“They move sets around.”
“They move everything around. Stan was all muscle. Did stunt work til he broke his collarbone working for Keaton. My daughter's in the business, too, reads scripts for CAA. So I have a soft spot for anyone dreamy enough to still want to be part of it. That's why I rented to Reed with just a first month down. Usually I get first and last. And he's been a good tenant. Even when he got laid up, he didn't laze around too long.”
“Laid up how?”
“Few months ago. He slipped a disc, lifting those weights he's got- well, looky here, you can talk to him yourself.”
A battered yellow Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. Rust fringed the wheel wells.
No Porsche, yet.
The man who got out was older than I expected- thirty or so- and huge. Six-five, tanned deeply, with very pale gray eyes and long, thick black hair brushed back and flowing over a yard of shoulder. His features were strong, square, perfect for the camera. The cleft in his chin was Kirk Douglas-caliber. He wore a heavy gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to expose side-of-beef biceps, very brief black shorts, and sandals without socks. I tried to picture him with Tessa Bowlby.
He shot me a quick look, the gray eyes curious and intelligent; Tarzan with an IQ. A brown paper bag was in one hand. Handing it to Mrs. Green, he added a milk-fed smile.
“How's it going, Maidie. Hey, Sam.” Stroking the bullmastiff, he looked at me again. The dog's neck bulged and furrowed as she tilted her head back at him. Her eyes had softened. A big pink tongue bathed his fingers.
“Fine as rain,” said Mrs. Green. “This fellow's from the police, Reed, but no cop. A psychologist, isn't that something? He's here to talk to you about some murdered professor. What'd you go and do now, kid?”
Muscadine's thick brows curved and he squinted. “
“Hope Devane,” I said.
“Oh… Those are fresh today, Maidie.”
“From where, that health-food place?”
“Where else?”
“Organic.” She snorted. “Did you ever figure maybe the reason I lived so long is all the preservatives I took pickled me like a deli cuke?”
She looked inside the bag. “Peaches out of season? Must have cost a fortune.”
“I only got two,” said Muscadine. “The apples were actually cheap, and look at that color.” He turned to me. “A psychologist?”
“I work with the police.”
“I don't understand.”
“I'm looking into Professor Devane's committee work.”
“Oh. Sure. Want to come up?”
“Devane,” said Mrs. Green, scratching her nose. “Why is that name familiar?”
“She was murdered in Westwood,” said Muscadine. “What was it, three months ago?”
I nodded.
“Oh, yeah, the one who wrote a book,” said Mrs. Green. “She was your professor, Reed?”
“She taught me,” said Muscadine, looking at me.
“A professor.” She shook her head. “In a neighborhood like that. What a world- thanks for the fruit, Reed.”
“My pleasure, Maidie.”
Muscadine and I started up the driveway.
Mrs. Green said, “But don't spend like that, again. Not til you become a star.”
As we reached the stairs, he said, “Guess how old she is?”
“Eighty?”
“Ninety next month, maybe I
The apartment was a single front room with a closet-sized kitchen and a rear bath.
Two walls were mirrored, the others were painted true white. An enormous chrome weight machine took up the center, flanked by a pressing bench, a curl-bar, and, against the wall, a rack of dumbbells arranged by poundage. Iron discs for the bench-bar were stacked like giant black checkers. A double window bordered by ridiculously dainty gingham curtains looked down on blossoming orange trees. Facing the glass were a motorized treadmill, a stair-stepper, a cross-country ski machine, an exercise bike, and wedged in the corner, a double-sized mattress and box spring and two pillows. Black bed linens. I thought of Tessa and Muscadine grappling.
The only pieces of conventional furniture were a cheap wooden nightstand and dresser. A wheeled aluminum rack was hung with color-coordinated shirts, slacks, jeans, and sportcoats. Not too much of each, but the quality looked good. On the floor beneath the clothes were two pairs of sneakers, brown loafers, black oxfords, gray cowboy boots.
Nothing on the cracked tile kitchen counter but a blender and a hot plate. I'd seen bigger refrigerators in Winnebagos. A sign taped to the front said THINK POSTIVE-BUT LURN HOW TO SPEL. Two steel-and-plastic stools were up against the counter. Muscadine pulled one out and said, “Sorry, I don't entertain much.”
We both sat down.
“Thanks for not elaborating about the committee in front of Maidie. She gives me a break on the rent and right now I need it.”
I looked over the exercise equipment. “Nice setup.”
“I used to work at a health club that went under. Got it cheap.”
“Were you a personal trainer?”
“More like impersonal. One of those budget places, basically a scam. I know it looks weird having all this stuff in a place this size but it ended up being cheaper than paying my own gym fees, and right now my body's my commodity.”
The room was hot but his skin was dry despite the heavy sweatshirt. Tossing his hair, he laughed. “That didn't come out exactly right. What I'm saying is no matter how intellectual you get about acting, the industry runs on first impressions and when you hit a certain age, you've got to work harder.”
“What age is that?”
“Depends on the person. I'm thirty-one. So far, so good.”
“First impressions,” I said. “The casting couch?”
“There's some of that still going around but what I mean is the way impulse rules. I can practice Stanislavsky- acting methods- from now til tomorrow, but if the bod goes so does my marketability.” He hooked his thumb downward.
“How long have you been working at it?”
“Couple of years. Got a degree in business, worked for an accounting firm for nine years. Finally I couldn't stand the sight of numbers and went back for a master's in fine arts. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, I'm going to.” Opening the fridge, he pulled a bottle of mineral water from a grouping of two dozen. The only other thing inside was a grapefruit.
Twisting the top with two fingers, he took a long swallow.
“Why'd you drop out?” I said.
“Boy, word gets around fast. Who told you?”
“Professor Dirkhoff.”
“Good old Professor Dirkhoff. The old queen on his throne. He's quite
Flexing one arm, he rotated the hand. “Maybe I should have brought
“Why's that?”
“No woman victim. Because that's really what the committee was all about: men against women. From the minute I got in there she was on the attack.”
Shrugging, he poured the rest of the water down his throat. “So you're talking to everyone involved with the
