Chapter 24

I WENT WITH Candy to the studio in the morning. She drove. I looked around.

“I am going to stay as close as I can,” I said. “Even if I’m spotted, it’s better than you getting burned.”

“You really think there’s that kind of danger?”

“You betcha,” I said. “Brewster may remember what he told you and if he does, you’re a real threat to him.”

“But he thinks I’m in love with him.”

“After five days?” I said.

“He thinks everyone is in love with him anyway. He assumes conquest.”

“I’ll accept that,” I said. “And I’m willing to concede that Brewster’s not very smart. Tycoons often aren’t, I’ve found. But they are also rarely sentimental. Even if he thinks you are permanently smitten with his wonderful self, what’s he lose by having you shot?”

“Thanks a lot.”

“It’s not denigrating you. It’s denigrating him. He doesn’t cherish you. He doesn’t cherish anything. He can replace you with some worshipful starlet later this evening if he needs to. He wouldn’t differentiate.” Candy was quiet.

“Think about it. What does he want from you?”

“Sex.”

“Yeah, and what else?”

“Admiration. He wants me to tell him how masterful he is. He wants me to go ooh at how much money and clout and perception he has.”

“And if he didn’t have you to do that, what?”

“He’d get someone else.”

“Is it your brains and wit and strength he needs?”

“No.”

We pulled into the parking lot behind the station. “So what is it you give him?”

“I look good in public,” Candy said. “I do good in bed. And I hang on his every word.”

“How many other women in Hollywood could fill that role?”

“A trillion,” Candy said.

“So be careful,” I said. “And don’t get into places I can’t follow.”

Candy nodded and we went into the studio.

There was a staff meeting scheduled for much of the morning, and I left Candy to deal with that. It was probably as deadly in its way as Brewster, but it wasn’t the kind of deadliness I could ameliorate.

I took a cab from the station to a Hertz agency and rented a Ford Fairlane that looked like every third car on the road. The MG was too conspicuous now. It had been following Brewster too long. Driving back to KNBS, I stopped at a Taco Burro stand and had a bean and cheese burrito for lunch. With coffee. Authenticity is not always possible.

During the afternoon I drove down to Marineland with Candy. We met a camerawoman there, and Candy did a piece on a killer whale that had been born there during the week.

“Glamor,” I said to Candy on the long ride back. “You show-biz folks lead lives of such glamor and sophistication.”

She was driving. She said, “Do you really think Peter Brewster might try to kill me?”

“Yes.”

We were going north on the Harbor Freeway. The road was made of large asphalt squares, and the wheels as they hit the intervaled seams made a kind of rhythmic thump.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Then why continue? Why not go to Samuelson with what you’ve got and let him take the weight for a while?”

“What have I got exactly?” Candy said.

“You know he’s Mob-connected,” I said. “You may have stumbled in by accident. Franco and Felton may have had nothing to do with it. But you’re in. He’s spilled that he’s on the dirty side, and if he remembers that, you’re already a danger to him.”

The tires made their thump. With the top down the hot wind was a steady push on my face.

“I can’t,” Candy said. “I’ve invested too much. It means too much.”

“You’d still break the story,” I said. “ ‘Acting on a tip from newsperson Candy Sloan, police today…’ It would read good,” I said.

She was quiet. She passed a sign that said TORRANCE. Traffic was heavy going the other way, coming out of L.A., going home for a beer and maybe water the lawn. Barbecue some ribs maybe. See what was on the tube later. Might be a ball game. Get the kids to bed. Turn up the air conditioning. Settle in and watch the Angels. Maybe another beer. Maybe before bed a sandwich, maybe a hug from the wife.

“I can’t,” Candy said. “I can’t do it that way. It would be too girlie-girl. Would you turn it over to the police?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“So you understand, perhaps, why I won’t.”

“Understand, yes. Approve, no.”

“Even though you’d be the same way?”

“Just because I’m peculiar doesn’t mean you should be. This is what cops draw their pay for. The smart way is to let them earn it.”

“Stand on the sidelines and look pretty while the men play ball?”

“Sex is not at issue here,” I said. “Danger is.”

“If I don’t follow this through, I add credence to what practically everyone thinks. You don’t know what it’s like in television. It’s a male domain. All the decision-makers are male. And every goddamn one of them assumes I’m good for interviewing baby whales. Every goddamn one of them that I’ve ever met assumes, when the going gets rough, I’ll tuck my skirts up and run.”

“And you’re going to prove them wrong.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“Okay,” I said.

We left the Harbor Freeway and headed north on the San Diego Freeway. It was nearly seven when we got to Candy’s place. She parked and set the brake and looked at me.

“You’ll stick, won’t you?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Even though I’m not paying you?”

“Yes.”

“I could pay you a little bit each month for a year or so, maybe.”

“I could give you one of those little payment books like the banks do,” I said. “No money down, thirty-six easy payments. Budget Rent-a-Sleuth.”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t need the money,” I said. “The station paid me fine.”

We were still sitting in the car in front of her house. She was looking at me. “And you’ll stay until it’s finished?” she said.

“Yes.”

“For no pay.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not sleeping with you?”

“Despite that,” I said.

“Why?”

“I like you. You need help. It’s help I can supply.”

She looked at her watch. “My God,” she said. “It’s seven o’clock. Peter will be here in fifteen minutes.” She was out of the car and heading for the house in that peculiar female run that high heels produce.

I went and sat in my rented Fairlane down the street on the other side and waited. I was thinking wistfully of the burrito I’d had for lunch, when Brewster arrived. He wasn’t in the Caddy. He was driving himself in a dark green Mercedes 450 SL.

No one was with him. Why not? Why had he changed his pattern? Was he going to do something that he did not want witnessed? I was not pleased. Brewster didn’t seem to mind. He went up to the door at a brisk pace as if he didn’t care whether I was ever pleased by anything. In five minutes he came out with Candy on his arm. They got in the Mercedes and drove off.

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