by Al Roker
Dover actually laughed in spite of himself at the fashion felines.
Philly Slide leapt to his feet during the ensuing commercials. Something about him seemed off. He was sweating profusely and mumbling.
At Utach’s introduction, he rushed from the room and, what seemed like seconds later, appeared on the big screen, standing in front of brief clips or stills from the movies and TV shows he was mentioning. He began with some amusing riffs on actors such as Clooney and Matt Damon, in their just-released Ocean’s Fourteen, but he seemed a bit nervous.
The nervousness increased, and he eventually broke down in the middle of his review of the new Tarantino movie, a contemporary thriller based on The Golden Stallion, a Roy Rogers Western from the 1940s.
Gibby rushed onstage to rescue his old friend, pretending Slide’s weeping and pleas for help were somehow part of the routine. Regardless of what I thought of our host, it was a courageous act, and he pulled it off, more or less, allowing Philly to regain enough control to take a bow.
Live TV.
During the commercial break, Dover and I took our places at the conversation nook. While the sound guys miked us, it was impossible not to hear Slide asking Gibby to forgive him.
“I shoulda told ya, Gib. I been in rehab at Stepping Stones for the last six weeks. I thought I was straight. But the pressure …”
Gibby hugged him. “Just get well, boychik,” he said.
I suddenly realized he wasn’t quite the ego-involved weasel he’d seemed to be. I’d been wrong about him. I wondered if I’d been wrong about Roger, too.
Chapter
THIRTY-FIVE
The first edition of the Blessing Report seemed to pass even quicker than its actual thirteen and a half minutes. I began by eliciting the doctor’s opinion on the sort of sociopath who’d plot a complicated assassination like the one that took Des’s life. His response was more or less as it had been during our pre-show discussion.
“From the little I know of the man they arrested,” he added, “he would seem to fit that profile.”
“So far, he’s just a suspect,” I said. “I know you’ve worked closely with the police on numerous occasions, Dr. Dover. Any suggestions for them?”
“This is a very unusual act of homicide,” he said. “Not merely premeditated but elaborately so. I imagine the detectives should be wondering why the killer wanted the crime to be telecast. And why did he use an explosive when there are so many other weapons available today?”
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“The venue indicates a certain flamboyance. It’s the act of a show-off or a showman. The explosive adds to the display. It’s Hollywood’s influence. Thanks to computer graphics, unless a contemporary action film destroys a city, nobody takes it seriously. I think this killer wanted his victim to go out with a bang, literally. A shooting or a poisoning wouldn’t have been dramatic enough. And a shooting would have made it particularly hard for the killer to get away clean.”
“Right,” I said. “By using an explosive device and a timer, he might have been in Pasadena when the murder took place.”
“Have the police identified the device?” the doctor asked.
“As far as I know, not yet,” I said. “I’m just assuming there was a timer.”
“Well, if true, might I suggest detectives look into their suspect’s television setup at home or in his restaurants. With a plan this complex, I’d be surprised if the killer wouldn’t have wanted to see it play out. That means he’s probably got a satellite receiver that picks up shows as they’re being telecast to the East Coast.”
“Clever,” I said.
“It’s what I do.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Lolita standing beside camera two, grabbing air with one hand, a sign that it was time to wrap up the interview.
I thanked the doctor, held up The Barbarous Coast, and urged viewers to pick up a copy at their neighborhood bookstore. I ended by mentioning the Desmond O’Day memorial section of the network’s website, where tonight’s Blessing Report would be available for viewing.
Since the very gray Quentin Utach was handling the announcing chores, I was free to go. So I accompanied Dover to the parking lot. At his Lamborghini, we shook hands. He invited me to have dinner at his home on Sunday, noting that his significant other, Raven, was a third-generation luthier who made Celtic harps and loved playing for guests.
