The Straight Man - Roger L Simon

by Roger L. Simon

  She shrugged, looked away. "When're you going to investigate your shrink?"

  "What for?"

  "You told me you saw those matches in his office. And that he's Emily's psychiatrist too."

  "Yeah, well, I've been thinking about it. It doesn't make much sense. I mean he can't even get around by himself."

  "You mean he doesn't have a car?"

  "He's got this dark green van parked in his driveway. But I don't know how he uses it. I mean, I don't even know if he lives alone."

  Chantal looked at me. When the last words came out, I realized how strange they sounded. In Freudian circles it was conventional thinking for the patient to know little or nothing of his analyst. But those days were long gone, especially in California. So I wondered why I, a private detective, had preferred to remain in the dark. Was there something I didn't want to know? And was it about Nathanson or about me?

  15

  Like Montecito and Palos Verdes Estates, Serra Retreat was one of those rare places in Southern California that still reminded you of the dream the world once envied. It felt as if you were in a time warp, driving through a classic orange crate label to a sylvan world as you turned off the Pacific Coast Highway on Cross Creek Road and continued through the gate marked PRIVATE ROAD—PROCEED AT OWN RISK past the perfect little truck farm and the perfect little A-frame with the wooden dolphin statue out front to the creek that was never dry. It was a California Dream for the new gentrified rich, television producers who could smoke their dope in peace in imitation mission-style ranchos so exact, their execution surpassed the originals. Every once in a while they would go out to the corral to see if the Porsche was all right or to readjust the satellite dish.

  When I arrived, a number of locals—some kids on skateboards, an aging surfer in a torn wet suit, three Latino maids, and a couple of women by a new Jeep Cherokee not dissimilar to King King's—were standing around the edge of the creek watching a pair of policemen in rubber hip boots trudge back and forth through the mud, probing the scene of the crime with wooden rakes. I parked and ambled up to the surfer in my most laid-back fashion as if I had just lost my way to the Dairy Queen. He had the glazed, brain-damaged look of someone who had had his head bashed by the waves for about thirty years.

  "What're they looking for?" I asked, nodding toward the cops. "Escargots?"

  "Dude committed suicide."

  "He did?"

  "He cou1dn't take it. Women problems."

  "Women problems? How do you know?"

  "It was in the papers. One day he's drinking a bottle of Erlanger's at Enrico's, next day he's offing himself. I met him once. Up at Stinson Beach."

  "Stinson Beach. I didn't know he hung out up north. I thought he had his hands full in Malibu."

  "Malibu? Dude hated it around here. Too many people. Smog. Traffic. No trout."

  "No trout, huh? That can be a problem." This one was even further gone than I thought. "Funny," I said. "I read how he was out jogging with that black comic and then he got knifed in the bushes."

  "You interested in that? A great American poet kills himself and you're worried about some Mercedes-Benz psychiatrist?" The surfer turned and looked at me as if I were beneath contempt.

  "Trout, huh'?" I repeated, suddenly realizing what he was talking about. "Trout Fishing in America. Richard Brautigan the writer. Too had he committed suicide a year ago."

  "Damn straight. A national tragedy." The surfer looked at me differently now. I had gone up about six notches in his estimation. "No one reads anymore, do they? All they do is watch MTV or rent Cheech and Chong movies at the video store."

  "Yeah, well, at least some people go jogging." I nodded toward the creek.

  "Narcissists."

  "I know what you mean. I bet you read that, too—The Culture of Narcissism. "

  "Good book," said the surfer.

  "Of course, you guys were the original narcissists, getting up at the crack of dawn and paddling out there in that ocean years before the first yuppie came hopping along the beach in his Nike running suit and Reeboks. You must've seen them all come and go."

  The surfer nodded. "The long board days," he said, shaking his head nostalgically.

  "Did you ever see that shrink running along with the comic?" I gestured toward the cops. One of them had just dredged up a bikini bottom and was showing it to his partner.

  "Sometimes. Sometimes I was in the water first."

  "What about yesterday?"

  The surfer coughed and spat. "Nosy Parker," he said.

  "I'm just curious, that's all."

  "So are a lot of people." The surfer shrugged, retreating into his wet suit like a turtle into its shell.

