enough screwdriver and some watchmaker’s oil.”

“Uh-huh. Watchmaker’s oil.” The variety of amusement in Jake’s smile somehow shifted, but at least it didn’t vanish. Then Jake cleared his throat before asking, “Would you get the street maps out of the pocket on the passenger door? I don’t know the exact location of the house we want. Usually Laura’s studio secretary picks up the goods.”

“Hmm,” Charlie said as he groped around. Something about Jake’s latest expression niggled at familiar suspicions, but the atlas he’d just found was distracting. “
Miller and Miller Popular Atlas of Los Angeles County with Recent Street Additions
. Your company’s work?”

“And my pet project,” Jake said, obviously proud. “Printed on middling-sized book pages bound with wire rings, so your maps won’t blow around when you use them in your automobile. No problems with folding, either. Our standard and wall maps still sell better, but these are doing okay. I got a raise, and I’m already working on revising the maps for a second edition.”

“During this slump? Congratulations.”

“Thanks. See how hard it is to locate Vistaview Terrace.”

Charlie was pleased to report that finding a street in Jake’s atlas wasn’t hard at all, and they pulled up in front of Mr. Tildon’s house about ten minutes later.

Here was a fine example of native Southern Californian idiom in the wild. The place was trying to embody some Midwest fantasy about quaint European cottages, what with those high-peaked roofs, wrought-iron railings, diamond paned windows, and unneeded half-timbers. Ivy was everywhere. Instead of historic, the house’s style ended up being brashly fantastic in a way that was absurdly… cute, for lack of a better word. Charlie found he was more charmed than aesthetically offended.

Without looking to be sure he was being followed, Jake got out of the roadster and was half-way up the herring-pattern brick walkway before Charlie was disentangled from his seat. Behind the house, unseen dogs woofed warning as Jake rang the door chimes.

Just as Charlie reached the front stoop, the door opened. A man, a lean and rather handsome blond of around thirty, had answered the chimes. His tweed coat complimented the domestic architecture, but he had the manner of a visitor, not the master of the house, when he spoke.

“Good morning. Can I help you?” When the fellow got a good look at Jake, he seemed a little startled.

“Uh,” Jake said. “You bet. I guess.” He, on the other hand, looked like someone had beaned him with a brick.

This man at the door was obviously not Mr. Tildon, but he was just as obviously someone Jake knew. For the sake of good manners, Charlie decided to intervene. Taking a step forward, he said, “Good morning. Is this Mr. Tildon’s house?”

After a thoughtful survey, the tweedy man said, “It is. I’d imagine this--” he looked at the still stunned Jake “-- must be Mr. Mor, here for Miss Moore’s purchases.” Then he cocked his head, his eyebrows ever so slightly elevated, waiting for his cue. He’d be right at home accepting a drink from another male in a certain stylish hotel bar off 45th Street after a hard day behind the counters at Bergdorf Goodman’s.

Oh ho, Charlie thought. So that’s what Jake’s stunned look was all about. Given this sudden realization, the elbow he jabbed into Jake’s ribs might have been planted more roughly than it really needed to be.

It still served to snap Jake out of his daze. He said, “That’s me, Mr. Mor. This is my pal, Mr. Hunter. He wanted to have a look at the collection, especially the mallard duck.”

“The
teal
,” the tweedy man corrected, even as he moved out of the way to let them inside. “A mallard duck wouldn’t be nearly as interesting as a
teal
. I’m Grayson Burke, Mr. Tildon’s assistant. He had to attend an estate auction today and tenders his apologies. Please follow me.”

As they trailed after Burke into a living room decorated in the very latest style, Charlie managed to murmur, “A duck. Why will I be looking at a duck?”

Jake had recovered enough to murmur back with a grin, “A
teal
,” which nearly earned him another jab to the ribs.

Charlie’s question answered itself when they halted before the upside-down u-curve of the coffee table. Laid out in careful display were the ancient and battered accoutrements of a duck hunter. There sat a set of duck calls, two neatly stitched game bags, well-worn canvas waders, even a nicely painted, if faded, wooden decoy: Charlie could have been staring at odds and ends foraged from the attics of one of his elderly male relatives. No, these items had an individualism to them that hinted their owner had never shopped the hallowed halls of Abercrombie & Fitch. In fact, the equipment all seemed to be hand-crafted.

“Folk art?” Charlie hazarded.

Burke lit up so quickly Charlie might as well have replaced a burnt-out fuse. “Yes, a magnificent set with documented provenance to the 1860s. Some of the whistles are very likely older. As well, we believe the teal decoy was carved by a certain Mr. Lothrop Holmes, which makes it of special interest. His work is becoming collectable. A true master of his self-taught craft.”

Hearing those words, Charlie braced himself. Sure enough, it took almost an hour, and examining every object on the table in detail as well as watching them all be packed into an also ancient wicker chest, to free himself from Burke’s enthusiasm for authentic expressions of the native artistic genius rising toward fruition within their rustic American ancestors.

“I may have to consider hurting you,” Charlie told Jake when Mr. Burke had left the room to discretely dispose of Laura’s check. Jake’s initial, wary look gave way to obvious amusement when Charlie continued, “I suppose I earned all that with my homily to you about aesthetics, but his detailed veer into doting on eagle weather vanes was still cruel and unusual punishment.”

