Bad Love

'Tomorrow would be okay for me.'

'Tomorrow's fine.'

'Great,' she said. 'Where do you live?'

'West L.A.'

'I'm in Studio City, but I don't mind coming over the hill on the weekend.'

'I can come out to the valley.'

'No, actually, I like to come out when it's not for work. Never get a chance to enjoy the city. Whereabouts in West L.A.?'

'Near Beverly Hills.'

'Okay… how about Amanda's, it's a little place on Beverly Drive.'

'What time?'

'Say one p.m.?'

'One it is.'

Nervous laughter. 'I know this must seem strange coming out of the blue, but maybe… oh, let's just talk about it tomorrow.'

• • •

I gave the dog a few bites of steak, wrapped the rest in plastic, and pocketed it. Then we drove to the pet store, where I let him sniff around the food bags. He lingered at some stuff that claimed to be scientifically formulated. Organic ingredients. Twice the cost of any of the others.

'You earned it,' I said, and I purchased ten pounds along with several packets of assorted canine snacks.

Going home, he munched happily on a bacon-flavored pretzel.

'Bon appetit, Spike,' I said. 'Your real name's probably something like Pierre de Cordon Bleu.'

Back at the house on Benedict Canyon, I found Robin reading in the living room. I told her what had happened with Hurley Keffler and she listened, quiet and resigned, as if I were a delinquent child with no hope of rehabilitation.

'What a good friend you turned out to be,' she said to the dog. He jumped up on the couch and put his head in her lap.

'So what are they going to do with him- this Keffler?'

'He'll be in jail for a while.'

'How long's a while?'

'Probably not long. His gang's likely to make his bail.'

'And then?'

'And then he'll be out, but he won't know this address.'

'Okay.'

'Want to take a drive up to Ojai and Santa Barbara, next couple of days?'

'Business or pleasure?'

'Both.' I told her about Lerner and Harrison, my wanting to speak to the Corrective School's neighbors.

'Love to, but I really shouldn't, Alex. Too much work down here.'

'Sure?'

'I am, hon. Sorry.' She touched my face. 'There's so much piled up, and even though I've got all my gear set up, it feels different here- I'm working slower, need to get back on the track.'

'I'm really putting you through it, aren't I?'

'No,' she said, smiling and mussing my hair. 'You're the one being put through.'

The smile lingered and grew into a soft laugh.

'What's funny?' I said.

'The way men think. As if our going through some stress together would be putting me through it. I'm worried about you, but I'm glad to be here with you- to be part of it. Putting me through it means something totally different.'

'Such as?'

'Constantly diminishing me- condescending to me, dismissing my opinions. Anything that would make me question my worth. Do those kinds of things to a woman and she may stay with you, but she'll never think the same of you.'

'Oh.'

'Oh,' she said, laughing and hugging me. 'Pretty profound, huh? Are you mad at me for not wanting to go to Ojai?'

'No, just disappointed.'

'You go anyway. Promise to be careful?'

'I promise.'

'Good,' she said. 'That's important.'

18

We had dinner at an Indian place near Beverly Hills' eastern border with L.A., washing the meal down with clove tea and driving home feeling good. Robin went to run a bath and I phoned Milo at home and told him about Jean's call.

'She has something to tell me but wouldn't elaborate over the phone- sounded nervous. My guess is she found something about Hewitt that scares her. I'm meeting her at one, and I'll ask her about Gritz. When were you planning to see Ralph Paprock?'

'Right around then.'

'Care to make it earlier?'

'Dealership won't be open. I suppose we could catch him just as he comes in.'

'I'll pick you up.'

• • •

Sunday morning I drove to West Hollywood. Milo's and Rick's place was a small, perfectly kept Spanish house at the end of one of those short, obscure streets that hide in the grotesque shadow of the Design Center's blue- green mass. Cedars-Sinai was within walking distance. Sometimes Rick jogged to work. Today, he hadn't: the white Porsche was gone.

Milo was waiting outside. The small front lawn had been replaced by ground cover and the flowers were blooming bright orange.

He saw me looking at it and said, 'Drought resistant,' as he got into the car. 'That 'environmental designer' I told you about. Guy would upholster the world in cactus if he could.'

I took Laurel Canyon up into the Valley, passing stilt-box houses and postmodern cabins, the decaying Palladian estate where Houdini had done tricks for Jean Harlow. A governor had once lived right around there. None of the magic had rubbed off.

At Ventura, I turned left and traveled two miles to Valley Vista Cadillac. The showroom was fronted by twenty- foot slabs of plate glass and bordered by a huge outdoor lot. Banners were strung on high-tension wire. The lights were off, but morning sun managed to get in and bounce off the sparkling bodies of brand-new coupes and sedans. The cars out on the lot were blinding.

A trim black man in a well-cut navy suit stood next to a smoke-gray Seville. When he saw us get out of my seventy-nine, he went over to the front door and unlocked it, even though business hours hadn't begun. When Milo and I stepped in, his hand was out and his smile was blooming brighter than Milo's lawn.

He had a perfectly trimmed pencil mustache and a pin-collar shirt as white as an avalanche. Off to the side of the showroom, beyond the cars, was a warren of cubicles, and I could hear someone talking on the phone. The cars were spotless and perfectly detailed. The whole place smelled of leather and rubber and conspicuous consumption. My car had smelled that way once, even though I'd bought it used. Someone had told me the fragrance came in aerosol cans.