  I studied him a moment. "Actually I'm a detective novelist," I said. "It's research."

  He turned full around and looked at me. "Really? . .. I thought about doing that. Write some books about a surfer detective who works out of his woody in Redondo Beach."

  "Sounds like a good angle."

  "Wanted to do one about a Beach Boys-type group. The leader, this acid-damaged genius, gets offed and my guy has to find the killer."

  "Why don't you do it?"

  "Could you help me find an agent?"

  "Maybe . . . yeah . . . sure." The surfer grinned, revealing a couple of large gaps in his teeth where he must have been reamed by his board. "What about yesterday'?" I continued.

  "Did you see them jogging?"

  "Sure did."

  "Notice anything exceptional? . . . It's good practice. For writing."

  "Yeah. That Otis dude was really dogging it. Looked like he hadn't slept all night. The shrink kept being pissed off because he wouldn't keep up. Then something funny happened. Someone came up and asked Otis for his autograph."

  "Why's that funny?"

  "Around Malibu Colony Beach'? They got everybody jogging out here in the morning—Dyan Cannon, Shirley MacLaine. It's like goddamned People magazine. Nobody asks for an autograph. It's just not cool. You know what I mean?"

  "Yeah. So who stopped him?"

  "Some dude. Maybe around thirty. Dark hair. I didn't get a good look at him 'cause I was hurryin' to untie my board. They were breaking about four feet at the time. Anyway, he comes up just as Otis is about to cross the PCH down at the other end of Serra Retreat. The shrink's already on the other side treading water while Otis signs and the light changes and the dude is stuck there."

  "Which dude? Otis or the shrink?"

  "Both of 'em. So the shrink gets impatient and starts off ahead of him into the other end of the Retreat where those big stone pillars are."

  "So he could've been killed right there."

  "Whaddaya mean? His body was over here." He pointed to the creek where the cop had now found the bikini top and was now teasingly offering the matched set to the ladies with the Jeep. "It rolled down that hill."

  "You mean that's where they found it. Actually, he could've been killed behind those isolated pillars and then dragged over here without Otis ever knowing about it."

  "Yeah," said the surfer, eyeing me carefully. "That's interesting. I can see why you're a detective writer. What's your name?"

  "Robert Parker," I said.

  "Hey. No shit?" He looked amazed. "l read some of your stuff. You're good."

  Ten minutes later I was with Marianne Walders, the aerobics instructor at the Malibu Movers who had discovered the murder weapon. She had the kind of body generally associated with her trade and I was staring at her sweatshirt, which said Movers Shake It Better, in order to concentrate on my role as an Auto Club investigator. It was one of my favorite parts of detective work, playing a role or what was called in the trade "running a gag" to get information. Nathanson said I liked it so much because it was a disguised act of aggression. But at the moment, everything Nathanson had told me had been called into question.

  "As you know, the Auto Club doesn't just come out and change your tire on a dark night. We're a full service company—emergency road service, trav
el, and insurance," I told Marianne, who was standing behind the counter in the tight entry room, a couple of matrons visible in the mirror behind her, doing a feeble can-can to a Tina Turner album.

  "Yes, I know," she said, smiling pleasantly. It had been my experience that the Auto Club was the most successful of "gags." Everybody, even the congenitally paranoid and disgruntled, trusted the Auto Club.

  "So a claim has already been made on behalf of this Dr. Bannister and we want to get it processed as quickly as possible. Can you tell me anything about him?"

  "I never met the man."

  "I see. And what about Otis King?"

  "Him neither. Although I've seen him on TV. He's funny. I never could understand why he stuck with that partner." Then she winced, suddenly realizing: "Oh, he's the one who committed suicide, isn't he?"

  "I believe so. What about the murder weapon? We have a report that it was found on the premises."

  "Well, not exactly on the premises. Come. I'll show you."

  I followed her outside onto a balcony that overlooked the back of the small, two-story office building that contained the Movers, a surfboard rental, a video rental, a windsurfing I rental, a jet ski rental, and a frozen yogurt shop—all those marginal outfits that seemed to stay in operation just for the dubious distinction of doing business in Malibu. They were all backed up against the hill exactly where the road ran off the Coast Highway into the Serra Retreat.

  "The knife was hidden behind there. Right where they leave the boxes."

