“And here is the legend,” Meyer said, “growing to full flower. Unbeknownst to the cinematic genius, Peter Kesner, his creature-Dirty Bob-had corrupted Mercer and the stunt lady. And the stunt lady had recruited Jean Norman. They used a portable set after hours, when Kesner and Josie and Tyler were not on location, made the tapes, and peddled them through Linda’s contacts. And the word is out that the distribution of the porno tapes, under the X-Lips label, had Grizzel killed in order to save them a lot of time and trouble and possible legal action. Grizzel, with monumental idiocy, did not hide his face when he performed on those tapes. He enjoyed being on camera. Miss Norman is also identifiable, I understand. Miss Harrigan wore a silver mask. And the amateur talents they recruited in Rosedale Station are of course identifiable. So the chain of evidence is clear enough. By the way, having a recognizable Dirty Bob play the heavy made the tapes more valuable and more salable. The prosecution has picked up over a dozen of the tapes made there in Rosedale Station. The distributor, in a single public statement made before the lawyers muzzled him, claimed the tapes were acquired from an intermediary, a third party, who had represented them as being simulated rapes, which is apparently very big with what they call the hard-core audience. A very dirty business indeed. The victims contributed to their own disasters by being hungry for the glamorous life, an appetite that made them vulnerable. And then, like victims the world over, they helped rope new victims because that made them feel their own humiliation was diluted thereby.”
Annie said, “My God, Meyer, where do you get all this stuff?”
“He buys those strange newspapers they sell at checkout counters,” I told her.
“Only to recheck my grasp on reality,” he said. “Reality tells me that Desmin Grizzel is alive and well.”
Ron frowned. “But wouldn’t they have a reason to have him killed?”
“What for?” Meyer asked. “They act as corporate entities. Incoming cash is distributed. If problems arise, collapse the corporation and move to the next floor and start a new one. It is a lot cheaper and safer and easier than arranging a murder. Pornography is all mob-connected, of course. If somebody consistently pirated the product, I suppose they would arrange a little demonstration of how unhealthy that sort of thing is. But Grizzel is a celebrity. Somewhere in the world tonight those two early motion pictures are playing, probably in three or four countries, with the Japanese or Italian or Arabic or Portuguese dubbed in. A known face is a very risky kill, as those who did away with Jimmy Hoffa would agree. From everything I have read about Desmin Grizzel, I think he is a survivor. Some children found that downed balloon in the woods, three days later, miles south of Interstate Eighty.”
Ron frowned and said, “Back to topic one, Travis. Did Grizzel kill my father?”
“My gut feeling is that he did. Alone or with Curley Hanner. No strong evidence. Just little bits and pieces. Kesner aimed them at Ellis Esterland. Maybe indirectly. Maybe he just said that things would be fine if only Esterland died before Romola. We’ll never know what hook they used to get Esterland up to Citrus City alone. Probably to buy something from someone for the pain. He didn’t want to admit to Annie here that it was getting too bad to endure any longer. Once the murder was done, Grizzel owned a slightly larger share of Kesner. And so did Hanner. All I got out of Kesner was that hint about how maybe Grizzel had gotten rid of him. Or maybe it was the sea gulls.”
“So,” said Ron, “can we assume that Dirty Bob, the California biker, has disappeared back into the roaring stream of camaraderie, the helmeted knights of the road, protectors of their own?”
“Not very damn likely,” I said. “He hasn’t got a face you’d call forgettable. That moon face with the corona fringe of beard and the big high cheekbones and the little Mongolian eyes. He became the role model for too many imitation hard-case types.” Meyer said, “Let’s consider the problem from his point of view. It might be constructive. Travis, he told you he had a beach house, motorcycles, a convertible Mercedes, a portfolio of bonds, and an attorney working on a pardon for an earlier felony. Suddenly he is on the run, and his toys are gone. But is the offense serious enough, from his point of view, to keep him on the run? Can’t he hide behind Kesner and say he was following orders? Travis, after your confrontation, or whatever you want to call it, with Kesner at the Lodge, wouldn’t he have had time to talk to Grizzel the next morning?”
“Of course.”
“And if Grizzel had been exploiting his relationship to Kesner, using it in every way he could think of to benefit himself, and if Kesner wanted to pry him loose a little, what would he say?”
I thought it over. “I think he’d tell Grizzel that the killing of Esterland hadn’t been so clean after all. That I was looking into it, and that I was curious about how Hanner had died.”
And then,“ Meyer said, ”he was on the scene when you disposed of Kesner. His meal ticket. His hero. The man who made him a celebrity.“
“But I didn’t!”
“How would he know that? You dropped, the woman dropped, and Kesner went up into the power lines. And then you waved at him.”
“Look. There’s just a vague suspicion that he killed Esterland.”
“How does he know how vague it is? How does he know he didn’t make some kind of terrible mistake, that somebody wasn’t watching?”
“Somebody was watching,” Annie said. “Curley Hanner.”
In the silence I began exercising the knee again.
They all watched in mild autohypnosis. “He’d change his appearance,” Ron suggested.
“Heavy eyebrows?” Meyer asked.
“Very. Big and black and bushy, speckled with gray. Why?”
“If he shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, the eyes might still look familiar to people. Mirrored sunglasses could cure that. And if he changed his mode of dress completely-”
“Hide forever?” Annie asked.
“Possibly. Or maybe long enough to take care of the problem of the Norman girl. And then find you, Travis, and see what you know or don’t know. Or maybe not even bother to ask.”
“Oh, fine! And just how would he find me?”
“Through Lysa Dean, of course.”
I stopped flexing the knee. Annie looked out at the dark night and hunched her shoulders slightly. Ron frowned at the floor.
Meyer said with hearty cheer, “We’re just playing games. The ancient and honorable game of what-if.”
Long after they had gone, Annie Renzetti made me turn on the light and try once again to reach Lysa Dean on the bedside phone. She nestled close to me and we both listened to the sound of ringing. I let it ring fifteen times and then hung up.
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Annie said. “Those people have answering services. They have to.”
“Maybe not on the private, private line. When friends call long distance, if there is no answer, she’s out. It saves toll charges.”