Revision of Justice (27 page)

As a devout Muslim, Hosain JaFari would neither drink alcohol nor serve it in his restaurant. That made the presence of the beer surprising enough. But it was the brand and the bottles that intrigued me—the Dutch import, Grolsch, in the emerald-green bottles with the trademark clasping caps.

I turned my eyes away as JaFari shut the door, and I couldn’t be certain if he caught me looking or not. But there was a new tension in his manner as he set down the bucket of sauce and picked up the cleaver again, even though there was no more beef to be cut that I could see.

“I have many things to do, Mr. Justice. Perhaps it is time for you to go.”

I walked down the dimly lit passageway to the rear door with JaFari a step or two behind me, the lethal cleaver hanging at his side, sticky with blood.

Then I was in the alley, listening to the screen door being secured behind me, relieved to be out of there in one piece.

Gordon Cantwell was waiting for me when I arrived at Morton’s, standing at a solid oak bar with no cheap brands behind it and a leggy blonde perched on a stool at the corner, where she could be seen by most of the room.

It was a few minutes past eight. Cantwell was doing his best to chat the lady up, leaning close while she sipped a yellow liqueur that looked like it might be Pernod.

He was dressed entirely in black—slacks, shirt, jacket, Hush Puppies, all looking freshly purchased—and his reddish beard had a neat, new shape. As he chatted animatedly, it was with a sense of confidence I hadn’t seen in him before. He seemed blissfully unaware that his clothes were all wrong for summer, that his nose hairs needed trimming, and his toupee needed serious readjustment.

Also, that the woman was totally uninterested. Her eyes left Cantwell frequently to check the entrance, perhaps for a date she was expecting, or a celebrity worth looking at, or an agent or producer who wouldn’t mind spending a few minutes over a drink with an attractive young woman with Hollywood ambitions.

I’d heard about Morton’s, where Hollywood’s elite gathered to see and be seen, and where the less elite were seated in the back, near the kitchen.

As I approached, Cantwell greeted me with a great brio.

“Benjamin! So good to see you!”

He had me by my upper arm, which he used like a wrench to turn me toward the woman.

“Benjamin’s here to interview me for
Angel City
. About my project with Tom, the one I was telling you about.”

“Tom Cruise,” the woman said, as if mildly amused.

“Exactly.”

Cantwell smiled like a well-fed cat; I could almost hear him purring.

“Nice to meet you, Ben.” The woman slipped off her stool without shaking my hand. “You’ll excuse me?”

She turned in the direction of the rest rooms.

“I was going to give you my number,” Cantwell called after her, patting his coat pockets hurriedly.

“I’ll catch you later,” the woman said, and disappeared around a corner.

“Nice lady.” Cantwell worked hard to keep the cool in his voice. “Actress. Diana something.”

“I’m sure she’ll connect with you later.”

“No doubt.” He winked. “She seemed like the hungry type.”

“Speaking of hungry…”

What I really wanted was a drink, but not at the well-stocked bar, where soft backlight turned rows of bottles into lovely shapes full of terrible temptation. Cantwell took the cue, signaling the host with a gesture toward the dining area.

The host was a trim, clean-cut young man without a hair out of place who might have stepped from a
GQ
ad. He led us across a floor of large tiles in earth tones with inlaid wood, finally stopping at a table in the northeast corner of the room. It was the table nearest the swinging kitchen doors, where a small army of waiters, waitresses, busboys, and runners glided in, out, and about in a silent, skillful ballet.

The host pulled out a chair for Cantwell.

“Don’t you have anything closer to the front?”

“I’m afraid all our other tables are reserved, Mr. Cantwell.”

“I saw one near the bar that’s been empty for some time.”

“That’s being held for Mr. Eastwood.”

Cantwell’s eyes scanned the room. They had grown nervous, the confidence waning.

“I see a booth on the side.”

