Guilt

CHAPTER 42

The morning after meeting Kevin Dubinsky, I dressed in sweatpants, a T-shirt, running shoes, and a Dodgers cap, was ready to leave by eight. Blanche, figuring it was time for a stroll, bounced up to me and smiled.

I said, “Sorry, honey,” fetched her a consolation strip of bacon that she regarded with sad eyes before deigning to nibble, carried her to Robin’s studio, and left the house.

I drove up Beverly Glen, turned right at Mulholland, passing the fire station near Benedict Canyon, stopping once to pick up a nice-sized branch that had fallen off an ancient sycamore. Sailing through pretty, dew-livened hills I reached the Coldwater Canyon intersection, across from TreePeople headquarters.

A little more than half a mile south of the private road that led to the Premadonny compound.

I drove two miles north of the property, found a patch of turnoff not meant for long-term stay, left the car there, anyway. Stick in hand, I returned south on foot.

Crows squawked, squirrels chittered, all kinds of animal noises became evident once you listened. I spotted a deer munching dry grass then speeding toward a McMansion that blocked far too much canyon view, came upon the desiccated remains of a gorgeous red-and-yellow-banded king snake. Juvenile, from the size of it. No signs of violence to the little reptile. Sometimes things just died.

I kept going, using the branch for a walking stick that I hoped would imply Habitual Hiker. Nice day to be out walking, if you ignored the occasional car roaring toward you, oblivious or hostile to the concept of foot travel. Fools texting and phone-yakking and a notable cretin shaving his face made the journey an interesting challenge. More than once I had to press myself against a hillside to avoid being pulverized.

I kept up a steady pace, tapped a rhythm with the stick, pretended to be caught up in pedestrian Zen. In L.A., that makes you strange. In L.A., people ignore strange.

When I reached my destination, I found a tree-shielded spot across the road and had a look at the entry to the compound. A discreet sign warned against trespassing. An electric gate ten or so yards up blocked entry. The road to that barrier was a single lane of age-grayed asphalt in need of patching, shaded by bay laurels and untrimmed ficus. A stray plastic cup lid glinted from the shrubbery. Appropriately secluded but a little on the shabby side; not a hint this was Buckingham West.

I continued walking, searched for police surveillance. None that I could see; maybe Milo hadn’t gotten around to arranging it.

I hadn’t heard from him since the meet at Melvin Wedd’s crime scene. Probably inspecting Wedd’s apartment, locating next of kin, all that logical detective procedure.

Correspondence with Wedd’s family would be an exercise in deception: prying out dirt about a victim/possible suspect under the guise of consolation. Milo was good at that, I’d seen him pull it off plenty of times. Later, he’d mutter about the power of positive hypocrisy.

I covered another mile, reversed direction, took a second look at the access road to the compound, repeated the process several times, never encountering another person on foot.

They say walking’s the best exercise, if we had time to do enough of it, we wouldn’t need to jog or run or tussle with implements of gym-torture. By the time I got back in the Seville my feet were starting to protest and I guessed I’d covered at least ten miles.

It had been a learning experience. Body and mind.

When I was minutes from home, Robin called. “Guess what, Brent’s back in town, can’t wait to talk to you.”

“Eager to do his civic duty?”

She laughed. “More like his un-civil duty. He hates them, Alex. Quote unquote. He’s lunching, guess where?”

“Spago.”

“Grill on the Alley. Karma, huh?”

“Last time I was there the company was a whole lot cuter.”

“But nowhere near this informative, baby. Good luck.”

The Grill bustles pleasantly at dinnertime. During lunch it roars, filling up with Industry testosterone, every power booth occupied by movers and shakers and those too rich to bother doing either. Each bar stool is occupied but no one gets drunk. Platters of food are transported smoothly by an army of white-jacketed waiters who’ve seen it all. Sometimes tourists and others naive enough to venture in without a reservation bunch up at the door like immigrants seeking asylum. A trio of hosts seems genuinely remorseful when they reject the unschooled.

My hiking duds were far below the sartorial standard but you’d never know it from the smile of the woman behind the lectern. “May I help you?”

