Private Eyes

succeed, but the acid thing kiboshed that. The studio knew it was a buyer’s market, lots of fresh flesh bused in daily from Iowa. So it gave these kids shoestring contracts, used them for walk-ons, various ancillary services, then ditched them when the wrinkles started showing.”

“Ramp never mentioned knowing McCloskey more than casually.”

“He knew him all right, though from what I hear they weren’t good buddies.”

Milo raised his briefcase to his lap, opened it, searched, and came up with a brown marbled-paper folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph with the Apex Studios snowy-mountain logo on the lower-right margin. The shot had been taken at some kind of nightclub- or maybe it was just a set. Fluted leather booth, mirrored wall, white- linened table, silver service, crystal ashtrays and cigarette boxes. Half a dozen good-looking people in their early twenties wearing stylish evening clothes. Smiling photogenically and smoking and raising glasses in a toast.

Gina Prince nEe Paddock sat dead center, blond and beautiful, in an off-the-shoulder gown that photographed gray, and a pearl choker that emphasized the length and smoothness of her neck. The resemblance to Melissa was striking.

Don Ramp next to her, husky and tan and healthy-looking, sans mustache. Joel McCloskey on her other side, slick-haired and handsome- almost pretty. His smile was different from those of the others. Outsider’s uncertain grin. A cigarette between his fingers was burned down nearly to the filter.

Two other faces- a man and a woman- that I didn’t recognize. And one, at the far end, that I did.

“This,” I said, pointing to a sharp-featured brunette in a dangerously low-cut black dress, “is Bethel Drucker. Noel’s mother. She’s blond now, but this is her- I just met her today. She works for Ramp as a waitress at his restaurant. She and Noel live upstairs.”

“My, my,” said Milo. “One big happy family.” He pulled another piece of paper out of the briefcase. “Let’s see, she must be Becky Dupont. Nom du cinEma.” Leaning forward, he took hold of a corner of the photo. “Good-looking woman. Voluptuous.”

“She still is.”

“Good-looking or voluptuous?”

“Both. Though she shows some wear.”

He looked toward the kitchen, where Joyce was working next to the chef. “Must be the day for voluptuous. Tell you one thing, old Becky/Bethel liked her dope. Downers and Quaaludes, according to my sources. Not that you need sources- look at those eyes.”

I peered closely at the finely wrought face and saw what he meant. Wide, dark eyes half-closed, the lids sagging. The bit of iris visible, dull and dreamy and distant. Unlike McCloskey’s, her smile reflected genuine bliss. But the amusement had nothing to do with the party at hand.

“It fits,” I said, “with something Noel said to me today. About always knowing drugs were bad. He started to explain, then changed his mind and said he’d read about it. He’s a really intense kid, very straitlaced and self- directed- almost too good to be true. If he grew up seeing what wild living did to his mom, that could explain it. Something about him got my antennae buzzing- maybe that was it.”

I gave him back the photo. Before he put it away, he took another look. “So. Looks like everyone knows everyone knows everyone, and Hollywood has sunk its fangs into San Labrador.”

“What about the other two people in the picture?”

“The guy is one of my sources, to remain unnamed. The girl is a would-be starlet named Stacey Brooks. Deceased- car crash, 1971, probable DUI. Like I said, a wild bunch.”

“Those ancillary services they provided to the studio,” I said. “That mean the casting couch?”

“That and related stuff- crowd scenes at various parties, dating potential backers and other pooh-bahs. Basically being available to satisfy a variety of appetites. Ramp was especially versatile- handsome escort for the ladies, sub rosa amusement for the gentlemen. He was a cooperative fellow, did what he was told. The studio rewarded him with a few parts- mostly minor roles in westerns and cop flicks.”

“What about McCloskey?”

“My sources remember him as a swaggering tough-guy type. Bargain-basement Brando, toothpick in the mouth, always hinting at pals in New Joisey, but never really fooling anyone. Also, he hated gays, didn’t hesitate to say so without being asked. Maybe it was real, maybe he was latent and protesting too much. No one seems to have a clear handle on who he went to bed with other than Gina. What they do remember are his obnoxious personality and his heavy doping- speed, coke, grass, pills. For a while, when his business was failing, he got into dealing. Supplying people at the studio. Then trading modeling services for dope- that finished his agency off. The models wanted to get paid in cash and he didn’t have any.”

“Did he ever get busted for dealing?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if Gina might have had something to do with getting him in trouble with the law. Or if he thought she had. It would have been a reason to have her burned.”

“Yeah, it sure would, but no dope record- no previous arrests of any kind before the attack.”

Joyce brought bread. When she left, I said, “How about this, then: His homophobia was a cover for his being gay. Gina found out and they had some kind of confrontation over it. Maybe she even threatened to blow his tough-guy cover. It set McCloskey off and he hired Findlay to get her. It would explain why he refused to talk about his motives. It would have humiliated him.”

“Could be,” he said. “But then why wouldn’t she have let the cat out?”

“Good question.”

“Maybe,” he said, “it was something a lot more simple: McCloskey and Gina and Ramp got involved in a triangle and McCloskey eventually freaked out. Remember the way they were sitting in the picture? She’s the meat in the sandwich. In any event, it’s probably ancient history. Probably has nothing to do with her disappearance, other than telling us something about Mr. R.”

“Prosperous businessman trying to forget about providing ancillary services.”

“Yeah. Even when we were looking for his wife, and McCloskey was a potential suspect, he didn’t talk about the bad old days. Even though he was the one pointing a finger at McCloskey. You’d think he’d want to tell us anything that could help find her.”

“Unless there was nothing to tell,” I said. “If Gina never knew why McCloskey burned her, why would Ramp?”

“Maybe,” he said. “What is clear is that Gina had to be aware of Ramp’s sexuality when she married him. Bi guys aren’t considered prime matrimonial material nowadays- the physical risk on top of the social. But that didn’t stop her.”

“Separate bedrooms,” I said. “No risk.”

“Yeah, but what’s his allure for her?”

“He’s a nice guy. Tolerant of her lifestyle, so she puts up with his. And he does appear to be a softie- taking in an old friend like Bethel, paying for Noel’s college. Maybe after all the brutality Gina experienced, she wanted compassion more than sex.”

“Old friend,” he said. “Wonder how Bethel feels about hopping tables while her former buddies live in the Peach Palace.”

“Noel hinted that he and his mom had been through some really hard times. Hopping tables might very well be a big step up.”

“Suppose so,” he said, taking a piece of bread.

I said, “You keep coming back to Ramp.”

“I went down to the beach today to talk to Nyquist, and the place was cleaned out. Neighbor said Nyquist packed his van last night and headed out for parts unknown. The Brentwood Country Club says he didn’t show up for some tennis lessons he was supposed to give today, didn’t bother to call in.”

“Ramp’s folding his tent, too. Asked Noel to pack him a bag. Maybe it’s the trauma of losing Gina- he’s tired of all the pretense. But it’ll be interesting to see if he eventually files a claim against the will or cashes in on some insurance policy no one knew existed. Not to mention the missing two million- who’d be in a better position to siphon that off than the husband?”

“Melissa’s suspicions validated,” he said.

“Out of the mouths of babes. Ramp’s presence is accounted for the day Gina disappeared. But what about