The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) (23 page)

“There was a website?”

“Oh, yes. Sign up for nine ninety-five a month, get to jack off to pictures of Penelope Pope playing with herself.”

“And you say Ambiance got you to stop.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She looked away, patted the arm of the sofa. “Snoogums.” He came running and jumped into her lap. She turned to me. “You don’t know anything about Ambiance, do you?”

“I know that it’s another one of those pop-psych movements that sprout in L.A. every couple of years, that attracts people like you who are looking for something to belong to, and that makes a ton of money for whoever’s behind it.”

“In other words, you don’t know anything.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because it’d go in one ear and out the other.”

“I thought people in these things were always proselytizing, trying to get everyone they know to join.”

“We’re not like that. We’re like vampires. You have to invite us to tell you.”

I thought of the commercial shoot where I ran into Roberta Salkind. Trixie was right. Roberta had never suggested I check the place out, though at the time I thought that was because I escaped before she had a chance to.

“Okay, fine. Tell me. I invite you to tell me.”

She glanced at her shrine, looked back at me. “It’s run by a man named Ike Sunemori. He’s taken the best of Eastern religions and the best of human-potential movements and molded them into something that really helps people.”

“Which Eastern religions?”

“Hinduism, Buddhism, mostly. There’s a little Taoism.”

“No Confucianism?”

“Don’t be a jerk, okay?”

“What about the human-potential stuff ?”

“Regardless of what you might think, those things aren’t completely a bunch of baloney. Lifespring, Scientology, all the others I checked out, sure, the people that ran them were in it for the money and the power. But I did get something useful out of each. Ike has just put all those useful pieces together.”

I knew someone else who’d been into that stuff. Someone who lived just down the block. “Did you happen to know a woman named Laura Astaire?”

Her face went slack. “Yes. She lived—”

“I know.”

“She was kind of a big sister to me. You knew her?”

“I was the one who found out who killed her.”

“Oh.” She tried to say more. Nothing came out. Then tears were dribbling down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She waved her fingers.
Don’t worry, it’s nothing
. I scooted over to comfort her, but Snoogums growled when I got too close, and I resumed my position.

Trixie tossed the dog down, got up, ran into the bathroom. When she came out her eyes were red but dry and she was more or less composed. She patted her lap and Snoogums returned. “Now where was I?”

She was going to go back to her Ambiance orientation talk, and I didn’t want to hear it. It was the same thing they all did. We’ve taken a little of this, a little of that, and we’ve come up with something that will turn your life around in
X
months flat for a mere
Y
dollars. Payable by cash, check, or credit card.

I was more interested in Dennis’s involvement. “Why’d you take Dennis up there?”

“I told him about it, of course. He invited me to tell him more. So I brought him to a gathering.”

“What happened?”

“He acted like he was really into it.”

“Acted like?”

“I thought he really was. At the time, anyway. He seemed so interested. Asked a lot of questions. Spent time with Ike one-on-one. You know where this is headed, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“A lot of girls like me. Come to L.A. to become famous, lose their way, find life in the big city’s too tough for them. They need something to center them.”

Everyone did. For Sean McKay, it was moving back in with his father. A far better choice than the Charlatan-of-the-Month Club. “A treasure trove for someone like Dennis.”

“But you know what? Ike saw right through him. He took me aside and told me. I watched Dennis the rest of the day. Once I knew, it was so obvious that he was scouting out the girls. You could almost see him making a list in his head.”

“Yet you were still hurt when he dumped you.”

A helpless gesture. “I tried to tell myself he was a bastard. Then he’d look at me with those green eyes and—”

“You didn’t hire one of your fellow Ambiance people to whack him or anything?”

A giggle. “Actually, by the time he was killed, I was pretty much over him. A couple of days, that was all it took.”

I picked up my chamomile tea. It was cold. I drank it down anyway. I wasn’t sure why I’d come, what I expected to find out. The only thing I’d really discovered was that maybe, just maybe, Ike Sunemori and his crew weren’t quite the money-grubbing pirates I’d assumed.“So did Ike tell Dennis not to bother coming back?”

“Because Dennis was only acting interested for the women?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“So he was willing to take his money anyway.”

