Pauline, shocked, sat in silence for several minutes. She ceased to look at the screen. She wondered where Jules was, and it occurred to her that he had gone home and left her there, as he was by nature too restless to enjoy looking at films or plays. She looked over at Philip. He smiled at her in the dark, realizing her discomfort with the unfortunate remark that Casper had just made. Pauline did not want to involve Philip, as she knew that he was working on a film for Casper Stieglitz. Finally, summoning her courage, she rose from her seat in the darkness. As Jules had before her, she blocked the light ray from the projection booth just behind her and cast a shadow on the screen.
“You looking for the toilet, Pauline?” asked Casper.
“Where is my husband?” replied Pauline.
“Talking to Arnie Zwillman in the house,” said Casper.
“How do I get there?”
From the obscurity of the darkened room, Willard, the butler, appeared. “I’ll take you back to the house, Mrs. Mendelson,” he said.
“Don’t you like the picture, Pauline?” asked Casper. He pressed the intercom and spoke in a loud voice to the projectionist. “What other pictures you got in there, Bernie?”
“I happen to be enjoying the picture, Casper,” said Hortense Madden.
Pauline did not answer. Beside her, Philip Quennell rose. “Are you okay, Pauline?” he asked her.
“Fine, Philip, just sit down. I’m fine. I have to find Jules, that’s all,” whispered Pauline.
The butler reached out his hand to her, and she took it. He led her through the dark room to the sliding glass door, which he pulled back. “There’s a step there,” he said to her in a low voice.
Outside Pauline breathed in the fresh night air.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mendelson, for what Mr. Stieglitz said,” said the butler.
“I have never in my life heard such an expression—” said Pauline, and then stopped.
“He gets a little hyper when he uses,” said Willard.
Pauline looked at the butler, not sure if he meant what she thought he meant, but decided not to question him. She had been brought up with servants and understood what her father had always called the boundaries of communication. “Look at these roses,” she said instead. “They need to be clipped. They need to be watered more. This garden is a disgrace.”
“He’s let the place go since his wife moved out,” said Willard.
“He’s let himself go too, I’d say,” said Pauline.
“We’ll go around this way by the pool,” he said. “Careful here, some of the outdoor lights have gone out. One of Mr. Stieglitz’s guests tripped last week.”
“Heavens, I hope I don’t trip,” said Pauline, holding on to Willard’s arm.
“I know your house, Mrs. Mendelson,” said Willard.
“You do?”
“They used to call it the von Stern house before you bought it.”
“Yes, they did call it that, years ago,” said Pauline. “We bought it from Mr. von Stern.”
“What most people don’t know is that von Stern built it for Carole Lupescu, the silent film star. It’s where she committed suicide.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Turned on the gas.”
“Good heavens.”
“In the garage, not the house, in a Dusenberg.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I’m a house freak, a movie star house freak. I know the history of every movie star’s house in this town.”
“Our house bears very little resemblance to the way it was when Mr. von Stern had it, I’m afraid.”
“I know. I heard you did a total gut job on the house and doubled the square footage,” he said.
“You know so much.”
As they approached the terrace of the house, Willard said, very quickly, “Hector Paradiso was a friend of mine.” If Hector Paradiso had been alive, Willard would not have called him a friend, merely an acquaintance; but dead, it was safe to secure the friendship without fear of detection. “I saw you at Hector’s funeral at Good Shepherd.”
“Such a sad thing it was,” said Pauline. They were now on the terrace, and Pauline remembered the way. “Oh, yes, it’s through here, isn’t it, that we came out? I remember it now.”
“Mrs. Mendelson, Hector didn’t commit suicide. You know that, don’t you?”
Pauline looked at Willard. “No, I don’t know that. Suicide was the official finding in the autopsy report,” she said, wondering why she felt obliged to explain that to Casper Stieglitz’s butler, whom she probably would never see again. At the same time, she knew this man had been kind to her and realized he was sincere in what he was saying.
