The roll of the lake, and the maneuvers its pilot made to roll with it and avoid capsizing, reminded the passenger why he’d lost interest in diving. He was glad he’d skipped supper at the diner to prepare himself to take it back up.
Twice Sigurson snapped his lantern on briefly to read a compass. Apart from that he seemed to be steering by the stars. After what seemed an hour but was probably less than a third of that, he cut back on the motor, then switched it off. For a few minutes they drifted with the swells, then: “Hand me that anchor. The paint bucket,” he added impatiently, when Valentino hesitated. The archivist complied. It was filled with concrete, with an iron ring sunk into it and a stiff coarse rope knotted to the ring. It entered the water with a splash and the rope uncoiled rapidly, singing against the metal hull. “Suit up.”
While Valentino changed into the flippers and adjusted the mask and snorkel, Sigurson switched on the lantern, a powerful item in a rubberized waterproof case, and trained it over the side, where the shaft cut through the murk beneath the surface. After a minute of searching he grunted and directed his companion’s gaze to a squarish bulk perched at a steep angle perhaps four yards below. The man in the wetsuit shivered involuntarily at the sight.
Sigurson handed him the lantern and slid something from under the seat that separated them. It looked like an ordinary nylon gym bag with a rigid frame. “This ought to save you a few trips. The original bank sacks would’ve rotted long before Preminger’s time, and whatever he put the gold in won’t be in any better shape after forty years.”
The diver lifted it by its strap handle. It was almost weightless. The frame was hollow aluminum. “What about sharks?”
“It’s fresh water, and too cold. I’d watch out for lampreys, though. Nasty critters.”
Forcing himself to think about the film, Valentino motioned the old man to the other side of the boat for balance and sat on the edge, the bag in one hand and the lantern in the other. He took a deep breath and tipped over backward.
On the floor of the little house, the pile of bright beveled bricks reflected the glow from the low-watt lamp, seeming to give off their own heat. Valentino was grateful for it, wrapped as he was in a coarse blanket waiting for the chill to recede before dressing. The wetsuit was a sodden heap on the floor beside the open gym bag, the other diving gear on top.
Sigurson, humming to himself at the narrow table that supported the lamp, scribbled on a piece of paper with a stump of yellow pencil. “What you figure Preminger had in mind for it?” he asked. “He must’ve been a millionaire already, all them pictures.”
“You don’t know Hollywood. Either he wanted a nest egg or he planned to produce as well as direct. That requires an investment.”
“Sounds like he was a sucker for his own racket.” The old man sealed the sheet in an envelope and wrote on the outside. “This here’s the address and directions. I wrote inside what I want him to do. Roger’s a good boy, does what he’s told.”
“What about his wife?”
“Oh, Denise’ll be happy enough to part with it. I can’t spend ten minutes with her she ain’t after me to get my stuff out of her house. Don’t tell neither of ’em about the gold, or nobody else till I lay claim to it. Otherwise no film, and I can afford a lawyer to get it back.”
“I hope being rich makes you happy. A friend once told me the longer you spend lusting after something, the more you wish you had that time back when you get it.”
“What’s he do?”
“He works for UCLA, like me.”
“What I thought. If he knew what it’s like to get what you want, he wouldn’t be poor.”
Valentino found Roger Sigurson a pleasant young man, and his wife the polar opposite of the harridan her father-in-law had described. They owned one of the more modest homes on the lake; the den where Roger screened the film for their guest was barely large enough for the purpose.
“I hope Dad didn’t gouge you.” He rewound the spool. “I know what it’s like to work under budgetary constraints.”
The visitor shook himself into the present. The film was worth the nasty old man’s company, the icy dive, the severe cold he felt coming on. It offered a solid twenty minutes after editing, and the prospect of a fascinating voiceover; thanks to the circumstances under which it had been obtained, the department could afford to hire Ben Gazzara to narrate. “I’m not at liberty do discuss the terms.” He sneezed violently.
