Skin Deep (16 page)

Stillman looked at me blankly. "What?"

"To watch Toby. I need an assistant to watch Toby."

"I've missed something," Stillman said. "Something's got past me here.
You're
supposed to be watching Toby."

"Think, Mr. Stillman. How can I bird-dog Toby twenty-four hours a day and figure out who killed the girl? It's two different jobs, or at least you'd better hope it is. If it isn't, Joanna Link's going to have a very big story."

"Joanna Link," Dixie echoed, a kind of lugubrious verbal knee jerk.

"Dixie?" Stillman said doubtfully.

"I think you've gotta let him try it, Norman. It's not that much more money, considering."

"Exactly
how
much?" Stillman made a tent with his well-buffed fingers and regarded me through it. It was a gesture he'd put some work into.

"Three fifty a day." The woman's asking price was one fifty, but she'd have to put up with Toby, and I didn't feel like saving Stillman money.

"Jesus, I know agents I can get for that much."

"Good. Get an agent."

"Don't get huffy," Stillman said.

"Agents." Dixie made it sound like a profanity.

"Oh, damn it," I said, "don't nickel-and-dime me." I stood up. "We're lazing around here talking, and there are things I should be doing. Like it or not, the police are working their way toward Toby. Either you want to protect the goose who lays the golden eggs or you don't. Three fifty it is, and it's cheap at the price, considering the alternative."

Stillman gave me something that would have passed for a soothing smile if the room had been a lot dimmer. "We're just haggling," he said. "Nothing personal. Call your man in. I'll leave a pass so he can get on the lot."

"She'll come on the lot with Toby," I said. "She's been sitting on top of him since three yesterday afternoon."

The smile scattered to the four winds. "She?" Stillman said. "You're putting a woman with Toby?"

"She can handle him."

Stillman pursed his lips and then nodded. "Good," he said. "No more haggling." He worked up the smile again. "But think ahead, okay? I like a man who thinks ahead."

I smiled back. "And I like a man who likes a man who thinks ahead."

"Done, then," Stillman said. He walked briskly out of the room.

"Thank heaven," Dixie said. "That was getting disgusting." He picked up his oversize briefcase and gave it a tug to see if it had gained any weight during the conversation.

"Dixie," I said, "what in the world are you doing here?"

He looked surprised. "Earning my daily bread. Quite a lot of it, in fact."

"You're too mournful to be a press agent."

"I'm not a press agent." He drummed his fingers on the side of the case. "I'm a public relations consultant. Norman is my only client."

"You're a schoolteacher," I said. "Héloïse and Abelard indeed. I know a teacher when I see one. That chronic expression of impending disaster can only be acquired in a classroom. And then there's all that corduroy."

The closest thing I'd ever seen to a smile scudded briefly across Dixie's face. It was faster than the Roadrunner with the Coyote in full pursuit with his Acme rocket boosters on. "I'm an English teacher," he said.
"Was
an English teacher."

"Allow me to repeat my question. What are you doing here?"

He thought for a moment. "Othello," he said.

"As in the Moor of Venice?"

"That's the one. Good for you."

"Well, it's not a very common name."

"I don't think
I'd
like it," he said. "Othello Cohen."

"Not much of a ring to it. You'd probably have to change it."

"Othello Schwartz, maybe. That's a joke. Schwartz means black in German."

"I know. Would you like to fill in the blanks?"

"I was Norman's English teacher. He wasn't Norman then, which is to say that he was
Norman,
but he wasn't the Norman you've met."

"And whom we all know and love."

"Norman's all right. He really
likes
the shows he makes."

"He'd have a lot on his conscience if he didn't."

"Norman needed some polish back then. He's pretty slick now, don't you think?"

"Slicker than an Olympic rink."

"Well, twelve years ago, he was pure Jersey. That was before it was fashionable to be Jersey, if you're old enough to remember. If asked, he'd have requested a few of dese and a few of dose. He pronounced
burger
with an
o
and an
i
, heavy on the
i
. He'd just come out to L.A. and he was planning to be a big shot, and he was smart enough to know that he didn't sound smart. Plus you could have floated his frame of reference in a thimble."

"So he went to school."

"Cal State University out in Northridge. Far enough from Hollywood that he wouldn't run into anybody he might know or eventually want to know, but closer than, say, Tucson. He walked into my Intro to Lit class and stayed. The next semester he was in all three of my classes. I've never had such an avid student. He listened so hard he made me forget what I was saying. You know, most of the kids are just sitting there letting the teacher provide the background music while they tune up their hormones. The estrogen level in the average undergrad classroom is higher than Alpha Centauri."

