perfect. When can you have it ready for takeoff?'
'How's Thursday?'
'Fine. I'm flying up to San Francisco to visit my parents and then back down here for the Friday Forum gig. I'll send Jackie or one of the roadies to pick it up. Now for the fun part.' He unzipped one of the compartments on the parachute pants and drew out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.
'Filth and lucre,' he said, peeling off thirty or so and handing them to Robin. It didn't change the size of the wad appreciably. 'That do it?'
'You gave me three hundred too much,' said Robin, counting and holding out three bills.
'Keep it. Perfectionism's hard to find, and I can use the write-off.' He hefted the wad and shifted it from one hand to another.
'Don't flash that in this neighbourhood,' said Robin.
He laughed and put the money away.
'It would be tasteless, wouldn't it?'
'I was thinking more in terms of dangerous.'
'Oh. Yeah, I guess so.' He shrugged. 'Well, that's why I have Jackie. He's bulletproof. Faster than a locomotive. Eats rivets for breakfast. I hired him after the John Lennon thing. I was nervous; lots of people were. I think he used to break legs for the Mafia or something, but all he's had to do for me so far is glare.'
Robin wrote him a receipt, and we walked to the door.
'Good to meet you, Alex.'
He picked up Robin's hands and kissed them.
'Keep these in good shape. In today's market visuals are everything. I'll be needing plenty more objects d'art.' A diamond-lit smile. 'Well, off to S.F. and a reunion with Dr. and Mrs. Ornstein.'
I thought of something.
'Billy,' I said, 'did you grow up in San Francisco?'
'Atherton, actually,' he said, naming one of the high-priced spreads just outside the city.
'Were you involved with the Haight-Ashbury scene?'
He laughed.
'When all that was going down I was a good little nerd who wanted to be an orthodontist just like Daddy. I spent the sixties memorising biology books. Why?'
'I'm trying to find out about some people who lived in an urban commune on the Haight.'
He shook his head.
'Never my scene, but I can tell you who might know. Roland Oberheirn - Roily O. He's a producer, used to play brass with Big Blue Nirvana. Remember them?'
'I think so. Sitars over a heavy backbeat?'
'Right. And pop Hinduism. They hit gold a couple of times, then got ego cancer and broke up. Roily was one of Ken Kesey's pranksters, heavily into acid, called himself Captain Trips. He knew everyone on the Haight. Now he lives down here, doing independent gigs. I can put you in touch if you want.'
'I'd appreciate that.'
'Okay. I'll call him tonight and get back to you. If I forget, call me and remind me. Robin's got all my numbers.'
'Will do. Thanks.'
He fluffed his hair and was gone.
Robin and I looked at each other.
'Rockin' Billy Ornstein?' we said simultaneously.
The next morning I returned to the building on Pico. This time the door was open a crack. I leaned against it and entered.
I was greeted by a flight of wide pine stairs and the aroma of pesto. At the top of the stairs were darkness and the faint muscular outlines of two Dobermans reclining, seemingly impervious to my presence.
'Hi there, fellas,' I said, and went up one step. The Dobermans sprang to their feet, snarling throatily. A heavy chain ran from each of their necks to the top stairposts, too long to be of much comfort.
The dogs bared their teeth and started roaring. I couldn't say much for their tone, but the duet was full of emotion.
'Who is it? What do you want?'
The voice was loud and female, emerging from somewhere behind the Dobermans. Upon hearing it, the dogs quieted and I shouted up:
'I'm looking for Gary Yamaguchi.'
A purple pear topped with grated carrots materialised between the two dogs.
'All right, honey pies, those are good boys,' the pear cooed. The dogs sank submissively and licked a pair of hands. 'Yes, sweeties, yes, sugar dumplings. Mama likes when you're alert.'
There was a faint click, and a bare bulk crackled to life above the stairs. The pear became a young woman - early thirties, blowsily heavy, wearing a purple muumuu. Her hair was a hennaed tangle, her pale make-up laid on with a trowel. She put dimpled hands on ample hips and swayed assertively.
'What do you want with him?'
'My name is Alex Delaware. I counselled him years ago, and I need to talk to him about another one of my patients who was one of his friends.'
'Counselled? You're a therapist?'
'Psychologist.'
She lit up.
'I love psychologists. My first two husbands were psychologists. You married?'
'Yes,' I lied, keeping it simple.
'No matter, you can still come up.'
I hesitated, gazing up at the Dobermans.
'Don't worry' - she laughed - 'they won't eat you unless I tell them to.'
I trudged up warily, ankles tingling in anticipation.
The stairs ended at a large landing. To the left was a splintered door; to the right, an open doorway. From the doorway came strong wafts of basil.
'Ms. Randee Bogdan,' said the woman, saluting. 'With two e's.' We shook hands briefly. 'Come on in, Dr. Alex Psychologist.'
She waddled through the doorway. Inside were three
thousand square feet of studio. The walls had been painted deep salmon. One of them held a linear display of sea turtle shells polished to a high gloss; the others were bare. The floor was black lacquer; the skylit ceilings were a clutter of exposed ducts painted hot pink. The furniture was eclectic, a studied mix of Deco, contemporary, and serendipity: grey Chinese vases; Lucite nesting tables; pink fainting couches piped with taupe; a high ebony armoire inlaid with abalone; a rough stone garden urn filled with silk amaryllis; lots of empty space. Apparently casual, very expensive.
Dominating the centre of the studio was an enormous industrial kitchen, stainless steel and spotless. Racks of copper pots hung from an iron rail. The counters were hammered metal with insets of marble for rolling pastry. Cauldrons and pans simmered on a nine-burner Wolf range. The smell of basil was almost overwhelming. Randee with two e's walked into it, lifting lids and peering into the cauldrons. Once or twice she sniffed and tasted, then shook a dash of something into whatever she was brewing. I picked up a pink satinised card from a stack on the corner: CATERING BY RANDEE and a Beverly Hills exchange.
'That's the answering service,' she said, licking one finger. 'For class. The bowels of the operation is right here, pardon my anality.'
'Did Gary live next door?'
'Uh-huh,' she said distractedly, looking for something on the counter, cursing cheerfully until she found it. She held it up - a piece of paper which she proceeded to read out loud: 'For the Malibu soiree of Mr. and Mrs. Chester ('Chet') Lamm. Cold winter melon soup, gosling salad with raspberry vinegar, a nice sweetbread and truffles teaser, pike and crayfish quenelles, blackened chicken with ze leetle tiny pink peppercorns, the always chi-chi pasta pesto, of course, and to top it off, lightly baked goat cheese and a daring cucumber-pineapple sorbet. What a
