North of Montana (14 page)

Maybe old Les was intimidated by the muscle car, or maybe he just had a hangover, but if he had applied a screwdriver instead of a screw job he would have seen that the headlight bulb is interchangeable with the one Chrysler uses in all its Dodge vans. You could pick the thing up for ten dollars in an auto parts store, but as I am trying to educate him the disturbance at the other end of the office has started to build and is coming toward me. Like a wave cheer in a baseball stadium people are standing up in tiers and within fifteen seconds everyone around me is on their feet.

My first thought is that we are under attack, that some nut has managed to get through the security door, but nobody’s reaching for their weapon and no SWAT teams have arrived. “To be continued,” I promise Les and step around my desk to crane a look, only to find the view opening up as a sea of white shirts parts for Jayne Mason, who is walking right toward me.

I don’t have time to wonder what she’s doing here. Frantically I rip the photocopies of her picture off the wall. Big flakes of plaster come loose and fly into my eye. I stuff everything into the trash, trying to compose myself into the serious-minded FBI agent Jayne Mason has come to see. Then I realize a rubber octopus is hanging over my desk.

I glance down the aisle. I can see Magda Stockman’s glossy black head above the crowd and the flash of gold earrings. She is subtly managing the flow of human energy around her client by positioning herself like a rock, keeping Mason in her lee while moving her along, protecting her from the onslaught while maintaining a benign expression and expertly scanning the room to anticipate what might be coming toward them next. Being almost six feet tall gives her the ability to see over the heads of many people.

I calculate I have ten seconds before they reach me so I grab a scissors and step onto a chair, but two desks away the entourage suddenly turns left, continues to the end of the bullpen, and disappears into Galloway’s office. I climb off empty-handed, staring after them.

Immediately Barbara Sullivan is on my back like a dervish, digging her fingers into my deltoids.

“I got her autograph!”

She sticks a legal pad under my nose. A carefully legible signature has been written across an entire sheet.

Jayne Mason can turn a scrap of paper into a marquee, she can transform the day with a walk across a room. The woman is magical, and even I, a disbeliever, feel on the outs, hurt and inadequate because I am not on the other side of that door. “What is the big deal about Jayne Mason?” I mutter sourly.

“Either you get it or you don’t,” Barbara sighs and hurries away. “I’m calling my sisters in Chicago—they’re not going to believe this.”

She takes two steps, then stops herself and turns back as if suddenly surprised to see me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get my headlight fixed.” I have already redialed Marina All-Makes.

Barbara’s eyes grow round and horrified.
“Why aren’t you in Galloway’s office?”

“She came to see him, not me.” I offer a stiff smile.

“Are you crazy?” She snatches the phone away. “Get in there.”

“Barbara, I can’t just crash a meeting—”

“You’re going to sit here and wait for a royal invitation?” Goofiness gone, her eyes are bright with the same fanaticism that comes over her whenever someone mentions Duane Carter’s name. “It’s your case, don’t let them ace you out.”

“Obviously this thing has kicked up to a higher level.”

Barbara grips my upper arm in a very unpleasant way. “Get in there, you dumb shit.”

Her reaction seems excessive, but I say, “I’m going.”

She releases me. It hurts.

“Jesus Christ.”

I pick up a file and a half-drunk can of cola and sashay slowly toward Galloway’s closed door, lifting the uninjured arm to fluff at my hair, looking back once to find Barbara Sullivan glaring at me. The eldest of seven, she can be swift and severe. If I had a big sister like her, God knows where I’d be today, but it wouldn’t be here.

•  •  •

As I sidle into the room, Galloway booms heartily that he was just about to buzz me.

He should have told me to bring my own chair because the place is crowded.

Jayne Mason sits alone on the butterscotch plaid sofa. I can’t take my eyes off her face; naturally and perfectly formed, it radiates light just like her Manet. She is wearing a peach-colored chiffon dress with a scoop neck, long sleeves with lacy cuffs that flop over the hands, and a flounce at the knee and dyed-to-match high-heeled sandals. Maybe later she is going to a bridal shower.

Magda Stockman is to her right in the armchair and two male attorneys, who, I am told, are from a Beverly Hills law firm, perch on typing stools that have been rolled in. Galloway lugs an ungainly black leather desk chair around and motions for me to sit. It’s one of those masculine “executive” numbers where the back is higher than my head, the seat swivels uncontrollably on loose bearings, and I feel like some bizarre shrunken monarch about to be dethroned by centrifugal force.

All this time Jayne and Magda continue a private conversation.

“It is truly astoundingly funny, it never stops,” Magda is saying. “I cannot believe it will not be a huge success.”

“I hear it’s a four-hankie ending.”

“No, it’s wonderful.”

“I cry all the time,” says Jayne. “Why do I have to go to a movie to cry?”

“He’s lovely in this picture, he’s a darling person. And they are so real together.”

“We’re all flying back to New York on the same plane,” Jayne tells her. “Isn’t that cute?”

Everyone in the room has been listening politely without understanding a thing. Finally Jayne Mason acknowledges the rest of us by asking:

“Can I get some Evian water?”

“We’ve got sodas in the machine.” Galloway nods in my direction. I raise my can.

“The sugar would send me around the bend.”

“We’ve got regular water.”

“My nutritionist would have a conniption.”

Galloway is looking a bit rumpled and both attorneys have begun to search for a phone but Stockman hasn’t flinched.

“The water is coming, Jay.”

Again I am impressed by the dark throaty voice that seems to match the authority of her big solid body and today’s olive brown suit with brass buttons and gold braiding on the sleeves, an elegant takeoff on an officer’s uniform (Barbara would know which designer). Her legs are stocky—peasant legs—she keeps them knees up, pressed together, in brown stockings and matching pumps with the signature Cs. The olive quilted bag with the gold chain also says CC. She is sporting more Cs than a caracara.