“Please listen,” he said, with an urgency in his voice. “An undesirable called Lonny Edge was the guy who killed Hector. Believe me, Mrs. Mendelson. I only tell you this because I know what good friends you were with Hector.”
Pauline did not know what to say. She had never understood Hector’s death or her husband’s insistence that it was a suicide. Her confusion was interrupted by loud laughter in the night air. Both she and Willard turned around to see where it was coming from. Three people, two young women and a man, all walking in an unsteady fashion, were coming around the side of the house to the pool area.
“And for God’s sake, don’t run your hands through his hair, because he wears a rug which he thinks we don’t notice,” said one of the young girls, and the three collapsed with laughter.
Willard recognized the voices but called out, “Who is that?”
“Hi, Willard. It’s only us, Ina Rae and Darlene and Lonny,” Ina Rae called back.
“Dear God,” said Willard, looking at Pauline. “You’re early, Ina Rae. Mr. Stieglitz is still running a film. Perhaps you should wait in his room until his guests leave. Go around by the kitchen entrance.”
“Got any drinks, Willard?”
“Ask in the kitchen,” he said. Then he turned back to Pauline, who had been staring at the young trio. “Next shift,” he said simply, in explanation.
“Did she say that young man’s name was Lonny?” asked Pauline.
“Yes.”
“Is that the same Lonny you were speaking of just now?”
Willard nodded. He opened the door.
“This is a very active household,” said Pauline. They stepped into the house. “Where do you suppose my husband is?”
“In the den with Mr. Zwillman.”
“Will you show me the way?”
“Through there.”
Pauline looked at Willard as if she wanted to remember his face and then opened the door of Casper Stieglitz’s den without knocking. Inside, seated side by side in earnest conversation, were Jules and Arnie Zwillman. Both men held drinks in their hands, and the room was cloudy with blue cigar smoke. The men broke apart from their conversation, in surprise at the interruption.
Pauline wondered at the intensity of their involvement. It was the way she had seen Jules look when he talked with his friends from the financial world.
“Jules, I want to go home,” said Pauline. She did not move from the door.
Jules looked at his watch. “Is the movie over?” he asked.
“For me it is.”
“Is something the matter, Pauline?”
“I have a perfectly frightful headache, and I must leave immediately, with or without you.”
“Did you meet Mr. Zwill—?”
“Yes, I did. Are you coming, Jules?” She turned and walked out of the room.
“Hey Willard,” called out Ina Rae from Casper’s bedroom, where she and Darlene and Lonny were smoking joints and drinking margaritas until the film was over and Casper’s grand friends left and the orgy could start. “Come in here a minute, will ya?”
Willard was in the kitchen paying off the caterers and complaining bitterly to them that one of Mr. Stieglitz’s black dinner plates had been broken.
“What is it, Ina Rae?” he asked, after he had completed what he was doing with the cater
er. He wanted to make it perfectly clear that he did not drop everything and run when a person of the caliber of Ina Rae called him.
“My friend Lonny here has something he wants you to do,” she said.
Willard looked at Lonny. He had taken off his jacket and jeans and was sitting on Casper’s bed in a black jockstrap and T-shirt, with a joint hanging out of his mouth.
“You look familiar, Willard,” said Lonny.
“I was at Miss Garbo’s on the night you walked out of there with Hector Paradiso,” answered Willard.
“The whole fucking world must have been at Miss Garbo’s that night,” said Lonny. “Poor Hector. Who woulda thought he’d have pumped all that lead into himself?”
For a moment the two men stared at each other. “You wanted something?”
“Yeah. Is Mr. Phil Quennell in the projection room watching the movie?”
“Yes, he is,” said Willard, surprised.
“When he comes out, give him this, will you?” He picked up a large manila envelope. On it was written in a very simple handwriting, Mr. P. Quinel. Personel. Under it was written Zerox copy.
“You writing your memoirs, Lonny?” asked Willard. “You better learn how to spell first.”
