Power Slide

by Susan Dunlap

  I laughed. God, it felt good to laugh again. In that spirit, I jumped off the fence on his side. “Casimir Goldfarb.”

  He actually whistled. “Guthrie had Old Oscarless’s Oscar? Damn.”

  “Come on, tell me!”

  “Goldfarb was a director and a prize asshole, though that’s not what he got the award for. He pissed off a kid. Kid slashed his tires and snatched his most prized possession.”

  “And?”

  “Kid vanished. Goldfarb never came near winning again. Thus the epithet ‘Old Oscarless.’”

  “Didn’t he—”

  The door to the bar opened to let in an appalling sight. Two uniformed officers. One was bald.

  “Yikes, cops!”

  “Stay cool.”

  I clutched my glass, my hands just about melting the ice cubes. They aren’t the same guys. There are thousands of cops in Southern California. Probably thousands with shaved heads. Relax. Relax—was there ever a more useless order?

  The hairless cop took a bar stool. The other headed for the john.

  “I’m too visible,” I said. “I should have shaved my head, too. Look at this, it’s—”

  “A red flag?”

  “Right.” The time for chitchat was over. “I have to get out of here. I’ll owe you that fancy dinner.”

  “Hang on. They’ll be leaving.”

  “How do I know they aren’t reconnaissance?”

  “Like ants?” He was laughing.

  Maybe he was right. But the arrival of cops was a bad omen. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Listen, I know you keep secrets ’cause it’s healthy. My mom’s that way; it’s how she survived raising the seven of us. But Guthrie’s dead and you know more than you’re telling me. So spill it.”

  “Or?” He was still grinning.

  “Just cut the crap. If he’s so crazy about his truck, how come he’s living up in the canyon where he can’t drive it? If he’s so straightforward”—shit! I hated to sound like such an utter patsy—“how come he’s coming on to me while he’s got a wife down here he’s living with?”

  “Whoa! A wife?”

  “Well, a woman who says she’s his wife.”

  “News to me.”

  “Opens the door of his house, gun in hand, and says she’s his wife.”

  Blink shook his head. “Doesn’t that gun bit send off a few flares? Sure doesn’t sound like ‘the little woman’ to me.”

  “Okay, then, live-in?”

  “Not as I saw.”

  “Then who the hell is she? She called herself Melissa Guthrie.”

  “Good question.”

  A wave of emotion—relief, guilt, the whole mix—swept through me. I am so sorry, Guthrie! I felt like shit. I wanted to take this new info and run with it. But this time caution prevailed. “Okay. If she wasn’t his wife and wasn’t his girlfriend, just how’d she get into his house? The door wasn’t forced.”

  He glanced at his glass that was, once again, too full to provide an excuse to call the waitress over. “You know Guthrie. He’s a loose guy. Gone a lot. Work’s tight, we all know. So you give someone a hand—”

  “That woman wasn’t bunking in there till she could find work.”

  “Hey, we all take Acting 1A.”

  I had one more question. I could have asked him, but I was sick of Blink’s loop of not-knowing. Besides, I could find out a lot more easily without him.

  I had come up empty on Guthrie’s house. Going back there was not merely tempting fate; it was poking it in the eye. Guthrie’s house was the last place I ought to be. The last place I wanted to be.

  To Blink, I said, “You drive up the road again and let me know if anyone’s watching his house.”

  18

  I PICKED THE darkest spot at the bottom of Guthrie’s canyon and waited for Blink’s call. It would take him a good fifteen minutes to get to the house, which would be all the time I would need to do a little research.

  It was almost midnight, but I wasn’t exhausted, or apprehensive, or anything else. Blink had, after all, insisted on having his promised dinner. We’d talked about the decline in live stunt work, the rise in electronics, the shift in emphasis to acrobatics that left old guys like Blink focusing on car gags and praying that they wouldn’t be digitalized. I’d been lucky, he’d said. It was true, though not flattering. He’d been unlucky. But we all make choices.

