"And here is the legend," Meyer said, "growing to full flower. Unbeknownst to the cinematic genius, Peter Kesner, his creature-Dirty Bob-had corrupted Mercer and the stunt lady. And the stunt lady had recruited Jean Norman. They used a portable set after hours, when Kesner and Josie and Tyler were not on location, made the tapes, and peddled them through Linda's contacts. And the word is out that the distribution of the porno tapes, under the X-Lips label, had Grizzel killed in order to save them a lot of time and trouble and possible legal action. Grizzel, with monumental idiocy, did not hide his face when he performed on those tapes. He enjoyed being on camera. Miss Norman is also identifiable, I understand. Miss Harrigan wore a silver mask. And the amateur talents they recruited in Rosedale Station are of course identifiable. So the chain of evidence is clear enough. By the way, having a recognizable Dirty Bob play the heavy made the tapes more valuable and more salable. The prosecution has picked up over a dozen of the tapes made there in Rosedale Station. The distributor, in a single public statement made before the lawyers muzzled him, claimed the tapes were acquired from an intermediary, a third party, who had represented them as being simulated rapes, which is apparently very big with what they call the hard-core audience. A very dirty business indeed. The victims contributed to their own disasters by being hungry for the glamorous life, an appetite that made them vulnerable. And then, like victims the world over, they helped rope new victims because that made them feel their own humiliation was diluted thereby."
Annie said, "My God, Meyer, where do you get all this stuff?"
"He buys those strange newspapers they sell at checkout counters," I told her.
"Only to recheck my grasp on reality," he said. "Reality tells me that Desmin Grizzel is alive and well."
Ron frowned. "But wouldn't they have a reason to have him killed?"
"What for?" Meyer asked. "They act as corporate entities. Incoming cash is distributed. If problems arise, collapse the corporation and move to the next floor and start a new one. It is a lot cheaper and safer and easier than arranging a murder. Pornography is all mob-connected, of course. If somebody consistently pirated the product, I suppose they would arrange a little demonstration of how unhealthy that sort of thing is. But Grizzel is a celebrity. Somewhere in the world tonight those two early motion pictures are playing, probably in three or four countries, with the Japanese or Italian or Arabic or Portuguese dubbed in. A known face is a very risky kill, as those who did away with Jimmy Hoffa would agree. From everything I have read about Desmin Grizzel, I think he is a survivor. Some children found that downed balloon in the woods, three days later, miles south of Interstate Eighty."
Ron frowned and said, "Back to topic one, Travis. Did Grizzel kill my father?"
"My gut feeling is that he did. Alone or with Curley Hanner. No strong evidence. Just little bits and pieces. Kesner aimed them at Ellis Esterland. Maybe indirectly. Maybe he just said that things would be fine if only Esterland died before Romola. We'll never know what hook they used to get Esterland up to Citrus City alone. Probably to buy something from someone for the pain. He didn't want to admit to Annie here that it was getting too bad to endure any longer. Once the murder was done, Grizzel owned a slightly larger share of Kesner. And so did Hanner. All I got out of Kesner was that hint about how maybe Grizzel had gotten rid of him. Or maybe it was the sea gulls."
"So," said Ron, "can we assume that Dirty Bob, the California biker, has disappeared back into the roaring stream of camaraderie, the helmeted knights of the road, protectors of their own?"
"Not very damn likely," I said. "He hasn't got a face you'd call forgettable. That moon face with the corona fringe of beard and the big high cheekbones and the little Mongolian eyes. He became the role model for too many imitation hard-case types." Meyer said, "Let's consider the problem from his point of view. It might be constructive. Travis, he told you he had a beach house, motorcycles, a convertible Mercedes, a portfolio of bonds, and an attorney working on a pardon for an earlier felony. Suddenly he is on the run, and his toys are gone. But is the offense serious enough, from his point of view, to keep him on the run? Can't he hide behind Kesner and say he was following orders? Travis, after your confrontation, or whatever you want to call it, with Kesner at the Lodge, wouldn't he have had time to talk to Grizzel the next morning?"
"Of course."
"And if Grizzel had been exploiting his relationship to Kesner, using it in every way he could think of to benefit himself, and if Kesner wanted to pry him loose a little, what would he say?"
I thought it over. "I think he'd tell Grizzel that the killing of Esterland hadn't been so clean after all. That I was looking into it, and that I was curious about how Hanner had died."
And then," Meyer said, "he was on the scene when you disposed of Kesner. His meal ticket. His hero. The man who made him a celebrity."