  "What boxes?"

  "The Evian water. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night the liquor store guy leaves two cartons of Evian by our door. I pick them up the next morning."

  "And this is a regular habit?"

  "Hey, after a good workout no one wants to drink tap water." She made a face. "It would ruin everything."

  16

  "Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Run this by me again. Nathanson was Bannister's teacher?"

  "And advisor. At the Southern California School of Psychotherapy. In fact, Nathanson edited a book in which Bannister was one of the principal contributors: Aspects of the Psycho-dynamic Method."

  "Where'd you find this out'?" We were sitting at Zucky's with the menus in our hands, but I was rapidly losing my appetite.

  "At the Times."

  "At the Times'? What were you doing there?" My irritated voice carried over to the next table, where a geriatric couple looked up from their stuffed derma.

  "We're not going to get much help from the police," said Chantal, lowering her voice pointedly, "so I figured I ought to make friends with the newspaper people covering the case. The guy writing the obituary had it with his background information."

  "You can't do this. I have to know where you are at all times." I knew I was sounding like an asshole, but I couldn't stop myself. This Nathanson business was turning me into a jerk.

  "`Why?"

  "Coordinati0n. It's . . . it's absolutely necessary."

  "So I'm not to use my initiative."

  "I didn't say that."

  "What are you saying?"

  I brooded for a moment. "Where's Burckhardt?"

  "I don't know. I couldn't find him."

  "See? That was your first responsibility."

  "Good-bye." She got up and started walking out of the restaurant.

  "Wait a minute—" I got up and started after her.

  "Where're you going?"

  "I'm leaving."

  "Leaving? . . . What—"

  "If this is the kind of partnership we're going to have, it's not worth it. There are other things I can do."

  "Like what?" I stepped into her path. The old people with the stuffed derma were having quite a show.

  "Well, for example, the California Institute of Hypnotherapy can get you a therapist's license in six months."

  "You want to be a therapist?"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "You're too neurotic to—"

  "Okay. That's it." She started around me at a brisk clip.

  "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. You're right." She slowed. "I was being defensive. I guess I don't want to hear"—I lowered my voice—"weird things about Nathanson. But one thing: you can't go running off at the drop of a hat. This is a tough business and that kind of behavior doesn't inspire confidence."

  She stood there watching me like a wary animal.

  "He canceled," she said.

  "What?"

  "Nathanson canceled your next appointment. It was on your answering machine."

  "Did he say why?"

  "No."

  "That's strange. Oh, well," I said, sounding a lot calmer than I felt. In fact, my heart was in my throat. "I guess, then, we'll have to check him out." I glanced at my watch. "But we still have time to get something to eat and be there at ten of three. Nothing much interesting happens at a shrink's office until five minutes before the hour anyway."

  I waited for Chantal to react, but she continued to stand there. "I forgot to tell you something else," she said at length.

  "What?"

  "I went down to the Hall of Records. Bannister didn't own his house. It belongs to VIP Leasing of the Grand Bahamas."

  "Tax havens," I said. "God knows who that is. Maybe it's even Bannister himself, recycling a little of his celebrity cash."

  At five minutes before three we were sitting in Chantal's rented car at an intersection a half block away from Nathanson's house. A maroon Peugeot was parked out front, probably a patient's; the green van was parked in the back. We didn't say anything, watching the digital seconds tick off on the dashboard clock. At approximately two minutes to the hour, a woman with dirty blond hair emerged, got into the Peugeot, and drove off. Almost on cue, a blue Volvo wagon drove up and a woman of about sixty got out and entered the house. Chantal wrote her description and license plate number on a note pad. I shifted in my scat. I was feeling uncomfortable, as if I were doing something that wasn't quite right, like spying on a parent.

  Nothing happened for the next twenty minutes. I turned to Chantal.

  "This is surveillance," I said. "You can't read and you can't sleep and it can go on for days like this. Pretty glamorous, huh?"

  "I find it interesting."

  "Really? Tell me in about a year."

  I took advantage of her presence, closed my eyes, and pushed the seat back. In a few minutes I had gone off to sleep. I didn't notice a thing until I felt Chantal elbowing me in the ribs. It was eight minutes to four and the older woman was exiting from Nathanson's and crossing to her Volvo. She was a stout woman and her face betrayed no emotion. Over the course of months I had experienced a variety of reactions and I wondered how she felt, coming out of her sessions. Was she angry, depressed, elated? Did she think it was worth the money? Or was she so rich it didn't matter?