“He thought he could change Dennis.”

“Just like that. Guy’s been an absolute prick since high school and just like that he’s going to change.”

“Ike has a lot of confidence. And he really wants to help people.”

“I see.”

“And he wouldn’t see it as his place to tell anyone not to join Ambiance.”

“So did Denny Dear go back up?”

“I’ve heard he did, that Sunday night between when he dumped me and when he got himself killed.”

We kept talking. When the conversation began to repeat itself I got up to go. Trixie stood too, walked into the kitchen, came back with a brochure for Ambiance.

“Here,” she said, handing it over.

I took a quick look. Young people with troubled expressions. “Proselytizing?”

She shook her head. “I’m guessing you’re heading up there next. There’s a map on the back.”

I turned it over. Ambiance was in Altadena, at the foot of the San Gabriels. Half an hour, thirty-five minutes, if traffic was light.

I let her escort me to the door. When she opened it, I said, “Speaking to you today, and meeting you up at Dennis’s, it’s like two different people.”

“How so?”

“You’re clever, articulate, charming. The person up at Denny’s was a typical blond bimbo.”

“That’s for my public.”

“Cut it out.”

“It works. It’s gotten me work.”

“Porn work.”

“No, other work since then. A couple of sitcoms. And I was on
Angel
. Though you couldn’t really tell it was me.”

“Were you a vampire?”

She shook her head.“I’m not exactly sure what I was. But I was purple.”

“You’ve met my friend Ronnie MacKenzie.”

“That night.”

“She used to do the same thing. I got her to stop it. Now she’s a regular in prime time.”

A broad smile. She looked over to where Snoogums had fallen asleep on the sofa. His doggie snores stopped, he yawned, he turned his big brown eyes to her. She looked back at me. “Maybe,” she said, “I’m not ready for prime time.”

Hollywood Freeway north,Ventura east, off at Lake. The long gradual climb to the foothills. Pasadena turned to Altadena. I pulled to the curb, checked the Thomas Guide. Five minutes later I was there.

Ambiance.

Huge old trees, pines and oaks, dotted the grounds. A couple of dozen people in ones and twos, reading and talking. A group of seven or eight, sitting cross-legged, watching raptly as a woman scribbled on a flip-chart mounted on an easel. They all had golden nametags pinned to their chests.

It had been a Catholic high school at one time, the brochure Trixie’d given me said. There were several brick buildings, a basketball court, a grassy playing field with a three-story,more modern building where an end zone should have been. Nine or ten signs told me it was the orientation center. I ignored them and headed for the one remaining structure. This one was a big old house. The front lawn was split by a walkway. Each half hosted a thick-trunked palm tree, the kind a whole kindergarten class could hide behind. Last time I’d been up close with one of those had been over a year before, in the Valley, at a house I visited with one of my fellow Platypuses. That one was a gun dealer’s. Maybe I was moving up in the world. Maybe not.

I rang the bell. There were footsteps. The door opened and a young woman stood there. She was tall and dark-eyed, wearing a simple, pale yellow dress that reached her ankles. Her nametag identified her as Vikki Rodman. She looked slightly familiar. Probably an actress I’d seen at an audition. They flocked to these places. “May I help you?” she said.

“Guy I know’s been coming here, and it sounds like something I could use. So I’m here to check it out.”

A lovely and, as far as I could tell, sincere smile.“You want the orientation center. That’s in the building on the playing field.”

I frowned and shook my head. “I want to meet the head man.”

“Sir, Mr. Sunemori is a very busy man. You’ll have an opportunity to meet him—”

“Forget it then. See, I thought you guys could help me. But I see I’m just gonna get the same old runaround I got at Scientology. They wouldn’t let me see that Hubbard guy either. Waste of my time.” I turned and stormed back down the walkway.

She came running after me. “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were so in need. Of course you may see Mr. Sunemori. Please.” She took my arm, turned me around, led me inside. Mission-style furniture, lots of stained wood, exposed beams on the ceiling. Thick rugs on a terra cotta tile floor. Above the fireplace was a painting of an aged wispy-haired Asian man seated at a window, gazing out at a verdant landscape.

