Revision of Justice (21 page)

“You’ve had company.”

I stood in the living room of Alexandra Templeton’s cushy Santa Monica condominium, looking down at her glass-topped coffee table.

Two cups of fine china rested in saucers on the spotless glass. A heavy Waterford crystal bowl filled with brightly colored peonies anchored an upper corner. Next to it was a hardcover copy of Toni Morrison’s latest novel, parted by a bookmark of African design fashioned from pure silver.

Lipstick was visible on the rim of one cup. It matched the shade Templeton was wearing as she emerged from her bedroom looking cool but elegant in an outfit of silk that billowed as she moved. The blouse and pants were creamy white, contrasting nicely with her dark skin, and must have cost her half a week’s pay. Unless, of course, it was Daddy’s credit card that paid for them.

“Claude DeWinter was here. He sends his regards.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

Templeton kneeled before the glass cabinet that housed her sizable CD collection, changing the subject.

“We have a little time before we have to leave for the screening. Shall I put on some music?”

“You’re seeing Claude DeWinter?”

“He dropped by to talk about our story.”

“Really.”

“I’m cultivating a source, Justice. Something I learned from you.”

“What’s wrong with the telephone?”

“He also happens to be good company. At the moment, I can use some.”

She opened the glass doors of the cabinet, running her fingers over the CD cases.

“Any special requests?”

“Sarah Vaughan.
Black Coffee
.”

Templeton raised her eyebrows, then the corners of her mouth.

“All those regrets? No thanks.”

She found a disc she preferred and slipped it into the machine. Moments later, the room was filled with the sound of Oscar Peterson’s piano and Stan Getz’s tenor sax rendering a pleasant version of “I Want to Be Happy.”

“Claude DeWinter is a hulking, bullying homophobe, Templeton.”

She crossed the room without looking at me and straightened the Romare Bearden collage hanging above the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of her parents, a handsome couple with short-cropped natural hair glistening with Luster’s Pink, and contented smiles backed by T-bills and a good stock portfolio.

“Do you recall the final line from
Some Like It Hot
, Justice?”

“Sorry, I’m not much of a film buff.”

“‘Nobody’s perfect.’”

“Meaning you’re willing to overlook DeWinter’s use of the term fag, along with his other homophobic traits.”

“I’ve heard you use the word yourself.”

“That’s different and you know it.”

“Is it?”

“So you’d have no problem if I started hanging out with someone who used the word nigger and spouted white power slogans?”

She regarded me icily.

“I’ll start paying more attention to how Claude talks. Call him on his shit if it comes up. Satisfied?”

“I still don’t understand what you see in the guy.”

“Maybe I’m not as good at being alone as you are.”

She stepped out sliding glass doors to the balcony. I followed, leaning on the railing beside her with enough space between us to accommodate the tension. From our sixth-floor perch, we looked out at the shaggy heads of palm trees silhouetted against an orange sun making its slow descent into the blue Pacific. Out of view were the posted signs on the beach warning visitors to stay out of the water because it was so loaded with bacteria, garbage, and carcinogens. From here everything just looked pretty.

“Maybe you should practice a little solitude, Templeton. Instead of going after the first man who comes sniffing around.”

“Am I getting advice from the same person who had his hand on Lawrence Teal’s crotch five minutes after meeting him?”

“That’s also different.”

She glanced over.

“Oh, really? Why—because you’re a man?”

“No. Because Teal and I are both sluts.”

Her toughness finally gave way to a smile.

“I just don’t see you and Claude DeWinter as a couple, that’s all.”

“I know what I’m doing, Benjamin. And one thing I’m not doing is jumping back into a relationship.”

I glanced at my watch, tired of a conversation that was only making me irritable.

“Maybe we should get going. Wouldn’t be polite to walk in after the movie starts—not even at a press screening.”

“Who’s driving?”

“It might be better if we took separate cars.”

She pulled back in surprise.

“I thought we were having dinner at Spago afterward. Making an evening of it.”

Spago was one of those Beverly Hills restaurants with expensive art on the walls, color-coordinated portions on the plate, and a wine list with prices that made me laugh out loud. Templeton and I had dined there once or twice. She’d always picked up the check.

“Something’s come up.”

Her voice grew brittle.

“Sorry, I expect a better explanation than that.”

“While you were changing, I checked my messages. There was one from Danny. He asked me to come by.”

“So you’re breaking your dinner date with me?”

“He sounded in bad shape, Alex.”

“Physically?”

“Emotionally.”

“Fine. Go see your friend. I’ll dine alone.”

She brushed past me, into the living room.

“Templeton—”

She grabbed her purse and keys and stood waiting.

“Let’s go, Justice. Like you said, we don’t want to be late.”

“He’s sick, for Christ sake.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You’re acting like a spoiled brat.”

“That’s my prerogative, isn’t it?”

I stepped in, facing her with only a foot or two between us.

“You’re scared to be alone tonight, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you split up with What’shisname exactly one month ago today.”

She glared, but it looked shaky.

“You always have to go right for the jugular, don’t you, Justice?”

“It’s bloody, but it saves time.”

“All right, I’m feeling a little blue. More than a little. Are you happy?”

“That’s a funny way to put it.”