“Just give it to him, asshole, and don’t give me any attitude. All right?” said Lonny. He reached over and put his hand on Darlene’s knee and brought it all the way up the inside of her thigh, at the same time looking at Willard.
“Listen, you cheap hustler. Don’t use any of Mr. Stieglitz’s Porthault towels for cum rags. Got it?”
“I know the rules, Willard,” said Ina Rae. “I know where he keeps the cheap towels. When’s this movie going to be over, for God’s sake? We may start without him. This boy’s gettin’ hot here.”
Jules’s Bentley was parked in the courtyard of Casper Stieglitz’s house. He opened the door for Pauline to get in and then went around to the driver’s side and got in himself. Both strapped on their seat belts without speaking. As he backed the car up, he crashed into the side of a small Honda.
“Good God,” said Jules.
He opened the door of his car and looked out. “I should go in and tell the butler I hit that car,” said Jules.
“No, you shouldn’t, Jules,” said Pauline.
“It might be Zwillman’s.”
“Zwillman wouldn’t have a little car like that, believe me. At least you didn’t hit the gold Rolls over there. That’s probably Zwillman’s. You can call tomorrow. It’s just a dent.”
“About a nine-hundred-dollar dent,” said Jules.
“It’s not as if you can’t afford to pay for it. Let’s go. I want to get away from this house,” said Pauline. “I’ve never had a worse time anywhere.”
He drove the car out of the driveway onto the cul-de-sac and made his way toward Mountain Drive, where he went through a stop sign.
“Are you drunk?” asked Pauline.
“I am a bit, yes,” answered Jules.
“You’re driving dangerously.”
“Would you like to drive?”
“Yes, I would.”
Jules pulled the Bentley over to the side of Mountain Drive and put the gearshift into neutral. He unstrapped his seat belt, opened the door of the car, and walked very slowly around to the other side. Pauline unstrapped her seat belt and slid across the leather seat to the driver’s side. Then they both strapped their seat belts again. Pauline put the gearshift into drive and pulled out onto Mountain Drive, heading toward Sunset Boulevard.
“Mr. Zwillman,” Jules said when the car stopped at the stoplight on Sunset Boulevard.
“What about him?”
“I never drink after dinner, ever, as you know, but he made me three drinks,” said Jules.
“You didn’t have to drink them.”
“I know, but I did.”
“Was Mr. Zwillman not the reason we went to that dreadful party in that dreadful house?” asked Pauline.
“Yes.”
“At some time in the future, if someone asks you, the police or the grand jury, for instance, ‘How did you get to know Arnie Zwillman?’ you can now say, ‘I was introduced to him at a party at the home of Casper Stieglitz, the film producer. My wife and I dined there. We saw a film there. Mr. Zwillman was also a guest, along with Marty and Sylvia Lesky, the head of Colossus Pictures, et cetera et cetera.’ Is that it?”
“You’re very perceptive, Pauline. Zwillman knew we wouldn’t go to his house, and nobody else but a cocaine sniffer like Casper Stieglitz, who is himself no longer invited anywhere, would have him to theirs. He’s a leper these days.”
“And yet you bring me there, to the house of a cocaine-sniffing leper, while you meet up with a gangster,” said Pauline. “It will all read wonderfully in Cyril Rathbone’s column. I wonder if he’ll include Ina Rae and Darlene and Lonny.”
“Who?” asked Jules.
“The late shift was arriving as I was leaving.”
“Jesus,” said Jules.
“What did Mr. Zwillman want? Some nonpublic information for his stock portfolio?” asked Pauline.
“It had to do with the statehood of Europe in 1992,” said Jules.
Pauline laughed. “What possible interest could Mr. Arnie Zwillman, who burned down the Vegas Seraglio for the insurance money, have in the statehood of Europe?”
“It is less the statehood of Europe than the role I am going to be playing in it, representing the United States,” said Jules slowly.
