The Straight Man - Roger L Simon (17 page)

15

Like Montecito and Palos Verdes Estates, Serra
Retreat was one of those rare places in Southern California that
still reminded you of the dream the world once envied. It felt as if
you were in a time warp, driving through a classic orange crate label
to a sylvan world as you turned off the Pacific Coast Highway on
Cross Creek Road and continued through the gate marked PRIVATE
ROAD—PROCEED AT OWN RISK past the perfect little truck farm and the
perfect little A-frame with the wooden dolphin statue out front to
the creek that was never dry. It was a California Dream for the new
gentrified rich, television producers who could smoke their dope in
peace in imitation mission-style ranchos so exact, their execution
surpassed the originals. Every once in a while they would go out to
the corral to see if the Porsche was all right or to readjust the
satellite dish.

When I arrived, a number of locals—some kids on
skateboards, an aging surfer in a torn wet suit, three Latino maids,
and a couple of women by a new Jeep Cherokee not dissimilar to King
King's—were standing around the edge of the creek watching a pair
of policemen in rubber hip boots trudge back and forth through the
mud, probing the scene of the crime with wooden rakes. I parked and
ambled up to the surfer in my most laid-back fashion as if I had just
lost my way to the Dairy Queen. He had the glazed, brain-damaged look
of someone who had had his head bashed by the waves for about thirty
years.

"What're they looking for?" I asked,
nodding toward the cops. "Escargots?"

"Dude committed suicide."

"He did?"

"He cou1dn't take it. Women problems."

"Women problems? How do you know?"

"It was in the papers. One day he's drinking a
bottle of Erlanger's at Enrico's, next day he's offing himself. I met
him once. Up at Stinson Beach."

"Stinson Beach. I didn't know he hung out up
north. I thought he had his hands full in Malibu."

"Malibu? Dude hated it around here. Too many
people. Smog. Traffic. No trout."

"No trout, huh? That can be a problem."
This one was even further gone than I thought. "Funny," I
said. "I read how he was out jogging with that black comic and
then he got knifed in the bushes."

"You interested in that? A great American poet
kills himself and you're worried about some Mercedes-Benz
psychiatrist?" The surfer turned and looked at me as if I were
beneath contempt.

"Trout, huh'?" I repeated, suddenly
realizing what he was talking about. "Trout Fishing in America.
Richard Brautigan the writer. Too had he committed suicide a year
ago."

"Damn straight. A national tragedy." The
surfer looked at me differently now. I had gone up about six notches
in his estimation. "No one reads anymore, do they? All they do
is watch MTV or rent Cheech and Chong movies at the video store."

"
Yeah, well, at least some people go jogging."
I nodded toward the creek.

"
Narcissists."

"I know what you mean. I bet you read that,
too—The Culture of Narcissism. "

"Good book," said the surfer.

"Of course, you guys were the original
narcissists, getting up at the crack of dawn and paddling out there
in that ocean years before the first yuppie came hopping along the
beach in his Nike running suit and Reeboks. You must've seen them all
come and go."

The surfer nodded. "The long board days,"
he said, shaking his head nostalgically.

"Did you ever see that shrink running along with
the comic?" I gestured toward the cops. One of them had just
dredged up a bikini bottom and was showing it to his partner.

"Sometimes. Sometimes I was in the water first."

"What about yesterday?"

The surfer coughed and spat. "Nosy Parker,"
he said.

"I'm just curious, that's all."

"So are a lot of people." The surfer
shrugged, retreating into his wet suit like a turtle into its shell.

I studied him a moment. "Actually I'm a
detective novelist," I said. "It's research."

He turned full around and looked at me. "Really?
. .. I thought about doing that. Write some books about a surfer
detective who works out of his woody in Redondo Beach."

"Sounds like a good angle."

"Wanted to do one about a Beach Boys-type group.
The leader, this acid-damaged genius, gets offed and my guy has to
find the killer."

"Why don't you do it?"

"Could you help me find an agent?"

"Maybe . . . yeah . . . sure." The surfer
grinned, revealing a couple of large gaps in his teeth where he must
have been reamed by his board. "What about yesterday'?" I
continued.

"Did you see them jogging?"

"
Sure did."

"Notice anything exceptional? . . . It's good
practice. For writing."

"Yeah. That Otis dude was really dogging it.
Looked like he hadn't slept all night. The shrink kept being pissed
off because he wouldn't keep up. Then something funny happened.
Someone came up and asked Otis for his autograph."

"Why's that funny?"

"Around Malibu Colony Beach'? They got everybody
jogging out here in the morning—Dyan Cannon, Shirley MacLaine. It's
like goddamned People magazine. Nobody asks for an autograph. It's
just not cool. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah. So who stopped him?"

"Some dude. Maybe around thirty. Dark hair. I
didn't get a good look at him 'cause I was hurryin' to untie my
board. They were breaking about four feet at the time. Anyway, he
comes up just as Otis is about to cross the PCH down at the other end
of Serra Retreat. The shrink's already on the other side treading
water while Otis signs and the light changes and the dude is stuck
there."

"Which dude? Otis or the shrink?"

"Both of 'em. So the shrink gets impatient and
starts off ahead of him into the other end of the Retreat where those
big stone pillars are."

"So he could've been killed right there."

"Whaddaya mean? His body was over here." He
pointed to the creek where the cop had now found the bikini top and
was now teasingly offering the matched set to the ladies with the
Jeep. "It rolled down that hill."

