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.”