As appealing as was the aspect of Sunday dinner and a harp recital at Chez Dover, I regrettably declined, claiming a previous engagement. If things went as I planned, that wouldn’t be a lie. With visions of Vida and me spending a languorous weekend, probably my last, at the Villa Delfina, I headed off in search of the biggest, baddest fast-food emporium I could find.
“Fatburger. The Last Great Hamburger Stand,” the sign read.
To a man who hadn’t eaten since ten that morning, the bright yellow-and-red banner was like the North Star to a lost sailor.
I surveyed the menu printed over the counter and made a modest selection: a Triple King and, to wash it down, a Maui-Banana shake. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a full, contented belly.
My driver in New York, Joe Yeung, won’t let me eat in my own car. He claims the crumbs attract vermin, and he’s probably right. But I was on the final frontier. I planned to kick it, SoCal style. Top down, loud music, zooming down the Pacific Coast Highway under a starry sky with a burger in my face.
Alas, the Fatburger Triple King was the sandwich equivalent of Trump Towers, literally as high as the shake. Nor was it what you’d call self-contained. There was no way to eat it, keep an eye on the road, and avoid dropping bits and pieces of the burger, bathed in special savory sauce, on my lap.
Courting minor back strain, I carried my supper to a table.
I was the only customer dining in. Showing remarkable restraint, I got out my cellphone, reactivated it, and checked the calls.
Savoring the first bite of the night, I saw that there were three messages. The earliest was from Cassandra, requesting a callback. The machine had logged it at a few minutes after nine, Pacific Coast Time. After midnight in New York. It was then close to one-thirty there. Since she hadn’t demanded a return call, I figured it could wait until the morning.
I gnawed the Triple King down to Double King size.
The second message was from Fitz, left at nine-thirteen.
“Uh … me, Billy. I’m an eejit, phonin’ you while the show’s on. Call me soon’s ya free.” He reminded me of his cellphone number.
Holding the monster burger in my left hand, I awkwardly thumb-dialed the musician. After a half-dozen rings, my call was directed to voice mail. I wondered if Fitz had decided to fly out that night. Maybe he was in the air.
I did a little more damage to the Fatburger, which was now seeping through the once-neat napkin panty.
Message three was left at a few minutes after ten by the demon writer Harry Paynter. “What the hell you doing with that hack Dover, bro? That guy couldn’t write his way out of a … out of a … I don’t know, into a whorehouse with a hundred-dollar bill taped to his dick.”
My classy collaborator seemed to be speeding on more than just anger.
“It’s not me gives a shit,” he continued, motormouthing. “I didn’t even see the goddamned Blessing and Dover Show. I’m too busy under the gun, working on the outline. Fuckin’ Sandy calls me and wants to know what’s going down. Sandy Selman, bro! The guy providing the moolah. He thinks you’ve sold us out to Benjamin ‘I’m a fuckin’ New York Times bestseller’ Dover. Sandy wants to know what’s what, bro. He wants a face-to-face. Call me tonight. I’ll be up till two at least, working on this fucking thing. Benjamin Dover? I can’t fucking believe it.”
Wow, I thought, people take their writing seriously out here. No wonder the publishing houses on the East Coast think Southern Californians don’t read books. They’re too busy writing them.
I could have phoned Harry back, but why? Better to w
ait until tomorrow, when he might even be sober. In any case, I wanted to finish the Fatburger while it was still deliciously warm.
That accomplished, I ordered a side of onion rings. I carried them and what was left of my shake to the Lexus, lowered the top, and settled on a jazz FM station broadcasting from Manhattan Beach. Nibbling, drinking, with the clear, starry night sky high above and the late great Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers playing their soundtrack song from Les Liaisons Dangereuses loud enough to be heard above the wind, I roared down the nearly empty Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu, satisfied and at peace with the world.
A self-delusion, soon to be corrected.
Chapter
THIRTY-SIX
“ ‘Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
“ ‘From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.’ ”
The a cappella voice was as clear and pure as a mountain brook, and it might have brought tears to my eyes, if I’d been awake.
