“We were discussing Lee Tolman.”
“Lee Tolman, ja. Let me see: the subject displays a profound spirituality...”
“I don’t know how profound.”
“Please! A profound spirituality manifesting itself in a quest for inner fulfillment; a quest leading her - I should even say driving her - to a succession of sects of more or less doubtful respectability.”
“Crackpots, the lot.”
My mentor winced. “There are no crackpots, Herr Winston; only people in some measure disordered.” Three aggressive puffs shrank Freud’s corona a full inch. “This hunger for spirituality has rendered the subject vulnerable to predators such as Isaiah Hammond.”
“Are you sure the hunger’s purely spiritual?”
“One is sure, in my profession, of nothing. But you have put the finger on an inconsistency. The subject displays, as it were simultaneously, a suppressed but powerful sensuality.”
“That’s how I saw it.”
“This is not surprising. But even making allowances for your own considerable libido, your perception is probably accurate. This ash tray is overflowing. Why do you feel so reluctant to part with your ashes?”
“I think of them as cigar shit.”
Sudden twinkle behind the round black frames. “I cannot be shocked, Herr Winston.”
“Nor hurried, it seems. You’re not addressing my problem.”
Icicles formed on Freud’s reply: “State it.”
My turn to pace through the smoke cloud. “I need information from Lee and I don’t know how to pry it out of her.”
“Explain, please.”
“If she’s extorting money from Denise, she’s not going to tell me about it.”
“Vieleicht, but when last night you spoke with her, she tacitly admitted making those closeups.”
“Tacitly. Then there’s the Hammond business.”
“She admitted this relationship as well.”
“But she didn’t seem to know what Peeper Martin was doing on Hammond’s boat. Until I get that mess sorted out, I’m not safe.”
Freud steepled dainty fingers, making his cigar resemble a cannon protruding from a teepee - a dubious image, considering. “Let us discuss these fears of yours.”
“Let us get on with Lee Tolman. I’m consulting you because you’re renowned for digging information out of people. Now what questions should I ask?”
A disdainful wave. “It hardly matters. I ask very few questions, Herr Winston. Instead, I listen and listen and listen. Eventually, I hear answers.”
“And eventually can be profitable at eighty bucks an hour.”
The patrician face assumed a wistful look. “So much? How times have changed.” The lecture resumed: “Here is my prescription: Fraulein Tolman is out, as you would put it, to lunch. But she is neither hypocritical nor stupid. So: do not repeat your wretched performance of last evening.”
“My...?”
“Your bleatings about ‘spirituality’ and ‘inner qualities.’ These insincerities will not long deceive her.”
“That’s the weird part: I wasn’t insincere.”
Freud inspected that with therapeutic distrust, then resumed his train of thought.
“Instead, win her confidence by prompting her to talk.”
“And how do I do that?”
Freud retreated into his Cuban smog. “Listening, Herr Winston, is remarkably effective. One day, you must try it.” Only a glint of lenses now; then they too disappeared.
Not much advice on extracting confessions. I should have consulted Torquemada.
Into my wardrobe department for a nonjudgmental costume. A golf shirt, I think, and my virgin sneakers: laces intact, toes unsmudged, Sears’ indifferent best. A brief appointment with my razor, then out to charm the pants off Lee Tolman.
A ghostly chuckle signaled Freud’s return. “Interesting, Herr Winston: you speak, unconsciously, of removing pants. Next session, we will explore your self-delusions. A subject of considerable scope, nicht wahr?”
* * * *
I rang Candy Wishbourne’s doorbell, knowing vaguely what I wanted to achieve, but still without a clue on how to do it.
The spy hole in the door opened to reveal Lee’s astonishing green eye. “Is that you, uh...?”
“Stoney Winston, yes.”
“I forgot your name. Herbie took Candy to the hospital this morning.”
“May I come in?”
Framed in the little opening, her disembodied eye resembled an occult symbol. “I thought about you last night.” I waited. The eye shifted to inspect my sternum. “About Peeper too.”
