Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  “I need to ask you something, about the night Holly died.”

  Didi licked her thick glossed lips and then flicked her hair back.

  “I don’t know nothin’, I didn’t see nothin’, and I don’t know why I’m talkin’ to you. We had cops asking questions, we can’t get a shoot together, we’re broke, all thanks to you. You gonna order that coffee?”

  Lorraine signaled to a waiter. He looked and continued taking another customer’s order.

  “Eh, man, two cappuccinos.” Didi stuck her tongue out at the waiter. She then turned back to stare at Lorraine.

  “Why you wanna know?”

  Lorraine faced her out. “I’m not a cop. I was once but so long ago even I can’t remember it. I’ve been hookin’ for years and drunk for as many, you know that.”

  Didi pursed her lips. “Once one, always one.”

  Lorraine gripped Didi’s hand, feeling the heavy ring on her finger. “Please, just tell me about the guy. The one Nula said you saw. He picked her up right on your corner.”

  “I don’t remember nothin’, not even that night, they’re all the same to me.”

  “Come on, Didi, it was the night you got beat up. Did you see the John that picked her up, see his car?”

  Didi shrugged. “Maybe. Nula’s been talkin’ to you, has she?”

  “Yeah, and Curtis. They both want to help me, so please, just tell me what happened that night.”

  Didi told Lorraine almost the same story as Nula—how the car had cruised down the road, stopped, driven on; how Holly had run across the road and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “You think he really wanted maybe you or Nula?”

  “If he did we’re lucky then, aren’t we?”

  The prissy waiter appeared with two pitiful-looking cappuccinos and dumped them on the table. When Lorraine passed him five bucks, he just stared.

  “You got a problem?”

  “Yeah, it’s five bucks a cup.”

  He waited until she tossed him another five and moved off. “Jesus Christ, five bucks? What’s his game?”

  Didi sipped her coffee. “They always hit us for that much, they don’t like us sittin’ out front.”

  Lorraine leaned across the table.

  “Close your eyes and think, Didi. Was he dark, blond, balding? Think about him.”

  Didi tried but her mind was blank.

  “Did he wear glasses, kind of rimless, pinkish-lensed glasses?” Lorraine prompted.

  “Yeah, yeah, maybe he did.”

  “Was his mouth wide, wet? Did he have a crew cut? Short, blondish hair?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s right.”

  “He never cruised by you before?”

  “I remember anyone that’s near to a regular, darlin’. I’d never seen this guy. Shit it’s hot, these boots are killin’ me.”

  Lorraine cocked her head to one side. “You’re not holding anythin’ back, are you? You’re not just saying, yeah, yeah, because that’s what I said?”

  “Why would I do that? He kind of fit the description you said but it was a while ago. Listen, I knew Holly, and like everybody else around here, we’d like that piece of shit put away, all right?”

  “If you think of anything, will you call me?”

  Didi pushed the tepid coffee aside and stood up, looking down the busy street.

  “Okay, nice seein’ you. And sure I’ll call. G’night.”

  Lorraine watched her limping off, then weave to the curb as a car cruised past. Didi gave the guy a come-on, but seeing her at close range must have freaked him, and he drove off fast. Lorraine finished her coffee and then headed toward some pay phones. Rooney was not at the station so she called his home. She wanted him to know she was out and working. When she got through he sounded hoarser than ever, she could hear his heavy rasping breathing. “You can go see Fellows now, he’s expecting you—and I’m expectin’ somethin’ soon for my dough, understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. So it’s okay for me to call this guy then, is it?”

  “I just said so. Where you callin’ from?”

  Lorraine held the phone out to the busy traffic passing back and forth on Sunset. “Working, Rooney, I’m workin’ …”

  Rosie, meanwhile, had returned to Janklow’s house on Beverly Glen. At night it was easier to park and remain somewhat hidden. She pulled out the camera, double-checked the instruction manual, and then took a few practice shots. She heard a car come up the hill behind her and stop in front of the barred gates. It was the Mercedes. Crouching, Rosie inched up over the front seat. “Come on, you bastard, get out of the car, lemme get a good shot.” Rosie aimed the camera rather than line up the shot. She clicked two or three times and by the fourth click hoped the car, if not the driver, was in frame.