“Bless you.” Denise Sigurson had entered the room. “Won’t you stay for dinner? A hot meal may not cure the sniffles, but it makes them easier to bear.”
“Thank you, but I have an early flight. Tomorrow.”
The next morning, groggy from the hour and stuffed up tight, he pushed away his tasteless ham and eggs and held up his mug for Cora to refill.
“This stuff’s no good for a cold,” said the waitress, pouring. “Why don’t I fetch you some orange juice?”
“I’ll survive. Has Leonard Sigurson been in yet?”
“Poor old Ziggy. He died.”
Valentino froze with the mug half raised to his lips. “I just saw him last n—yesterday. What happened?”
“Asa Getz—that’s his next-door neighbor—found him lying in his front yard just after dawn. I guess he was on his way here when his heart gave out. I told him he should order oatmeal once in a while, clean out his pipes. Anything else?”
“Just the check.” He was still stunned. The excitement of the previous evening had put his own heart to the test.
“Poor old Ziggy.” She wrote on her pad. “Some folks won’t miss him, I guess. He wasn’t what you’d call the sociable type, and he didn’t tip for sour apples. I was used to him coming around, though.”
“What a sad waste.”
“I wouldn’t say that. His son turned out all right, and the daughter-in-law’s nice. This’ll be tough on them. I don’t imagine Ziggy had life insurance. Funerals cost money, and they’re just squeaking by.”
“What’s the law in this state regarding the property of someone who dies intestate?”
“I know that word: means no will.” She tore off the sheet and laid it on the table. “Unless it’s changed since my ma died, everything goes to next of kin. Not that I wound up with anything but a bunch of old clothes that didn’t fit me. Ziggy didn’t even own that little-bitty house he was living in. Spent most of his Social Security on rent. Roger and Denise are in for a rough surprise.”
“A surprise, anyway.” Valentino paid his bill, left a generous tip, and drove his rental to the airport with the film in his carry-on, blowing his nose frequently.
The List
THE SHOP WAS ONE of dozens like it in Tijuana, with Louis Vuitton knockoffs hanging like Chinese lanterns from the ceiling, shelves of ceramic skulls wearing Nazi biker helmets, and cases of vanilla extract in quart bottles, the kind the Customs people seized at the border to prevent parasites from entering the U.S. A muumuu covered the female shopkeeper’s tub-shaped body in strips of crinkly bright-colored cloth, and until she moved to swat a cucaracha the size of a field-mouse on the counter, Valentino thought she was a giant piñata.
“Buenos días, señora,” he said.
“Buenas noches, señor,” she corrected, scraping off the remains on the edge of a large can of refried beans.
It was, indeed, evening. He’d started out from L.A. early enough to get there by nightfall, but the rickety heap he was driving these days had blown a radiator hose in San Diego and it had taken the mechanic two hours to fashion a replacement because that model hadn’t been made since Nixon.
“Buenas noches. Yo busto un hombre Americano se gusta—”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but are you trying to say you are looking for someone?”
“You speak English?”
“Everyone in Tijuana speaks English, but no one understands whatever language you were speaking. Whom do you seek?”
“An elderly gentleman named Ralph Stemp.”
She smacked the
swatter again, but this time there appeared to be nothing under it but the counter. “I do no favors for friends of Stemp. You must buy something or leave my store.”
He decided not to argue with her scowl. He took a box of strike-anywhere matches off a stack and placed it before her. She took his money and made change from a computer register; the bronze baroque antique on the other end of the counter was just for show. He said, “I don’t know Mr. Stemp. I’m here to do business with him.”
“If it is money business, pay me. He died owing me rent.”
He had the same sudden sinking sensation he’d felt when the radiator hose blew. “I spoke to him on the phone day before yesterday. He was expecting me.”
“Yesterday, in his sleep. He’s buried already. He made all the arrangements beforehand, but he forgot about me.”
Remote grief mingled with sharp frustration. Ralph Stemp was one of the last of the Warner Brothers lineup of supporting players who appeared in as many as ten films a year in the 1940s, more than double the number the stars made. He was always some guy named Muggs or Lefty and usually got shot in the last reel. Whatever insider stories he had had gone with him to his grave.