While there is a nervous tenseness about Mason, Stockman is nothing but composed command. Her movements are resolute and unhurried. The black hair drawn back into the bow accentuates the cheekbones and knowing Mongolian eyes.

“Really, we can get water,” Galloway is going on, rattled.

“The hell with water, bring on the Scotch!” Mason cries cheerily and we laugh.

“Did you say hello to our woman FBI agent, Ana Grey?” Stockman prompts.

The movie star looks me in the eyes and extends her hand, instantly, subtly, putting me in my place. Make no mistake: we have been gathered here to serve her personal needs. I stumble out of Galloway’s chair. My hand is damp. Hers is trembling.

“We’ve heard such good things about you,” she murmurs with a smile.

It takes me by surprise. I can’t imagine what the good things were or who said them to whom.

“We’re very pleased to have a woman on the case,” adds Stockman.

“Ana’s here because she’s good, not because she’s female,” Galloway chimes in, placing a cigar in his mouth. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to light this.”

“Oh, men and their cocks,” Mason declares. “I told Clark Gable, why do you smoke a cigar when you’re hung like an ape?”

“Jay, don’t fib.”

“Women don’t need to smoke a big cigar or carry a gun to prove they can come.”

The two attorneys giggle quietly as if they’ve heard this kind of thing before. Galloway catches my eye with an amused look.

“Not that we don’t need to protect ourselves, that’s another story,” Miss Mason continues. “Tell me, Ana, do you carry a gun?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she whispers, “you can protect us from the lawyers!”

Everyone in the room is hooting and snorting as the door opens and Maureen, the formerly naked Maureen of the private beach, enters the office carrying a large bottle of Evian water.

“Sit by me, sweetie.”

Jayne Mason sweeps the folds of the dress aside so Maureen can be close. She is introduced as “the very talented girl who does my wardrobe, and a dear friend.”

‘We’ve met,” I respond, although from her vacant look I wonder if Maureen has a clue about when and where. She is definitely, as they say, “in her own space.” Today she looks like an incarnation from another era with those extraordinary ropes of orange-red hair falling from a tortoiseshell comb, a vintage rayon dress loaded with amber necklaces and running shoes with thick socks.

“I’m sorry, this is all they had at the 7-Eleven.” Maureen pulls a party pack of fifty plastic cups from a big canvas shoulder purse, plucks one out, and pours for Jayne.

Magda Stockman now addresses Galloway: “In my conversations with the Director, he assured me that we would receive your most serious attention.”

“You got it,” says Galloway. “Do you mind if we put this on tape?”

“I was hoping you would, so we may all have a record.”

Galloway places a Panasonic microcassette player on the coffee table and presses the On button.

Magda nudges softly, “Jayne?”

Jayne Mason stands up. Her eyes blink. Her hands find each other and clasp at the diaphragm as if she is about to begin a concert.

“This man, this Dr. Eberhardt, got me addicted to painkillers.”

She is moving now, turning to us occasionally, testing the swing of the skirt, adjusting her body to the space of the room.

“Of course I trusted him, I was his patient. At first the pills helped, but he kept giving me more until I couldn’t live without them. I became a drug addict, I can admit that now without shame.”

She lifts her chin, relaxing into the role.

‘What kind of pills were they?” Galloway asks.

“Dilaudid.” She glances at Stockman for reassurance, then goes on. “He said they were generic Dilaudid from Mexico, that they were cheaper that way, although he sure charged
me
a fortune.”

I follow up: “Where did you get these pills from Mexico?”

She looks back to Stockman, confused. The manager answers for her smoothly: “He gave them to her in the office.”

“He didn’t write prescriptions?”

“Prescriptions would have been easy to trace. This guy is smart,” says one of the suits.

“Not that smart,” says the other. “Dispensing a controlled substance from his professional office?”

The intercom buzzes. Phone call for Miss Mason. She disappears into an adjoining office. The lawyers take the opportunity to make calls of their own. Galloway clicks off the tape recorder. We make small talk. I go to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later we start again, Jayne Mason now poised dramatically by the window.

“Where did Dr. Eberhardt keep the Dilaudid?” I want to know specifically so when we search the office he doesn’t get the jump and flush the pills.

“In the examining room in a locked cabinet. He had a shoe box filled with bottles and boxes of all sorts of pills with Spanish writing on the labels. He’d give them to me, just like that.”

I think about this. Locked cabinet. Pills in a shoe box. Dr. Eberhardt sounds like a reckless fool. What I saw that moment in the alley behind his office was just the opposite: a man in his prime with everything ahead of him, very much in control. It was she who was out of control that day.

There are more interruptions—Miss Mason would like some yogurt to tide her over until luncheon but it has to be nonfat and it has to be honey nut crunch, until finally I’ve had it.

“Ms. Mason, with respect, can we cut to the chase?”

Galloway rolls his eyes. The two lawyers freeze on their stools as if a bolt of electricity has just shot up their butts, but Miss Mason and Ms. Stockman exchange a chuckle.

“I told you she was terrific,” the manager assures the actress. To Galloway, “Please tell your secretary Miss Mason will not be taking any more calls,” and nods toward her client to begin.

“I was doing a picture at Fox, a spy thriller kind of thing, and it was the scene after the cocktail party where they throw a bomb through the embassy window.… And I was dancing with Sean—what a love!—who plays my husband, the ambassador who gets killed.… We were rehearsing for the camera, dancing in front of the most beautiful marble fireplace, when I’m supposed to hear gunfire in the distance and break out of his arms—well, I took one step and suddenly my ankle went out and Sean tried to catch me but I fell right on top of my leg, all twisted. The floor was hard as blazes. What kind of floor was that, Maureen?”