He paused dramatically.
"So he passed," I said a little impatiently.
"In a manner of speaking. He passed out of sight." He looked smug enough to choke.
"Bernie, if you don't stop being cryptic, I'm going to steal your notes and leave."
"He only had one friend in school," Bernie said. "The bad boy, naturally, the kid who could tell old Jack what to do for his own evil ends." He raised his eyebrows Groucho style. "This was the absolutely worst kid in the whole school. One morning the town woke up-rurally early, no doubt-and poor, dumb Jack Sprunk and the other kid were gone."
"And the other kid's name?"
"Pepper."
That made two Peppers and one Peeper. "That was his first name?"
"Last."
"Bobby Pepper," I said.
"Well, shit," Bernie said. "If you already knew that, why'd you let me keep talking?"
"I didn't know it. I guessed. You've done great. You've earned every nickel."
"Hey, allow me a point once in a while. Do you want me to go on?" He squinted elaborately through his new contacts at a black plastic runner's watch. The watch he usually wore was made of four pounds of steel. I had a feeling Joyce was into fitness.
"You mean there's more?" I asked submissively.
"Sure there is, the best part as far as the Widow Sprunk is concerned."
"Do we have to keep calling her the Widow Sprunk? Isn't that sexist or something?"
"Clara," he said sulkily. "Clara Sprunk."
"So what was the best part for Ms. Sprunk?"
"If I'd called her Ms., she would have hung up on me."
"So you called her Clara. You devil, you."
"I called her Mrs. Sprunk. Simeon, even money goes just so far."
"Sorry, Bern. You mean that Bobby Pepper showed up on TV one night, but his name was Toby Vane."
"That's one-third of it. And since you're being so insufferable, I'll tell you the other two-thirds out of order. First, or actually second, chronologically speaking, some little twit from Hollywood who said he was Toby Vane's personal press agent-"
"Dixie Cohen?" I said, wondering whether Dixie had known that Toby wasn't really Jack Sprunk.
"No, some guy named Chubb. Bertram Chubb," he added, consulting his notes. "Mrs. Sprunk said he sounded like he was wearing a bow tie. You'd like Mrs. Sprunk."
"And what did Bertram Chubb do?"
"He called the town's mayor. Did I mention that the town is called Crooked Elbow?"
"Crooked Elbow?"
"Crooked Elbow, Montana. There's a story behind it."
"I'm sure there is. Maybe later."
"The mayor is also the barber. Barbers talk, as I'm sure you know."
"I didn't even know there were still barbers. I thought they were all stylists now."
"In Montana, they're still barbers. Anybody calling himself a stylist would be quarantined."
"Probably a good idea."
"Well, Bertram Chubb asked Mr. Ingstad-that's the barber's name, lot of Norwegians up in Montana, apparently — whether the town wouldn't like to host a big homecoming parade for Toby Vane."
"And what did the barber say to Bertram Chubb?"
"He said thanks, but no, thanks. He said, to paraphrase, that Crooked Elbow would receive the return of Toby Vane with mixed emotions, and that the mixture would be one part fear and two parts loathing. He said that he couldn't guarantee Toby's personal bodily safety, much less a ticker-tape parade."
"And Mrs. Sprunk knows all this."
"As I believe I've already said, barbers talk."
"I'm surprised it didn't make the papers."
"It'll never make the papers. As far as the good people of Crooked Elbow, Montana, are concerned, Bobby Pepper, AKA Toby Vane, doesn't exist. They'd like to keep it that way."
"But he must have had some family. Even bad boys have family."
Bernie put a defensive hand, palm down, over the four-by-five cards containing his notes. "Can you read upside down?" he asked in a suspicious tone of voice.
"Bernie, I couldn't read your handwriting right-side up."
"Well, Bobby's family is the first part of the story, chronologically speaking. There are no longer any Peppers in Crooked Elbow."
