Standing where Scuzzy could see me, I mouthed “one, two, three!” AsScuzzy leaped abruptly off the hitch, I jumped on the rear bumper and the trailer seesawed toward me: Wham! More interior crashing and a frightened, “Hey, Jesus!”
I shouted at Scuzzy, raising my volume as if coming on-mike: “Scuzzy, don’t; it’s not Pits. We talked to Bull, remember? Scuzzy, don’t!”
“He set them up!”
“No he didn’t, believe me. He’ll tell you. Pits? Tell him.”
Silence.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Listen to him, Scuzzy; give him a chance.” By now, we were both back at the door, tilted ten degrees off vertical. “Pits! He’ll listen to you; but you gotta tell him.”
A faint “Right” from inside.
Scuzzy launched a bellow at the door that must have sprung some rivets: “To my face, you bastard!” Wham! Pause. WHAM!! Pause. WHAM!!!
“Better open up, Pits.”
“You nuts?”
“Pits, look: you can calm him down. He just wants to hear it from you, Pits.” Silence. “Otherwise, he’ll pop this door like a beer tab and get you anyway.”
A long pause, then the door clicked and opened. Tilted off level, it swung outward and banged the wall, as if no one was holding it. We squeezed through the door into a shambles of magazines, crockery, and fallen pictures strewn across the canted floor. It was like a third-class cabin on a sinking ship.
Pits cowered on the sofa, clinging to the uphill arm, the towel with which he’d wiped his head still dangling from one hand. He squinted up at Scuzzy as if wincing in advance. “I didn’t sic ‘em on you, honest!”
Scuzzy did his breath trick, tensing his diaphragm until his face flushed and his eyes popped like hardboiled eggs. “Nooooo you didn’t, you slime, and you didn’t break the generator or steal the camera or ruin the film or wrack up Sean.”
Pits turned to me, looking confused: “What? What the hell...?”
“You heard me.”
“What, is he nuts? What’s he talkin’ about?”
I addressed him like a mother to a very small child: “Look at Scuzzy, Pits.” He looked. “Does he look serious? Does he look angry?” A nod. “Do you remember what he did to Crabs and Chains?” Pits stared at Scuzzy. I’d never seen a bird hypnotized by a snake, but it must look very much like Pits. I continued in my mild Mommy tone: “Then cut the crap. We know you did these things, Pits; now: why did you do them?”
Still transfixed by Scuzzy:”I didn’t.”
Quick change of tone: “I don’t know, Scuzz; maybe you were right.”
“I was right.” He started slowly toward the figure clinging to the sinking couch.
“Wait! I swear it.” To me: “Why should I fuck up the show?”
“Because somebody told you to, Pits. Somebody like Bull Dike.”
“No way.”
Scuzzy started swinging a wrecking ball fist.
“Wait, Scuzz; give him a chance. Pits doesn’t rev very high and he takes a while to get up to speed.” I squatted in front of him so I could stare him in the face. “Now look at me, Pits, and listen real good: Dike is sending Greystoke phony bills.”
“What kinda phony?”
“Bills for ten times as much as things should cost.”
“I dunno what things should cost.”
That sounded honest; Pits was too dumb to play dumb. “Only Greystoke doesn’t pay them; just runs them through his books for tax losses. Now what you’re going to tell us is, why is Bull Dike screwing up the deal?”
“He ain’t.”
Stooping like an eagle, Scuzzy grabbed Pits by his denim jacket and hauled him erect.
Pits hooted, “Don’t! Look, I’ll prove it.”
“Back off, Scuzzy.”
“You’re too soft, Winston.”
“Scuzzy, back off!” He released Pits so abruptly that the biker bounced when he hit the sofa.
“Okay, prove it.”
Pits’ head swiveled as if he couldn’t decide whom to address. “Yer wrong: Greystoke’s payin’ every cent.”
“That’s Dike’s line too. No good.”
“You don’t unnerstand: he’s payin’ with our money.”
I paused a moment, then: “Explain.”
“The national club’s got a lotta dough in cash, right? I mean, you know how it is.”