“Did you think about the danger?”
“I don’t feel any, no.”
“Then how about letting me in?”
“I’m coming out. I’m on my way to church.”
The chunk of a deadbolt withdrawing, then the door opened and Lee emerged, dressed in running shoes, shorts, and a tank top.
“Church?”
“I think of it that way. Want to see?” She started up the steep driveway in heavy, solid strides. Like the composite girl in the film, Lee appeared to be two different people: an ethereal head mismatched to an earthbound body.
I pulled the front door shut and followed her up to the road.
We strolled along together in the hard September sunlight, inhaling dust and scrubby smells, inspecting the olive, tan, and yellow hills. A pair of hawks spiraled above us in endless, patient patrol. Lee said nothing. Soon the terrain grew too steep for even extravagant Hollywood builders and the stilt-top houses petered out into open country. Here Lee left the hot asphalt and started up into a tiny canyon full of crackling grass. The faint path twisted until the road below was out of sight.
The canyon dead-ended in a miniature amphitheater filled with a huddle of live oak trees, hiding away as if to conceal their precious source of underground water. Lee dropped at the foot of a gnarled trunk and crossed her legs in lotus position.
“I see what you mean about your church.”
She nodded, then sat absolutely motionless, green eyes focused at infinity.
Nothing to do but wait her out. I lay back and played at meditating: recite my secret whatsit, clear the psychic tubes, empty the mind.
Empty, the stomach; wish I’d had breakfast.
Concentrate.
Full, the bladder too.
Come on; leave the mundane behind.
Amazing how the tiny stones beneath you grow to boulders as you lie on them.
To hell with it.
By wagging my head slightly, I could make the sunlight scamper back and forth among the dark leaves above me. Nice little effect. Remember it the next time I’m filming.
Half mesmerized by the hot sparkles, I almost missed what Lee was saying.
“I come here to experience totality.”
Long silence.
“Complete wholeness.”
More silence.
“Can’t you feel it?”
“In a way. But this is your place, Lee. That’s why you feel it more.”
“My place. I hope so; I’ve tried so many.”
“What happened?”
“People, mainly. I guess I expect too much.”
I was about to weigh in with something portentous when I remembered Freud’s warning. Instead: “People like Hammond?”
“Hatred is so degrading; but I don’t hate him anymore.”
“Why did you hate Hammond?”
“It wasn’t the screwing.” The phrase sounded strangely innocuous in her gentle, faraway tone. “There are many roads to oneness and the body travels one of them.”
That sounded like a maxim she’d read. I played with the sparkles some more, waiting.
“Did you know Peeper was a redhead like me?”
“Between her wigs and makeup, I couldn’t tell. Why did you think of that?”
“I hated Isaiah and that caused Peeper to die. I thought about it last night.”
“We
ll....”
“This is how it happened. I met Isaiah Hammond at the studio and he touched me and I felt a teacher in him.”
Cross-legged before the dappled tree trunk, amid the dust and buzzing bugs, she told her story in long, formal cadences, like a holy man rolling out a parable: how she’d introduced herself to Hammond and questioned him about Things Spiritual; how kind he’d been and patient; how he’d offered her a job and how fulfilled she’d been working for him; how their rapport had grown and how, at length, in a natural convergence of body and spirit, they had become completely one. How in time, another woman had caught Hammond’s eye and how he had replaced Lee as offhandedly as if he were discarding a slightly frayed suit.
All this was recited in the quaint, distant language of a folk tale, once upon a time. Hard to tell whether this was to protect herself against the memory, or just the way Lee Tolman saw reality.
I moved over beside her and crossed my own legs self-consciously. “I can see why you hated Hammond.”
She looked at me blankly, as if emerging from a trance; then she frowned. “I did; and I hated hating him. It set me back years.”
“How so?”
“I thought I’d grown beyond that.”
“How did the film come into all this?”
“Mr. Nahan. It was his idea.”
I concealed my astonishment.
