Chapter 23

WE HAD DINNER at Ma Maison, which looks like the cook tent for a Rotary barbecue and is so in that it has an unlisted phone. There were several famous people there and many young good-looking women with older out-of-shape men. The food was admirable.

“You don’t see Rudd Weatherwax in the restaurant, do you?” I said to Candy.

“I never heard of him,” she said.

“Sic transit gloria,” I said. “Is that… ?”

Candy nodded. “Somewhat more of her these days.”

“She shouldn’t swim during whaling season,” I said. Candy smiled. We finished our asparagus vinaigrette. The waiter brought us veal medallions and poured some more of the white Bordeaux we’d ordered.

“Good,” Candy said. “What kind is it?”

“Graves,” I said.

“I’ve got the goods on Peter,” Candy said.

There were pan-fried potatoes with the veal that were the best I’d ever had. I ate one. “The goods?”

Her face was bright. “Yes. I’ve got him, I think. But I need you to help.”

“Glad to,” I said. “It’ll ice my merit badge. What have you got him for?”

“One reason I’ve tried to be with him every night is I wanted to get him won over before you got bored and went home. I knew I’d need you and I had to hurry.”

“Bored? Me? I haven’t even been to Knott’s Berry Farm yet.”

“Well, last night it paid off. He got drunk and started talking about how powerful and important he was. He’s gotten blackout drunk every time I’ve been with him. I think he might have thought he was being sly, and seeing if I would talk about my interest in him. But he kept drinking and he got carried away. Every time it’s the same. We make love. Then he drinks and struts around and conducts a monologue on how important he is. Talked about his connections, with politicians, with mobsters, movie stars. How he could get anything fixed or have someone killed if he wanted to. He bragged about some of the actresses he’d slept with.”

“Mala Powers?” I said.

“No.”

“Phew.”

“But I was in good company,” she said.

“Did he get specific about other things?” I asked.

“Yes. He said, for instance, that he knew where Franco was. He used his full name.”

“Montenegro,” I said.

“Yes. He said he knew how to get Franco Montenegro. He said Franco had made a mistake, and he was going to regret it.”

“And?”

“And, well, it’s boring to do it word for word, but I found out that Franco called him and demanded money or he’d tell the police about Peter’s Mob connections. Brewster’s going to meet him tomorrow.”

“And Brewster’s going to go himself?”

“Franco insisted.”

“Where is he going to meet him?”

“I don’t know,” Candy said. “But I’m having dinner with Peter tomorrow, and if I can find out when he’s going to meet Franco, I thought we could follow him.”

“If Franco spots us behind Brewster, he’ll think he’s been sold out and might air old Peter right on the spot.”

“It’s a chance I’ll take.” Candy said.

“As long as you can nail Brewster to the floor,” I said.

Candy put her fork down and looked at me. “Don’t use that tone with me,” she said. “Peter Brewster is a completely corrupt man, and I’m going to catch him. If there’s risk to him in that, so be it. Life’s sometimes risky.”

“What exactly are we going to catch him at?”

“I don’t know the legal mumbo jumbo. Consorting with a known criminal. Abetting an escaped felon. Conspiracy. You should know better than I do.”

“Brewster won’t go alone to see Franco,” I said.

“Franco said he had to, or he’d go straight to the cops.”

I shook my head. “Franco won’t go to the cops and Brewster knows it. Brewster will bring somebody, probably Simms, and if he’s as bad as you say he is, he’ll try to hut Franco away.”

“Why doesn’t Franco go to the police?”

“Because he’s desperate. Because he needs money bad enough to risk blackmailing Brewster, and he’s not going to throw it away. If Franco goes to the cops, he’s lost his blackmail. And Brewster will kill him if he can-or if he and his helpers can-because as long as Franco is out there, he’s like a loaded gun pointing at Brewster.”

The waiter brought us a pear tart and coffee. “Franco needs money to get out of town,” Candy said. It was a half question.

“I’d guess,” I said. “Or maybe just to live. When you’re hiding, it’s hard to earn a salary.”

“But if Simms helps him kill Franco, then won’t Simms know that Brewster’s”-she spread her hands-“a criminal?”

“Sure, but he probably knows it now. If Brewster’s Mob-connected, then I’d guess Simms is probably a Mob watchdog anyway.”

“You mean the Mob owns Peter?”

“It’s rarely the other way around,” I said.

Candy paid the checks and we left Ma Maison. A kid brought Candy’s car around and we got in. Candy drove. We went out Melrose, across Santa Monica to Doheny, and up Doheny to Candy’s place. Neither one of us said anything as we drove.

In her apartment Candy said, “Shall we have a little brandy and soda?”

I said, “Sure.”

She made two drinks. We took them out and sat by the pool and drank.

“You’ve been on the couch for some time now,” Candy said.

“Yes.

“Is it uncomfortable?”

“Sort of,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Candy said.

The pool filter made a small slurping sound as water trickled into the skimmer.

“Not your fault,” I said. “Furniture makers have no pride of craftmanship anymore.”

“I mean that I’ve been away with Peter, not with you.”

“A job’s a job,” I said.

“Would you care to move into the bedroom to night?” she said.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with the couch.”

Her face went tight again, with lines around her mouth. “Why?”

“It’s something I’d be ashamed to tell Susan.”

“You weren’t ashamed last time. Is it Peter Brewster?”

“Partly.”

“It’s not Susan, is it? You’re just jealous.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “See, once, on a warm night in a strange city with music drifting downthat’s fun. Or it was for me. But a live-in arrangement-`house privileges,‘ I think you called it-when you apologize for being”-I made a word-groping gesture with my hands-“inattentive-that’s unfaithfulness.”

“I think it’s nothing that noble,” Candy said. “You’re no different that all the others. You’re jealous. You can’t stand sharing me with Peter.”

“If that were true,” I said, “what better reason to sleep on the couch. If we’ve gone to a point where I’m jealous of you, then I am cheating. I don’t want to be jealous of anyone but Suze. I shouldn’t be.”

Candy shook her head. “That’s crap,” she said. “You insist on making everything sound fancy. Always guff about honor and being faithful and not being ashamed. Everything you do becomes some kind of goddamn quest for the Holy Grail. It’s just selfdramatization. Self-dramatization so you don’t have to face up to how shabby your life is, and pointless.”

“Well, there’s that,” I said.

“And goddammit, don’t patronize me. When I score a point, you ought to be man enough to admit it.”

“Person enough,” I said. “Don’t be sexist.”

“So you’ve decided just to joke about it. You know you can’t win the argument, so you make fun.”

“Candy, I am a long way past the point where I see the world in terms of debating points. I don’t care if I win or lose arguments. Sleeping with you again would be cheating on Susan, at least by my definition, and by hers. That’s sufficient. You’re just as desirable as you ever were. And I’m just as randy. But I am stern of will. So lemme sleep on the couch and stop being offended.”

“You self-sufficient bastard,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But you’ll help me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said.

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