“ ‘ ’Tis I’ll be there in sunshine or in shadow,
“ ‘Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so!’ ”
The problem was: I was awake, and the singing continued.
There was enough moonlight for me to see Fitz sitting on a chair in the corner of the bedroom, cradling a bottle of whiskey in his arms like a wee one, faith ’n’ begorrah, and singing like a doomed angel.
The guy was like a male Susan Boyle, an incredible voice coming from an unexpected source. I waited for him to finish the song before saying, “That was beautiful, Fitz. Not sure about the time or the place, though.”
“I’m sorry, boyo. I didn’t think I could wait for you ta rise on yer own.”
“It was a kinder wake-up than water in my face,” I said, reaching for the light switch.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “The darkness suits my mood.”
I maneuvered my watch into a patch of moonlight. Nearly three a.m. “So, ah, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I … got something to tell ya. But first I want you to tell me somethin’.”
“Name it.”
“Who’s causin’ the trouble, Billy?”
“Al-Qaeda, last I heard.”
“I’m tryin’ to have a serious con … versation, damn it.” He punctuated that with a swing from the bottle. “Tell me who’s my enemy.”
“Could you be a little more specific?” I threw the covers off and rolled out of the bed, toe-searching the rug for my slippers.
“What went on after I walked out on the show? Who was it left the table after me? Gibby? Max?”
I thought back. It was twelve hours ago. “I don’t remember seeing anybody leave but you,” I said.
“Bullshite! Somebody had to make the call. Pass the word I was headin’ for home.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I was runnin’ free till then. Now I got a shadow.”
“C’mon, Fitz. You’re letting your imagination—”
“The hell you say! He’s been ridin’ my arse since I packed up and left the lot. Got himself a gray Mercedes sedan, he does.”
“Fitz, there are more gray Mercedes sedans in L.A. than there are in Stuttgart.”
“But how many of ’em are driven by a man with a milk-eye?”
The moonlight painted his bearded face a bluish white. He took another pull on the bottle.
“ ‘A milk-eye,’ ” I repeated. Next he was going to start talking about the Thirty-nine Steps. “You might want to ease up a little on that sauce.”
“Don’t fuckin’ talk down to me, ya bastard!” He leaned forward, glaring at me. “Now I’m startin’ to wonder if it coulda been you ratted me? That’d be a real kick in th’ bollocks.”
“Why would I have done that, Fitz?”
“Because of yer … Naw. Of course ya wouldn’t have.” He slumped back. “Forget I let the words pass my lips. You’re a good man.” Another slug of whiskey.
“ ‘Oh, Danny boy …’ Des hated th’ feckin’ song. Don’t know why.”
“I gather Des hated a lot of things.”
“What might ya’ be referrin’ to?”
“The transvestite he nearly killed.”
“Ah. And where’d you hear about that? From that fat bastard Max or his milksop Trey, I suppose. Well, yeah, that was a terrible thing Des did. Brutal. And he paid the price, didn’t he?”
“You’re saying that and the bombing were connected?”
“On’y in the vast scheme o’ things. You believe in the Good Book, Billy?”
I assumed he wasn’t referencing one of Benjamin Dover’s novels. “I believe in a lot of the things in it.”
“An eye for an eye?”
“I’m more in the turn-the-other-cheek camp.”
“Eye for an eye,” he said again, and suddenly lurched to his feet. The whiskey bottle hit the carpet with a dull clunk. He didn’t seem to notice. “Gotta get movin’. Places to see, people to do.”
He staggered to the door.
“Hold on, Fitz,” I said. “You said you had something to tell me.”
He seemed puzzled.
“Was it about Des’s murder?”
He winked and tapped the side of his nose. “That’s it. The razzers got it all arse-back’ards.”
“Explain.”
“There are things we do in the name o’ love an’ country.… Des was a pretty serious boyo when we was younger. Believed in the good fight. Damn the Brits!”