Her face and shoulders went slack, and she exhaled sharply.

“God, I hate the idea that a lying, cheating member of the male species can make me feel like this.”

I slipped an arm around her, stroking her arm on the other side.

“I can put Danny off until tomorrow, if you want.”

“No. Go see him. He’s got bigger problems than I do. Besides, you’d rather be with him than me.”

We stood quietly for a minute listening to the music. The tune now was “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.” Templeton leaned into me, her head on my shoulder.

“Tell me, Justice—why the hell do we let men do this to us?”

*

Thunder’s Fortune
, Dylan Winchester’s new film, was being previewed for the press in the theater of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences building in Beverly Hills.

The academy occupied a modern but undistinguished three-story structure on a stretch of Wilshire Boulevard located not quite a mile from the more ornate building that housed its library and research center. Screenings for the media were frequently held there, although the studios liked to fill the extra seats with employees and others in the industry likely to be sympathetic and less critical of the movie under review.

Winchester’s film may have gotten bad press during its production, but you wouldn’t have known it by the line out front, which stretched half a block. Maybe it was because Mel Gibson was starring, or because of interest in the bloated budget. Or maybe because the tickets were free.

Templeton and I made our way toward the entrance while she searched the crowd for famous faces, joking that if we ran into Denzel Washington, I was to catch her before she hit the sidewalk.

She leaned into my ear, whispering.

“I see James Caan. Up there, by the door.”

The man she was pointing out was stooped and frail-looking, his face haggard and drawn—Sonny Corleone a quarter of a century and too many hard years later. It made me realize how much time had passed since I’d been to the movies with any real enthusiasm, yet how deeply certain images were etched in my consciousness. Sonny, exploding with two-fisted anger. Sonny, sending his treacherous brother-in-law on a car ride to his own execution. Sonny, writhing in a hail of deadly bullets at a turnpike tollbooth. I’d seen
The Godfather
on my fifteenth birthday, mesmerized along with my best male buddies. We’d had pizza afterward, doing Brando imitations with our cheeks stuffed with crust and making jokes about the blow job Sonny got on his sister’s wedding day. Everybody was raving about Al Pacino’s performance, but it was the raging, self-destructive Sonny I’d secretly identified with, and still did.

“Justice?”

I blinked, turning my head. Templeton was peering curiously at me.

“You still here?”

I smiled dumbly.

“I was back in Buffalo, eating pizza.”

She rummaged in her purse until she found the special passes arranged by a publicist at Monument Pictures. They allowed us to bypass the long line of ordinary ticketholders and take our place among the critics, entertainment reporters, and VIPs.

As we did a slow shuffle toward the door, I filled Templeton in on my confrontation with Christine Kapono the previous evening and what I’d learned that morning about Gordon Cantwell’s family connection to Constance Fairbridge.

“Which reminds me,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to Cantwell—warn him about his grandmother.”

“What about her?”

“I’m afraid she’s two enchiladas short of a combination plate.”

“We realized that the first time we met her.”

“It’s getting serious. I stopped by her place last night to check up on her. She tried to scramble my brains with an ax handle.”

Templeton showed her pass at the door and we moved inside.

“First you get attacked by Mrs. Kemmerman’s bodyguard. Now Constance Fairbridge. How are you holding up?”

“I’m beginning to feel like James Caan looks.”

We crossed a spacious, carpeted lobby with a horde of men and women chattering like monkeys at a banana sale. It wasn’t hard to sort out which ones were the lower-paid members of the press, meaning print. They took everything that was handed to them—programs, posters, publicity photos—freebies that could later be peddled or traded at the movie memorabilia shops along Hollywood Boulevard.

The big lobby was currently devoted to a collection of posters from black-themed films—
Carmen Jones
,
Porgy and Bess
,
Nothing but a Man
,
Sounder
,
Claudine
,
Cooley High
,
Shaft
,
Do the Right Thing
,
Waiting to Exhale
. It felt like a history lesson as we passed, and Templeton slowed her pace, looking deeply thoughtful as she studied the framed one-sheet for
Malcolm X
.

Then we were climbing a broad staircase and turning onto the second landing, where I pulled up, touching Templeton’s arm.

Claude DeWinter stood at the top, off to the side, his eyes scanning those of us coming up.

“I thought you said—”

“I didn’t know he was going to be here, Justice.” Her voice sharpened. “Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t know.”

DeWinter spotted us, and a moment later we were standing next to him. I noticed that he’d gotten a haircut and put on a decent suit. All in all, despite a hundred pounds of flesh he didn’t need, he wasn’t such a bad-looking man.

“Claude—what a surprise.”

“Hello, Alexandra.”

He pasted her with a smile filled with longing, which lasted until he turned my way.

“Looking for someone, Lieutenant?”

“I might be.”

“Dylan Winchester?”

“What do you figure, smart guy?”

“My guess is he won’t show up at the screening of a film the studio took away from him. Too humiliating.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You
are
here looking for Winchester, then.”

“I’d like to talk to the man, yes.” He turned to Templeton. “Winchester’s not a suspect, mind you. I just have a few questions.”

“I understand, Claude.”

DeWinter’s friendly eyes returned to me, getting unfriendly again.

“If you knew where to find Winchester, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you, Justice?”