Chapter 15

WE WENT DOWN to the hall of justice the next afternoon and spent an hour and a half explaining to Samuelson that our investigation of the moving picture business had nothing to do with Mickey Rafferty’s death. I don’t think Samuelson believed it, but there was nothing much that he could do about it, and he knew it and he knew we knew it so he ushered us out after an hour and a half with a fair amount of grace. Candy drove us up over what was left of Bunker Hill and down to Fifth Street and then to Figueroa and then onto Wilshire.

“I know it’s dumb,” I said, “but I kind of like downtown L.A.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It feels more like a city is supposed to.”

“I never come down here except for a story, but I don’t really like cities.”

“You’re in the right place,” I said.

We drove west on Wilshire past the big old Ambassador Hotel with its brown stucco cottages. Bobby Kennedy had been shot there, on the way out of the ballroom, after a speech.

“I know Felton’s home address,” Candy said. “The first time I saw him, I went to his home.”

“Want to cruise on up there and see if he’s home?”

“Yes,” Candy said. “If he isn’t, we’ll wait.”

I looked at my watch. Four thirty. “Maybe we should stop someplace and get a few sandwiches to go. In case it’s a long wait.”

She nodded. In Beverly Hills we stopped at something that appeared to be a French delicatessen. I went in and bought cheese and bread and country paté and an apple and a pear and a bottle of red wine. They put all this in a paper bag that had a strawbasket design printed on the side, and I took it out, slipped it into the trunk, and got back into the passenger’s side beside Candy.

“We’re armed and provisioned, baby. Let’s roll.”

We turned up Beverly Drive, heading north toward the hills. Candy was quiet as she drove. Across Santa Nlonica I looked at the houses. They were close together and quite near the street, but looking down the driveways and peering around shrubs as we went past, I could see the depth of the lot. Ample room for pools and tennis courts and hot tubs and patios and croquet lawns.

“What do you call the place where croquet is played?” I said to Candy.

“Excuse me?”

“Is it a croquet field or a croquet court or what?”

“I don’t know.”

“My God, next thing you’ll tell me you don’t play polo.”

She shook her head. I looked at the houses some more. They were often Spanish with a touch of Tudor. They frequently had both wood and stone siding, and the small lawns in front were consistently well tended. Palm trees were metronomically regular in their spacing and identity along the narrow border between the sidewalk and the street. And nothing moved. It looked like an empty set. No dogs sitting in the front yards with their tongues out looking at pedestrians. No cats. No children. No bicycles. No basketball rims on garages. No baseballs, tree huts. No squirrels.

“Place looks like Disneyland after hours,” I said to Candy. “Deserted.”

“Oh, yes. It always is.”

“What are they doing in there,” I said, “watching a videotape of people living?”

Candy smiled but not like she enjoyed it. “I guess so,” she said. “I never thought much about it.”

We crossed Sunset. The Hills began.

“That mansion still here on Sunset where the guy painted explicit genitals on the nude statues out front?”

Candy nodded. “A realist,” I said.

“Spenser,” Candy said, “I just don’t feel like making amusing conversation right now, okay? My friend is dead. I may be dead soon. I’m scared and sad and I don’t see how you can talk about nonsense as if nothing had happened.”

“I could keen,” I said.

She frowned. “Keen?”

“You know, as in `keening and wailing and gnashing of teeth.‘ ”

“You know you’re probably being cheery, but please don’t joke now. Let’s just be quiet.”

“How about I just gnash a little bit. Very softly. You’ll barely hear me.”

She smiled slightly.

I said, very softly, “Gnash.”

She smiled more and her shoulders shook slightly.

“Gnash.”

She laughed. “Okay. Okay. You are, in fact, as loony as I thought you were. We’re setting ourselves up like two worms on a hook, and you’re riding around saying ‘Gnash.’ ”

We swung off Beverly Drive and into Coldwater Canyon. The road was steeper now, and when we swung onto Linda Crest, we began going up steeply in a series of reverse curves. Candy shifted up and down as the MG hugged the turns.

“This is what it was born for,” I said.

“This car? Yes. It’s always fun to drive it up here. I always feel like Mario Andretti or somebody.”

“Better looking though.”

“Thank you.”

Sam Felton’s house was the last one on the street. Beyond it the hills terraced back down toward L.A., and the city spread out below it. There was a stucco wall with an iron gate in it. When we rang, a voice came out of a small speaker in one of the gateposts.

“Who’s calling, please?” it said.

“Candy Sloan to see Mr. Felton.”

“Mr. Felton is not home now. Would you leave a message?”

“We’d prefer to come in and wait,” Candy said.

“I’m sorry, that isn’t possible. I don’t know when Mr. Felton will be home. If you’ll leave a message, I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

“No thanks,” Candy said. A small sign beside the speaker said PROTECTED BY THE BEL-AIR PATROL. “We’ll wait.”

There was a click from the speaker and then silence. Candy shrugged. “He’ll have to come in or go out sometime,” Candy said.

“Back way?” I said.

“Not in these hills,” Candy said. “You’d have to drive over someone’s roof.”

I nodded. We waited. We ate our picnic. At ten of seven a dark green BMW sedan drove into a turn in front of Felton’s house and stopped. A man peered out at us through the front windshield.

“Felton,” Candy said.

He got out of the car and waddled toward us. “Something I can do for you?” he said.

“Mr. Felton, it’s Candy Sloan, KNBS, remember? I spoke with you before about movie racketeering.”

“I remember. I thought that was finished.”