He smiled at some vague memory. But the smile didn’t last.
“The thing is, mistakes are made. Terrible mistakes because of things you put in play. Take the night Des nearly did for the he-she … Bet you never imagined it was you put the guilt on Des that made him fall back on his booze and pills.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Nothin’ you meant to do, I’m sure. But I knew soon’s you said it, we were gonna be in for a rough night. The bullshite in the Oirish bar did nothin’ to aid the situation … and then Des took all his fear and frustration out on that poor poof.”
“What was it I said?”
Fitz shook his big head. He staggered toward the door again.
“Don’t just walk away.”
“I gotta get movin’, Billy. It was a risk I took comin’ out here. I don’t think Milk-Eye got wind of it, but ya never know. And there’s somethin’ more I got to do.”
“Where are you going?”
“You’re better off not knowin’. You’re safe now, Billy. Be happy. Stay well.”
He headed out.
I hopped from the bed and ran after him. “Just talk to me in plain English,” I shouted.
He replied with a drunken chuckle. “Ah, the plain English,” he said. “Fuck ’em. An’ fuck this nightmare town. I’ll be on the next flight out. Be gone all th’ way to … Slán abhaile. Safe home.”
“Safe? You won’t even make it to the airport in your condition,” I said. “Get some rest. There’s an extra bed here, or you can sleep in the villa. There’ll be flights later in the day.”
“Like Des would say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Billy. Slán.”
And he was gone.
Chapter
THIRTY-SEVEN
If there was a way of returning immediately to sleep after being awakened and brain-teased by a drunken, paranoid Irishman, I was not able to find it. I lay abed for the next hour or so, trying to puzzle through his ravings. I got it that he believed Des was the intended victim on the night of the bombing and that it had been payback for something the comedian had done in the past—an eye for an eye. What I didn’t know was if Fitz had had any legitimate reason for his belief. Or if his comment about me saying something that sent Des on a guilt trip had any basis in reality. If so, what the heck had I said?
Somewhere around five or six I must have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes again, the room was filled with sunlight and Fitz’s odd visit seemed less important and more lunatic. And yet …
&nbs
p; I showered, shaved, and dressed. I fixed coffee and drank a cup while I put together an egg-bacon-toast breakfast and ate it. I washed the dishes. I did all those things mainly by rote. My mind was primarily occupied in trying to recall every word I’d spoken to Des before he and Fitz took off that first night. I remembered them playing the videogame with Gibby. Des had seemed more interested in the game than in anything I was saying.
Finally, I gave up. I poured another cup of coffee and took it and my cellular out to the villa’s patio.
I paused briefly to enjoy the sun, the cloudless sky, the mild surf. Then I phoned Cassandra.
“Oh, hello, Billy.” Her voice was full of faux gentility. “How lovely of you to return my call AT THE BUSIEST TIME OF THE DAY!”
I checked my watch. Nine-forty-two. Twelve-forty-two in Manhattan. I heard lots of noisy luncheon chatter in the background.
“Busy is good,” I said. “You called last night?”
She lowered her voice and said, “I have to replace Margaret.”
“Why?” I asked. Margaret Leifer was a seemingly pleasant and efficient middle-aged lady who’d been our cashier for about five years.
“Call you right back.”
The phone went dead.
I placed the cellular on the glass-top table, leaned back, and closed my eyes. I did not open them until the phone made its music. I picked it up and said, “So what’s the problem with Margaret?”
There was a momentary silence, then a very crisp, very British, very feminine voice asked, “Is this Mr. Blessing?”
“Right. Sorry, I was expecting a call …”
“Mr. Malcolm Darrow calling. Wait one, please.”
I was put on hold, something that ranked just a notch below arrogant British receptionists on my things-I-don’t-need-in-the-morning list.
“Mr. Blessing,” lawyer Darrow began without social preamble, “Roger was wondering why you haven’t contacted Gloria Ingram.”
