familiar about the craggy face with the cigarette stuck in the left corner of the wide bitter mouth.
The cigarette jiggled a little when the man spoke before Stallings could even say hello. “You really think they’ll send you to Hawaii for two weeks?”
“Who?”
“The crew chief who’s got you out peddling magazine subscriptions door-to-door old as you are.”
“Not selling anything, friend,” Stallings said with what he trusted was a reassuring and even ingenuous smile. “The name’s Booth Stallings and I’m just paying a friendly call on account of I’m your new neighbor.”
“Which house?”
“The one right across the street that belonged to poor Mr. Rice.”
The man nodded, removed the cigarette, had a reflective swallow of his drink, stuck the cigarette back in place and said, “Billy Rice was a lot of things, but poor sure as shit wasn’t one of ‘em.”
“Knew him pretty well, did you?”
“You a drinking man?”
“I have to confess I am.”
“Well, come on in and I’ll pour us one and you can get acquainted with the neighborhood’s friendliest neighbor, Rick Cleveland.”
There was a brief, not quite imperceptible, pause before Cleveland stuck out his right hand. It was as if he were hoping Stallings would match the name with the face. After grasping the hand, Stallings took a chance and said, “Hell, you’re in pictures.”
There was a slight nod followed by a small relieved smile as Cleveland, turning to lead the way into the living room, said, “Yeah, but I haven’t worked much for a couple of years.”
Suspecting it was more like ten years than two, Stallings said, “Been in Malibu long?”
“Since fifty-one and in L.A. Since thirty-seven,” Cleveland said, picking up a half-empty bottle of Vat 69 from a marbletop table.
“Scotch okay?”
“Fine.”
“Water?”
“Some.”
“You need ice?”
Since none was visible, Stallings said, “Got out of the habit.”
Once he had his drink, Stallings turned to the large window that offered a view of the Pacific Coast Highway, the Billy Rice house and, when he went up on his toes, a very small slice of the Pacific Ocean.
“View’s better upstairs,” Cleveland said as he eased down into a gray club chair. Stallings chose the low pale blue couch in front of the window, tasted his drink, gave his host another neighborly smile and said, “You must’ve seen some changes.”
“Yeah, but that’s because I go back to the Flood—or to GWTW
anyway. Remember all those young southern bloods hanging around Scarlett in the first few scenes? Well, I was the one who got to say,
‘You’re welcome, Miss O’Hara,’ or maybe it was, ‘You’re welcome, Miss Scarlett.’ Can’t even remember which now. But who the hell cares?”
“Film buffs maybe?”
“Fuck ‘em.”
After another polite swallow of his drink, Stallings said, “See much of your late neighbor?”
Cleveland put out his cigarette and lit a new one before replying. “I sued the son of a bitch for ruining my view. But he had a fix in with both the county and the Coastal Commission and I found out pretty quick that only damn fools sue anybody who’s sitting on top of a billion bucks.”
“You guys weren’t too friendly, then.”
“I went to see him in his Century City office when I learned how high he planned to build his goddamned house. He told me to talk to his lawyers. That was our first and last conversation.”
Stallings glanced over his shoulder at the Rice house. “Ever been inside it?”
“Nope.”
“Not the coziest place I ever stayed.”
“Then why’d you rent it?”
“The outfit I work for’s based in London and they’re thinking of expanding to L.A. The two principal partners thought they might need to do a little entertaining. That’s why I snapped up a two-month lease on the Rice house—because it looks like it was designed for a never-ending party.”
“Well, he did give a lot of ‘em,” Cleveland said. “But you’d never know it. There wasn’t any noise to speak of because the partying was all done on the beach side. And you couldn’t complain about the parking or the traffic because he always had a valet service that drove the guest cars off and hid ‘em someplace. But I used to