“I’m meeting Brent Dorf.”

“Certainly.” She beckoned a waiter with an eyebrow lift and he led me to a table on the south side of the restaurant, concealed by the center partition.

Far from the see-and-be-seen; Brent’s clout was beta.

He was hunched over a Caesar salad, forking quickly as if he needed to be somewhere else yesterday. When he saw me, he didn’t stop eating. A millimeter of white wine remained in his glass.

The waiter said, “Cocktail? Or Chardonnay like Mr. Dorf?” and handed me a menu.

I said, “Iced tea’s fine. I’ll also have a Caesar.”

“No croutons, dressing on the side, like Mr. Dorf?”

“Dressing and croutons are fine. Anchovies, too.”

The waiter smiled approvingly, as if someone finally had the sense to do it right.

Brent said, “Lay on the calories and the sodium, easy for you skinny folk.”

He was thinner than me, had the wrinkles and sunken cheeks to show for it. His head was shaved, his oblong hound-dog face had been barbered so closely that I wondered about electrolysis. Last time I’d seen him he’d been thirty pounds heavier and sported a soul patch.

I said, “You’re not exactly obese, Brent.”

“Good tailoring, you don’t want to see me naked.” He looked at the ramekin of salad dressing at his right elbow, considered his options, pushed it away. “I’m under pressure, my friend.”

“Tough job.”

“Not that pressure, body pressure.”

“Honestly, you look good, Brent.”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s relative,” he said. “Got myself a twenty-eight-year-old dancer with statue-of-David definition, I’m talking physical perfection.” He sighed. “Todd claims he loves me but we both know he’s out for the good life. By both of us, I don’t mean him and me, I mean you and me. Seeing as you’re a mental health sage.”

My tea came.

Brent said, “How’s your gorgeous other?”

“Terrific.”

“Robin, Robin,” he said. “I always thought she was special. A knockout who knows how to use power tools? Sexy.”

“No argument, Brent.”

His eyelids descended, half hooding irises the color of silt. He looked around the room, bent closer, lowered his voice. “So you want to know about Lancelot and Guinevere.”

“Anything you can tell me.”

“Funny,” he said, “I figured you could tell me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I sent them to you. Referred them. Figured by now you’d have all the insights.”

“That was you?” I said. “They canceled, never saw them.”

“Figures,” he said. “They’re big on that.”

“Canceling?”

“Reneging.” His hand tensed, gave a small wave and brushed against his glass, knocking it over. The minuscule amount of wine was no threat as it dribbled to the tablecloth, but he flung himself back as if escaping an avalanche. High-strung type.

When the waiter came over to help, he barked, “I’m fine, just bring his food.”

“Yes, sir.”

I drank tea as Brent checked out the adjoining booths. No one paid attention to his scrutiny.

“So they never showed up,” he said. “Well, they fucked me over big-time, that’s why I’m happy to give you dirt. But first tell me why you need to know about them.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Sorry, that’s all I can say, Brent.”

“Ooooh, big giant police mystery? Got to be juicy if that cop has you on it.” He winked. “Another O.J. thing? Blake? Something better?”

“Not even close, I was hoping you’d get me closer.”

“I do the giving, you do the taking?” He laughed. “So you’ve met Todd.”

My salad arrived. Brent lifted an anchovy from my plate, chewed, swallowed. “Blood pressure’s probably through the roof now, but yummy.”

“So how’d you come to refer them to me?”

“I was doing a deal and the issue came up. I think kid-shrink, I think you.”

“What kind of problem were they having?”

“How should I know? I never talked to them.”

“Your people set it up with their people. Then you took lunch.”

“Ha ha ha. As a matter of fact, yes, that’s what happened. But high-level people. People authorized to make decisions. We were at that stage by then, I thought I had the deal nailed.”

An index finger massaged the empty wineglass. Reassuring himself he was steady. He said, “My house has a wine cellar, I’ve got twelve hundred bottles, more than I’ll be able to drink, and Todd doesn’t touch alcohol.”

“Embarrassment of riches.”

“Yeah … anyway, that’s it. Someone asked about a therapist, I said I knew someone.”

