A Savage Place

Chapter 2

CANDY SLOAN met me by the car rentals next to the baggage pickup at the L.A. airport. She had hair the color of jonquils and skin the color of honey and eyes the color of cornflowers. The good coloring was not wasted on the rest of her.

She said, “Is your name Spenser?” I said yes.

She said, “I wasn’t sure. I thought it might be Cary Grant.”

“After a bad flight,” I said.

She smiled. “I’m Candy Sloan,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Show me a movie star.”

“Let’s get your luggage first,” she said and went through the doors toward the carousels.

I watched her for a moment. She was wearing skintight jeans with someone’s name on the butt and spiked heels. She had that rolling, arm-swinging walk that spike heels produce in agile women, and even here in Tinsel Town she turned a lot of heads. The top half (when I got to it) was covered with a scarlet blouse worn open over a lavender T-shirt. Around her neck were many gold chains. Her earrings were gold, and she wore several gold rings.

She looked back at me and smiled again. “Coming?” I nodded and trailed after her. She was tall; with her spiked heels, nearly as tall as I was. Her hair was long and smooth, touching her shoulders. The first pieces of luggage were beginning to circle the carousel as we got to it. Mine was not yet out.

“Good flight?” she asked.

“First class is very pleasant,” I said. “There was a former governor up there with me.”

“How exciting for you.”

“Well, he’s no Tom Conway, you know?”

“Or Mala Powers,” she said.

When she smiled, two lines deepened on either side of her mouth. Once you saw them, you realized they were always there. They were faint except when she smiled. Her nose was nice and straight and her eyebrows were darker than her hair. So were her eyelashes, which were long. There were several explanations for the dark hair-light hair contrast. i was speculating about them when my suitcase showed up. I snagged it and nodded toward the door. She asked, “One suitcase?”

“Yep.”

“My God, how do you travel with one suitcase?”

“It’s mostly full of ammunition,” I said. “If I’m not working, I can get by with a gym bag.”

Outside the heat was solid. On a crosswalk in a tow zone reserved for authorized vehicles only was a Ford Fairlane station wagon with a whip antenna and an emblem on the side that read KNBS: THE SOUND 01 THE GOLDEN WEST. Underneath that it said in smaller letters LIVE ACTION NEWS. A young airport cop with blond hair and a bushy blond mustache was leaning on the near front fender, his legs crossed, his arms folded over his chest. When he saw Candy Sloan, he stepped around and opened the door on the driver’s side for her. She smiled at him and said, “Thank YOU.”

He said, “Anytime, Miss Sloan,” and carefully closed the door for her.

I opened the rear door, put my suitcase on the rear seat, closed the door, opened the front door, and got in beside Miss Sloan. The cop ignored me. When I got my door closed, he blew a sharp whistle, held up a commanding hand, and stopped traffic while Miss Sloan pulled out of the tow zone and drove away.

“I suspect that man of sexism,” I said.

“Really?”

“Yes. If I’d parked there, he’d have shot me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, really,” she said. “News people get a break, and they should.” She turned the air conditioning up. I was glad.

“Mmm.”

“Want the scenic route or the expressway?”

“Where we going?”

“The Beverly Hills was booked and so was the Beverly Wilshire. But I got a nice room at the Beverly Hillcrest. It’s where the station always puts people. It’s on the south edge of Beverly Hills. Beverwil Drive at Pico.”

“Up back of the Beverly Wilshire about six blocks,” I said.

“Yes, that’s right. You have been here before.”

I sucked down my upper lip and said, “I’ve been everywhere before, sweetheart.”

She giggled. “Bogie?” she asked. I said, “That’s the way it is, kid.” She said, “That’s awful.”

I said, “You should hear my Allan Pinkerton impression.”

She shook her head. “Freeway or scenic,” she said.

“Why not go up Sepulveda for a while,” I said. The landscape was sere and hostile, naked-looking under the oppressive sun. I always felt a little exposed in Southern California.

I said, “Do you see my function as predominantly protective or predominantly investigative?”

“Protective, I think. I’m a good investigator. I need someone to keep people from inhibiting the investigation.”

“Okay,” I said. “If I see a purloined letter lying about, I assume you won’t mind if I mention it.”

“I’d be grateful,” she said. “But you wanted to know the priorities.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You’re not going to go into a male funk on me, are you?” she said.

“It’s the only funk I’m capable of,” I said.

“I mean, you’re not hung up about me saying I’m probably as good an investigator as you are?”

“No.”

“I’m good at my job,” she said. “Everyone thinks you get by on TV by wiggling your ass off-camera and saying everything with a bright smile on-camera.”

“And,” I said.

“And some of that is true, but I’m a damn good reporter.”

“And the ass?”

She looked at me with the two lines deepening. “I wiggle that,” she said, “when I want to. And where.”

“Let me know the next time,” I said. “I’ll want to watch.”

Again she smiled. I realized she could make that smile with the consonant eye-sparkle whenever she wished. Along with it went a giggle this time. That, too, I realized, was something she could do or not when she wished.

We turned on to Pico, heading east. “The thing is,” Candy said, “that you need to understand that I’m in charge of the investigation. It’s my story. I want to play it out.”

“Sure,” I said.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’m too aggressive and pushy?”

“Yeah. You don’t need to be. But you don’t know that. No harm in it.”

“I’m in a tough business,” she said. “I’ve learned to be tough. It frightens some men.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Is there anything you’re dying to get off your chest?”

“Well,” I said. “While it is true that I can leap tall buildings at a single bound, and while, in fact, I am more powerful than a locomotive, it is not true that I am faster than a speeding bullet. If I’m going to protect you, we have to weigh risk and gain quite often.”

She nodded. “It’s disappointing though,” she said.

“What is?”

“That you’re not faster than a speeding bullet.”

“Think how I feel,” I said.

We swung into the entrance of the Beverly Hillcrest. “Take a shower,” she said. “Have a drink. Dinner in the room. Get rid of jet lag. Have a night’s rest. I’ll pick you up at eight thirty tomorrow morning, and you start working.”

“You’ll be okay tonight,” I said.

“I was all right last night.”

I got out. A servant took my suitcase. Everyone else watched Candy SIoan drive away. The folks at the Hillcrest didn’t seem too much more laid-back than I was.