“Like whom?”
“Oh, anyone,” said Bellinger. “I’ve heard that Louise Brooks is still around somewhere, and Gloria Swanson. Ramon Navarro is still alive—didn’t you work with him once? And I’ve heard rumors about Nora Minton Niles.”
I paused for a moment. “I haven’t spoken to any of those people in decades.” Then, trying to keep my voice as casual as I could: “What exactly have you heard about Miss Niles?”
“Oh, you know, the same things that people have always said. That she’s a recluse and no one’s seen her for years. That she never married or had a family. That her mother kept a tight grip on her until she died, and no one’s really heard from Nora since. She never really recovered, you know, after that business with Ashley Tyler.”
I had been standing by the window, and now I sat down, trying to keep my hands and voice steady. “Do you know where she is?”
“The last I heard she lived on the Westside somewhere, but that was while her mother was still alive. Harriet Cole lived to be ninety-five, the old witch. Poor Nora. By the time her mother finally died, she was already an old woman herself. You worked with her a few times, didn’t you?”
My pulse quickened but I managed to answer. “Not so much. On only one or two films.” With this turn in the conversation, my excitement had diminished. But as quickly as he’d brought up the subject of Nora, Bellinger moved on to something else, and I hoped his curiosity had been satisfied.
We met for lunch at an establishment called Castillo’s in Beverly Hills. I wore my best brown suit and drove the Packard down Sunset Boulevard, the old route I used to take those long-ago mornings with Hanako. Of course, Sunset is very different now—crowded with people and shops, and lit up with brilliant neon in the evening. And Beverly Hills used to be untamed land, so far removed from the original studios that it might have been Santa Barbara. Now, Beverly Hills is the height of wealth and prestige, and as accessible—at least in geographical terms—as any corner pharmacy.
When I arrived at Castillo’s, I was surprised to find that a young man in a vest—apparently employed by the restaurant—expected to park my car.
“I assure you,” I said, looking up at the boy, who had rudely pulled open my door, “I am fully capable of parking this vehicle myself.”
“I have no doubt, sir,” he said, his hand curled over the top of the door. “But you see, everybody uses the valet here.” He smiled a bit nervously, and I continued to glare at him.
“I would think that an establishment of this caliber would allow its patrons to park as they wished.”
The boy looked at me more closely and his eyes softened a bit—he seemed to understand that he was addressing a man of importance, and was now attempting to behave more appropriately. “Castillo’s is of the highest caliber, sir. That’s why we don’t want our customers to be bothered by the inconvenience of looking for a place to park.” He paused. “It’s really kind of normal now, sir.”
I did not feel like carrying the argument any further, so I reluctantly got out and handed the boy my keys. For a moment, as he drove my car away, I wondered if I would ever get it back. But since other arriving patrons appeared unflustered by this practice, I decided it was nothing to worry about. I walked into the entrance, and, seeing no sign of Bellinger, took a chair close to the door. There was a carp pond in the outdoor waiting area, and I watched the fish swim and bump into each other as I tried to maintain my calm. A few minutes later, Nick Bellinger appeared.
He was dressed in a jacket and tie, his hair was some-what tamed, and behind him was a young man who I assumed was Josh Dreyfus. Bellinger introduced us, and I could tell that he was nervous from the speed with which he talked and the way he kept brushing his sleeves. The other man, who was indeed Mr. Dreyfus, had no such apprehension. He gripped my hand firmly and looked directly in my eyes. “Good to meet you, Mr. Nakayama,” he said. “Nick tells me you knew my grandfather.”
I was somewhat taken aback by this. I had thought he already knew about my association with Ben Dreyfus; that perhaps Ben had even talked about me. But I forced myself to smile. “Yes, he was an executive during my time at Perennial.”
This younger Dreyfus nodded distractedly. Then the maître d’ appeared. “Mr. Dreyfus! So delightful to see you! Would you like your usual table, sir?”
“Yes, Peter,” he said, barely looking at the man. “I have special guests today.” I watched him as we were led through the restaurant to our table. Although he was shorter than I, no more than 5’6", he carried himself like a much taller man, and moved through the restaurant as if he had built it. Here and there people waved at him, and he nodded or waved in acknowledgment. His brown hair was clipped neatly and sprayed into place, and his gray suit looked as if it had been tailored.
We were seated at a corner table beneath a large potted palm. The restaurant was light and airy, with so many windows that it felt like we were dining outside. Around us, well-heeled men, mostly in their thirties and forties, laughed loudly over seafood and wine. The women—some of whom were with men but most of whom were clustered in small groups—wore suits in pale colors and glittering jewels and frequently stole glances at each other. Everyone seemed to be looking at everyone else,
