In her apartment Candy said, “Shall we have a little brandy and soda?”
I said, “Sure.”
She made two drinks. We took them out and sat by the pool and drank.
“You’ve been on the couch for some time now,” Candy said.
“Yes.
“Is it uncomfortable?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Candy said.
The pool filter made a small slurping sound as water trickled into the skimmer.
“Not your fault,” I said. “Furniture makers have no pride of craftmanship anymore.”
“I mean that I’ve been away with Peter, not with you.”
“A job’s a job,” I said.
“Would you care to move into the bedroom to night?” she said.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with the couch.”
Her face went tight again, with lines around her mouth. “Why?”
“It’s something I’d be ashamed to tell Susan.”
“You weren’t ashamed last time. Is it Peter Brewster?”
“Partly.”
“It’s not Susan, is it? You’re just jealous.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “See, once, on a warm night in a strange city with music drifting downthat’s fun. Or it was for me. But a live-in arrangement-`house privileges,‘ I think you called it-when you apologize for being”-I made a word-groping gesture with my hands-“inattentive-that’s unfaithfulness.”
“I think it’s nothing that noble,” Candy said. “You’re no different that all the others. You’re jealous. You can’t stand sharing me with Peter.”
“If that were true,” I said, “what better reason to sleep on the couch. If we’ve gone to a point where I’m jealous of you, then I am cheating. I don’t want to be jealous of anyone but Suze. I shouldn’t be.”
Candy shook her head. “That’s crap,” she said. “You insist on making everything sound fancy. Always guff about honor and being faithful and not being ashamed. Everything you do becomes some kind of goddamn quest for the Holy Grail. It’s just selfdramatization. Self-dramatization so you don’t have to face up to how shabby your life is, and pointless.”
“Well, there’s that,” I said.
“And goddammit, don’t patronize me. When I score a point, you ought to be man enough to admit it.”
“Person enough,” I said. “Don’t be sexist.”
“So you’ve decided just to joke about it. You know you can’t win the argument, so you make fun.”
“Candy, I am a long way past the point where I see the world in terms of debating points. I don’t care if I win or lose arguments. Sleeping with you again would be cheating on Susan, at least by my definition, and by hers. That’s sufficient. You’re just as desirable as you ever were. And I’m just as randy. But I am stern of will. So lemme sleep on the couch and stop being offended.”
“You self-sufficient bastard,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But you’ll help me tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I said.
Chapter 24
I WENT WITH Candy to the studio in the morning. She drove. I looked around.
“I am going to stay as close as I can,” I said. “Even if I’m spotted, it’s better than you getting burned.”
“You really think there’s that kind of danger?”
“You betcha,” I said. “Brewster may remember what he told you and if he does, you’re a real threat to him.”
“But he thinks I’m in love with him.”
“After five days?” I said.
“He thinks everyone is in love with him anyway. He assumes conquest.”
“I’ll accept that,” I said. “And I’m willing to concede that Brewster’s not very smart. Tycoons often aren’t, I’ve found. But they are also rarely sentimental. Even if he thinks you are permanently smitten with his wonderful self, what’s he lose by having you shot?”
“Thanks a lot.”
“It’s not denigrating you. It’s denigrating him. He doesn’t cherish you. He doesn’t cherish anything. He can replace you with some worshipful starlet later this evening if he needs to. He wouldn’t differentiate.” Candy was quiet.
“Think about it. What does he want from you?”
“Sex.”
“Yeah, and what else?”
“Admiration. He wants me to tell him how masterful he is. He wants me to go ooh at how much money and clout and perception he has.”
“And if he didn’t have you to do that, what?”
“He’d get someone else.”
“Is it your brains and wit and strength he needs?”
“No.”
We pulled into the parking lot behind the station. “So what is it you give him?”
“I look good in public,” Candy said. “I do good in bed. And I hang on his every word.”
“How many other women in Hollywood could fill that role?”
“A trillion,” Candy said.
“So be careful,” I said. “And don’t get into places I can’t follow.”
Candy nodded and we went into the studio.
There was a staff meeting scheduled for much of the morning, and I left Candy to deal with that. It was probably as deadly in its way as Brewster, but it wasn’t the kind of deadliness I could ameliorate.
I took a cab from the station to a Hertz agency and rented a Ford Fairlane that looked like every third car on the road. The MG was too conspicuous now. It had been following Brewster too long. Driving back to KNBS, I stopped at a Taco Burro stand and had a bean and cheese burrito for lunch. With coffee. Authenticity is not always possible.
During the afternoon I drove down to Marineland with Candy. We met a camerawoman there, and Candy did a piece on a killer whale that had been born there during the week.
“Glamor,” I said to Candy on the long ride back. “You show-biz folks lead lives of such glamor and sophistication.”
She was driving. She said, “Do you really think Peter Brewster might try to kill me?”
“Yes.”
We were going north on the Harbor Freeway. The road was made of large asphalt squares, and the wheels as they hit the intervaled seams made a kind of rhythmic thump.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“Then why continue? Why not go to Samuelson with what you’ve got and let him take the weight for a while?”
“What have I got exactly?” Candy said.
“You know he’s Mob-connected,” I said. “You may have stumbled in by accident. Franco and Felton may have had nothing to do with it. But you’re in. He’s spilled that he’s on the dirty side, and if he remembers that, you’re already a danger to him.”
The tires made their thump. With the top down the hot wind was a steady push on my face.
“I can’t,” Candy said. “I’ve invested too much. It means too much.”
“You’d still break the story,” I said. “ ‘Acting on a tip from newsperson Candy Sloan, police today…’ It would read good,” I said.
She was quiet. She passed a sign that said TORRANCE. Traffic was heavy going the other way, coming out of L.A., going home for a beer and maybe water the lawn. Barbecue some ribs maybe. See what was on the tube later. Might be a ball game. Get the kids to bed. Turn up the air conditioning. Settle in and watch the Angels. Maybe another beer. Maybe before bed a sandwich, maybe a hug from the wife.
“I can’t,” Candy said. “I can’t do it that way. It would be too girlie-girl. Would you turn it over to the police?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“So you understand, perhaps, why I won’t.”
“Understand, yes. Approve, no.”
“Even though you’d be the same way?”
“Just because I’m peculiar doesn’t mean you should be. This is what cops draw their pay for. The smart way is to let them earn it.”
“Stand on the sidelines and look pretty while the men play ball?”
“Sex is not at issue here,” I said. “Danger is.”