  The driver opened the gates by remote control, never looking in Rosie’s direction. She could see the glint of his glasses but nothing more—the top of his head was hidden by the roof of the car. She clicked a couple more times before the gates closed behind him as he drove up to the house. Rosie got out and, still carrying the camera and keeping close to the hedges, made her way cautiously toward the gates, hoping to get another shot as he got out of the car to go into the house. She fiddled and muttered, the zoom lens was loose, and by the time she had it tightened the man was inside.

  Rosie returned to the car. She had tried, she told herself. As she turned on the ignition, the engine coughed and died. She tried again, it coughed, spluttered, and then died again with a low, whirring sound. “Oh, fuck it!” She tried another three times to start it but the ominous whirring sound grew fainter and she was miles away from the main road. She got out and started to walk. The road was badly lit—a number of houses had kitsch lamp lights outside or framing their gateways, but the streetlights were well spaced and subtle. Not many residents of this area ever walked, so she kept to the center of the dark road as much as possible. Two cars passed her going down the Glen and, even though she stuck out her thumb, they didn’t stop. Her feet were aching and she was working up quite a sweat. She wished she’d locked the camera in the trunk; it was heavy and the strap cut into her shoulder.

  When Rosie reached the main road, she was past caring about Janklow or anything else. She was hungry, she was dying of thirst, and she was not sure where she was. She stopped and stared at the cardboard sign: HOLLYWOOD STARS’ HOMES MAPS HERE. She saw a woman walking a small white poodle and waved to her. The woman turned and stared.

  “You know where the nearest bus stop is?”

  “Where are you going?”

  Rosie got closer. The woman was elderly with a maid’s uniform under her light coat. Rosie explained she wanted to get back to Pasadena and they walked together for a while, the tiny poodle sniffing at every square inch.

  “You’d best head for Sunset, get a bus from there.”

  Rosie saw she’d have to wait fifteen minutes for a bus on Sunset and, worrying that Lorraine would be wondering where she was, used the pay phone at a McDonald’s. The place was jumping, kids on motorbikes, kids in cars their parents could obviously afford. When there was no answer, Rosie checked her wallet, wondering if she had enough cash for a taxi back to Marengo plus a Big Mac with fries. She also had to arrange with the rental company to pick up the car. She hesitated and was about to go for the burger when she saw the ice-cream parlor and the decision was made: she’d have a chocolate chip and vanilla cone, and then call about the rental. She had just paid for her ice cream, just parked her butt on a bench, when she saw the Janklow Mercedes passing. It stopped as there was a lot of traffic. The blond woman driving was alone, wearing a draped silk scarf half hiding her face, hunched over the steering wheel and wearing black gloves. She reminded Rosie of an old movie star, or maybe someone else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Rosie balanced her ice-cream cone between her knees and picked up the camera. She took three shots but the Mercedes was already moving away. She picked up her melting ice cream, wiped her knees with napkins, and
then licked her hands. Everything was sticky with ice cream.

  Rosie was good at remembering faces. She could match those puzzles, the jigsaw faces of stars, faster than a bat of the eye. Julie Andrews’s lips, Goldie Hawn’s eyes, Jane Fonda’s nose. She concentrated and then remembered. She was sure she’d seen the blond woman at the art gallery, the one Lorraine had worked at. Confident she was right, Rosie finished her ice-cream cone and went off to call about the car. When she got through they said they could not send anyone that evening but suggested she call first thing in the morning.

  Rosie caught the bus back to Orange Grove. She was sweating, sticky, and thirsty, and her feet and ankles were swollen. She hated the heat, August was always boiling hot, even at night. Passing her local drugstore, she saw the sign PHOTO QUICK and a while-you-wait booth just beside the store. She went inside—might as well show Lorraine how professional she was; while she waited for the film to be developed she had a snack at the small deli on the other side of the store.

