“I want you to get on Bedlow right away and see what kind of a case we’ve got against these bastards.”
“Sue the Los Angeles Times?”
“Hell, yes. Why not?”
“What about that rag the Insider?”
“I don’t give a damn about them. It’s this Times thing that’s causing all the trouble. My friends read the Times.”
“I don’t know,” Richard said doubtfully. “The way the story is worded, I don’t see that we can claim libel.”
“I don’t care what the claim is, but I want to land on them with something. Have Bedlow figure it out; that’s what I pay him for.”
“I’ll talk to him.” Richard started to edge through the door.
“And I don’t want you giving statements to any more reporters about anything.”
“I told that Gooch person not to quote me,” Richard protested.
“He didn’t have to. Did you or did you not tell him there was a hoax involved?”
“I may have implied that I’m not totally satisfied that this Fain is all he says he is.”
“Fain did what he said he would,” Kruger snapped, “and that’s all I care about. From now on there will be no interviews. Do I have to send you to the islands, too?”
“No interviews,” Richard said, and was permitted at last to go out to his car.
Elliot Kruger stood for a minute in the doorway as his anger drained away. Then he went back inside and eased wearily into a chair. What had begun just a week ago as a blessed miracle was tarnished now by the intrusion of the press and the public.
A headache was beginning just behind his eyes. Kruger massaged them with thumb and forefinger. He had not been so foolish as to think Leanne’s return would go unnoticed, but neither had he anticipated the sordid curiosity generated by one small item in the Times.
He did not worry about the L.A. Insider and the more sensational story they carried two days ago. The tabloid did not have anything like the clout of the Times. Then, too, it was through an ad in the Insider that he had found McAllister Fain.
The trouble had started this morning with a barrage of telephone calls from newspapers, wire services, and all three television networks. He also heard from respected members of the medical and religious establishments, educators, and uncounted cranks. Kruger had called in two women from his Wilshire Boulevard office and assigned them to do nothing but take the calls and dismiss the callers in whatever way they could.
Then a problem had developed at the gate. A crowd of morbid sightseers had gathered outside, and two teenage girls had somehow slipped in. They had been collared and hustled off, and now Kruger had extra security men patrolling the grounds.
But Kruger’s greatest concern was the effect he feared this would have on Leanne. She had seemed to come through the months-long ordeal miraculously well. Early this morning she had slipped out of bed, saying she felt so well she wanted to go for a walk. When Kruger offered to join her, she had kissed him and said she’d like this little time alone. He could not refuse her that. She did agree to stay within the grounds.
Then she came back, looking flushed and upset. The damned gawkers outside the gate had caught sight of her. They shouted and whistled at her as though she were some kind of a freak. Kruger had immediately put his wife to bed and summoned Dr. Maylon. He was upstairs with her now.
Kruger turned at a small, persistent sound from the doorway behind him. Rosalia stood there, her brown hands nervously tugging at the sides of her dress.
“What is it?” Kruger said.
“I jus’ want to say I’m sorry for all this trouble. I shouldn’t have tol’ nobody.”
“It’s done now, Rosalia. I know you meant no harm.”
“Oh, no. I would never harm Mrs. Kruger. I am jus’ so happy she is back that I want everybody to know and be happy with me. I didn’t think people would be so bad.”
“I know,” he said gently. “It’s not your fault. I hope you have learned, though, not to talk to anyone else about what happens here.”
“No, sir. They can torture me but I never say one more word.”
“I doubt they’ll resort to torture, Rosalia, but I appreciate your sentiment. Is the doctor still in with Mrs. Kruger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As soon as he comes out, tell him to see me.”
Rosalia bobbed her head and scurried off. Kruger sank back into the chair, feeling his age.
One of the security men came in carrying something wrapped in a towel.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Kruger looked up wearily. “Yes, what is it?”
“I found this in the swimming pool.” The security man raised one end of the towel. Under it was a small matted bundle of white fur.
“Oh, no, that’s my wife’s little dog. He was supposed to be penned up.”
“Found him floating in the pool,” the security man repeated. “Beats me why he couldn’t have climbed out of there. Dogs are good swimmers, and the pool rim is low enough so even a tiny thing like this could have made it.”
“Put it in the garage for now,” Kruger said. “And please don’t mention this to anyone. My wife was quite fond of the dog, and I’d rather she didn’t hear about it just now.”
He watched the man leave, feeling more tired all the time. Although Leanne had not been terribly upset about having Pepe kept away from her, something like this could be very painful to her, especially with all the other problems they had today.
Kruger lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. He wondered how the doctor was doing with his wife.
• • •
Dr. Peter Maylon lay on his back on the big bed in the master bedroom. His jacket and tie were hung carelessly over the back of a chair. His shirt was hiked up, and his pants were unbelted and pulled down around his knees. Leanne Kruger, naked, sat astride him. She rode him up and down, her buttocks smacking wetly against his upper thighs.
Maylon’s face was turned away from her, his eyes squeezed shut. He moaned in tiny puffs of breath with each smack of buttock on thigh. Suddenly his body spasmed, and he reached down to clutch the smooth white flesh of the woman and hold her to him.