“Dirty cash, from drug sales.”
“Well, like that. Okay, we gave it to Greystoke.”
“How much?”
“Two mil.”
Something funny there, but never mind for now: “Then what?”
“Then we charge him for this shithead movie an’ he pays the bills with our money.”
The scam was already clear to Scuzzy: “Only by check.”
“Yeah I mean I think; yeah.”
“What’s he get?”
He switched his look to me again. “Keeps ten percent.”
“And the Crossbones get a nice clean audit trail.”
“Huh?”
“Not bad, but who is sabotaging the film?”
“Huh?”
“Who is making these accidents?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. But look, it ain’t us. If we close down, Greystoke keeps the rest of our dough.”
It made more sense than anything else. I looked at Scuzzy and he nodded very slightly, then backed off to a less threatening distance. I turned to Pits again: “Don’t say anything about this.”
As the tension ebbed, Pits began to reassemble his bravado. “You too, Winston.”
“What do you mean?”
He pointed to the Crossbones patch on his jacket. “You screw us up and we don’t ferget. An’ there’s a lot of us all over everplace.”
“Come on, Scuzzy.”
“So I keep quiet and you keep quiet and everything...” but he couldn’t think of a finish “...keeps quiet.”
Outside again, we restored the trailer jacks, since Molly would have enough trouble cleaning up without working on a ten degree grade, then headed back toward the motel.
“What do you think, Scuzzy?”
“Sounds about right: The club launders two million dollars and Greystoke gets two hundred thousand for his trouble plus a movie.”
“It adds up. Four weeks at four hundred K is a million-six; plus Simmons’s production cash that’s one-point-eight. And ten percent for Greystoke makes two million.”
Scuzzy studied the dirt path for fifteen strides. “Yeah. But how do Greystoke’s books show where the money came from?”
“And if the bikers aren’t sabotaging the film, we’re right back at square one.”
He nodded.
We plodded along in sticky gloom.
“By the way, Scuzzy, thanks for helping.”
“Remember: that’s the last time I do the golem.”
“I promise. I’m retiring your jersey.”
* * * *
Lounging in the sweet meadow again, as if Diane and I were picking up the scene I’d blown two nights before. More clouds than stars tonight, but the air was warm and the rising ground behind us masked the dreary motel. The tiny river chortled by as always, and the mosquitoes had gone off duty. The world was briefly empty but for us.
Seated on the soft grass, Diane unzipped a little duffel bag. “I brought a treat.” She extracted her rum bottle, tumblers, a baggie full of ice, and a liter of cola.”Genuine Coke this time.”
“New, cherry, diet, or caffeine-free?”
“No, the old stuff.”
“Outstanding.” I accepted a Cuba Libre. “Great for digestion.”
“And we need all the help we can get. Molly must be sadistic. No one could cook that badly.”
The dinner, as usual, had been swill. “The meatloaf was okay.”
“What you could taste through all the spices.”
“You asked me for a second helping.”
Diane sipped her drink. “I had to eat something.” Pause. “And did you check
the Brussels sprouts?”
“Definitely senior citizens.”
Longer pause. “Not that I’m hot for Brussels sprouts.”
“Do you have the feeling that we’re stretching this topic?”
She nodded. “Sort of vamping.”
“Sort of.” I leaned forward and kissed her.
“Careful!” Diane pulled away. As I blinked and tried to shift gears, she screwed her glass into the ground to make a coaster, then wrapped her arms around my neck. “Don’t waste the good stuff.”
Beneath its soon-discarded cotton cover, the astonishment of a slender woman’s back: satin skin with microscopic peach fuzz, a quarter inch or less of insulation, then a supple band of muscle guarding ribs spliced to the subtle undulations of the spine.
“Hee! Don’t do that.”
“Sorry. Uh, do what?”
“My ribs aren’t ticklish but my spine is.” With my ear against her throat, her husky voice reverberated in my head: “You ticklish?”
“Hadn’t noticed. Perhaps a survey?”
“Mmm, you’re bigger than I thought.”
“Forty long - I mean my suit size.”