  Guthrie’s choice may have been to let friends use his house. An Oscar was stashed there. I hauled out the new everything-phone that my brother Gary had given me (so I could figure it out for him), pulled up Google, and typed in “Casimir Goldfarb + Oscar theft.” The first hits were trade rag stories on the theft that told me no more than Blink had. I tried the name of the movie and scrolled through the cast and crew on three sites before I found one that named personnel down to the gaffers and grips who assisted the lighting techs.

  Omigod!

  One of the grips was Ryan Hammond. Ryan Hammond, Guthrie’s friend from the Union Street bars.

  The Oscar theft was in July, two and a half months before the Loma Prieta earthquake. Now, twenty years later, there’s the statuette in Guthrie’s closet. What did that mean?

  My phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “It’s clear.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want me to help?”

  “Yeah, answer me this about Casimir Goldfarb’s Oscar, was Ryan Hammond the kid who stole it?”

  It was a moment before he said, “That’s the story. But there’s no proof.”

  “Circumstantial evidence?”

  “One day that kid and the statuette are there; next day both are gone. That’s all I can tell you. But listen, you find anything tonight, let me know.” Before I could protest, he clicked off.

  Blink might be trying to figure out how the Oscar got from Ryan Hammond to Guthrie, but he didn’t know about their San Francisco connection. Had they been friends all along? Or not-friends? Whichever, Ryan Hammond was my best bet to find out about Guthrie. But where was Hammond?

  That was one of the things I was hoping Guthrie’s house would tell me. It took me twice as long as I expected just to get up the winding road in the dark. In daylight, finding Guthrie’s place had been easy, but now picking out the house was a whole lot harder. I parked a hundred yards farther down and walked back, eyeing cars that might be there for surveillance. Carefully, silently, I crossed the uneven slab steps, tossed a pebble down against the house, and stood dead still. But there was no sound, no reaction. I had to believe no one was there.

  The police had closed up the house. But, of course, I had the key.

  There is no way to search a house in the dark, on a moonless night, except with a flashlight. You can keep the light low to the ground, shield it with your hand, and turn it on only at strategic moments, but if anyone’s watching, you’re busted.

  I unlocked the door and walked into the living room where Guthrie’s not-wife had greeted me with a pistol nine hours ago. I crossed the tiny hallway where she’d tossed me aside. At the bedroom door, I switched on the flashlight and laid it on the floor, whipped back into the kitchen, and waited. If anyone showed, I’d be out of here in a snap.

  As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I thought again how much this place resembled a college guy’s apartment, with its easy-to-move furniture, makeshift coffee table, and the predictable candles on the mantel.

  After five minutes, I began to worry more about the batteries running out than being discovered. I’d known so little about Guthrie, I’d automatically made up the rest. Whatever I’d assumed was like a dream, and with the same staying power. Leo kept reminding me I was looking through my own eyes, but this was way worse. It wasn’t that I’d so much believed he lived in his truck as that I’d never really thought about him living elsewhere, certainly not a place like this. Had he actually lived here with the hostile Melissa? Surely, Blink would have known. Surely, Blink would not have told me, either. I wanted to trust Guthrie the way I had the d
ay before he died when he was so tormented, when I was ready to overlook anything. But now, he was making it damned hard.

  Now, something didn’t feel right about this place. Something niggled—what was it?

  It suddenly occurred to me what was missing. There were no newspapers, magazines, mail, glasses, plates, napkins, tissues—not a scrap of the detritus of people living here.

  Outside, a car engine strained coming up the hill.

  No time to stand around and ponder. I headed back to the bedroom. The sweaters were in a heap, the underwear scattered over the floor, and the laptop gone. I lifted the bedspread.