"I remember. I taught too, for about six weeks."

"Then you know. Well, Norman was different. He was older, of course, but that wasn't it. He sat there and sucked in everything I said. I never saw anybody make so many notes. Later he showed them to me; he'd made up his own form of speedwriting, and he had me practically verbatim. Well, that's flattering to someone who's used to feeling like Muzak. His papers were appalling, but there was so much evident effort that I couldn't flunk him, and so I asked him to come see me during office hours."

"Office hours," I said. "What a quaint concept."

"Yeah. I remember them fondly. It meant there were hours that weren't office hours. So he came, and we talked, and I asked him what he wanted out of school. He'd never said much in class, and I almost laughed out loud when he told me he was there for 'culchuh.' It took me a minute to realize that he meant culture. Pretty snotty reaction for a kid who grew up in Brooklyn, but I hadn't spent much time in the real world then. It was all college, first learning and then teaching.

"What he wanted was a sort of topographic map of the things a cultured person should know about. A Michelin guide to highbrow cocktail conversation, at least by Hollywood standards. I told him he was wasting his time shoveling through 'Piers Plowman' and the lyric poems of Leigh Hunt. L.A. cocktail glasses don't come that deep. Hell, they don't come that deep at Harvard."

We were walking toward the front door now, down a high, vaulted entrance hall. To our left a Spanish archway about fourteen feet wide opened into a sunken living room with the most beautifully buffed oak floor I'd ever seen. Everything in the room was seashell pink except for a chest-high vase of birds of paradise, an enormous ersatz Impressionist portrait of Stillman, a matching picture of a smashing blond lady I took to be Mrs. Stillman, and a wall lined from floor to ceiling with books. I had never been in such a silent house.

"Your legacy?" I said, meaning the books.

Dixie eyed them glumly. "He's read them all, too," he said. "He's like a terrier, just never lets go. We made out a list of about one hundred books and plays he had to read, and I loaned him a copy of H. G. Wells's
Outline of History
because it was short, so he could connect the dots. Norman went out and bought himself a roll of butcher paper, thirty feet long and five feet wide. He made a historical timeline on it as he read the Wells, and then he entered each of the hundred or so books and a few notes on its author. Damnedest thing you ever saw. In fact . . ."

He stopped and turned toward the kitchen. "Vicenta," he called. "Vicenta,
por favor?"

After a moment the maid emerged.
"Señor Cohen?"
She gave him a warmer smile than she'd given Stillman.

"La sala por trabajo,"
he said in highly inventive Spanish.
"Es okay?"

"Porquí no?"
She shrugged and preceded us up the stairs.

Upstairs the front of the house was standard millionaire's Mediterranean, four doors leading off a central hallway into bedrooms and guest rooms, presumably with connecting bathrooms. Set into the left-hand hallway wall, the one facing the backyard, was a single door, only a few feet from the top of the stairs. Other than that, the wall was blank. Vicenta knocked once and then opened the door.

A single, enormous room ran the entire length of the house. The far wall was all window, looking out onto palm trees and a pale blue pool. Sprinklers spiraled sparkles across the grass.

The other three walls were books from the floor to waist high. Above the books, five feet wide and running the entire length and width of the room, was an unbroken sheet of paper more than sixty feet long. Three broad stripes ran its length, one blue, one red, one black. There was writing everywhere.

"This year's model," Cohen said. "He's never stopped. The red is history, the blue is science, and the black is the arts—you know, 'culchuh.' "

"Son of a bitch," I said.

"Norman's conquest of Western civilization. You've got to give it to him."

"There should be an award."

Dixie made a gesture that took in the room, house, yard, everything. "He hasn't exactly been stiffed."

"What's that?" I pointed toward a large box about two-thirds of the way down the timeline. The writing was black, and the entry branched off the black line, but the sides of the box were drawn in thick gold lines. It was the only place where a fourth color had been used.

"Take a look," Cohen said. I did.
Othello
, it said. "Tragedy (1603) in five acts by William Shakespeare (see entry). Themes: good, evil, trust, jealousy. Motorcycles."

"Motorcycles?" I said.

"That was the beginning of Norman Stillman," Dixie said.
"Othello
was the ninth or tenth thing I had him read. He turned it into a motorcycle movie.
Black Angel,
he called it. About the black leader of a motorcycle gang, his envious white second in command, and his white mama, if you'll excuse the expression. It was probably the last motorcycle movie to make any money, and it made a fortune. Norman never looked back. Three years later he came and offered me four times my teaching salary to work for him."