"But I didn't!"
"How would he know that? You dropped, the woman dropped, and Kesner went up into the power lines. And then you waved at him."
"Look. There's just a vague suspicion that he killed Esterland."
"How does he know how vague it is? How does he know he didn't make some kind of terrible mistake, that somebody wasn't watching?"
"Somebody was watching," Annie said. "Curley Hanner."
In the silence I began exercising the knee again.
They all watched in mild autohypnosis. "He'd change his appearance," Ron suggested.
"Heavy eyebrows?" Meyer asked.
"Very. Big and black and bushy, speckled with gray. Why?"
"If he shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, the eyes might still look familiar to people. Mirrored sunglasses could cure that. And if he changed his mode of dress completely-"
"Hide forever?" Annie asked.
"Possibly. Or maybe long enough to take care of the problem of the Norman girl. And then find you, Travis, and see what you know or don't know. Or maybe not even bother to ask."
"Oh, fine! And just how would he find me?"
"Through Lysa Dean, of course."
I stopped flexing the knee. Annie looked out at the dark night and hunched her shoulders slightly. Ron frowned at the floor.
Meyer said with hearty cheer, "We're just playing games. The ancient and honorable game of what-if."
Long after they had gone, Annie Renzetti made me turn on the light and try once again to reach Lysa Dean on the bedside phone. She nestled close to me and we both listened to the sound of ringing. I let it ring fifteen times and then hung up.
"But it doesn't make any sense," Annie said. "Those people have answering services. They have to."
"Maybe not on the private, private line. When friends call long distance, if there is no answer, she's out. It saves toll charges."
"Do you believe that?"
I reached and turned the light out. "Certainly."
"If you really did, you wouldn't sound so overconfident. Was Meyer trying to scare us?"
"He likes to make guesses about people. He's pretty good at it, but he'd be the first to tell you he strikes out a lot."
"You've known Lysa Dean a long time?"
"I helped her out of a jam a long time ago."
"Did you sleep with her when you went out there in April? That's not a jealous question, really. I don't have any claims on you. You're free to do whatever you want. You know that. I just wondered. It's such a dumb question, you don't even have to answer it. I mean, the years go by and she just seems to get lovelier."
"No, I didn't."
"Did you want to?"
"The possibility did occur to me."
"Could you have?"
"I wouldn't even want to guess."
"You know, you don't have to lie. Not with me."
"I know that, Annie love."
"Could you just hold me a little bit tighter?"
"My pleasure."
"I have the feeling something is going wrong in the world, something involving us in some terrible way."
"Nothing bad wil
l happen."
"Why did her phone keep ringing and ringing? You said she has a live-in staff."
"It probably doesn't ring in their quarters. It's her special private line. Go to sleep, Annie."
"I'll try."
"Think about your hotel. Count the silver."
"One, two, three, four, five...
"Silently."
"Oh."
Nineteen
THAT was Sunday night, of course, the twenty-first day of June. On Monday morning Annie showered and dressed early because she had to get back to her hotel chores. She stirred me awake and then went to the galley to fix the waffles and sausage. While doing so, she turned on the tiny Sony machine she had given me: AM, FM, cassette tape, and a fierce sharp little black-and-white screen. She turned the television to Good Morning, America, and in a few moments she came running in to get me. I was just shouldering into a robe and heard only the last part of the news item.
I tried CBS and NBC and, minutes later, got the item in its entirety-or at least the entirety granted it by those blithe morning people who twinkle and sparkle as they speak of horrors beyond belief.
"Mystery surrounds the disappearance from the drug rehabilitation center of Jean Norman, the voluptuous brunette balloonist whose testimony was crucial in the indictment of Desmin Grizzel, a.k.a. Dirty Bob, still at large after the Iowa riot on the location of Free Fall, where porno videotapes were being made while Kesner's lost epic was in production. She had been given the freedom of the grounds and was due to be released in the custody of her parents in another two weeks. When her parents visited her yesterday, she could not be found. Police joined in the search. Another patient saw her at approximately two P.M., talking across a low stone wall to a tall man. A fresh smear of blood on the edge of the stone at that location proved to be of the same type as Miss Norman's. The patient could not identify pictures of Grizzel as being the man she had seen by the wall."
"Meyer is a witch," Annie said. "Call Lysa Dean."
"It's four thirty in the morning out there. Later."
"Okay. Later, but then will you please call me and tell me if you talked to her?"