  By the time Rosie heaved herself up the stairs to her apartment it was after ten and there were no lights on. She let herself in and fed the cat before she sat down to look over her photographs. On the whole they were disappointing, especially the ones she had taken up in Beverly Glen. There was only a half-blurred shot of the man driving the Mercedes, a very good one of the top of the electronically controlled gates, another of the hedges, and one that was just the hedge itself. But there was one clear shot of the blond woman who’d driven past in the Mercedes when she had been on Sunset. She turned the clear one of the woman around, held it up, studied it from every angle, and then it hit her. It was not a woman at all, but a man. When she squinted at the photograph of the man who had first driven in through those gates in the Mercedes, even though it revealed only half his face, Rosie was sure that the blond woman and the man they presumed to be Steven Janklow were one and the same. She laid them side by side on the kitchen table, positive she was right; she couldn’t wait to show them to Lorraine.

  11

  Lorraine had called Andrew Fellows’s home number as it was almost nine-fifteen in the evening. The answering machine gave a few blasts of classical music before suggesting the caller try his mobile number. She liked the sound of his voice, even more so as he repeated the long mobile phone number slowly and she was able to jot it down on the back of her hand. She was of two minds whether to leave it until the following day but decided it might be a good idea if she made an appointment, so she rang the mobile. Fellows had been equally pleasant-sounding when he suggested Lorraine meet him after his game of squash. He’d be in the John Wooden Recreational and Sports Center and if she drove to Murphy Hall near the east entrance of the campus, there would be someone there to direct her. She didn’t mention she would be coming there by taxi.

  UCLA, according to its catalog, is cradled in the rolling hills of California’s Pacific slope and is one of the most beautiful campuses in the nation. Lorraine and her cabdriver, arguing as they drove, got completely lost in it. They drove in circles for half an hour until Lorraine jabbed the driver in the back as she saw a sign pointing the way to the Recreational Center. She paid off the disgrunded man and checked her watch. It was after ten by now and she was worried she might have missed Fellows. She was about to turn back to the taxi and ask him to wait but he had already taken off in a haze of backfiring exhaust fumes.

  Lorraine entered the vast complex. It was a bright modern building, very aerodynamic with a lot of glass and very high ceilings in the main entrance hall. There was a large semicircular reception desk, where a woman wearing round, gold-rimmed glasses was using a computer.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Fellows.”

  The woman peered up without acknowledging Lorraine as she checked down a list for the courts in use.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed irritated and looked over her glasses. “He should really sign in his guests. He’s on court four, playing with a Mr. Brad Thorburn. If you go up the stairs to the second floor and ask someone up there … but it’s almost closing time.”

  “Thank you,” Lorraine said tartly and headed for the wide blue-railed staircase. There were signs to gymnasiums, weight lifting, dance aerobics, and martial arts, but she didn’t see any sign for the squash courts. She eventually headed down a wide polished wooden-floored corridor following signs to Lounges, Meeting Room, and Offices for Student Activities. She felt out of place, wishing she would meet someone, but the place seemed empty.

  At last Lorraine saw a young man carrying a tennis racket, wearing a track suit with a towel strung around his neck. He told her she was on the wrong floor. She turned back to the staircase and went up another flight. No one paid her any attention as she approached the main squash court entrance. A group of students wearing tennis whites passed her, laughing and talking loudly; young tanned limbs, healthy fresh-faced kids, gleaming teeth, shiny hair. They made her feel old, unclean, and uneasy.