“He found me at the studio after I... well, I guess I ran away from the church. I said some things to Isaiah and he was ugly and I was very upset. And Mr. Nahan came and found me. He told me how worried he was about me - about how unhappy I must be. He talked about how degrading it was and how he couldn’t keep Isaiah from doing this to girls. He was very distressed because the church is his whole life.”
Nahan? Uh-huh.
“I felt sorry for him and I felt so... frustrated that I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, Mr. Nahan said he had a plan. He didn’t want me to get the wrong idea or anything, but he knew the kind of movies Pepe made at the studio. He wanted me to make one so he could use it on Isaiah.”
“A pornographic movie? Nahan?”
“I was so surprised. I mean, how could he even think of such a thing?”
“How did he plan to use the film?”
“He wasn’t very clear. He talked about telling Isaiah to stop taking advantage of people like me or else he’d show the film I guess - or something.”
“He wasn’t too specific.”
“I didn’t let him. I said right away I could never make one of those movies.”
“Then what?”
“Well, Peeper had an idea.”
“Where did she come in?”
“I went to the studio to find her. I thought maybe I could stay with her for a while. But she helps Pepe make those movies and she said why didn’t Mr. Nahan use one of her films, because she and I are both redheads.”
“But aside from your coloring, you don’t look alike.”
“That’s what Mr. Nahan said. So Peeper explained how Pepe could take pictures of just my head and shoulders and put me in Peeper’s film. That way, I wouldn’t have to... do anything. I don’t really understand how it works.”
She sifted dust through her fist. “I still didn’t like it, but Mr. Nahan said I’d be like an actress doing a professional job. To make it just business, he’d even pay me five hundred dollars. He talked about how Isaiah threw me out and didn’t give me my last paycheck and so it would only be fair. And I didn’t have any money or any place to stay.”
“Peeper wouldn’t put you up?”
“No. And I kept thinking how Isaiah pretended to me and how he used me and I hated him. So I said all right.”
“How did they shoot your part of the film?”
“We did it on that set they use all the time. I laid down on the bed and Pepe pulled my shirt down off my shoulders. He told me when to lie on my stomach and when to turn over. He wanted me to wiggle and smile, but I didn’t do it very well.”
I recalled the closeups of Lee’s serene face. “What happened to the film?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to see it.”
I leaned against the knobby oak, counting improbabilities: Nahan just happened to find Lee at the studio and Peeper just happened to be there. Nahan knew all about Pepe’s porn operation and had a ready-made plan to exploit it. When Lee was reluctant to make a dirty movie, Peeper - poor simple Peeper - came up with the sophisticated plan of faking the film using inserts that exploited the slight resemblance between the two redheaded women. Pepe was only too happy to dress and light a set, shoot the inserts, and cut in the results - just like that. And Pepe knew the original film well enough to shoot perfectly matched closeups.
Sure.
Nahan, Pepe, and Peeper had obviously worked the whole plan out beforehand and set Lee up.
But not to blackmail Hammond. Nahan was far too sharp for such a lame-brained scheme. And not to extort money from Denise. Nahan must be skimming the church of something like fifty thousand a month - and with less risk.
I faced the possibility that Lee was fabricating all this, to cover the fact that she herself was holding up her stepmother.
“Lee, what’s the trouble between you and Denise?”
At the name, Lee shrugged and lay back on the matted yellow weeds. “Nothing. We just never got very close. She has her house and her garden and her - things. I don’t care about things. She doesn’t care about.... She hunted a word.
“Values?”
“Yes; so I can’t relate to her. But she’s a nice person.”
“Where does Candy Wishbourne come in?”
“I hope he’s all right. He’s very sick.”
“I hope he’s all right too. How did you end up staying with him?”
“I felt he was a kind man.”
“Why do you think Peeper was on Hammond’s boat?”
“I liked sailing: sun, water, sky; you’re like a dot at the center of everything.” She sat up. “But Isaiah only took me once.”
“And Peeper?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he met her at the studio too.” Lee rose and stretched, lifting her tank top clear of her shorts. Un-self-conscious as a child, she scratched her pink stomach. “I better go back. Herbie said he’d call from the hospital.”