“They asked for a child therapist, specifically.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I think so-this was what, two years ago?”

“Just about.”

His eyes drifted toward the bar, followed the entry of four men in suits and open-necked shirts. And loafers. He started to wave, stopped when they failed to notice him. Or ignored him. They continued to a corner booth. He finished his wine.

I said, “No hint about what the problem was.”

“Ri … ight.” Still checking out the room.

I ate salad as he gave the anchovies an occasional lustful look. “I need to be honest, Alex. It wasn’t something I thought much about, I was concentrating on the deal. Besides, I get that kind of thing all the time.”

“Requests for referrals.”

“Doctors, dentists, chiropractors, masseuses. All part of the job.”

“Knowing the right people.”

“Knowing the right matches, who fits with who. I figured you’d be okay for them because you have all the right paper, probably wouldn’t fuck up.”

I smiled. “Thanks for the endorsement, Brent.”

“They canceled, huh? So what else is new.”

“Why’d they bail on your deal?”

“Not my deal, a deal between titans, I’m talking A-est of the A-list, something that could’ve been huge. I set it up elegantly, if it had gone through, I’d never have to think about anything for the rest of my life.”

“Blockbuster.”

“Blockbuster times a quintzillion, Alex. I’m talking action, romance, long and short arcs, merchandising potential up the wazz, sequels that would’ve gone on for infinity. I’m talking the biggest thing they’d do together, wa-aaay bigger than Passion Power and that piece of shit pulled in heavy eight figures with overseas distribution. The upside would’ve been astronomical. More important, I staked my word on it, staked my fucking soul. Everything was in place, contracts drawn, clauses hammered out, legal fees alone cost more than entire pictures used to rack up. We were set up for a signing, going to make a big thing about it, press conference, photo ops. The day before, they change their mind.”

“How come?”

“People like that have to give a reason?” His fist hit the table. The wineglass bounced. He caught it. “Gotcha, you little bastard.”

Beckoning the waiter, he brandished the glass. “Take this away, it’s annoying.”

“Yes, sir.”

Flecks of foam had collected at the corners of Brent’s mouth. He made claws out of his hands, scratched air. “I put everything into it, Alex. Hadn’t taken on another client the entire year and I’m talking names, people pissed off at me. Everything else came my way, I delegated to other agents at the firm. So of course, my alleged friends and colleagues held on to everything after I got … after the deal got murdered and I had nothing, was starting from fucking scratch and my credibility’s worse than a politician. Everything changed. I got moved to a new office. Want to take odds it was bigger? Don’t.” Long sigh. “But I’m getting back to a good place in my life, every day’s progress.”

He shoved his plate to the side. “The deal was perfection, every meeting was perfection. And for a bullshit reason like that? Give me a fucking break.”

I said, “Thought they didn’t give you a reason?”

“I said that? I never said that. What I said was people like that don’t have to have a reason. Yeah, they gave an excuse. Family matters. And that’s after I referred them to you, so what the fuck was their problem?”

His eyelids dropped farther. “Here’s a confession, Alex. For a while I got paranoid. About you. Did they go see you and you laid some shrink crap on them-spend more time with the kids, whatever-and that’s what fucked things up? For a while I had … thoughts about you. Then I realized I was getting psycho, if I didn’t watch out I’d go totally psycho.”

He reached across, patted my wrist. “I have to be honest, that’s one reason I wanted to meet with you. To find out what the fuck happened. So now I find out you don’t know what the fuck happened and you’re asking me what the fuck happened. Funny. Ironic. Ha ha ha. And they’re in some kind of trouble. Good. I’m happy. They should rot in hell.”

“What kind of people are they?”

“What kind do you think? Selfish, narcissistic, inconsiderate, he’s an idiot, she’s a controlling bitch. You buy that Super Mom-Super Dad crap? It’s just part of the facade, everything about people like that is a facade. You ever hear him talk? Dluh dluh dluh dluh. That’s what passes for James Dean, now. Welcome to my world.”

The waiter came over. “Anything else, gents? Coffee?”

Brent said, “No. Check.”

I paid.

Brent said, “Good man.”