Revision of Justice (14 page)

I found Gordon Cantwell standing behind the dugout, sandwiched like aged ham between two female slices of fresh Wonder bread.

He had one arm around each of their slim waists, using the curves of their hips to rest his freckled hands.

I reintroduced myself, and thanked him for his hospitality Saturday night as the hour grew late with DeWinter’s questions.

“It was the least I could do, under the circumstances. Terrible tragedy, what happened to that young man—a night I’ll never forget.”

“The ball game must be a welcome diversion.” I glanced at the two young women. “As well as the company of friends.”

Cantwell smiled with measured solemnity.

“One has to go on.”

“You seem quite devoted to the game of baseball.”

“It’s a childhood passion that I’ve never quite outgrown.”

“That was a nice throw from center field. You’ve got an impressive arm.”

The smile re-formed, this time with exaggerated modesty.

“If only I could hit the ball as well, Mr. Justice.”

He laughed lightly, and glanced to each side to see the two women laughing with him.

He introduced us; they were both named Debbie. One Debbie carried a tote bag filled with scripts, the other a well-thumbed copy of
The Cantwell Method
.

“Are you in the industry?” the Debbie with the tote bag asked.

“I’m assisting on a freelance piece for
Angel City
magazine. With Alexandra Templeton. You may have heard of her.”

The two Debbies looked at each other, shrugged their slim shoulders, and shook their pretty heads.

“No offense,” the other Debbie said, “but I don’t read
Angel City
. They say mean things about people I respect. You know, people in the industry. Successful people, like Gordon.”

She cast her admiring eyes toward Cantwell, causing him to redden pleasurably.

“You’re more an
Entertainment Tonight
kind of person,” I guessed.

“Absolutely! Of course, I try to read the Sunday
New York Times
when I can.”

“Section Two, I’ll bet.”

She looked nonplussed.

“I don’t really know the numbers.”

“
Angel City
does have a certain edge,” Cantwell said, with the tone of a religious figure making an official pronouncement. “But it also manages to come up with a decent piece on the industry now and then. I’m sure you and Alexandra will contribute to the latter.”

“Thanks, Gordon. I feel at least partially vindicated.”

“Vindication is one of the primary themes of cinema,” the first Debbie said. “I learned that in one of Gordon’s seminars. I’m trying to work it into a script.”

She put a hand to her mouth.

“Or was it redemption?”

“If your article is about screenwriting,” the other Debbie said, “you absolutely must talk to Gordon. He’s widely thought of in the industry as a genius.”

“So I understand.” I glanced his way. “Maybe we could grab a few minutes now.”

“I’m afraid I’m due up to bat next inning.”

“I wouldn’t want to file the piece without at least mentioning you and your valuable work.”

“And my book, I hope.”

“The bible of screenplay structure? I don’t see how we could leave it out.”

His freckled skin flushed pink again. He glanced toward the field.

“I suppose we could find a minute or two.”

He bid good-bye to the two Debbies and we took seats in the stands away from the crowd. Cantwell launched into a speech about why his approach to screenplay construction was so much sounder than anything else being offered. I scribbled notes, which seemed to make him happy.

“How many students would you estimate you’ve taught over the years, Gordon?”

“Counting the weekend seminars, the ten-week workshops, and the mail-order courses, along with the international lecture tours, the number would certainly be in the tens of thousands. I can get a more precise figure for you if you need it.”

“With that many students, it must be difficult to know them personally.”

“I do my best, but, yes, it is difficult.”

“How well did you know Reza JaFari?”

The question stopped him cold.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess you knew him as Raymond Farr.”

“Are you going to write about Raymond?”

“We won’t know until we actually put our story together. But we envision making you and perhaps your networking party the focal point.”

“How flattering.” His eyes shifted to my notepad. “But I hope you won’t dwell on what happened Saturday night. My little gathering has been going on now for more than twenty years. This is the first time anything unpleasant has happened.”

“Difficult to avoid mentioning, though.”

His mouth tightened into a pained smile.

“I suppose it is.”

“What can you tell me about JaFari’s death?”

“What happened was a terrible tragedy for the family of a fine young man. Any publicity your story might generate for myself or the work I do pales in the face of the sadness we all feel.”

He waited while I wrote it down word for word, repeating the second line for me and looking more comfortable afterward.

“How would you describe your relationship with Reza?”

“He enrolled a year or so ago in one of my seminars. As Raymond Farr of course. I didn’t know him particularly well.”

“A good student?”

“Off the record, Mr. Justice? I wouldn’t want to cause his family any more pain than they’ve already suffered.”

I closed my notebook.

“Raymond wanted very badly to be a success, but he didn’t really want to do the work it takes to be a good writer. Great talent, as you may know, is not necessarily a requirement for success in the writing field. Discipline and craft are. At the very least, one must be productive and write with a reasonable command of technique.”

“And have a great deal of patience, I imagine.”

“Absolutely.”

“And JaFari had none of those qualities?”