That was the grief part. The frustration part involved the unsigned contract in Valentino’s pocket. A cable TV network that specialized in showing B movies was interested in a series of cheap heist pictures the ninety-year-old retired actor had directed in Mexico a generation ago, and Stemp had agreed to cut the UCLA Film Preservation Department in on the sale price if Valentino represented him in the negotiations. The films were trash, but they were in the university archives, and the department needed the money to secure more worthwhile properties. Without the old man’s signature, the whole thing was off.
He excused himself to step out into the street and use his cell. Under a corner lamp a tipsy norteamericano couple in gaudy sombreros posed for a picture with a striped burro belonging to a native who charged for the photo op.
“Smith Oldfield here.” There was always a whiff of riding leather and vintage port in that clipped British accent. The man who for all Valentino knew ate and slept in the offices of the UCLA Legal Department listened to the bad news, then said, “You should have faxed him the contract instead of going down there.”
“He didn’t trust facsimile signatures. It was his suspicion and resentment that swung the deal. He never forgave the country for branding him a Communist, or the industry for turning its back on him. He agreed to the split so he wouldn’t have to deal directly with anyone in the entertainment business.”
“I’m surprised he trusted you.”
He took no offense at that. “I ran up a monstrous long-distance bill convincing him. I suppose now we’ll have to start all over again with his estate.”
“A U.S. citizen residing in Mexico? With two governments involved, you’d be quicker making peace in the Middle East. And the heirs might not share his distaste for Hollywood. In that likelihood they’d cut you out and make the deal themselves.”
“He outlived all his relatives, and judging by his crankiness in general I doubt he had any close friends.”
“Have you any idea what happened to his personal effects?”
“I can ask his landlady. Why?”
“It’s a longshot, but if he left anything in writing that referred to the terms of your agreement, even a doodle, it might accelerate the process. The probate attorneys could take their fees out of his share in the sale.”
Valentino thanked him and went back inside to talk to the human piñata. She said, “The room was furnished. Everything he owned fit in a suitcase. No cash, and not even a watch worth trying to sell. Some rags and papers. You can have it all for what he owed me. One hundred sixty dollars American.”
“What kind of papers?”
She smirked. “A map to a gold mine in Guadalajara. Go down and dig up a fortune.”
“Can I take a look?”
“This is a retail shop. The peep show’s across the street.”
He exhaled, signed three traveler’s checks, and slid them across the counter. The woman held each up to the light, then locked them in the register and moved with the stately grace of a tramp steamer through a beaded curtain in back. She returned carrying an old-fashioned two-suiter and heaved it up onto the counter.
He frowned at the shabby piece of luggage, held together by a pair of threadbare straps. He’d be months wheedling reimbursement out of the department budget, if the bean-counters even signed off on it. He’d given up on disposable income the day he undertook the mortgage on a crumbling movie theater that resisted each step in the renovation the way a senile old man fought change. It was his home and his hobby and his curse.
“I’m closing,” she said when he started to unbuckle one of the straps. “Open it someplace else.”
Tijuana reminded him too much of Touch of Evil to stay there any longer than he had to, but he didn’t want to risk taking the suitcase to the American side without knowing what it contained; an undeclared bottle of tequila, or perhaps an old movie man’s taste for the local cannabis, would look bad on a job application under “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” after UCLA let him go. He drove around until he spotted a motel belonging to an American chain and booked a room. He was free of anti-Mexican prejudice but border towns were affiliated with no country but Hell. Alone in a room with all the personality of a Styrofoam cup, he hoisted the suitcase onto the piece of furniture motel clerks regard as a queen-size bed and spread it open.
