minute,' through the open office door. I sat on the lopsided couch. The trades on the glass table dated from November and the sole Us Weekly had been used to mop up a coffee spill. An antique sash window, warped with dry rot, looked out five feet to a brick wall, but a glimpse of billboard was visible in the sliver of sky above. I knew the one; I'd seen it go from Johnny Depp to Jude Law to Heath Ledger and now to Keith Conner. I was weary of this town. My life here had traced a brief arc from obsolete to defunct, and from where I was, even the big time didn't seem so big anymore.
Finally the voice called out again, rescuing me from the waiting room. The office looked to be a movie set from the fifties. Crooked venetians, stacks of files rising architecturally from every surface, an artichoke of cigarette butts blooming in a porcelain ashtray, all suffused with a yellowed light that seemed dated in its own right.
Crammed behind a chipped desk, visible through a flight path between piles of paperwork, Roman LaRusso was overweight, but his face was fatter than he was, blown Ted Kennedy wide at the cheeks so the bulges tugged his earlobes forward. He was immersed, it seemed, in work and didn't favor me with even a cursory glance through the delicate rectangular reading glasses screwed into either side of his jiggling lion's mane. It wasn't a disgusting face, not at all. It was improbable, magical, something to behold.
I said, 'I'm interested in Deborah B. Vance.'
'I no longer represent her.'
'I think you do. I think you hired her out for a con job.'
He made a big show of reading something on his desk, frowning down over the glasses and breathing ponderously through his nose, which gave off a faint whistle. Then he put away his glasses in a case the size of a nail buffer and finally looked up. 'Admirably direct. Who are you?'
'The lead suspect in the Keith Conner murder.'
'Uh . . .' He didn't get further than that.
'You specialize in commercials?'
'And features,' he said quickly, by habit. 'Did you see Last Man on Uptar?'
'No.'
'Oh. Well, a client was one of the aliens.'
Eight-by-tens graced the walls, a few I recognized from the Web site, along with midgets, an albino, and a woman missing both arms.
He followed my gaze. 'I don't like the pretty ones. I represent talent with character. Actors with disabilities, too. It's sort of a niche. But it means more to me. Don't think I don't know what it's like to be stared at.' He put his knuckles on the blotter and tugged to pull in his chair, but it didn't budge. 'I give my clients a place in the sun. Everyone wants to fit in. Have a piece of that sunshine.'
'Is that what you did for Deborah Vance?'
'Deborah Vance, if that's what you're calling her, didn't need anybody to look after her.'
'What's that mean?'
'She's a hustler, that one. Ran lonely-hearts scams. Chat-room stuff. She'd e-mail pictures to men, they'd wire her money to set up a condo in Hawaii for assignations, that sort of thing.'
'Her?'
'She didn't send pictures of herself. Thus the death threats.'
'Death threats?' It was becoming clear not just why they'd chosen Deborah Vance but how they planned to cover their tracks when they erased her from the picture.
'Nothing to be taken seriously,' he continued. 'Men don't like being embarrassed, that's all. Especially when their good intentions are preyed on.'
'Tell me about it.'
'So she went to ground, switched off names, that kind of stuff. We lost touch. Her and me had a good run on commercials a few years back. They were booking a lot of ethnics. I got her a Fiberestore and two Imodiums.' He smirked. 'No business like show business, right? But I never got involved in her scams.'
'Then how do you know about them?'
He hesitated too long, saw that I'd noticed. 'We used to talk.'
'Why's she still on your home page?'
'I haven't updated that thing in ages.'
'Yeah, I noticed a picture of a client who's deceased.'
He looked down sharply, his features sliding on their cushioning. A drawer rattled open, and then he mopped at his neck with a handkerchief. 'The cops said Mikey had an accident.'
'They came to see you?'
'No. I read . . .'
'They know about Peralta and Deborah Vance but haven't figured out you as the connection. You should tell them you sent her to the same guys you sent him to.'
His considerable weight settled, and he tugged miserably at his ruddy face. 'I get these side jobs sometimes. It's legitimate work. Mall openings. Dinner theater. Kids' parties or whatever. People want to rent certain types sometimes.' Sorrow had worked its way into his voice. 'I couldn't have known. . . . It was just a hit-and-run. Mikey drank some. The papers said it was a hit-and-run.'
'No,' I said. 'Mikey Peralta was killed because of this job.'
LaRusso's face shifted; he'd known but had managed to keep it from himself at the same time. 'You don't know that.'
'I'm on the inside of this thing. I do know.'
He balled the handkerchief in a fist. 'Did you really kill Keith Conner?'
'You think I'd be here trying to save your client if I had?' I said. 'Make no mistake: They will kill Deborah Vance next. And then they'll probably come after you.'
'I don't . . . I don't know anything about the guy. Everything over the phone. Money orders. I never even saw a face. Jesus, you really think . . . ?' His eyes were leaking from the edges, and the tears were confused about which way to go.
'She has to be warned.'
'Like I told the guy, all she gives out anymore is an e-mail. I don't even have a better way to reach her.' He couldn't hold my stare, and finally he gazed up. He flipped through some papers, tipping a stack of folders onto the barely visible floor and came up with a leather planner. His hands were trembling. 'She hasn't been answering her phone.'
'Then give me an address,' I said. 'And get yourself out of town.'
She opened the door and laughed at me. It wasn't to mock me, I didn't think, but to underscore the absurdity of our meeting again, here, in a ground-floor apartment in Culver City. Her affect and bearing--her very posture-- were completely different from Elisabeta's. Even that cackle had a different timbre; it was somehow accentless. She looked well, as she had in the Fiberestore commercial--less puffy and worn. I wondered how much makeup it took to turn someone into a haggard Hungarian.
The fuzzy red bathrobe hanging to her knees made her look like Blinky from Pac-Man. Stepping back, she waved me in with a dramatic sweep of her arm. The cramped apartment gave off a humid floral scent, and I could hear a bath running. Pinching the lapels over her bare chest, she scurried back and turned off the faucet, then returned. 'Well,' she said.
I tried to get a read on whether she knew that I was a suspect in Keith's murder, but she seemed too blase about my appearance. No, it seemed I was still just a guy she'd scammed.
'You're in danger,' I said.
'I've had people after me before.'
'Not like this.'
'How would you know?'
I still couldn't get used to the perfect English, how effortlessly her mouth shaped the words. I glanced around. Antique furniture, broken down but hanging on. A Victrola with a dent in the horn. Noir movie one-sheets covered the walls, and vintage travel posters: CUBA, L AND OF R OMANCE! Since moving to L.A., I'd been in a variation of this place countless times. All that style at garage-sale prices, all those fantasies projected onto the walls, the cloche hats, the deco coasters, the metal cigarette cases from another time, not your time--if only you'd lived then, things would've been different, you would've glided seamlessly into all that smoke and glamour. I
