The Comedy is Finished

call.

Lynsey settled herself as the Bentley moved forward. This rear seat was divided by a console, containing the telephone, an ashtray and other equipment; putting his cigar in the ashtray, continuing to talk on the phone, Hunningdale pointed at his own mug of coffee on the console and raised his eyebrows in question. Yes, coffee would be a good idea; she nodded, and he pointed at the dispenser built into the back of the front seat. (The glass partition was up between here and the chauffeur’s compartment.) Lynsey opened the small door, found more mugs, took one, turned the little chrome handle that produced coffee from the spigot, and followed Hunningdale’s gesturing hand to find powdered cream substitute and sugar.

Meantime, Hunningdale was explaining on the phone that “if you want my boy, you’ve gotta stretch a little. A best-of is nice, but that’s just gravy on the vest. What’s actually on the plate here?”

Lynsey and Hunningdale were both talent agents, but of very different types. She handled a total of six clients, all of them major figures, where the question of selling the client almost never came up; she made a very good living, but there was no pressure to flaunt it. Hunningdale, on the other hand, probably had fifty clients in the music business, was hustling them all the time, and his lavish facade was part of the hustle.

Finishing his phone conversation, inconclusively, Hunningdale smiled at Lynsey and said, “My dear, you look as though you haven’t slept for a week.”

“That’s almost true.”

“Nothing happens the way it should,” he said. “You have a client you have absolute affection for, and he’s kidnapped. I have clients I would gladly put in a sack and drown, and nobody kidnaps them.”

Lynsey gave that a thin smile, saying, “I’m terribly worried about him, Chuck.”

“Of course you are. But, Ginger...” He shook his head, frowning, pantomiming long and careful thought. “I just don’t see it.”

They drove past Mike Wiskiel’s maroon Buick Riviera, parked on the shoulder. Lynsey said, “Chuck, it really does look as though Ginger’s involved.”

“Because of the house. But wasn’t that just happenstantial, criminals stumbling into an empty house?”

“It couldn’t be,” Lynsey said. “They’d have to be sure they were safe, sure nobody would come to the house while they were there.”

“Lynsey, all they had to do was read the trades. Ginger’s tour was adequately reported.”

“But he always rents his house when he’s away. This time he gave it to the same realtor, but he insisted on double the regular rent.”

Hunningdale frowned, bothered by that. “Are you sure that’s true?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what do you take it to mean?”

“That Ginger wanted it to look as though the house was for rent the same as always, but he actually wanted to be sure it would stay empty.”

“Dear dear dear.” Hunningdale pursed his lips, staring away at the traffic. “I know Ginger used to be involved with some very iffy types,” he said. “Way back when, you know. But everybody was involved with iffy types in those days. I myself had people in my own house ten years ago that today I shudder at the thought.”

Lynsey forced herself to be patient, say nothing, let Hunningdale work it out for himself.

Hunningdale said, “When the FBI came around yesterday, I assumed it was merely the coincidence of the house, and they’d looked in their old files or dossiers or whatever, they saw Ginger’s old-time connection, and they jumped to a conclusion.”

“Of course.”

“I mean, that’s what the FBI does.”

“I know that,” Lynsey said. “Guilt by non sequitur. But this time, there’s more to it than that.”

Hunningdale lowered his head, brooding at his large stomach. “The situation could be awkward,” he said.

“You mean, because you told the FBI you didn’t know where Ginger was.”

“Well, in fact I don’t know where he is, not exactly. I do know he’s in Los Angeles.”

“He is!”

Hunningdale turned his troubled expression toward Lynsey: “You can see my difficulty. I tell you Ginger’s in town, you tell the FBI, they get upset because I didn’t cooperate.”

“You won’t come into it at all,” Lynsey promised him. “I’ll be the one who found him.”

“By talking to me.”

“By using my contacts.”

“Mm.” Hunningdale brooded some more.

Lynsey said, “We’ve never dealt directly with one another, Chuck, but you must know my reputation.”

“Of course.”

“We can deal.”

Hunningdale smiled slightly. “There is a certain appeal in being Deep Throat.” But then, shaking his head, he said, “But I truly don’t know where he is. Somewhere in town, that’s all. I could leave a call with his service, he’d undoubtedly get back to me.”

“You know his friends, Chuck. You could find out where he is.” Then, gambling, taking a leap, she said, “He might be in a beach house somewhere. A musician friend.”

“A beach house?” Hunningdale gave her a frankly curious look, saying, “There’s even more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there?”

“Yes?”

“Mm.” Putting down his cigar, picking up the phone, he said, “And Ginger was always such a good client. Reliable, profitable, talented, and even interesting to chat with from time to time.”

Lynsey said, “We’d like to know where he is, but I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Of course, of course. Let me just make a few calls. Beach house, beach house.” And he pressed the number buttons on the phone.

It took four calls, with Hunningdale explaining each time that he needed Ginger Merville immediately for a new “project” with NBC television, and that an answer had to be given before noon today. The first three offered to help him look, but the fourth, someone called Kenny, knew exactly where Ginger Merville could be found. “Bless you, Kenny,” Hunningdale told him, broke the connection, and said to Lynsey, “That was Kenny Heller. Ginger’s staying at his beach house, in Malibu.”

“Thank you, Chuck. Thank you.”

“Poor Ginger,” Hunningdale said.

32

“You look like wet shit,” Koo tells his image in the mirror. “No reflection on you, of course.” Then he turns and walks some more around the room, slowly and carefully, bandaged arms folded across his chest. He’s testing his strength and capacity, struggling to get this battered body functioning again. Approaching another mirror he says, “Listen, guy. You gotta stop following me around.” Then he glances worried beyond his mirrored self at the deeper reflection of the half-open mirrored bathroom door; from inside there, the buzz of the electric razor continues.

Why is Mark shaving off his beard? Koo’s life depends on Mark now, even more than earlier, but Mark is remaining as erratic and unpredictable as ever. Back when they were actually talking together, when a relatively calm Mark was telling Koo about his mother, it seemed they could find an infinity of connectives, a seamless link of identity between them; but it wasn’t so. Mark has lived with pain and hatred too long, there are too many ways to tap into that underground river of rage. Watching the emotions cross Mark’s face like clouds on a windy day, Koo kept backing away from subject after subject, until it seemed there was nothing safe to say. The conversation didn’t so much run down as slowly strangle on its own constrictions. The silences grew longer, and increasingly uncomfortable.