He sorted the contents into separate piles: a half-dozen white shirts with frayed collars and yellowed buttons, three pairs of elastically challenged sweatpants, a gray pinstripe suit with a Mexican label, fused at the seams rather than sewn, filthy sneakers, a pair of down-at-heels wingtips, socks and underwear in deplorable condition, an expired Diners Club card in a dilapidated wallet empty but for a picture of Deanna Durbin (just how long had it been since wallet came with pictures of movie stars?), a Boy Scout knife, two tablets of Tums in foil wrap—pocket stuff—a three-dollar digital watch, still keeping time after its owner had ceased to concern himself with such information, restaurant receipts (Stemp seemed to have gone out of his way to avoid Mexican cuisine, but his tastes and more likely his budget had run toward American fast food), dozens of folded scraps of paper that excited Valentino until they delivered only grocery lists of items that could be prepared on a hot plate or microwave; receipts for prescription drugs, which if he’d left any behind, his landlady had appropriated for sale on the black market. Other ordinarily useful things, pens and pencils and Band-Aids, had probably been seized by default for the service they offered.
A sad legacy, this; that nine decades of living should yield so little of material value made a bachelor in his thirties wonder about his own place in the Grand Scheme. Well, he had hardly anticipated a complete print of Metropolis, but even the gossamer hope he’d been handed by Smith Oldfield, of some evidence to support the agreement he’d spent so many user minutes hammering out with the old man, had come to nothing.
Valentino lingered over the heaviest object in the case, a nine-by-twelve looseleaf notebook bound in green cloth, faded, grubby, and worn shiny in patches by what appeared to have been many hands. The yellowed ruled sheets inside, dog-eared and thumb-blurred, reminded him of a dozen last days of school, when the detritus at the bottom of his locker served up the remains of the crisp stationery of the back-to-school sales of September. It seemed to contain a list, neatly type-written in varying fonts as if it had been added to on different machines over time, and totally indecipherable. It appeared to be made up of random letters, suggesting no language he’d ever seen.
A code. Wonderful. From crossword puzzles to Rubik’s Cube to Sudoku, there wasn’t a conundrum or a cryptogram in existence that couldn’t leave Valentino in the dust. He could track down a hundred feet of London After Midnight in a junk shop in Istanbul, but Where’s Waldo? stumped him every time. If there wasn’t an obvious motion-picture
connection, he was useless.
There were a hundred pages at least, many of them torn loose of the rings and as yellow and tattered as ancient parchment, scattering crumbs like old bread when he turned them. He was a paleontologist of a very special sort, brushing the dust off the bones of obsolete civilizations, dead-end species (early 3-D, Sensurround, scenes hand-tinted frame by frame), but this was an artifact outside his area of expertise.
A prop, possibly, from one of Stemp’s Mexican-movie atrocities; although from prima facie evidence the old man had saved nothing from his long career in movies, probably because of bitter memories.
He laid the notebook aside, exhaled again. Success and fame had always been a crapshoot, but a man’s life ought to boil down to more than the contents of a suitcase in Tijuana.
“You might have thought to bring me a bottle of mescal, with a real worm in the bottom,” Kyle Broadhead said. “All you can get up here is a piece of licorice. Fine protégé you turned out to be.”
They were sitting in the professor’s Spartan office in the power center, unchanged since the campus had ceased to draw all its utilities from a single source. Only a smiling picture of the shaggy-haired academic’s young love interest on the desk relieved the palette of gray cinder block and steel. Valentino smiled, opened his bulky briefcase, and set a bottle on the desk. “I had just enough cash left to pay the duty. Señora Butterworth took all my traveler’s checks.”
Broadhead beamed and stood the bottle in his file drawer, which rattled and clinked when he pushed it shut. “I talked to Smith Oldfield this morning. Any luck with Stemp’s things?”
“I don’t know how a man can live so long and leave so little behind. I’m one-third his age and I needed a tractor-trailer to move half a mile from my old apartment into the Oracle.”
“That’s because you’re a pack rat. Your office looks like the Paramount prop department. You have to travel light in this life or your heirs will pick apart your carcass. What else is in the case? You didn’t need it to run liquor across the hall.”
Valentino: Film Detective Page 25