Leanne gazed down at him, her small white teeth glistening in a smile. She stayed atop the young doctor until his passion was spent; then she disengaged.
“Did you like that, Peter?” she said.
Still he did not look at her. “God, what are we doing?”
“I don’t have to tell you, do I. You’re a doctor.”
He slid away from her and began pulling his clothes together. “That’s the trouble. I’m a doctor. This is wrong. Wrong.”
“My, how moral the doctor is now that he’s all finished.”
“Please, Leanne, I feel badly enough.”
“Worried about your wife finding out?”
He fumbled his glasses from the night table and put them on. “This has to be the last time. I’m going to tell your husband I can’t treat you anymore.”
“What reason are you going to give him?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does, Peter darling. If Elliot had even the slightest notion what you were doing to me, he would destroy you. Maybe you think he couldn’t do it.”
“I’m sure he could.” Maylon pulled his necktie into place and looked at her. “Why me, Leanne? What is it you want from me?”
She reached out to stroke his cheek. “Just exactly what I’m getting, darling. You’re not going to take that away from me, are you?”
He pulled away from her, stood up, and finished dressing. When he spoke again, he tried to get some of the calm authority of the physician back into his voice. “It smells stale in here. Why don’t you open the windows?”
“The windows are open.”
“Well … The air isn’t good.”
Leanne got off the bed on the opposite side. She snatched a robe from the back of a chair, covered herself, and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
” she said without looking back. “Make it early.”
The bathroom door closed behind her.
The young doctor stared after Leanne for a moment, then turned to check himself a last time in the mirror. He picked a loose black hair from his lapel and willed his facial muscles to relax. Then he went downstairs to face her husband.
• • •
Nate and Al’s delicatessen on Hollywood Boulevard was one of the last reminders of Hollywood in the golden era. Long gone was Romanoff’s, the Garden of Allah, Ciro’s, the Trocadero. Grauman’s Chinese was not Grauman’s anymore, and the Brown Derby had closed for good. Among the gay bars and the porno flicks and the grease-smelling hamburger joints, Nate and Al’s hung on, a reasonable facsimile of the deli where screenwriters used to gather and reminisce about New York and curse the studios. Back when there were real studios.
People from the industry still went to Nate and Al’s, but now they were more likely to be front-office types than writers. They all read the trades, and they talked in loud voices so everybody should know it.
Mac Fain was halfway through a beer when Barry Lendl arrived ten minutes late. Lendl was a balding little man with two-tone smoked glasses and a ruddy complexion. He danced his way through the crowded room, scattering greetings like rose petals. “How you doing, Billy? How’s the kid? … Lookin’ good, Sammy…. Caught you on A.M. America, Blake…. Nice jacket, Sid. I wanta know where you got it…. Hey, Marv, let’s do lunch soon.” He pirouetted to a stop at Mac’s table. “You must be McAllister Fain.”
With a glance Fain took in the fitted designer jeans, the ultrasuede shirt, the Gucci loafers, the heavy gold neck chain. The man was a walking caricature of the Hollywood agent. He nodded and gestured to the open chair.
“Terrific. I’m Barry Lendl. What are you having? The pastrami’s the best; take it from me.” He beckoned a waiter over. “Maurie, how goes it? I’ll have a pastrami on rye, heavy on the mustard, kosher pickle, and a diet Seven-Up.”
Fain ordered pastrami on white and potato salad. He said, “What, exactly, was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Right to business, hey? Good, I like that. No bullshitting around. You may not know it, Mac, but today you’re a hot property. I mean, did you or did you not bring a woman back from the dead?”
“That’s what I read in the papers,” Fain said.
“That’s good enough. Tomorrow you could cool off, but we won’t worry about that. The important thing is to make as much money as you can while you’re still hot. Am I right?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “I’m here to help you do that.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Maybe if I name some of my clients, it’ll clear up the picture for you. Remember Louis Freitas?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He started out to paddle a kayak across the Pacific. Got eight miles off shore before he foundered. Eyewitness News did a little piece on him leaving, and the guy became a folk hero.”
“I never heard of him,” Fain said.
“In a small way, of course. When they pulled him out of the drink, I looked him up and got his story in the local dailies and put him on a radio talk show. With the publicity behind us, I booked him into survival schools, environmental meetings, yacht clubs, like that. Got him a tie-in with one of the builders at the boat show. He had a profitable three months just for paddling a stupid boat into the ocean.”
“I must have been out of town,” Fain said.
“How about Barbara Jean Mayer? You gotta remember her.”
“It rings a bell. Faintly.”
“U.S. women’s gymnastic team. Cute blonde. Pigtails. Mary Lou Retton got most of the goodies, but we did all right with what was left over. I got her a couple of local endorsements, and she cut a record.”
“A record of what, her falling off the balance beam?”
“Ha-ha, that’s good. No, she could sing a little. Not much, as it turned out, but we did okay for a few weeks.”
“I don’t sing,” Fain said.
“What I got in mind for you is to get as much local exposure as we can; then we go for club lectures, maybe some colleges. I know I can place some articles, and a book would sell right now.”
“Somebody else mentioned a book.”