"Is that so?" I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"There were five little Peppers to begin with. Bobby, two sisters, Mommy, and Daddy. Daddy Pepper was apparently someone who, in a larger town, would have been confined to a small white room relatively early in his career, minus his belt and shoelaces. He just loved to knock the shit out of women."
"I know some of this already," I said. "In L.A. or New York, he would have been classified as a psychotic, probably irreversible. In Crooked Elbow, people just thought he was mean."
Bernie looked across the desk at me. "This is pretty sordid stuff."
"I'll survive," I said. "Just tell me about the Peppers."
"Daddy clubbed the two girls until they ran away," Bernie said distastefully. "Nobody in town knows where they went, apparently they were pretty careful about that. They covered their tracks and went, about a year apart. That left Bobby and Mommy to take whatever Daddy wanted to dish out."
"Poor Mommy," I said. "So what happened?"
"Bobby finally ran away. Nobody would have looked very hard for him, Mrs. Sprunk said. But Jack was gone, too, and him they were worried about. It was winter, and there'd just been a blizzard. They were afraid he might have lost his way and frozen to death. They went around checking snowdrifts and looking down wells. About three days later, they found out that the Pepper farmhouse had burned down."
"No," I said.
"Because they lived so far from anything or anyone, and because of the storm, no one went out there until someone suggested that's where Jack might be. Even then it took them a day to get there. Roads were bad, cars wouldn't start, the wind chill factor was around absolute zero. Real frontier days, you know?"
I nodded. I was even more tired than I had realized, but I'd forgotten about my headache. Now that I thought about it, it came back.
"Well, the house was gone. Just two walls standing and part of one room. The room that was left was the whole original house. It had been built out of sod about a hundred years before. The rest of the place was wood, and it caught like cellophane."
"Who was in the room that was standing?" I said, knowing the answer.
"Mrs. Pepper. Simeon, she'd been tied up. She was partially burned, but they could see that she'd been tied hand and foot. Like a heifer, Mrs. Sprunk said." He swallowed.
"With clothesline," I said.
Bernie flipped through his notes. "Gee," he said. "I didn't ask what kind of rope it was."
"It was clothesline," I said. "Take my word."
"Does that mean something? Obviously it does."
"Is there more? Are we finished, or is there more?"
"Sure there's more. If there weren't, your boy would be in jail. The house had been doused with gasoline. Halfway between the house and the garage, up to his shoulders in snow, they found Daddy Pepper. He was as frozen as most fresh fish. They had to break his fingers to get the gasoline can out of his hands. Mrs. Sprunk said he got lost in the snow in his own backyard. Whiteout or something. Case closed."
"The clothesline had been taken down," I said. "He needed it."
"What's all this about clothesline?"
"Skip it," I said. "After I leave, shut the door and forget about it." I stood up and reached into my pocket. Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I peeled off three hundred dollars of Stillman's and Toby's money. Then I added another hundred.
"What's that for?" Bernie asked. "It was only three hundred, actually two eighty-five. I had my watch running the whole time."
"Use it to clean your clothes. Clean your desk. Send the phone to the cleaner's, if you like. Clean everything you used or touched while you were working for me. I'm sorry, Bernie. I shouldn't have gotten you involved. Apologize to Joyce for me. Next time
, we'll all go to Anna Maria's for Italian."
"Great," he said. "And what about you? What are you going to do?"
"Me?" I said. "I'm going for a run."
I ran six miles, maybe the fastest six miles of my life. The Sunset Boulevard uphill, about six-tenths of a mile at a grade of about roughly forty percent, was the hardest. I skipped the sauna but made up for it with an extra-long shower. Then, with a towel wrapped around my middle, I called the High Velocity set at Universal and talked to Dolly. Toby was there, she said. They'd been there since eight-thirty.
"Has he been out of your sight?"
"Not since last night."
"What about the big guy, the stand-in? John," I added, since Dolly's silence indicated a certain level of confusion.
"He's here. He's across the stage from me now. They're setting up a shot."
"Has he been there all day?"
"Gosh, Simeon, I don't know. You didn't say anything about watching him."