"And you took it?"

Cohen looked out the window. "Teaching is for losers," he said. "For losers who don't have to pay alimony and child support." It sounded like something he'd rehearsed.

"It's a good job for the right person."

"I was the wrong person."

"So you've traded in the students for Joanna Link."

Dixie shuddered and glanced once more around the room. "At my present rate of pay, if the interview lasts an hour, Joanna Link comes in at about thirty-five dollars a pound. Even veal doesn't cost that much. I can always sneak looks at her and decide how I want the butcher to cut her up."

He closed the door on the world according to Norman Stillman and went back down the stairs. At the front door, he paused. "Where will you be tomorrow, if you're not going to be with us?"

"Out and around. I'll come back at three to hand-hold Toby through the Link interview if you think it's a good idea."

"All the help we can get," Cohen said. "And you're going to stay with him for the evening, or will your man do it?"

"Woman," I said. "I'll stay with him. We've got an appointment at seven."

"What kind of an appointment?"

"You don't want to know."

"Who says I don't?"

I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "It's a wake."

10 - Fan Fare

Nana's keys worked just fine.

I'd circled the block three times and strolled through the parking lot twice. Nana had told me that Tiny drove a big white dirty Lincoln Continental with dark windows and brass wire wheels. If it was anywhere within half a mile, I hadn't spotted it. Tiny didn't look like the kind of guy who walked more than a yard if he didn't have to.

So he probably wasn't around. Unless he'd had someone drive him. Unless someone had stolen his car. Unless he'd hidden the car because he knew I was coming and wanted to catch me by surprise and break every bone in my body. I gave my imagination an hour off, hefted the tire iron I was carrying in my gloved right hand, and pushed the door open.

A sour puff of air-conditioning and old cigarette smoke rolled out into the parking lot. It smelled like a year's worth of dry cleaning from a Holiday Inn. I leaned into the now familiar hallway, tapped the door politely with the tire iron, and called out cheerfully, "Hello? Anybody home?"

If anybody was, he kept it to himself.

The light switch did what it was supposed to do. The walls glistened at me like a giant throat. Going in, I felt like a tongue depressor.

"Open sesame," I said to the door at the end of the hall. It seemed like an appropriate password for the Spice Rack. All it took was that and the second of Nana's keys. I was back at the scene of the crime.

The lights for the main room were all the way across the room behind the bar, Nana had said, so I left the door open behind me until I found it. The first switch I hit turned on the overheads, rather than the dancers' spots. I went back and closed the door to the parking lot, locking it from inside.

Without the pink stage lights, the Spice Rack looked like the kind of place they show high school kids in the films that teach them how to avoid syphilis. The lurid red paint on the walls was patched and peeling, the chairs tattooed with cigarette burns. A couple of county-fair prize five-ounce cockroaches scurried across the stage where Amber had been laid out on Friday night.

I had no idea how long I might have. I gave only ten minutes to the main room; the cops had been over it pretty thoroughly. The bathrooms, which might have figured prominently in the same syphilis film, took about four minutes each. Except for a small packet of coke taped behind the toilet in the ladies' room—some blitzed-out dancer's forgotten stash—I found nothing of interest. I put the coke back; now that I'd seen the club in the daytime, I figured the poor girl would need it if she ever got her memory back.

None of Nana's keys fit the lock on Tiny's private office, but then I hadn't figured they would. That was one of the reasons I'd brought the tire iron.

It wasn't a particularly deft approach, but it didn't have to be. The locks were terrific, and Tiny had so much faith in them that he'd forgotten all about the door jamb. The wood was old and rotten, and the nails that held the boards to the loose plaster of the wall might as well have been staples. A couple of good pulls on the iron, and the door frame kissed the wall good-bye. It was a pretty rough kiss. It carried the door with it, back out into the corridor.

I felt the odd thrill I always feel when I break into someone's inner sanctum. People have so many secrets, and they hide them so clumsily. I tried once to explain my reaction to Eleanor, and she said I should seek psychiatric help. Maybe someday I will. In the meantime I'll just grit my teeth and enjoy breaking and entering.

The office wasn't much. A computer sat on top of one of those old gray metal desks that people always think are secure, and the remainder of the decor consisted of a faded, greasy cloth couch that might once have been brown, a small rug, and a sliding door that I guessed led to Tiny's closet. The desk was locked and the closet wasn't, and I've always liked going through people's closets, so I started there.