“Mr. Sunemori is on a call to Nepal,” she said. “So it will be a few minutes.”

“I can stand that.”

“Have a seat, please. Would you like some tea while you wait?”

“Yeah, okay.” I fell into a leather chair. As soon as she was gone I jumped up and checked out the nearest bookcase. Aristotle, Sartre, Dale Carnegie, Billy Graham. The Torah, the Koran, the Book of Mormon. The books were spotless, the rich old shelves without a mote of dust.

There was a shrine on a nearby table, similar to the one at Trixie’s, much bigger. The multi-armed goddess was bronze, the cornmeal bowl silver, the frog and duck both wooden and exquisitely carved.

A quick check of the rest of the bookcases gave up more philosophy and religion, some psychology, and two shelves worth of L. Ron Hubbards in matching gilt and leather bindings. Probably Sunemori’s role model.

A set of French doors led to a big back yard. I tried one, found it unlocked, let myself out. The yard was filled with cacti and the like. A couple of gigantic prickly pears. A year or two before I would have been able to tell you the species. Now it was lost among the other detritus filling my head. There were several big cereus, still bearing the previous summer’s fruits. Four or five mature agaves. Lots of smaller plants too, in the ground and in pots scattered everywhere, on the concrete and on benches and hanging. There was a rose garden too, a dozen or so plants, some still in bloom.

The showpiece was the biggest saguaro I’d ever seen. As tall as the house, with a couple of arms giving it the characteristic shape you see in every Western, whether or not it takes place in Arizona.

I heard someone behind me and turned. Ike Sunemori. I recognized him from the brochure. He was wearing a robe of the same color as Vikki’s dress and an infuriating self-congratulatory smile. He carried a delicate tray with a metal teapot like those at Donna Lennox’s store and two tiny earthenware cups.

“It’s been here for eighty years,” he said. “Blooming?”

“Of course. You know saguaros?”

“Yes. As it happens, I have a cactus collection.”

“Ah. One of those. Come. Over here.”

He walked to a heavy wood table with appropriately massive chairs. When we were seated he poured tea. Something green. I picked up my cup and sniffed.

“A simple sencha,” he said.

I drank a little. It was too much like vegetable broth for my taste. He sipped his own. I wanted him to speak next. I wanted to have him start his little game on me. Start enticing me in.

He waited until we’d each finished one cup and he’d poured us refills. “So. Tell me what you need.”

“Like I told the young lady, I have a friend who—”

He was waving me off. “Please. Mr. Portugal. There’s no need for the facade.”

“What are you—” I shut my mouth. He knew my name. I wasn’t likely to fool him about anything else. “How?”

“I’ve kept close tabs on Dennis Lennox’s murder. I know all the players. I know you like to imagine yourself a detective. Do you like the tea?”

“I prefer black.”

His nodded. His expression implied those who preferred black tea were savages. But noble savages.

I said, “Why the interest in Dennis’s death?”

“As you know, he was here shortly before he died. There are those who would take any opportunity to tear down what I’ve built here. Bad publicity would provide them fodder.”

“As I know?”

“Why else would you be here? I suppose you spoke to Miss Trenton. A nice girl.”

“For a porn star.”

He shook his head. “That comment wasn’t worthy of you.”

“How do you know what’s worthy of me and what isn’t?”

“That comment wasn’t worthy of anyone.”

I didn’t say anything. When I thought about it, the son of a bitch was right.

He said, “You want to know about Dennis’s visit.”

“Yes. Trixie told me that he used it to scope out women.”

“His first visit.”

“He came back?”

“I invited him back.”

“Willing to take his money.”

“Mr. Portugal, we have two choices. We can argue the merits of what I’m doing here, and waste a lot of your time and mine, or I can simply tell you what happened. Which will it be?”

I didn’t dislike this guy as much as I expected to. He did have a certain charm. And I appreciated his cut-the-crap attitude. “The second,” I said.

“Good. So. What did Trixie tell you?”

I filled him in.

“That’s a fair picture,” he said. “I saw right away what he was up to. It’s not the first time some Casanova has viewed Ambiance as a fertile hunting ground. So I took him aside and said it simply wouldn’t be tolerated.”