"I promise."
"Would you like your waffle black or charred? Don't look so abused, Trav. There's more batter. That one was supposed to be mine. I'll start yours when you come out of the shower."
I tried Lysa at three that afternoon, and she answered on the second ring.
"Hi. It's me. McGee."
"You damn thankless bastard! Did you forget I got you that 'in' with Peter Kesner? I didn't know if you got killed and buried, or you sailed off in a balloon, or what. Where the hell are you?"
"Fort Lauderdale."
"Were you in Iowa when it hit the fan?"
"I was indeed. It got a lot of coverage in the press. I didn't think you'd need a play-by-play from me. I'm grateful you thought up the idea that got me through the door."
"You weren't as grateful at the time as I wanted you to be."
"I thought I thanked you very nicely."
"Sure."
"Let me tell you why I called. Have you got a minute?"
"Three, maybe four."
"All right, then. Dirty Bob is still at large. It looks as if he got to that girl who was going to testify against him and took her off somewhere. Without going into details, he has, or thinks he has, some very pressing reasons to find me and beat the top of my head in."
"I'd even help him."
"The only way he can trace me is through you. He saw that letter from you. I think he holed up for a while, and now he is moving again. He might pay you a visit."
"So?"
"He might ask questions in a very ugly way, Lee."
"I am not afraid of that big dreary ass-grabbing motorcycle bum, darling. I have no reason to love you, or even like you, but also I have no reason to hand out information about you, so don't fret. Momma won't let big bad bully come after poor wittle McGee baby."
"Dammit, Lee, think about it. He killed Ellis Esterland, and he killed Curley Hanner, and he has probably killed Jean Norman."
"Oh," she said in a smaller voice.
"I called you because it's my fault you're in the line of fire. I'm sorry. I didn't think far enough ahead." I have lost some very great ladies because I was too slow, too stupid, and too careless. This time I was giving warning. "Can you go away for a while?"
"I'm better off here. I've got the Korean couple and a damned good security alarm system. I'll be careful."
"If he shows up, tell him where to find me. I'd like to see him again."
"You sure of that?"
"It would be a lot easier than losing you."
She started laughing, and when I finally got her to explain what was so funny, she said, "Sweetie, you can't really lose something you've never really had."
"Tell whoever patrols that area to check you out oftener than usual. Tell them you had a nut call."
"This is a nut call. I wouldn't be lying."
"Take me seriously, will you?"
"Honey I've tried that twice already, and it didn't work," and still laughing, she hung up.
I phoned Annie at the Eden Beach immediately and held while they ran her down.
"Yes? Anne Aenzetti speaking."
"Just hung up after a talk with Lysa."
"Wow! I'm always so glad when one of those bad feelings doesn't work out. Will she go away? I could hide her out here-well-until somebody recognized her, which would be in about eleven minutes. Bad idea. It would be fun to get to know her. I feel as if I already do know her."
"She was impressed. She's going to be careful."
"Good. I'm glad."
I locked up and wandered down the dock to Meyer's cruiser. He wasn't aboard. Then I saw him coming, evidently from the beach, trudging along, smiling to himself.
"Back a winner?" I asked.
"Oh, good afternoon! A winner? In a sense, yes. There was a gaggle of lanky young pubescent lassies on the beach, one of the early invasions of summer, all of them from Dayton, Ohio, all of them earnest, sunburnt, and inquisitive. They were huddled around a beached sea slug, decrying its exceptional ugliness, and I took a hand in the discussion, told them its life pattern, defensive equipment, normal habitat, natural enemies, and so on. And I discovered to my great pleasure that this batch was literate! They had read books. Actual books. They had all read Lives of a Cell and are willing to read for the rest of their lives. They'd all been exposed to the same teacher in the public school system there, and he must be a fellow of great conviction. In a nation floundering in functional illiteracy, sinking into the pre-chewed pulp of television, it heartens me to know that here and there are little groups of young-uns who know what an original idea tastes like, who know that the written word is the only possible vehicle for transmitting a complex concept from mind to mind, who constantly flex the muscles in their heads and make them stronger. They will run the world one day, Travis. And they won't have to go about breaking plate glass and skulls and burning automobiles to express themselves, to air their frustrations. Nor will these children be victimized by the blurry nonsense of the so-called social sciences. The muscular mind is a cutting tool, and contemporary education seeks to take the edge off it."
"As you have said before."
John D MacDonald - Travis McGee 19 - Freefall in Crimson Page 21