Tiny had lots of white clothes. They hung neatly, with four pairs of surprisingly small white shoes lined up beneath them. I started with the shoes: all empty. Wondering whether Tiny kept so many changes of clothing in the club because he was likely to get bled on in the course of an evening, I sank my arms up to the elbows in their white folds and looked for pockets. There were a great many pockets, so many that you would have thought Tiny kept things in them. He didn't. The closet was a total bust. I didn't even learn the name of Tiny's tailor.

The part of the couch that wasn't dirt and grease was couch, pure and simple. It didn't do anything cute, like explode into a bed, and there was nothing underneath the cushions or in the folds beneath them. I pulled the whole thing out from the wall and winced. Tiny didn't have dust rats; he had dust giant sloths. The dust was just dust.

The desk popped open as if it had yearned for years to be searched. In it I found my first two surprises.

The first was a phone book. There were no names in it, only numbers, but I have a good memory for numbers. I found Nana's and Toby's. Then I got
very
interested because I was looking at mine. It was penciled in at the bottom of the last full page, obviously a recent addition. Just for the hell of it, I wrote down the other numbers in the book, using a pad on Tiny's desk that had a bright yellow butterfly at the top of it. I put the phone book back and tried the second drawer. It was double-locked, and it took me a good eight seconds to snap it open.

There was surprise number two, a trove of porno magazines thicker than the Manhattan Yellow Pages, hanging in Pendaflex folders. Someone in Tiny's position, I would have thought, would have been as fascinated by pornography as a man on a low-cholesterol diet is by a nice piece of steamed fish. There they were, though, a prurient testament to the art of the four-color printer. As porno went, these were pretty innocent. No hard-core action, just an undergraduate gynecologist's primer on immature female genitalia, except that the mature girls featured in
Teenage House Party
and
Young Whippersnappers
had clearly lied about their age.

No wonder Tiny was so sweet to the girls, I thought. What he really liked was pictures. A "voyer," Saffron would call him. And no wonder he'd fastened on Amber. Before the drugs raddled her body and fried her eyes, she could have made the cover of
Young Whippersnappers.

And so what? I wasn't checking into Tiny's sexual predilections. Or, if I was, it was only a peripheral concern. And while I was certainly interested in Amber, I wasn't betting that any long-ago porno photographer had killed her. Nor did I think that sex had been involved in any way. The Saturday papers had said that the preliminary autopsy showed no evidence of sexual molestation, only extreme physical violence with massive trauma to the head. Amber's murder was hatred pure and simple. The only lust involved was bloodlust.

I sat on the couch and thought. I was missing something, and I knew it. Even given the porn, Tiny couldn't be this clean. I rifled the calendar on the wall and flipped through the papers on the desk. Nothing. I could barely work my own computer, so I certainly couldn't pry into Tiny's. Nevertheless, all my instincts told me I'd missed something. I listened to my watch tick.

"Well, stupid," I said out loud. "You haven't looked under the rug."

I peeled it back and found myself staring at the same dreary 1950s linoleum that covered the floor of the Spice Rack. Talk about wax buildup. It was thicker than Amber's mascara had been. Except for one perfect square, three tiles long on each side. The wax outlining that square was chipped and broken.

I got onto my hands and knees. To one side of the square, halfway down, was a tiny slit about a quarter of an inch long, wider at the bottom than at the top. It went right down through the linoleum. It looked a hell of a lot like a keyhole.

So, okay. The key, whatever it was, was either on Tiny or it was here. If Tiny had it, there was nothing I could do, so I chose to believe it was here. If it was here, it wasn't very big.

First I reopened the closet and went through the shoes again, shaking each one to check for a false heel. Nobody really has false heels, and Tiny was no exception. Then I ran my hands down the seams and linings of his clothes. No deal. Then I took the desk apart a second time. When I'd finished that, I spread the couch all over the office and put it back together again.

I looked down at it. For all its grease, it looked inviting. It was just the spot for a bout of concentration. I sank back into it and thought about hiding places. My watch told me I'd been in the club for forty-three minutes. I'd allowed myself forty-five.

The best hiding places are in plain sight. In a famous short story someone hides a diamond in a glass of water, where it would disappear. Trouble was, something long and thin could disappear almost anywhere. And I'd been almost everywhere in that office. Correction. I'd been everywhere.

Which meant it was someplace I'd already been.

Clothes hangers? No, too thick. Nails? Same problem.

Well, then, the next rule was to hide it where people were afraid to look. And then I remembered my friend Carl.