  It wasn’t a bed at all. I yanked the spread off and stared at the cardboard boxes underneath. Big boxes that held brown paper, bubble wrap, tape. I picked up one and tore it open. It held two framed pictures, wrapped professionally. I pulled out one and stared, dumbstruck, at a poster from the original Stagecoach—not the remake—the one with John Wayne, Claire Trevor, and Yakima Canutt doing his famous gag. For an instant I imagined standing in the back of a dark theater in 1939, watching him work his way back between the pounding hooves and under the stagecoach.

  I checked the back, but any key to the provenance was covered beneath the frame backing. I pulled the wrapping off the other: The Grapes of Wrath. There was Henry Fonda under the orange title, above the credits. The colors weren’t even faded. The corners were worn, but otherwise it was perfect—no rips. It barely looked handled.

  I cut open the boxes that had been the bed and unwrapped masks—elaborate painted numbers with curved feathers two feet long. Obviously costume artifacts. Likewise a red damask robe. None of it was priceless, but none would sell for less than three figures, and none, I was willing to bet, was here legally.

  I couldn’t believe Guthrie was a thief. A smuggler? A fence?

  I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the truth was I didn’t know what to believe any more. Guthrie’d been so distraught, then so relieved after he’d talked to Leo. If I could call Leo—But Leo was off at the monastery, far out of phone range.

  If I could find Ryan Hammond, I was guessing there’d be plenty he could tell me—about this house, the Oscar, and what Guthrie had been up to. I shone the light around, but there were no papers at all here—no sheets, business cards, receipts, nothing that could give me even a hint where he was. Whoever had been here last hadn’t missed a scrap.

  But what about that ranch Guthrie’d talked about, the one where he’d tried to deal with whatever it was he’d done?

  A ranch in a hole in the desert, he’d said.

  Hole in the desert. Blink had used that very phrase. About Zahra Raintree’s place. He’d seen Guthrie there.

  I’d heard about Zahra Raintree’s secret stunt ranch ever since I started in the business. The place was almost myth, located in the high desert somewhere around the old oasis of 29 Palms where Hollywood stars of the talkies went to get soaked or dry out. Or both, maybe. When Guthrie and I had been on location out there, I’d heard tales of Zahra Raintree’s secret place, Rancho Desperado. But no one knew quite where it was, and when pressed, no one really knew anyone who’d been there. As if it were a mirage.

  Guthrie’d had a Jeep that week and we were sure we’d find Zahra’s no matter how well concealed or how forbidding the terrain. We were, after all, stunt drivers. But things heated up on the set, and when my bit was done, I had a message from my agent to hightail it back to Burbank for a gag on a TV show that was sure to turn into steady work, but didn’t.

  Guthrie, though, had no need to rush away. I’d left him as I always did, with a kiss and the certainty that there’d be a next time even if I didn’t know when. Almost a year had passed before I saw him again. If I’d thought about Rancho Desperado at all, I might have assumed he’d tell me if he’d unearthed it. I didn’t think to ask. And now it struck me that he might have found the place and, like the rest before him, kept it to himself.

  I didn’t expect Zahra Raintree to answer all my questions—not by a long shot. If Guthrie’d been out there trying to get his head straight, she might not know a lot, but she was the best hope I had.

  I climbed back up the cement steps to the road. The gun in my fanny pack slapped my back. A gun that could have been involved in theft or who knew what. I’d skated too close to the edge to have it found on me. Time to wipe it down and get rid of it. If I left it under the clutter in the garage it could be there for years unnoted.

  I pulled open the garage door and looked . . . looked at the empty space. The car was gone. The green Mustang like Steve McQueen’s in Bullitt.

  Like? I remembered one of the cops, this afternoon, carrying on about how well preserved it was, scrapes and dents and all.

  One way to tell. I called my brother, John. Luck was with me—the call went to voicemail and I asked him to see if he could come up with the vehicle identification number for the Bullitt car and check it against the VIN I remembered.

  The car hadn’t been heard of in years. I couldn’t begin to guess what it would bring from a collector. Maybe the memorabilia trade here was a lot pricier than a couple posters.

