Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (25 page)

“I seem to be. If you're referring to my recent wounds.”

~ * ~

I had Roee patch me into Petey.

“Petey.”

“Fixxer!” the blare of Petey's voice came through clear and, unfortunately, loud. “How are ya!? Where are ya!?”

“I'm on the Greek island of Corfu.”

“Jeez, Fixxer! What am I doing wrong!? I'm sitting in a god damn basement of a gray building cut off from all things natural, and you're on the Greek island of Corfu!”

“Well, Petey, if you will insist on being a civil servant.”

“I'm just a slave to duty! So what can I do you for and how will it profit me?”

“I need some quick information. Do you remember when you got the dope sheet on Maxwellton James you mentioned he had other airfields, including one in Central California. That wouldn't specifically be in San Simeon, would it?”

“Well, I don't remember. Let me get into the computer and check it out.”

The tapping of computer keys came across as well the Petey's quiet humming. Quiet until he broke into song.

“'
Hey, hey, we're the Monkees!
' You know I haven't been able to get that out of my head since that day.”

“Oh, by the way, did you get the thank you gift I sent you?”

“Sure did! And she was swell! Real nice girl! That was a page in the Kama Sutra I hadn't gotten to yet!”

“You know, she's probably the best in your local area. Has a hell of a client list.”

“Yeah, I got that idea when she started humming
'Hail to the Chief
in the middle of it.”

“Better than Eleanor?”

“Well, younger at least. Okay, here it is. Ah—umm—that's interesting.”

“What's that?”

“Well, not only is the airfield in San Simeon it's part of that whole Hearst Castle thing they got there.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well, it seems old man Hearst used to have a private airfield on the land. It went into disuse when the place became a State Park, but it seems, several years ago, Maxwellton James persuaded the state to give him a license to take over the airfield and turn it into an air museum. So that's where he's got most of his old airplanes. It's now part of the attraction.”

“Interesting. Okay, Petey. Thanks a lot.”

“Thank you Fixx! Always good talking to you!”

Roee, of course, was still on the line. “Easy access to an airplane for a quick flight up to Alaska,” he stated.

“Obviously.”

“But why dump her on the frozen Bering Sea? Almost in plain sight?”

“I don't think it was planned that way.”

“Ah. Then what was the plan, and why wasn't it carried out?”

“Questions we can't answer right now.” I thought for a second, giving something a bit of consideration. I talked it over with Roee. He agreed with my conclusion, with his usual reservations, but, as I requested, he patched me into Newsstand Mike.

“Sherman Oaks Newsstand.” It was Mike, stating a fact. Previously, that statement had always been clothed in a bright cloth. Not today.

“Mike, it's me.”

I could hear him draw in a quick breath. He had never known me to call him direct before. I usually let Norton Macbeth do the communicating. “Fixxer. Hello, sir, how are you?”

It was the first time I had known him to call me, “Sir.” I wondered how many strange places his head had been since I last talked to him. “You tell me first.”

“Oh, I'm okay. Just working. Sorry, I don't have any interesting tidbits. Haven't really been paying attention lately, but, you know, I'll snap back.”

“I need your help, Mike.”

“For—for what?”

“Mike, Sara Hutton was involved in Bea Cherbourg's death, but I don't believe it was premeditative murder.”

“Well, what—what does that mean? Does that mean she can't be arrested?”

“No, not at all. Assuming the truth can get out, there are charges of manslaughter, obstruction and tampering of evidence, delaying of law enforcement. There's a laundry list of counts the DA could charge her with.”

“But none of them is going to get her the juice.”

“You mean through a lethal injection?”

“Yeah.”

“It's doubtful.”

“So, what's the use?”

“Mike, you're assuming that death is worse than a life ruined. You ought not to do that.”

“Then you can fix her?” He asked with an anticipation daring to be enthusiastic.

“I am in the midst of doing that now, Mike.”

“Bless you, Fixx, bless you.”

“Were that you had the power, Mike.”

“Okay, so what can I do?”

“Have you ever visited Hearst Castle?”

“No—what?—that thing up the coast? No. I don't get away much.”

“I want you to take a couple of days off from the newsstand. Go up to San Simeon. Take the tour of the Castle. Look around. Get a sense of the place for me. Do you have a camera?”

“Just an old Kodak.”

“Call Norton. He'll arrange for a camera and a quick course in its use. I want you to take many pictures. Be the consummate tourist. Also, make sure you take the side trip to the air museum on the grounds. I want pictures of every airplane on display, each from several angles. While you're doing all this keep your eyes and ears open. I want to know the mood of the place. Let me know if something seems wrong, even if you can't put your finger on it. Even if it is nothing more than the slight raising of the hair on the back of your neck, note it and report. Never ignore the slight raising of the hair on the back of your neck. Can you do all this for me?”

“Of course, Fixx, I can do anything for you.”

“Mike, don't take this the wrong way, but there might be something here bigger than just the death of Bea, as tragic as that was. I want you to take this commission from me very seriously and to do a very good job.”

“Fixx, I'll—I'll come through for you. You know that. If you do Sara Hutton, if you get rid of that bitch, Fixx, I'm yours. You'll own me.”

“Mike, I'm not sure I'm ready for the responsibility of ownership. Just let me have the right of first negotiation, and we'll call it square. Mike, I know you're still in a state because of what happened to Bea, but I need you to drop emotion as much as possible. Clear your mind. Clear your eye.”