“There’s been some new developments, Mr. Felton. I’ll need to discuss them with you before we broadcast them.”

“I don’t believe I know this gentleman,” Felton said.

“Mr. Spenser is helping me with the investigation.”

Candy said.

Felton nodded at me. I said, “Glad to meet you.” Felton looked at the gate and then looked at us and then looked at his car. If he opened the gate to go in, would we go in with him? It would be embarrassing to get back in the car and drive away. Could he stall till the Bel-Air Patrol galloped by? He looked at me again. There was nothing he could do with me. I was twenty years younger and four inches taller. He opted for dignity.

“Come on in,” he said. “We’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Thank you,” Candy said.

Felton unlocked the gate with a key that hung on a retractable key chain, attached to a clip on a big wide Western-style belt. He had a large stomach, and the belt was cinched right across the middle so that there was an unseemly bulge both above and below the belt. The belt held up some brand-new baggy jeans and was supplemented by wide red suspenders. Glamorous. He had on a white collarless shirt with a pleated front. His hair was shoulder length. On his feet were sandals. No socks. He held the gate open, and we went through and preceded him up the path. At the front door he used a different key, and then we were inside.

The house was cool, elegant, and expansive, gleaming with brass and ebony, filled with Oriental objets d’art, with parqueted and marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows providing a view from almost every room.

An aging Mexican woman in a green housedress and a white apron appeared in the foyer. She stood quietly by an arched entry that appeared to lead into a dining room.

“What will you drink?” Felton asked us.

“White wine,” Candy said.

“Beer,” I said.

Felton spoke to the woman in Spanish. She smiled and disappeared.

“Come on in the living room,” Felton said. “We can get comfortable and then we can talk.”

There was an enormous black marble fireplace in the far wall of the living room. On either side were French doors, thinly curtained, through whose translucence the lights of Los Angeles glittered in the gathering evening.

Candy and I sat together on a huge white couch highlighted with bright green satin casual pillows. I tucked two behind me to keep from sinking into the quagmire of cushions. The Mexican woman brought in a large silver tray. On it were a glass of white wine and a bottle of Carta Blanca beer and a glass, and what I took to be a glass of tequila on a saucer with a wedge of lime and a small dish of salt with a silver spoon beside it. She placed the tray on a low glass coffee table and smiled and left.

I poured my beer. Felton picked up the lime wedge, sucked on it, put a little salt on his hand, drank the tequila and lapped the salt. He smiled. “The only way to go,” he said. Jolly.

Candy sipped her wine. I drank some beer.

Felton said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wash my hands and then we can talk.”

Candy said, “Of course.”

Felton left the room. The Mexican woman came back in with a fresh glass of tequila and a fresh lime and smiled at us and left.

The room was still. There were Oriental rugs on the floor. Opposite me, on a tapestry that ran from floor-to-ceiling, an Oriental warrior on a horse gazed into a distant valley where peasants worked fields with water buffalo. My beer was gone. Would the Mexican woman know without being told? Would she simply appear without a sign? No. No one appeared.

“Do you suppose he’s run off,” Candy said.

I shrugged. Candy drank some wine. Then Felton came back. He kicked off his sandals, picked up his second tequila, and polished it off with some more lime and salt. Then he sat cross-legged on another large white couch across from us. The Mexican woman appeared in the door. Felton spoke again in Spanish, and she disappeared.

“Now,” he said, “how can I help?” He leaned forward slightly. It was as far as he could, and rested his elbows on his thighs. The Mexican woman brought me another beer and Felton another tequila.

Candy said, “Do you know Mickey Rafferty?”

There was a bowl of popcorn on an end table beside Felton. He took a handful. “Rafferty,” he said and put some popcorn in his mouth. He chewed the popcorn. “Sure,” he said, “doesn’t he do stunt work?”

“Not anymore,” Candy said. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, my God. Really? What happened? Was it a stunt?”

“No,” Candy said, “he was shot to death in his room at the Marmont.”

Felton raised his eyebrows and formed a silent wow with his lips.

We were quiet. Felton ate some more popcorn. He ate rapidly, taking a handful and pushing it all into his mouth with his flattened palm. He drank his tequila.

“Isn’t that terrible,” he said. “Isn’t that terrible. Awful.”

“Can you tell us anything about it?” Candy said. Felton’s upper lip looked a little moist. It might have been tequila. But it might have been sweat. He ate some more popcorn.

“How on earth could I tell you anything?”

“I have information,” Candy said, “that you were the last person he saw before he died.”

There was a little moisture now on Felton’s forehead. It wasn’t tequila. He looked at his watch. “That’s insane. I barely knew him. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. I wouldn’t remember if I had seen him. I’ve never had two words with him.”

I thought about him looking at his watch. “No,” Candy said. “I know better.”

I thought about him leaving after we got here to wash his hands.

“Now listen, Candy, I know you think I’m involved in some crazy shakedown, but this is going too far. I’m willing to help. I know you’ve got a job to do. But…” He gestured futilely with both hands.

I slid my gun out of the hip holster and held it in my right hand down between the couch cushion and the arm of the couch. Felton didn’t see me. He looked at his empty tequila glass. Then he looked toward the front hall.

“I mean are you saying I killed him?”

Candy had no expression on her face. She stared straight at Felton.

“You probably didn’t kill him,” she said. “Did you have it done?”

Felton slapped both hands palm down on the tops of his thighs. “For God’s sake, that’s enough,” he said.

Candy continued to look at him. I continued to keep the gun concealed down between the cushions. Felton looked toward the front hall again and his hopes were realized. Franco had arrived.

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