  I checked the garage door again. If there had been crime scene tape, it had been ripped off.

  There might be other possibilities, but one thing I knew was that “Blink Jones” and “playing loose with the law” went together. I hadn’t mentioned the Mustang to him. But there’s a time and place for everything. This was the wrong place to be hanging around making phone calls; the hour was way too late. I punched in his number anyway.

  19

  “BLINK?” I SAID to his machine. “Blink? Pick up. I’m not calling from jail. Hey, I just want to ask you a question.” Still no response. I peered out at the steep, narrow street, thinking about Guthrie’s tale of Blink burning rubber on this residential street. Odd, for a guy who valued keeping a low profile. Why take the chance? Why here? But he’d recognized Guthrie’s address right off. Odd, too. You know where acquaintances live, but how often do you remember the house number?

  Just what was going on here? Was Blink involved with the memorabilia stash in Guthrie’s house? Was the stuff hot? And the Mustang, was it hot, and more to the point, where was it?

  Calling him now was not the safest move, but it was nothing to my next plan. “Hey, Blink, how long’s the message memory on your phone? I’m ready to use it all.”

  That got him. “What?”

  “I need to ask a question. I don’t expect you’ll know the answer, but—”

  That smallest of grunts I heard now wouldn’t mean anything to someone who hadn’t just spent a couple of hours with the man. I recognized offense taken.

  “Rancho Desperado. How can I get there?”

  “You can’t.” Big surprise!

  “Because?”

  “Well, obviously, because you don’t know where it is.”

  “And you do?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “So you don’t know, right?”

  No reply. Silence with Blink was a bad sign. “That’s okay. From everything I’ve heard, Zahra Raintree’s very picky about who she lets in. Guthrie went there in—”

  “Guthrie?”

  “Yeah.” I was fishing and he knew it.

  Another grunt was all I heard.

  “Yeah, well, I get that no one goes around talking about it, but I’ll bet she hasn’t heard about Guthrie. I’ll bet, too, she’s the kind of woman who’ll be pissed if she sits out there ignorant.” I was holding my breath. Maybe Zahra never got angry; maybe I’d trotted too far out on this frail little limb. He stayed mum and this time I didn’t break in. If he didn’t bite now . . .

  “She’s probably already heard,” I said, as if backtracking.

  “Maybe so.”

  Enough of this! “Listen, I’m headed out there. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Come to my house and let’s talk.”
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  If it seemed like I’d landed my fish, I actually wasn’t fooling myself. I knew he figured his best bet was keeping an eye on me.

  Barcum Lane was dark, too rustic for street lights. The wind fingered my hair and iced my neck and back, reminding me anew that even in August, it’s cold near the coast. I grew up a couple of blocks from the Pacific; how could I have forgotten even for a moment? Despite the attempts to landscape it otherwise, Southern California is desert; after sunset the heat evaporates fast. I got out and double-checked Blink’s address. If he’d had me come to a trailer park I wouldn’t have been surprised, but this hacienda was on a full lot with old trees. There was no outside light on, but even so I could tell the house was in good shape. I was halfway to the door when he appeared, shutting it behind him.

  “Shhh. We’ll take my truck.”

  “It’s 3:00 A.M.”

  “We’ll get there with the sun.”

  “Let me use your bathroom first.”

  “I need to get gas and pick up coffee. You can—”

  “I’ve done this before. I can be quick.”

  “Do it at the gas station.”

  I patted his arm. “Is there a reason you’re keeping me out of the house?”

  “Damn right. Like you already admitted knowing, it’s three o’clock in the morning. My wife has to get up at six to get to work.”

  Your wife! Knock me over! Wife, and a house on a tree-lined street! He’d sure landed on his feet! “Gas station’s fine. But one request.”

  “What’s that?” He opened the door of a tan pickup.

  “The coffee. Is there some better place to get it?”