"
You mean that's where they found it. Actually,
he could've been killed behind those isolated pillars and then
dragged over here without Otis ever knowing about it."

"
Yeah," said the surfer, eyeing me
carefully. "That's interesting. I can see why you're a detective
writer. What's your name?"

"Robert Parker," I said.

"
Hey. No shit?" He looked amazed. "l
read some of your stuff. You're good."

Ten minutes later I was with Marianne Walders, the
aerobics instructor at the Malibu Movers who had discovered the
murder weapon. She had the kind of body generally associated with her
trade and I was staring at her sweatshirt, which said Movers Shake It
Better, in order to concentrate on my role as an Auto Club
investigator. It was one of my favorite parts of detective work,
playing a role or what was called in the trade "running a gag"
to get  information. Nathanson said I liked it so much because
it was a disguised act of aggression. But at the moment, everything
Nathanson had told me had been called into question.

"As you know, the Auto Club doesn't just come
out and change your tire on a dark night. We're a full service
company—emergency road service, travel, and insurance," I told
Marianne, who was standing behind the counter in the tight entry
room, a couple of matrons visible in the mirror behind her, doing a
feeble can-can to a Tina Turner album.

"Yes, I know," she said, smiling
pleasantly. It had been my experience that the Auto Club was the most
successful of "gags." Everybody, even the congenitally
paranoid and disgruntled, trusted the Auto Club.

"So a claim has already been made on behalf of
this Dr. Bannister and we want to get it processed as quickly as
possible. Can you tell me anything about him?"

"I never met the man."

"
I see. And what about Otis King?"

"Him neither. Although I've seen him on TV. He's
funny. I never could understand why he stuck with that partner."
Then she winced, suddenly realizing: "Oh, he's the one who
committed suicide, isn't he?"

"I believe so. What about the murder weapon? We
have a report that it was found on the premises."

"Well, not exactly on the premises. Come. I'll
show you."

I followed her outside onto a balcony that overlooked
the back of the small, two-story office building that contained the
Movers, a surfboard rental, a video rental, a windsurfing I rental, a
jet ski rental, and a frozen yogurt shop—all those marginal outfits
that seemed to stay in operation just for the dubious distinction of
doing business in Malibu. They were all backed up against the hill
exactly where the road ran off the Coast Highway into the Serra
Retreat.

"
The knife was hidden behind there. Right where
they leave the boxes."

"What boxes?"

"The Evian water. Every Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday night the liquor store guy leaves two cartons of Evian by our
door. I pick them up the next morning."

"And this is a regular habit?"

"Hey, after a good workout no one wants to drink
tap water." She made a face. "It would ruin everything."

16

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Run this by me
again. Nathanson was Bannister's teacher?"

"And advisor. At the Southern California School
of Psychotherapy. In fact, Nathanson edited a book in which Bannister
was one of the principal contributors: Aspects of the Psycho-dynamic
Method."

"Where'd you find this out'?" We were
sitting at Zucky's with the menus in our hands, but I was rapidly
losing my appetite.

"
At the Times."

"At the Times'? What were you doing there?"
My irritated voice carried over to the next table, where a geriatric
couple looked up from their stuffed derma.

"We're not going to get much help from the
police," said Chantal, lowering her voice pointedly, "so I
figured I ought to make friends with the newspaper people covering
the case. The guy writing the obituary had it with his background
information."

"
You can't do this. I have to know where you are
at all times." I knew I was sounding like an asshole, but I
couldn't stop myself. This Nathanson business was turning me into a
jerk.

"`Why?"

"Coordinati0n. It's . . . it's absolutely
necessary."

"So I'm not to use my initiative."

"I didn't say that."

"What are you saying?"

I brooded for a moment. "Where's Burckhardt?"

"
I don't know. I couldn't find him."

"See? That was your first responsibility."

"Good-bye." She got up and started walking
out of the restaurant.

"
Wait a minute—" I got up and started
after her.

"Where're you going?"

"
I'm leaving."

"Leaving? . . . What—"

"If this is the kind of partnership we're going
to have, it's not worth it. There are other things I can do."

"Like what?" I stepped into her path. The
old people with the stuffed derma were having quite a show.

"Well, for example, the California Institute of
Hypnotherapy can get you a therapist's license in six months."

"You want to be a therapist?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"You're too neurotic to—"

"Okay. That's it." She started around me at
a brisk clip.

"Wait, wait. I'm sorry. You're right." She
slowed. "I was being defensive. I guess I don't want to hear"—I
lowered my voice—"weird things about Nathanson. But one thing:
you can't go running off at the drop of a hat. This is a tough
business and that kind of behavior doesn't inspire confidence."

She stood there watching me like a wary animal.

"He canceled," she said.

"What?"

"Nathanson canceled your next appointment. It
was on your answering machine."

"Did he say why?"

"No."

"That's strange. Oh, well," I said,
sounding a lot calmer than I felt. In fact, my heart was in my
throat. "I guess, then, we'll have to check him out." I
glanced at my watch. "But we still have time to get something to
eat and be there at ten of three. Nothing much interesting happens at
a shrink's office until five minutes before the hour anyway."

I waited for Chantal to react, but she continued to
stand there. "I forgot to tell you something else," she
said at length.

"What?"

"I went down to the Hall of Records. Bannister
didn't own his house. It belongs to VIP Leasing of the Grand
Bahamas."

"Tax havens," I said. "God knows who
that is. Maybe it's even Bannister himself, recycling a little of his
celebrity cash."