She clomped down the steep trail with oddly awkward steps. I followed her through the dusty yellow glare down to the road.
* * * *
Trying to drive the Rabbit home without quite touching the seat, which had reached the temperature of a well-done roast. I cursed the sadists who upholster California cars in black plastic. Hollywood lay deserted in the hot Sunday afternoon, torpid as a snake on a rock.
I walked down the steps beside Sally’s house and around to my door, which had blown open. Must do better about locking things; Laurel Canyon’s alive with felons.
Out of the dazzle and into my dark cave.
“Get him!” This in the wheezy yip of a fat lap dog, from a thick shape in the center of my living room. My arms were grabbed and twisted behind me. The murky image resolved into the familiar fat man, still in his lumberjack shirt, still with a gun in his paw.
He stared at me, blinking as if I’d disrupted his hibernation. “Gotta good hold?”
The grip on my arms tightened.“Yeah.”
The fat man scratched his scruffy beard. “Hello, asshole.”
“What do you want?”
“Already got it. You sonofabitch, you know what you did to the side of my truck? Goddam fire engine like to run me off the road.”
“Talk to my insurance broker.”
Another long, blinking stare, then: “I’ll tell him about my nose too.” The fat man’s nose was the size and shape of a beet and nearly the same color. “We got to settle for that.”
“As long as Bozo holds my arms.”
Another pause, as if the fat man processed ideas with painful effort. “Uh-uh, not here.
Too loud for this nice neighborhood. Okay, tie him up.”
“What with?” The voice behind me belonged to the tall man.
The fat man shook his head and sighed. “Aw Earl, find something. I’ll cover him.”
Releasing me, the tall man disappeared into the kitchen. Silence, except for cupboard doors banging off-screen. The fat man sighed again, but kept his eyes on me.
The tall man returned. “Nothin’ there.”
“Use his belt.”
“We got rope in the van.”
“Don’t leave. Use his belt.”
“Okay.” The tall man crossed in front of me to reach the buckle. I tensed.
“Get outta there, Earl; you’re blocking me. Make him take it off.” The tall man backed up hastily.
“Stoney?” Sally’s voice from outside the house.
The fat man jerked the gun up to keep me silent, but I wasn’t about to call out. Go away, Sally; get lost.
“Hey Stoney, I need some help.”
Go away, Sally. Three seconds of dead silence.
The door pushed open and Sally started in. “I was sunbathing on the deck. Got my bra all...” Two steps inside, she froze, gaping at the sight of the two men and the gun. She was in a bikini bottom, her left arm holding a towel across her chest, her right one behind the towel.
Sally goggled. “Hey!”
“Shut up. Get in here.”
Her mouth dropped open as she stared at the fat man. “Hey, is that a gun?” As if stupefied by the sight, she let her arms slide downward until her generous breasts bounced clear. “What is this, Stoney? What’s going on?”
It was the thin man’s turn to gape. “Jesus Christ, willya look at...”
Sally dropped the towel completely and snapped into a police academy crouch, aiming a .38 special two-handed. “Freeze, sucker!”
The barked command, the half-nude woman, and the big pistol overloaded the fat man’s circuits. I charged him, snatched at his gun hand, wrenched it up. Deafening noise as he fired into the ceiling. I tried to wrestle the gun away but he jerked his thick arm clear and swung on me.
Another numbing explosion. The fat man screamed and collapsed. I stomped on his gun hand and he screamed again. I grabbed his gun and swung around, but Sally had the tall man cowering before her .38.
“Sit!” she commanded, and dog-like, the tall man sat on the floor beside his whimpering partner, trying to avoid the blood spreading over my carpet. The fat man was holding his thigh and blubbering. “Jesus, I’m losing blood. Jesus. For God’s sake.”
“Quiet! Tie it off, Stoney. Use your belt, like the man suggested.”
I looped the belt around a thigh as big as my waist and cinched it tight. “Here: you hold it.” The fat man grabbed at the belt tongue.