Diane was tugging off my polo shirt. She licked the hollow of my collarbone, then toured my back with slender fingers. “You’re skinny.”
“So are you, in places.” The breeze was just cool enough to set off her warmth. “You smell of eucalyptus.”
“We’re rolling in it, dummy. The bark is scratchy.”
“Get on top.”
She kissed me again, her long hands holding my face. “What are you doing down there?”
“Working on a button; not sure whose.”
“Mine’s a snap.”
“Ah.” Click. “There. Want to wriggle a bit?”
Diane nipped my nose tip. “Why would I want to do that?”
“‘Cause I can’t get your shorts off with your weight on me.”
I was tossing the shorts toward the duffel when Diane stiffened. “Stoney.”
“Hm?”
“Wait.”
I paused. “What’s the matter?”
“Dunno. I... kind of nausea.” She rolled off me and sat up, a hand on her tan stomach.
“Diane....”
“I’m sorry, I...” Looking up, she caught my expression and her own face clouded over. “Oh Winston, don’t be an idiot!”
“What?”
“I really don’t feel good.” Her anger temporarily overcame her distress. “It’s not sex, stupid; it’s dinner.”
Diane hauled herself up and tottered to the stream, where she knelt and, beautiful as Psyche on her rock and just as naked, returned used meatloaf to the food chain.
* * * *
“Better?”
“No, just emptier. I still feel awful.” Diane shuddered briefly as I pulled her sheet and blanket up.
“The pill will help.”
“What is that stuff?”
“Tylenol with codeine. I got it for a wisdom tooth. Now sleep.”
She turned her head away. Her lush hair would be a rat’s nest in the morning, but getting her dressed, up the hill, undressed, and into bed had about finished both of us. Besides, I wasn’t sure how to braid hair.
I stood there looking down at her while concern and disappointment chased each other through my head; then wandered out. It’d been going so well - and I hadn’t thought of Sally even once.
Chapter 14
A body count at breakfast turned up three casualties: Diane, a grip, and one of the bikers - all flattened by food poisoning.
Ken Simmons squinted in the sunshine outside the coffee shop. “How serious?”
“Not too. They should be all right by tomorrow.” Diane was still woozy this morning, and even the thought of food sprang traps in her belly.
“But who’s going to run the show today?”
“I can do it. We need a bunch of outdoor pickups and establishing shots for interiors. Here: I made a list last night.”
Ken held my printout in the long arms of a man too vain for glasses. “Take a while to set these up.”
“That’s okay. I can use the time to check the new invoice. Molly said it arrived.”
Ken flashed his sour smile: “Flown in from Fender Airfield.”
“I guess. And I want to run to Newhall.”
“Okay. Be back about ten o’clock.” Ken ambled off in search of Stogie, studying my list.
“You goin’ inta town?”Molly stood behind me, frizzed hair yellow in the sunlight. She was nearly inside tube number one today, and still in her favorite shorts.
“I was just coming to find you. Can I borrow the invoice worksheets they sent?”
“Long’s ya give ‘em back. What for?”
“I thought I’d get a Xerox down in Newhall: save you the trouble of copying.”
“Okay; they’re in the trailer. Can I come inta town with ya? Pits’ll bring me back; he went in early.”
“Why not?”
I drove her in the Beetle to the trailer, where she fetched the invoice worksheets; then we headed down to Newhall.
Molly was quiet for several twisting miles, looking out the window or staring at her fingernails. She cleared her throat several times as if to begin speaking, but evidently changed her mind.
Finally, “They real sick?”
“Not feeling too swift, no.”
Silence.
“What do you think happened, Molly?”
A pre-confession sigh, then: “Musta been the second meatloaf. When I filled the first pan, I had some left over, an’ I recollected the hamburger I dint use up from before?”
“That was five days ago.”
“Yeah an’ that refrigerator don’t get real cold. Well, it smelled a tad ripe, but I figured with some extra spices....” Another sigh. “Anyways, I used it to fill out the other pan. Good thing I served it last; only a couple people wanted seconds.”
“Three, to be exact.”