  Lorraine passed the first of three enclosed empty squash courts. She could see via small windows and eventually approached the large glass walls for spectators to sit outside and watch the game. She was, apart from the two players, the only other person there. Lorraine slipped into a seat at the end of a row overlooking the court. As neither player looked up to acknowledge her, she was able to watch both men and wonder which was Fellows. She leaned forward, her concentration on the man she thought must be him, red-faced and sweating profusely as he lunged and hurtled around the court. She was sure Red-face was Fellows, hoped he was, because his partner attracted her. She had not been attracted to any man for so long that it threw her slightly, but it was not until she had thoroughly sized up Fellows that she slowly turned her attention to Thorburn. He didn’t yell but gave small grunts of satisfaction, like a man fucking somebody well, those short hard grunts. He snapped out, “Yes, yes, yes,” every time he made a particularly good shot and gave a smile of recognition when he missed one. It was his smile, a half parting of his lips, that attracted her. He was even taller than Fellows, she guessed about six two, maybe more. His body was perfectly proportioned with long, muscular legs, dark-tanned with not too much hair, though she knew he would have a thick thatch around his genitals—a man with black hair always did. Because he was sweating, his hair clung to his head, thick, short hair, and she knew he would have a chest to match—she could see it, just, through his cream-colored Ralph Lauren T-shirt. This man was very different from Fellows. He kept hitching up his shorts as he swung his racket back and forth, bending forward as Fellows lined up a shot, and dragging his wristband across his forehead. His hands were strong and big. Lorraine inched farther forward to get a better view of his face. His dark eyebrows were fine and his eyes … He turned and looked up. They were dark greenish-blue. Fellows looked up, too, and waved, and then said loudly, “Are you Lorraine Page?” She nodded. “Won’t be long.”

  The game continued for another ten minutes and then she presumed Fellows won as he yelled his head off and flung his arm around his partner, who picked up a pristine white towel and wiped his face, arms, and neck before draping it around his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge Lorraine as he walked out of the court. Fellows, however, gave a wide grin and shouted that he would meet her in reception in five minutes.

  She sat for a few moments. She pressed her crotch. It shocked her just how attractive she had found Brad Thorburn. She hadn’t wanted a man since she could remember and this one had sneaked up like the hard black ball they had been thrashing around the court. She felt as if it had hit her in the groin: she ached, she was wet, and she was scared to walk out and face him. Not until she felt the old Lieutenant Page surface, the one that didn’t give a shit what any man said or made her feel, did she leave her seat.

  Lorraine stood waiting in the now-empty reception area. An even pinker-faced Fellows finally emerged with his gym bag, wearing clean, pressed, closely fitting jeans and a striped blue shirt with a sweater tied
around his neck. “Sorry to keep you waiting but I didn’t want to break up the game.”

  “That’s okay.” She looked past him, half hoping his partner would come out, half hoping he wouldn’t. He didn’t.

  “Did you find the parking lot?”

  “No, I came by taxi.”

  Fellows took her by the elbow and walked her down to the basement and the underground parking garage. He continued to chatter in an open, friendly manner, hoping she didn’t mind having their discussion at his home, as the main laboratories and his office were closed for the evening. Still with a light gentlemanly touch to her elbow, he guided Lorraine to the marked-out area that said STAFF ONLY. An English MG sports car, like Mike’s wife’s, Lorraine remembered, headed toward them from the opposite side of the garage and to the exit ramp. Fellows waved and Lorraine purposely didn’t look as she knew it would be Brad Thorburn. Instead she kept her attention on Fellows, saying how kind it was of him to see her. When she was seated in the passenger seat of Fellows’s odd little Japanese car, she clenched her buttocks, angry because she was still sexually aroused. She had wanted to look at Thorburn, wanted to see a man that had made her feel like a woman again.

  “It was a very interesting game,” she said rather lamely.

  “Yes, first time I’ve beaten him this year. He’s an old friend—we were at Harvard together.”

  “Does he teach here, too?”

  “Good God, no. He’s rich as Croesus. He’s a writer, but he runs a big vintage car garage out in Santa Monica. He imports the cars, has them refurbished, and then sells them at immense profit. It’s just a pastime really, because he’s got a garage full of his own. He started up to keep them in good condition and now it’s a flourishing business. Anything that man touches flourishes. He’s got the Midas touch, but you’d never know it. He’s a charming, unassuming man. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to introduce you, but you didn’t come to meet my old college buddy, did you, Ms. Page?”

  As they headed out of the campus Fellows chatted on about real estate and how his property had lost its value. Nothing he said was of any importance, but he was trying to work out what had suddenly made her so tense and distracted. He wondered if she was uncomfortable being driven to a stranger’s home, though she seemed the type who could take care of herself, especially after what Rooney had told him about her. As if she had read his mind, she suddenly asked what Rooney had said to him.