“We’ll get your lunch after this. At least, we will if we don’t have to head across town to--” Jake had glanced at his watch, and his expression was just shifting toward alarmed as Burke entered.

Young Mr. Burke smiled at them coyly enough to support Charlie’s opinion about Burke’s inclinations. “Now then, as to your other business. There are three candidates here for you to choose between, but if you’d allow a mere acquaintance to suggest…” Burke’s pause was discretion at its finest.

“Great idea. I need all the help I can get when choosing,” Jake said hastily.

Burke’s lips twitched but he stilled them before saying, “Really, Mr. Mor. It’s in my best interest to claim you make excellent choices, no matter which of your hobbies you might presently be enjoying. I’ll fetch my idea of your best candidate.” He bustled back out.

When Charlie looked over for an explanation, Jake’s features were broadcasting a bout between amusement and outrage. After a struggle, outrage won and Jake burst out with “Did he just say that?” He turned to face Charlie and demanded, “Did he really imply what I think he did right in front of you?”

“Might I point out that I’m not supposed to know enough about your previous acquaintanceship with Mr. Burke to answer your second question?”

Jake seemed to deflate. “Oh. You bet. We never did have that talk I’d planned on, did we?”

“We did not.” Taking pity on Jake’s visible chagrin, Charlie asked him, “Is this a talk you’ve been rehearsing with yourself for a while now?”

“No, with my shaving mirror.”

“Even better. I’m certain it will go well. What -- or who -- is Mr. Burke fetching now?”

“That second favor I mentioned? We’re picking up some company for the party tonight, the last of Laura’s gifts.”

As Jake spoke, Charlie heard footsteps in the hall made by more feet than just Burke’s. “My Lord. What fresh hell is this?”

Before Jake could answer, Burke came back in accompanied by -- or accompanying -- a dog. The dog was a tall, grey fellow with floppy ears, one who proceeded to sit with the ineffable air of amiable superiority you saw around Westminster Kennel Club shows.

Bemused, Charlie only stared as Burke held out the leash. Jake, on the other hand, quickly got to his feet and took custody of the dog.

Burke told them, “This is Uwe von Entejäger Kamp although, in this country, he’ll condescend to answer to Ducky.” Burke may have smiled at his own jest, but the dog was dignified enough that addressing him as Ducky did seem like an imposition.

“I don’t recognize the breed,” Charlie said.

“Weimaraners. They’re almost unknown in the United States and quite rare over in Europe. Even the non-breeders like Ducky are very valuable.”

The dog -- Ducky -- was looking around the room, his ears now alert with energetic interest. He seemed quite prepared to go off adventuring with Jake and Charlie, only restrained from urging their immediate departure by good manners and the lack of proper introductions.

“Hi, Ducky,” Jake said, and offered a hand. Ducky considered this gesture, sniffed with stately interest, and then thumped his tail a few times on the geometrically patterned carpet. Resigned to his fate, Charlie rose to introduce himself as well.

***

As they packed the car a few minutes later, Charlie stepped aside to speak with Burke. “Will he be all right in the rumble seat?”

“He’s very well-mannered as long as he’s had his exercise.”

“So Ducky returns when called?”

“Oh, yes. He’s been retrained to answer commands in English and knows the voice of authority.”

Charlie looked over to where Jake was fastening Ducky’s lead to a seat strap behind the wicker basket while explaining something to the dog. The over-expressiveness that made diplomacy hard for Jake often worked well with children or pets. Ducky seemed to listen with the same air of friendly but intent concentration that Charlie would wager Jake got from his fellow mapmakers at Miller and Miller. Even so, Charlie asked Burke, “Then is there some park around here where we can let him run loose if we need to? I don’t believe in keeping anyone so evidently smart and lively on too short a leash.”

“I can see that, Mr. Hunter. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re wise.” Although Mr. Burke’s tone was demure, his eyes were amused as he glanced over at Jake and then away. “Although I don’t think the Palace Baths are quite right for Ducky’s days out… You might want to try Silver Lake’s reservoir instead.”

Charlie suppressed a sigh even as he made a mental note about the name of that Turkish bath. He hadn’t meant to imply-- But Burke was obviously part of whatever served Hollywood for lavender social circles, as opposed to the miscellaneous fellows you met in parks and bars. And he seemed to have mistaken Jake for a young man with a patron’s permission to roam.

Well. Better that than him thinking Jake was both faithless and feral. Such rumors could cause untoward expectations in a place like Hollywood, untoward expectations might lead to demands rather than requests, and demands rather than requests summoned Jake’s fists as more than one of Laura’s pursuers had learned. Burke’s mistake had its uses.

“Thank you, Mr. Burke,” Charlie settled for saying, and held out a hand.

“I hope to see you again soon, Mr. Hunter,” Burke said as they shook.

“I’d imagine you will, given that I’m moving to Hollywood. Even though I’m sure I displayed my limitations when it came to scrimshaw, your modern décor was also intriguing. It’s always pleasant to deal with someone who shares my tastes.” They exchanged knowing smiles.