“For Penny Marshall. I’m sure you understand, Mr. Cantwell.”

“Do you read the trade papers, by any chance?”

“Not as a rule, Mr. Cantwell.”

“Perhaps you should.”

The unflappable host pulled back the chair another inch and stood holding it as if nothing short of a cannon blast would move him.

“Next time,” Cantwell said, “I’m sure you’ll be able to find me a better location.”

“We’ll certainly do our best, Mr. Cantwell.”

Cantwell took his seat like a field general who had survived a small skirmish but suffered an embarrassing wound in the process. I pulled back my own chair and sat opposite him. “Next time, I’ll show up with Tom and Nicole,” Cantwell said. “That should get his attention.”

The restaurant looked like a hothouse for social climbing, where one’s status could either blossom in the heat or wither quickly and die. It was comprised of a single room with a high, arched ceiling of natural wood planks and beams that allowed the chatter to rise, accentuating the impression of general hubbub without interfering with ground-level conversation. Three towering potted plants were spaced at even intervals down the center, dividing the room like demarcations on the power scale.

Large abstract and impressionist artworks adorned the white walls, along with six huge mirrors toward one end. Behind us, in the deepest corner, was a framed word painting several feet high, its message arranged on three lines:

MEN PROGRAMMED

TO CRAVE WOMEN

AND VICE VERSA

I guessed it was political art of some sort, probably created by someone known primarily to critics and people who have the money to buy such things. As a diner, I was more accustomed to wall slogans in the vein of T
OP
S
IRLOIN
D
INNER
$7.95.

A waitress arrived, laid menus on the pastel linen tablecloth, and recited the specials. She was a pleasingly plump woman with a pretty face and a straightforward, intelligent manner, wearing a white apron over her white blouse, black necktie, and pants. She went away and came back a minute or two later with her pencil and notepad ready.

By then, I had my own notebook open on the table, and a pen beside it.

For appetizers, Cantwell ordered an artichoke heart salad for thirteen dollars, while I took the chilled asparagus for slightly less. Two entree items caught my eye—dry aged New York steak and China air-dried duck, each running close to thirty bucks—but just the names made me reach for my water glass. I opted for the moister-sounding Atlantic salmon, while Cantwell selected the Maryland crab cakes, which simplified the wine order. He allowed me the honor, and I asked the waitress to bring us her best bottle of Pinot Grigio for under fifty dollars, not wanting to soak
Angel City
or Cantwell too much, depending on who reached for the check.

“I noticed you didn’t bring the script,” I said.

“Ah, that.” Color seeped into the spaces between his freckles. “Paramount asked me to keep it under wraps for a while. Feeling a bit protective, I guess. Major project and all.”

He dropped his eyes uncomfortably before continuing.

“May we go off the record for a moment?”

“It’s becoming a habit of mine.”

“To be frank, Tom’s people weren’t too happy to see the stories in the trade papers.”

“I didn’t see anything that should upset them.”

“The problem is, we don’t actually have a deal memo yet—there are still a few details to be worked out.”

“You’re telling me you jumped the gun.”

Cantwell leaned toward me, very man-to-man.

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty. But I can assure you it’s a done deal—slam dunk all the way.”

The waitress uncorked the wine and poured an inch into my glass, turning the bottle just enough at just the right moment so that not a drop was lost.

I sniffed and sampled it for her benefit.

“Let the nectar flow.”

When our glasses were half-filled and she was gone, I offered Cantwell a toast.

“To your future as a screenwriter and producer, Gordon.”

We tapped glasses and drank. Cantwell set his down, but I kept mine hoisted.

“And to the memory of Leonardo Petrocelli.”

Cantwell had reached for the bread basket. He held it in midair a moment, not looking at me, before setting it back down.

“Something’s happened to Leo?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“He was found dead at home this afternoon.”

“My God! Poor Leo.”

“To be more accurate, I was the one who found him.”

“His heart?”