Lendl leaned forward. “Not another agent?”
“No, a writer I know.”
“Oh, well; they’re easy to find. I got a ghost client who could crank it out in a week.”
“I’d like to stay with mine. She seems to know what she’s doing.”
“A woman, hey. Well, put her in touch with me and maybe we can work something out.” He leaned forward, getting serious. “You want to tell me how you did it? Made it look like the dead broad came back to life?”
Fain tossed a spoon into the air, caught it, tossed again, and the spoon vanished. “Magic,” he said.
“Hey, that’s not bad,” Lendl said. “We can work it into the lectures. Seriously, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“Seriously, I haven’t got any more idea how I did it than you have.”
“Fair enough. So how about it, Mac? Have we got a deal?” Lendl stuck out his hand.
Fain hesitated. “What’s in this for you, Barry?”
“The usual — ten percent and expenses.”
“Expenses?”
“Hey, only what’s legitimate. I’m not one of these Hollywood hotshots who’ll try to screw you.”
After a moment Mac took his hand. “What the hell, we got a deal.”
“Beautiful.” Lendl checked his watch. “Look, if you’ll excuse me, I want to get right on this while you’re still news.” He signaled for the waiter. “Hey, Maurie, check over here.”
The waiter brought the check, which Lendl snatched up with a flourish. He grabbed at his hip, then grinned sheepishly.
“Can you believe it? I left my wallet outside in the Mercedes. Let me run out and get it.”
“Never mind,” Mac said, taking the check away from him. “I’ll get this.”
“Thanks, Mac. The next one is definitely on me. You’ll hear from me in a day or so.”
The little man made his exit. “Sheila, you’re too lovely…. Nice job on the Switt pilot, Jack…. Christine, saw your work on Dynasty. Marvelous … Call me for lunch.”
• • •
Les Freres Taix was a French farmhouse-style restaurant on the Echo Park stretch of Sunset Boulevard. It was located improbably among Mexican and Cuban food stands and clothing stores that specialized in bright polyester. Inside, the restaurant was dark and cool, with red candle lamps on the tables. The food and the decor were reasonably authentic French. The busboys were the traditional illegal aliens.
Jillian Pappas barely sipped on her chablis as Fain got into his second Jose Cuervo.
“You are not exactly bubbling tonight,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“How did the McDonald’s thing go?”
“I won’t know for a couple of days. I don’t think I got it.”
“Not enough bajoomies?”
“Too old.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I don’t kid about my work. Take a look at the women working in soft-drink and fast-food commercials. Even the atmosphere people you barely see in the background. None of them are old enough to vote.”
They were silent for a minute. Fain looked at the menu; Jillian chewed at a hangnail.
“There’s something else bothering you,” he said.
“No, really.”
He pulled a red napkin through his fist, and it came out white. “You can’t fool the all-seeing eye.”
His sleight of hand could usually cheer her up, but not this time. She said, “It’s what you’re doing, if you want to know.”
“What I’m doing?”
“I mean all this mystical stuff. And now you tell me you’ve got an agent.”
“So what? You’ve got an agent.”
“That’s different. I’m an actress. You’re a … a … flipping grave robber.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not, but it’s close to the truth. And who’s this bimbo who’s going to write a book for you?”
“Oho.”
“Don’t give me ‘oho.’ I’m not jealous; I just don’t feel like what you’re doing is clean. I haven’t liked it from the start.”
“Jillian, I’ve already made more money that I ever have in my life. I didn’t kill anybody for it.” He smiled. “Au contraire.”
“I hate it when you get smug. You were a much nicer person before you had money and your name in the paper. And now you’re going ahead and exploit this necro … necro … whatever the word is.”
“The word is necromancy, and I’m getting a little tired of all this uninvited criticism.”
She stood up and slapped the napkin down on the red tablecloth. “Too bad about you. Well, I don’t want to spend any more of my time with somebody who makes his living off walking corpses.”
Jillian delivered the line with good projection right from the diaphragm and stalked out. The room fell suddenly silent, and Mac felt the eyes of the other diners on him. He swiveled around, giving them a ghastly smile. When they all had returned hastily to their meals, he swallowed the rest of his tequila and left.
Chapter 13
On Saturday, Mac Fain got three phone calls inspired by the article in the Times.
A television evangelist from Glendale offered to debate him on the air. Mac referred him to Barry Lendl, and the evangelist lost interest.
A woman called to ask if he was the McAllister Fain from Michigan. When he said yes, she hung up.
The third call was a juvenile voice shouting, “Boooo!” then hanging up in a storm of giggles.
On Saturday night he went up to Sixth Street Billiards and lost twelve dollars shooting pool. He was home and in bed with a slight beer headache by two A.M.
On Sunday, he woke up earlier than usual and dragged in the bulky Los Angeles Times. There was no mention anywhere of him or the Krugers. He read the sports page and the comics and the Calendar section, then tossed the paper aside.
He boiled a hotdog for lunch, checked the TV Guide, did part of the Times crossword puzzle, and finally it was two o’clock. Jillian Pappas never rose before two, and conversation with her any earlier was futile. He dialed her number.
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