“Raymond was charming, hungry for success, eager to please. Yet he lacked both the talent and the commitment to make it in one of the world’s most competitive professions. He certainly wasn’t alone in that respect, of course. The great majority of aspiring screenwriters never sell a thing.”

“Yet JaFari kept coming to your parties.”

“Everyone is welcome. I open my home each month to encourage the sharing of contacts and ideas. The young people, especially, seem to appreciate it.”

He laughed in his false way, and added quickly, “Not that I’m all that much older than many of them.”

“Is that where you met the two Debbies, at your party?”

“Actually, I was fortunate enough to be introduced to them at one of our ball games.” He lit up a bit. “Did I mention that Michael Keaton was supposed to play tonight? Unfortunately, he was forced to cancel at the last minute. But he’s played with us before. You might want to put that in your story.”

“We’re back on the record, then?”

“By all means.”

I opened my notebook and dutifully wrote it down, while Cantwell craned his neck to see that I got it right. He spelled K-E-A-T-O-N aloud, and followed it with several of the actor’s more impressive credits.

Then he stood and looked toward the field, where the umpire had called the eighth inning.

“I should get back—take some warm-up swings.”

“Perhaps we can get together when you have more time.”

“To be honest, I was hoping I might be able to meet with Miss Templeton again.”

“You don’t like my questions?”

“Not at all. It’s just that—well, Alexandra is quite—”

“Attractive?”

“And very personable.”

“Funny, she said the same thing about you.”

His eyes flickered excitedly.

“Did she?”

“I’ll tell you what, Gordon. If Alex is able to free up some time, I’ll have her call Christine Kapono to set up a meeting.”

We heard a bat connect with the ball, the crowd cheer, then a few groans. Cantwell lowered his voice.

“Actually, Christine no longer works for me.”

I feigned surprise.

“Really? Why is that?”

He leaned close.

“Just between us, Justice? She has what you might call a ‘problem’ with men. If you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

He chuckled.

“Does the film
The Children’s Hour
mean anything to you, Justice?
The Fox
?
The Killing of Sister George
?”

“I’m more familiar with
Rubyfruit Jungle
.”

“I don’t know that one.”

“It’s a novel. Never made it to the screen. But I think I get your drift.” I winked, buddy-buddy style. “Kapono’s a dyke. Hates men. You canned her.”

“That’s awfully blunt.”

“How would you put it, Gordon?”

“Let’s just say I felt it would be better for her to find an environment where she would feel less tension due to gender and lifestyle differences.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with you putting your hand where it didn’t belong?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m talking about you grabbing her ass, Gordon. Just before she planted her knee in your family jewels.”

His face turned sour.

“You’ve spoken with Christine, I take it.”

“You take it right.”

“When was this?”

“I ran into her up at your place a couple of hours ago.”

“You were at my house?”

I nodded.

“May I ask why?”

“I wanted to look around while the light was good.”

“Look around for what?”

I shrugged. “You never know.”

“I suggest you make an appointment next time.”

“It’s difficult, when no one answers their phone.”

“Better yet, have Miss Templeton make the appointment.” He tucked his glove under one arm. “Your questions strike me as totally out of line.”

Cantwell’s back was to the field. Across his shoulder, I saw the second batter saunter to home plate.

“Perhaps you’d better take those warm-up swings, Gordon. Shouldn’t take the plate cold, not at your age.”

A viper couldn’t have looked at me with more displeasure.

Cantwell turned his back and attempted a manly stride on his way to the dugout, where he picked through the bats until he found one that felt right in his hands.

He took a few awkward swings while the batter ahead of him flied out to left field. Cantwell stepped to the plate and dribbled a grounder back to the pitcher, who easily threw him out.

Then Cantwell was back in center field, pounding his glove, waiting for another chance to show the two Debbies how far and how straight he could throw a softball.

*

I picked up groceries and a jug of wine and returned to my apartment, to find the telephone ringing. Danny Romero’s voice was at the other end.

“DeWinter’s here. I’m up shit creek.”

“What happened?”

“He came with a warrant to look for evidence. There’s a bunch of stuff missing.”

“Someone broke in?”

“This morning, when I took Maggie for her walk.”

“What did they get?”

“Reza’s papers, computer disks. Files, phone messages, stuff like that. They pretty much cleaned out his room.”

“You told DeWinter that?”

“He’s not buying it. He thinks I ditched the stuff to protect myself.”

“The coroner ruled that Reza died of natural causes. I don’t see why DeWinter belongs at your place at all. Or how he got a judge to issue a search warrant.”

“Well, he’s here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“It hasn’t been a good week.” Then, more troubled: “I think he’s going to bust me, Ben.”

“Does he know you’re sick?”

“I told him I got AIDS, showed him my meds. It just made him treat me worse.”

“Put him on.”

“I hate to get you involved in this.”

“Just put him on, dammit.”

I heard muffled voices, then DeWinter’s terse delivery.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Danny says you’re going to arrest him.”

“It’s looking that way.”

“What about the coroner’s report?”

“A coroner’s report isn’t written in stone. Besides, I’m looking at new evidence now.”

“What evidence?”

“I don’t owe you any explanation, Justice.”