“Okay, Fixx. I'll call Norton right away.”

“Be bold, Mike, but be careful. There might be danger to it.”

“What the fuck do I care?”

“Mike!” I said it with a snap. “Do me a favor. Care. Even if just a little.”

After Mike hung up I instructed Roee to call Norton and give him the details. Then I hung up.

 
Now, with nothing to do but think, I really wanted to relax to some music. Unfortunately, Lydia's taste ran to the current, the pop, the obvious and the awful. She had not one CD I was interested in. I tried the radio and managed to get the BBC World Service. The discussion of orchids was slightly interesting but not really what I was in the mood for. Then I heard Helen in the kitchen. She was singing what I took to be an old Greek folk song. Her voice was that of an old woman, it cracked and even gurgled, but the song was sincere; evocative. I quietly opened doors and moved a chair as close to the kitchen as possible. I didn't let her know I was listening. I thought it might embarrass her, or, if not, change the purity of her performance. I sat, put my legs up on a small table, and listened. The song melded with sounds of wind and rain, and the more distant sounds of the ocean butting up against the beach. Now and then a human voice floated up from the town, but the center was always Helen's song.

I mused on the Pleasant, one of the strangest creatures. Frail—yet a survivor.

At about 11:30 Helen was shocked to find me asleep yet not in my bed. She scolded me in words I will never know, but will always feel. She rushed me into my room and slammed the door behind her as she left, her continuing tirade trailing off as she retired to her own room.

~ * ~

The next morning I was woken by the
whuup-whuup
sound of a helicopter and the bright sun that seemed to crash through my window. The
whuup-whuup
got closer and closer and I knew that the helicopter was landing on the roof.

A burst of competing sound came through the
whuup-whuup
. It was the sharp, spiky voice of Lydia Corfu speaking rapidly in Greek. She was bidding farewell to the pilot, I assumed, and shouting out orders to Helen. I could hear her progress through the villa—for she seemed to pass not one room without making a comment—a progress that ended when the door to my bedroom swung open.

“Nico, I am here and I have brought the sun with me!” she declared as she stood there in retro bright yellow Capri slacks and a daisy splattered blouse tied up to show off her midriff.

“Oh.” I sat up in bed to face her. “Do you have the local concession?”

“I own the Sun! I own the Moon!” She rushed over to me, threw off my blankets, revealing all there was to reveal, then kissed me before I could protest. Not that I had been planning on it. “A false statement, of course,” she said after the kiss, “but one so glorious to declare. Now let me look at your ugly mug.” She grabbed me under the chin and took control. “Aaa! It is repairing itself back to handsome.”

She turned and spoke in Greek to Helen. Helen, taking one quick, sly look my way, left.

“Up! Shower! Dress! We are going to take a boat to a little hidden bay I know. Helen is preparing us much food. We will spend the day there.”

“Will she pack feta cheese?”

“Large chunks of it!”

“Olives?”

“Handpicked and cured by herself.”

“Bread?”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Wine?”

“Of course.”

“I don't care much for wine.”

“No problem. I know how to intoxicate.”

“Well, given how you brought me here to recuperate, maybe I ought to stay in bed.”

“Fool! There is no better bed in the world than the sands of a Greek beach!”

~ * ~

We took a small yet tidy sailboat, which Lydia captained making me the crew of one. Luckily I've had some sailing experience so I didn't embarrass myself under her harsh command. The barking of orders was as natural to her as the cooing of a dove, although the quality of her voice was definitely on the other end of the scale of aural pleasures. Despite this she was never less than a “Woman,” whatever that means as we end the twentieth century. As she went about the business to make the sailboat sail with a beauty and grace that matched the environment, her breasts, bringing great dimension to the field of daises, were a two point statement of extreme confidence in being, and the curves that defined female were as glorious as a gibbous moon in daylight; round and firm and solid, and yet seemingly ethereal against the bright blue sky. Her smile was a life-beaming smile. If you caught the waves you felt the frequency and you wanted only to tune in, free of static. Her eyes oversaw all, darting exactly where they needed to dart in order to take in and tell that which needed to be told. They too had a strong hand at the tiller.

Soon we rounded a sharp protrusion in the landscape of the shore and she shouted out and pointed, “Look! My bay!” There, nestled between that protrusion and the next one up, was a small but brilliant patch of Cheshire Cat grin beach backed by a steep, tall cypress-covered hill of no paths. It was completely deserted.

She edged the boat into the bay and dropped the anchor. She then stripped quickly and without warning, squealed in delight, and dove into the water so smoothly that there was hardly a splash. She stayed under an inordinate amount of time, but the water was perfectly clear, and I could see her darting from here to there, twirling, doing underwater somersaults. It was joy made corporeal. Then she emerged out of the sea, crystal runs of water streaming down her face, glistening in the sun. “Do you believe in mermaids?” she asked me.

“I do now,” I said.

“Strip,” she said. “Don't let one inch of your body avoid this sun.” I did as she asked, then joined her in the sea. There we swam, above and below the water, splashed and chased each other like kids, giggled without shame, and coupled just as boldly.

Finally, exhausted, we made our way to the shore. The great Greek sands she had promoted were really pebbles. Small and fine as pebbles go, but pebbles. “Lydia, I think this bed is going to be lumpy.”

“Huh! Weak, pampered American!”

“You keep making that assumption.”

“What assumption?”

“That I'm an American.”