Carl made a living smuggling. Specifically, he smuggled religious pictures, and even more specifically, he smuggled them out of Asia and into the United States. He didn't make much money, but he liked Asia and the smuggling paid for his tickets. Getting his smuggled artworks into the United States was no problem because U.S. customs exempt art and antiques from duty. The problem was getting them out of Asia. Many Asian countries require a special duty charge to take antiques out, and others make it almost impossible to export a likeness of the Buddha. Asian art and Asian religions being what they were, antique likenesses of the Buddha are at the top of any small-time smuggler's shopping list. The solution, Carl discovered, lay in the intrinsic male-to-male sensitivity of the Asian customs inspector.

He'd buy a couple of copies of an inoffensive Asian skin magazine, say the heavily censored Singapore edition of
Playboy,
and he'd fold up his pictures and place them between the pages. Then he'd take a glue stick and run it around the edges of the pages and paste them together so the pictures were sealed from sight. When they dried he'd iron them to get rid of any telltale ripples and then hide them in his luggage as carefully as he would have if they'd been a kilo of heroin. When the inspectors found them, as they very frequently did, he'd blush scarlet and muster his most embarrassed smile. It worked every time except the last time; up until then, the customs inspector had always smiled back, one guy to another, and helped him hide the magazines so the women in line behind him didn't see them. The last time, unfortunately for Carl, the inspector was a woman.

The porno was in the double-locked drawer, hanging in Pendaflex folders. There was nothing in the magazines or at the bottom of the folders. Pendaflex folders hang in the file drawer courtesy of metal rods that run the width of the drawer and hook into steel runners on the upper inside walls of the drawers. Long thin metal rods.

The one I wanted was in the fifth folder back. At one end the rod was hooked, just like all the others, but the other end had been filed into an irregular serrated pattern. Despite the clumsiness of the gloves, I managed to pull it out of the folder and slip it into the crack in the linoleum. The square popped open. I was looking at surprise number three: six large brown glass jars.

Two of them held the smaller pills that Toby had identified as codeine, and the other four were full to the brim with Doriden. Good old paternal Tiny was dealing loads.

I'd been there more than an hour, and it was time to move. The linoleum square locked with Japanese precision, and the key slipped back into the folder. I didn't want Tiny to know that anyone had discovered his stash, even if his office and the desk had been broken into.

On the way out I used the tire iron to break open both doors, the one into the main room and the one leading from the parking lot into the hallway. Then I closed them as best I could. It wasn't perfect, but I didn't want it to be. At least no one would suspect that a key had been used.

Squinting in the sunlight of a bright, peaceful Sunday afternoon, I pointed Alice toward Fan Fare.

There isn't much of Hollywood left on Hollywood Boulevard, but Hollywood Boulevard was the only place Fan Fare could possibly have been. Fan Fare is the Smithsonian Institution of motion picture ephemera. Its proprietor, Wyl Will (born William Williams), is an aging, blue-haired gentleman who, had he had his druthers and been born a respectable middle-class lady, would have been the pride of any small-town library in America. Small towns in the fifties, however, were not a comfortable place for someone like Wyl, and he'd had the sense to head for California, where he became a librarian of a different kind. If anything's been written about Hollywood, Wyl knows where to find it.

Sunday is a big tourist day on Hollywood Boulevard. People from Ohio and Illinois rub sunburned shoulders with Japanese tourists, ogling the chewing gum that splatters the stars on the Walk of Fame and kicking the bags from McDonald's out of the way to force their big feet into Joan Crawford's tiny concrete footprints in the courtyard of what used to be Grauman's Chinese Theater.

Outside Fan Fare, a bunch of Hell's Angels from Central Casting straddled their bikes possessively and made derogatory remarks about the tourists. The dope of the day seemed to be downers mixed with French fries from Jack's Triple Burger. Jack's, long the BankAmerica of chemical ecstasy, had been taken over by Iranians. The Angels were still there, so I supposed the dope was, too.

When I opened the door to Fan Fare, an electronic doorbell played the first four bars of "Tara's Theme" from
Gone With the Wind.
The cotton fields that shimmered into my mind's eye were no match for the real vista of what seemed like miles of books and magazines, stacked neatly onto shelves and piled haphazardly onto tables, according to their worth. I knew Wyl made a tidy living from Fan Fare, but every time I went there I seemed to be the only customer in the world. With the exception of a pimpled youth in a long black cape who was transfixed by the section on Dracula, it was true that day as well.