“Don’t make me pry this out of you, Jules, step by step. Keep talking until I get your point,” said Pauline. She turned the Bentley off Sunset Boulevard onto Benedict Canyon and drove to Angelo Drive, where she turned left and proceeded up the winding hillside with the hairpin curves, which strangers in the city found too frightening to drive at night. It was a rare occurrence for Pauline to drive Jules, and he, although slightly drunk, was impressed with her ability.
“Mr. Zwillman is apparently involved in drug trafficking, and has at his disposal immense sums of money, immense beyond description, that he assumed I could facilitate his operation with by putting into circulation through the European Common Market,” said Jules. He hiccuped.
“Why would he think you would be amenable to such a thing?”
“He threatened me.”
“With what?”
Jules looked out the window of the Bentley and did not answer.
Pauline looked over at him. “What did you tell him?” she asked.
“To go fuck himself.”
“It didn’t appear to me when I walked into the room that you had just told Mr. Zwillman to go fuck himself,” said Pauline. “That was not the impression I had at all.”
Jules didn’t reply.
“Are you going to report this to the police, or the FBI, or the CIA, or the President, or someone?” asked Pauline.
They looked at each other.
“No,” said Jules quietly.
“Years ago, when we were first married, you told me that something had happened in your past, when you were young.”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” said Jules quickly.
“You don’t trust me, Jules, after twenty-two years of marriage?” asked Pauline.
“I trust you implicitly, Pauline, but I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Then just tell me one thing. Does Arnie Zwillman know about whatever it was that happened that you don’t want to talk to me about?”
Jules stared out the window again.
“How do you know he wasn’t wired?” asked Pauline.
“I don’t,” replied Jules. “I never thought of that.”
They drove in silence for several minutes, as Pauline maneuvered a curve in the road. “Has it occurred to you that our lives, our so-called perfect lives, are unraveling, Jules?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it a matter of any concern to you?”
“Of course it is, Pauline. I don’t want this to happen,” said Jules. “What
can we do?”
“I’m not the one who’s having the affair,” said Pauline. At the same moment she turned the Bentley sharply to the right, pulling up to the closed gates of Clouds. She pushed the button that lowered the window on the driver’s side and reached out and pressed a seven-digit code on the calculator buttons of a computerized lock in the red brick wall adjoining the gates. Slowly, the impressive gates opened.
Jules, watching her, said, “You’re an amazingly efficient woman, Pauline.” Farther up the hill toward the house, the frenzied sound of the watchdogs’ barking could be heard.
She looked at him. “I know,” she said. The car started up the hill, and the gates swung closed behind them. As they pulled into the cobblestone courtyard, the police dogs, barking ferociously, surrounded the car.
Jules opened the car door. “Okay, boys, okay, now down, down, down. Smitty? Are you there, Smitty?”
“Over here, Mr. Mendelson,” said the guard.
“Call the dogs off, will you?” said Jules.
“You boys calm down now, just calm down. I’ll open the door for you, Mrs. Mendelson,” said Smitty. “Hope you folks had a nice evening.”
“Thank you, Smitty. We did indeed,” said Pauline. Pauline’s father had taught his three daughters that no matter what state their lives were in, it was important always to keep up appearances in front of the servants.
“You’ll put the car away, Smitty?” said Jules.
“Sure thing.”
Inside, in the hallway of their house, with the curved staircase and the six Monet paintings, Pauline started up the stairs with her hand on the railing.
Jules, following her into the house, reached out and covered her hand with his. “Perhaps we could have breakfast together in the morning,” he said. The invitation was an unusual one, as Jules was always gone from their home for several hours by the time Pauline rang to have her breakfast tray brought up by Blondell. They had never once used Pauline’s sunrise room for breakfast, as had been the plan when the sunrise and sunset rooms had been added on to the house.
“I had planned to sleep late,” Pauline replied, withdrawing her hand from beneath Jules’s hand on the banister. She continued up the stairs. The third of the six Monet paintings on the stairway wall appeared crooked to her, and she stopped to straighten it.
An Inconvenient Woman Page 23