“They’re not sure at this point. I imagine they’ll be doing an autopsy.”

“An autopsy? Is that customary? Someone of that age, who’s had so many health problems?”

“I believe foul play is suspected—some things were missing from his office.”

“Burglary, then.” He shook his head. “God, this city. Nobody’s safe anymore.”

“They think it happened in the early afternoon. You were probably doing lunch with Tom and Nicole.”

Cantwell laughed.

“The life of a screenwriter isn’t nearly as glamorous as one might expect, Mr. Justice. I was home alone all day, writing. I’m already at work on my next script.”

“You’re a very productive man.”

“You know what Oliver Stone said when he was asked the secret to being a successful screenwriter.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“‘Keep your butt in the chair!’”

We laughed together. Then Cantwell grew more serious, and raised his glass.

“To Leo, then. A fine writer in his day. A good man.”

We clinked glasses again. I finished mine off and poured another. The waitress set our appetizers before us, freshened Cantwell’s glass, and disappeared again.

“By the way,” I said, “I’ve been doing some research at the Margaret Herrick Library.”

“Fine place. Great organization.”

“I hadn’t realized that Constance Fairbridge was your grandmother.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He buttered a slice of sourdough bread. “You’re looking into my family background?”

“Templeton and I feel you’re an important part of our story, Gordon. We like to be thorough.”

“I’m flattered.”

He speared a chunk of artichoke heart.

“Grandmother was rather well-known toward the end of the silent era. I guess you could say my roots in the cinema go back almost to its beginning.”

I wrote that down while he looked on, pleased.

“Are you and Mrs. Fairbridge close?”

The section of artichoke heart disappeared into his mouth; he talked as he ate.

“More so in years past. She took me to the movies constantly when I was a little boy. But she was never quite the same after—”

He looked as if he’d bitten off more than he wished to chew.

“After your mother died?”

Cantwell swallowed with some effort, then cleared his throat with wine.

“Yes. Her mind—Grandmother hardly knows me anymore.”

“She does seem awfully confused at times.”

“You’ve met her?”

“The evening of the party. As Templeton and I were driving down the hill. We literally ran into her as she crossed the road. Then, more recently, when I went to check on her, she chased me off.”

“God, she’s still wandering around at night. Those damn trails of hers, up and down the canyon. I’ve tried to get her to stay in. You struck her with your car?”

“Almost. She wasn’t hurt—not even her bottles.”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“Those bottles.” He dabbed his mouth with his starched linen napkin, then spread it in his lap. “I’ll drop by first thing in the morning, see how she’s doing. I’ve tried to get her into a home, where she’d be safe.”

“Not to mention the rest of us.”

Cantwell smiled grimly.

“Poor Grandmother.”

We finished up our appetizers and the empty plates were whisked away by efficient brown hands.

“Your mother’s death must have been awfully hard on you as well.”

Cantwell chewed slowly, saying nothing. Toward the front of the room, Jack Nicholson stood to leave boisterously with four others. To my surprise, Cantwell didn’t even notice. A half minute passed that way.

“Gordon?”

His eyes flickered in my direction but didn’t stay.

“Any time a child loses a parent,” he said, “it’s traumatic.”

“But in your case, the circumstances were—”

“Of course, it was horrible.”

“You were ten. I believe.”

“Ten, yes. To be truthful, I doubt I’ll ever get the memory of it out of my mind.” Cantwell’s eyes lost their focus as he spoke. “Seeing her there, lying on the floor in her blue nightgown, her face against the cold tiles. No response when I cried out to her. Her skin so cool when I touched her. The radio in the background—Frankie Laine singing the theme song from
High Noon
.”

His eyes returned to the present, looking as moist as the grilled salmon that was being placed in front of me on a bed of sauteed lentils.

“To this day, I still can’t listen to that song.”

He waited to speak again until his plate of crab cakes was in front of him and the waitress was gone.