"Forget it. Try to talk Toby into keeping John with him for the rest of the day. Maybe even after work."
"Sure, but why? Has he got something to do with it?"
"Yes," I said. Dolly was asking another question when I hung up.
I dialed my house and got my answering machine. After my idiotic message was over, I said, "Nana, it's me. Pick up the phone, would you?"
"H'lo, Simeon," she said. She sounded drowsy. "What time is it?"
"A little after two. How are you doing?"
"I fell asleep in the sun. It's nice up here. Somebody named Eleanor called."
"Shit," I said. "Did you pick up the phone?"
She laughed. "You peckerhead. Of course not. I just listened after the machine picked up."
"Good. Keep doing that. I don't want you to talk to anybody but me, not even if somebody asks for you. Especially not if somebody asks for you."
"Nobody knows I'm here," she said a trifle anxiously.
"Don't be silly," I said to reassure her. "We're just being extra careful."
"Okay. What if there's a call for you that sounds important?"
"Listen to the machine and write down the name and number. I'll call in from time to time to check. Pick up the phone when you hear me."
"What are you going to do while I work on my tan lines?"
"I'll tell you after I do it."
"You're not going to be silly, are you? I mean, you're not going to stick out your big thick neck or anything."
"My neck is not thick."
"I'd like it even if it weren't. Take care of it for me."
"At last," I said. "A reason to live."
"What time will you be home? I could make something to eat."
"Don't plan on it. I'll be there when I get there, but I'll keep in touch. Go back into the sunshine."
"Maybe I'll work on getting rid of my tan lines instead. Nobody can see me."
"I like tan lines," I said, visualizing hers.
"Your kind always does. When you get back I'll model them for you. Front and back."
"Good-bye, Nana."
She kissed the mouthpiece and hung up. I readjusted my towel in front and strolled back through the locker room, hoping that no one would get the wrong idea. At any rate, no one whistled at me.
20
Out Of Order
"What do you mean, another one?" Dixie said. "You mean dead?" He looked terrified. We were on the set, between shots. Toby was in his dressing room with Dolly and Big John. "Is Toby. ." He looked around and lowered his voice. "Is it possible Toby's involved?"
"He is and he isn't."
"That's very informative. That's what I need, right now, the Riddle of the Sphinx. Cryptic, that's what I need. You want to give me a straight answer, or do you want to go on being interesting?"
"Where were you late last night, early this morning?"
"What kind of question is that? What about Toby?"
"We'll get to Toby. What about Rebecca?" Dixie leaned against a prop wall, and it teetered. He straightened up and rubbed his face with both hands. "You know about Rebecca?" he asked in a spiritless voice. "How do you know?"
"No thanks to you," I said. "Northridge, my ass."
"I was ashamed of myself. I know I should have told you, but I was ashamed of myself. I acted like a putz after it happened. I've never acted worse in my life. So you talked to Charlene?"
"You mean Chantra."
"Chantra." He made the name sound like he was spitting. "Imagine, Chantra. A grown woman. Did she sell you any perfume? A crystal for your rearview mirror, keep you from getting rear-ended? Maybe a map to the lines on your palm? A lifetime subscription to the Harmonic Times?"
"Where were you late last night?"
"So now I'm a suspect? I don't tell you something, and that makes me a suspect? Oh, no, it doesn't. Don't give me that. We hired you, remember?" His voice had risen, and he waved his hands in front of him as if he were trying to shush himself. "Remember that?" he said in a half whisper. "We were the ones who hired you. Why would we have hired you if I were going around killing people? You think I could kill somebody? You haven't even told me who it was."
"You haven't asked."
He put a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck. "This is the kind of day they invented aspirin for. Who was she?"
"The girl who was with Toby when Amber got killed."
He transferred the hand from the back of his neck to the bridge of his nose and rubbed that for a while. "Swell," he said with his eyes closed. "Another naked dancer. This gets more Hearst papers every day. If Joanna Link ever figures it out, we'll all be on Sixty Minutes."