  I didn't have much time to cogitate on this because barely had the Volvo driven off when a side door to Nathanson's house I had never noticed swung open and a beefy black-haired man in a white surgical coat emerged, walking slowly backward. He was balancing Nathanson himself on his wheelchair, easing him down a ramp onto the blacktop driveway. He turned the psychiatrist around, pushed him toward the van, and stopped, opening the doors and lifting him onto the front passenger seat. Then the orderly shut the passenger door, got into the driver's seat, and headed off. I slumped low like a disobedient child as he drove past within five feet of our car.

  I waited for them to make a left at the intersection, then made a U-turn and followed. What was I doing? I wondered. Was this idle curiosity? So what if he canceled a session? That wasn't so extraordinary. What did I expect? That he would get on the freeway and head downtown for another hotel tryst with Emily Ptak? And how could this relate to the epidemic of murder and/or suicide that had struck Malibu and points east the last few weeks? Probably he was just going to the store, off to park in one of those handicapped zones that were always infuriatingly empty in the busiest of shopping center lots. Whatever it was, it was probably a de
lay of game in the ever-urgent eyes of the likes of Nick Steinway anyway.

  I followed him up Entrada to Ocean Avenue, where he continued along the Santa Monica Palisade, its Old World graciousness teetering precariously on the imminent threat of a Pacific slide. He turned on Colorado, then again on Fourth, making a left onto the Santa Monica Freeway and heading downtown. Maybe he was going to the Bonaventure. I stayed two cars behind as the van sped under the San Diego Freeway, passing the off ramps at Overland, Robertson, La Cienega, and La Brea. Just as the Bonaventure was visible in the distance, its silver—mirrored tubes looming like designer missile silos against the darkening sky, he veered off at the Crenshaw ramp, heading north toward the hills.

  We crossed Pico and the signs started changing from English to Asian, the shopping centers from flat-roofed Middle American to blue-tiled, ersatz Oriental with funny little pagodas sprouting from traditional California stucco. We were in Koreatown, the fastest-growing neighborhood in Los Angeles, so fast-growing, in fact, that it seemed to double in size every few weeks; but not in the charming ragtag manner of the Chinese or the aesthetic Zen-orderliness of the Japanese, but in the simple land-devouring eagerness of typical American materialism. In more ways than one, the Koreans were our Seoul brothers.

  Nathanson pulled to one of the larger shopping centers and parked, in the handicapped zone, in front of a huge garishly painted restaurant called the New Inchon. I stopped across the street and waited as his bearlike, driver emerged, withdrew the wheelchair, opened it, and carefully deposited the psychiatrist on the seat. Then, after making sure Nathanson's feet were properly situated in the loop of the footplate and releasing the wheel lock, he guided the doctor up a ramp and through the carved wooden door of the restaurant.

  "Okay. I admit it," said Chantal. "We're wasting our time. He's just gone out for dinner."

  "Possibly. But let's see."

  I nodded to her and she followed me out of the car. We crossed the lot to the restaurant and I opened the door slowly, making certain we didn't run straight into Nathanson on the other side.

  I was confronted by a wall-size map of a mythically unified Korea beneath a portrait of the South's present leader, General Chun Doo Hwan. I stepped in, motioning for Chantal. We stood in the entry room, looking past a bronze Buddha into the restaurant itself. It was well lit and noisy, divided into a series of rooms for sushi, tempura, and Korean-style barbecue called bul-go-kee that was cooked at tables on individual grills. I searched through the crowd, which was almost entirely Korean, well-dressed bourgeois types who, except for their Mongoloid faces, could have been from the Valley or the Marina. Some of the men even wore the requisite open-throated shirts with gold chains. Their women were similarly clad in expensive fashions, ready for a night out in a determinedly upwardly mobile society. The food smelled good and I had half a mind to sit and sample some myself when I noticed Nathanson, two rooms off, being pushed through a doorway that, it seemed, led out the back of the restaurant. A tall, lean Korean in a leisure suit was showing the way for the driver.