I was in the kitchen grilling some bagels and percolating some coffee when Candy showed up. She looked as bad as she could, given where God had started her. And I was sure she felt worse than she looked.
“How are you this morning?” I said.
“I threw up,” she said.
“Oh.”
“What are you making?”
“Bagels,” I said, “and chive cream cheese and hot coffee…” Her face had a look of dumb anguish. “You don’t want any?” I said. “There’s blackberry jam and-”
“You bastard,” she said and went out of the kitchen. I sat at her dining-alcove table and had the toasted bagels with cream cheese and blackberry jam, alternately. Only a barbarian would eat chive cream cheese and blackberry jam on the same bagel.
Candy sat in an armchair in the living room and looked out at her pool with her eyes squinted to slits.
“How about just coffee?” I said.
“No.” She held her head quite still. “I need a Coke, or… is there any Coke?”
“No.”
“Anything? Seven-Up? Tab? Perrier?”
“No. How about a glass of water?”
She shivered, and that seemed to hurt her head. “No,” she said, squeezing the word out.
“How about I go up to Schwab’s and get you some Alka-Seltzer?”
“Yes.”
I finished my bagels and went out and got her the Alka-Seltzer. Then I poured another cup of coffee and sat on her couch with my feet on the coffee table. She drank her Alka-Seltzer. I read the L.A. Times. She sat still in the armchair with her eyes closed for maybe an hour, then got up and took two more Alka-Seltzer. “Two every four hours,” I said.
“Shut up.” She drank her second glass and went back to her chair.
I finished the coffee and the paper and stood up. She was still quiet in the chair with her eyes closed.
“Now,” I said, “about those house privileges.”
Without opening her eyes or moving anything but her mouth, she said, “Get away from me.”
I grinned. “Okay, do we have any other plans for today?”
“Just give me a little time,” she said.
“I’ll call Samuelson and see if there’s anything developed,” I said.
She said, “Mmm.”
Samuelson answered his own phone on the first ring. I told him who I was and said, “Do you mind if I call you Mark like John Frederics does?”
Samuelson said, “Who?”
I said, “John Frederics.”
He said, “Who’s John Frederics?”
I said, “News director? KNBS? Calls you Mark.”
“TV newspeople are mostly turkeys,” Samuelson said. “I don’t know one from another. What do you want?”
I said, “Well, Mark-”
He said, “Don’t call me Mark.”
“Any sign of Franco Montenegro, Lieutenant?”
“No. And he should be easy, a stiff like him. He’s gone. Nobody on the street knows where.”
“Would people talk about him?” I asked.
“I get the impression he’d be vengeful.”
“Vengeful? Christ, you snobby eastern dudes do speak funny. Yeah, he’s vengeful, but there’s people on the street would tell on Dracula for a couple bucks, or a light sentence, or maybe I look the other way while they’re scoring some dope. You know the street, don’t you? They got a street in Boston?”
“Boston’s where they send,” I said, “when the job’s too tough for local talent.”
“Sure,” Samuelson said. “Anyway, us local talent don’t have a clue where Franco is.”
“You think it’s just him, Lieutenant?”
“More and more,” he said.
“Then how come he scragged Felton?”
“Yeah,” Samuelson said, “that bothers me too, but everything else is right. The more I ask around, the more I look at all the angles, the more it looks like a small-time shakedown that went sour.”
“You got a theory on why he scragged Felton?”
“No. Maybe I never will have. I’m a simple copper, you know. I don’t think everything always fits. I take the best answer I can get. Guys like Franco do funny things. They aren’t logical people.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it still bothers me.”
“Bothers me too,” Samuelson said, “but I do what I can. You hear anything, let me know. And try and keep the goddamn broad out of the way, will you?”
“She’s been taken off assignment,” I said. “This afternoon we’re going out to cover a pet show at the Santa Monica Auditorium.”
“Good,” Samuelson said. “Try not to get bit.” He hung up.
I looked at Candy. “Nothing on Franco,” I said. “Samuelson doesn’t like him killing Felton either.”
The phone rang and I picked it up. “Sloan House,” I said.
The voice of an elegant woman said, “Miss Sloan, please. Mr. Peter Brewster calling.”
I said, in my Allan Pinkerton voice, “One moment, please.”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and said to Candy, “Peter Brewster?”
She stared at me a minute as if I’d wakened her. Then she said softly, “God,” and then got up and walked over firmly and took the phone.
“Yes?… Yes… Hello, Mr. Brewster… It’s okay, Mr. Brewster…” The color began to come back into Candy’s face as she talked. “No, it’s okay. I understand. Lots of people have that reaction… Yes. I told him that.” She looked sideways at me for a moment. “Why, certainly… I’d love it. Sure. Four North Wetherly Drive. I’ll be ready… Thank you… Yes. You too. Bye.”
She hung up. I was standing with my arms folded, looking at her.
She said, “Peter Brewster wants to take me to dinner.”
I raised my eyebrows.
She said, “He’s sorry he overreacted the other day and wants a chance to behave better.”
“Where are you dining?” I said.
“I don’t know. He’ll pick me up here at seven.”
“Okay, leave me your keys and I’ll tail you.”
She widened her eyes at me. “You think it could be dangerous?”
“Even if it isn’t, it’ll be good practice for me,” I said
Candy nodded absently. “Okay,” she said. “What shall I wear?”
“A gun,” I said.
Chapter 21
BREWSTER SHOWED up at 7:02 in a black Cadillac sedan with a driver. Democrat that he was, Brewster came to the door personally. I was already in the MG when he arrived, around the corner on Phyllis Street with the motor idling. I couldn’t see any reason for Brewster to harm Candy, but I hadn’t seen any reason why Franco would want to harm Felton either. So I’m not Philo Vance, so what?
He took her to Perino’s. I owed myself a beer. I’d bet either Perino’s or Scandia. The driver let them out and drove away. I parked on Wilshire heading downtown and watched the front door of the restaurant in my rearview mirror.
There was little traffic on Wilshire. There was no one walking. The stars came out and the moon gleamed at me. I idled the motor and listened to a Dodger game and thought about things. Brewster could be taking Candy out to dinner because she was good-looking and sexy, and he wanted to get her into bed with him. Or he could be taking her out to dinner to see if he could find out how much she really knew about his affairs so that he could decide if she was a danger to him. Brewster was a good-looking guy, and he had money and power, and he was probably used to getting along well with women, which got me nowhere because it covered either possibility. Brewster probably wouldn’t do Candy any damage himself. If he decided she was dangerous, and he wanted something done, he’d have it done. He was, after all, an executive. Still, there was no harm sticlcing close. Better safe than sorry, my mother used to tell me. Although I think she was talking about girls.
At nine forty-five the Cadillac rolled up in front of Perino’s. Small airplanes could land on its hood; in case of war all of Liechtenstein could escape in it. The maitre d‘ opened the front door and acted solicitous, and Candy came out ahead of Brewster. She had chosen a bright green tuxedo-looking suit and a beaded something-or-other with no straps for a blouse and very high-heeled silver shoes. The light from the open restaurant door made her blond hair gleam.