"That's what I meant when I said Toby was involved. What I meant when I said that he wasn't involved was that he didn't do it."
"You know that for sure?" He looked hopeful for the first time.
"Dolly was with him. She hasn't been more than ten feet from him since seven last night, and the lady was alive at seven last night because I saw her. So Dolly was with him. Who was with you, Dixie?"
"I'm a divorced man," he said testily. "I sleep alone."
"Do you own a camera?"
"Look," he said, "I own lots of cameras. So what, you know? So does Norman. So does Toby. So does everybody in the movie or TV business. We like cameras. We don't get enough of them grinding away during our ten-, twelve-hour workdays, so we run out and buy them before the stores close. Where do you think the pictures come from for all those Mommie Dearest books? This whole town is camera happy. Shake down the average film crew, you'll find more cameras than a busload of Japanese tourists. Betacams, too. Home movie cameras. Christ, Norman's got a thing that makes daguerreotypes like in the Civil War, ought to be in a museum. So what has this got to do with anything?"
I reached into my hip pocket. "Look at these," I said.
He did, for maybe half a second. Then he slammed his eyes shut, and the color left his face. His forehead was suddenly damp.
"Thanks anyway," he said, "but you can't make me." He sounded like a little boy. "Put them away or I won't open my eyes."
I put them away. His eyes were still closed. "What do you know about clothesline?"
He opened half an eye to make sure the pictures were gone. "Clothesline? It's what they used before dryers. Where did those come from?"
"They were under the girl's body. Where the cops would find them. What did you do with the Polaroids of Rebecca, Dixie?"
I could actually hear him grind his teeth. "Burned them," he said. "What would you have done, willed them to the Louvre? She's my stepdaughter."
"Toby let you have them?"
"Toby was in his apologetic mode, his shit-eating, 'omigod, I didn't mean to hurt her' mode. I should have pushed his face in."
"But you didn't," I said unkindly.
"I didn't do jack shit. That cost me everything, everything I cared about."
"You've still got your job."
He glared up at me. "Fuck you." He looked around at the sound stage as though he'd never seen it bef
ore. "Fuck all of this, too." He started to walk away.
I put a hand on his arm, and he jerked away from me. "Don't touch me, you schmuck."
"Dixie," I said, "people are staring."
It was true. Grips, stagehands, makeup women, they were all looking at us. Janie Gordon sat in a canvas chair, an open script cradled in her lap and a pencil between her teeth. When I caught her eyes she looked away.
Dixie stopped walking. "Damn," he said. "Damn, damn, damn, damn." He stood slack and empty, looking at nothing, like a man suspended from a string.
The door of Toby's dressing room opened, and Dolly came out. She searched the set with her eyes and then came over to us.
"I'll be in my office," Dixie said flatly. "You know where it is."
By the time Dolly reached me he was halfway across the set, a little man in a creased corduroy suit that sagged from the shoulders. A stagehand carrying a small table stepped in front of him, and Dixie trudged into him, stumbled, and kept on walking. The stagehand looked after him, shook his head, and then put the table down on top of a cross of masking tape stuck to the floor.
"What's with him?" Dolly said.
"His life's too big for him. How's Toby?"
"Okay. Putting the usual amount up his nose. He's been asking for you."
"Don't tell him I was here."
"You're going? You just got here."
"Exactly, Dolly. Bull's-eye. I'm going. What time are you going to shut down?"
"About another hour. Six, six-thirty, I guess. There's only one scene left, and it's mainly Toby, so it should go pretty fast."
"My," I said nastily, "aren't we learning a lot?"
Dolly's face, as always, was guileless. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to be doing? You got to give the guy credit, if I did as much junk as he does, I couldn't find my pockets. But he's always where he's supposed to be, always has the words right and everything."
Dolly started to say something else, but I cut her off. "Just keep them together, Toby and John, got it? Don't let them split up. Take them to dinner somewhere, you've got an expense account. Don't be stingy. As J. P. Morgan said, you've got to spend money to make money."
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