“Aw don’t be mad, Stoney; I am so sorry.” She put a hand on my arm. “You know I can’t cook worth a rat’s ass. But Pits won’t git no one else.”
“Not your fault, I guess.”
“That’s why I’m goin’ inta town: git me a cookbook.”
Her sudden snaggly grin was irresistible. “Okay, Molly. Just stick to meat and potatoes.”
“If Pits ever lets me git real meat.”
We found a discount drugstore with a book rack and a copier; then went our separate ways.
* * * *
I was piloting Bumble back through Bouquet Canyon toward the Calisher turnoff as another ghostly visitor assembled in the car - not in swirling smoke like Orson Welles, not in Gutman’s coalescing Jell-O, but in a string of small, precise explosions. Pop: perfectly polished tan and white shoes below sedately clocked silk socks; pop: plump legs in tan pants with creases too sharp to touch; pop: a tubby trunk in waistcoat, crackling shirt, and natty jacket; pop: a pinkish, egg-shaped head with oiled gray hair, sharp eyes, and a moustache like two opposing check marks: Hercule Poirot cum Peter Ustinov.
He tipped a nod both courtly and reserved: “Bonjour.”
“The hat’s a nice touch.”
Poirot regarded the spotless panama in his plump, perfect hands. “My investigations revealed that your climate was subtropical.” He parked it on his knee and shrugged his eyebrows.
“Close enough, M. Poirot.”
The round face looked pained:”Please!”
“I know: Pwah-rrroh, puckering the lips as if to kiss.”
“Ah well, monsieur, it is pointless to correct your accent, which, because you are doing my voice, is temporarily identical to my own.” He tapped the pink egg: “Logic, mon ami.”
“The little gray cells at work.”
A polite sniff. “That phrase, I think, is somewhat stale.” His taffy baritone had a Gallic snap, like café au lait laced with cognac. “Besides, I am not without my modest vanity, monsieur, and I prefer to forget that the Poirot ratiocina
tions issue from a lump of meat.”
“Wherever they come from, I could use them.”
He folded his hands on the silver head of his walking stick. “Then let us commence.”
“About the sabotage....”
With a schoolmaster’s disapproval: “Slowly, my young friend, slowly. Let us begin with the invoice you received.” Raising one index finger, he tapped it smartly with the other, retaining the stick with his knees. “First: it was prepared on printed production forms.”
“Which people can buy.”
“But only if they know the few places where such specialties are sold. And what about the handwritten items? Every film has special costs that cannot be anticipated on a preprinted form. These must be entered by hand.”
“I know that.”
He ignored my testy tone. “These entries reveal a technical knowledge of the cinema.”
“Which Bull Dike doesn’t have.”
“And what about the charges, M. Winston?”
“Grossly inflated.”
“If you move every decimal point precisely one place to the left...” he mimed this action in midair with thumb and finger “...what is the result?”
“A reasonable charge.”
“And what does that tell you?”
“The charges are ten times too high.”
“You are thinking in circles, M. Winston. One selects the facts like jewels and builds a necklace of them, each in order.” I suppressed the thought that necklaces also go around in circles. “If precisely one-tenth of every charge is reasonable, then the mysterious accountant must know what reasonable charges are.”
“All right, whoever prepared that invoice is a pro.”
“Bon. Now let us consider....” Poirot broke off as I whipped the Beetle around a plodding dump truck, evaded an onrushing Fiat Spyder, and do-see-doed back to my proper lane.
“You were saying?”
Poirot’s strained look revealed his preference for cerebral excitements. “I think that country houses lend themselves better to protracted exposition.”
“Sorry.”
He dismissed it with a tiny shrug and resumed his sentence: “...the whereabouts of M. Dike.”
“He’s hiding out at Fender Airfield.”
“And who knows that?”
“Scuzzy and Diane.”
“Anyone else?”
“No, we agreed to keep it to ourselves.” But my head switched to instant replay: Flown in from Fender Airfield. “Ken Simmons?”
Poirot bestowed a patient smile. “Exactement.”
“But Ken’s not a crook.”