Scout finally raised the point that Bruce had been nervously awaiting from the outset. ‘That’s easy for you to say while Wayne ’s threatening to kill you.’
Bruce cursed inwardly. Brooke’s progress thus far had been so astonishing that he had dared to think she might actually win Scout’s trust. This remarkable woman had got from nowhere to serious buddytalk inside two or three minutes. Now, however, it seemed that Scout had finally spotted the rather obvious point that Brooke’s affection might be influenced by an ulterior motive.
But Brooke was a fighter, and hit back. ‘Maybe you’re right, Scout, but think about it. Seems to me that Wayne is always going to be threatening to kill somebody or other. So how you ever going to make any friend, huh? Y’ever think ‘bout that, now?’
Not very subtly, Brooke’s voice was going both downmarket and incountry. It had left the upper echelons of West Coast society and was meandering gently along Route 66 towards the Heartland.
‘I don’t know,’ Scout replied softly. ‘Sometimes I do wonder about it.’
Brooke took Scout’s hand. ‘Listen t’me Scout. If ever a person needed friends right now, it’s you. We could help you, but you have to help us. Don’t you want friends?’
‘Sure I want friends. ‘Course I want friends. I ain’t a freak, I’m just an ordinary American.’
A loud New York accent intruded on the scene. Instantly Scout’s demeanour hardened. She pulled away from Brooke and her hand tensed under the cushion. For the time being at least, Brooke’s heroic efforts to divide the enemy would have to be suspended.
Chapter TwentyOne
The unmarked police car pulled up outside the Beverly Hills mansion. The sun was out now, and the automatic sprinklers hidden beneath the perfect lawns had sprung to life. As he looked about him, Detective Jay could see a hundred rainbows shimmering in the spray which hung above the deep green grass. Everything looked so peaceful and so rich.
Jay wondered if inside that glorious colonnaded house unspeakable mayhem had already been perpetrated. It was just a hunch, after all. On the other hand, nobody had cut up a major Hollywood star since Manson.
‘You know,’ said Crawford as they approached the vast front door, ‘this guy was a daytime soap star for years, started as a kid. That’s what’s so clever about Delamitri. He makes weird moves, like, you know, doing the unexpected, casting against type. Making uncool cool.’
‘What, like murder?’
‘You don’t buy that copycat crap, do you? What? Are we all going to have to go and watch Doris Day movies?’
Buzzz. Buzzzzzzz.
At first Kurt didn’t hear it. The pounding of the treadmill and the Van Halen in his headphones blotted out any outside sound. He rarely answered the intercom himself, anyway. The staff arrived by public bus at nine, and nobody ever visited before that.
Except today.
If he hadn’t stopped for a swig of salinating energizer drink and five minutes under the sunlamp, he’d never have heard it at all.
‘LAPD,’ said the intercom. ‘Sorry to call so early, sir.’
In contrast to the characters he played, Kurt Kidman was as dull as old brown paint. Like many people in LA these days, all he ever did was work and exercise. He had certainly never been visited by the police at six fifty in the morning.
‘The police?’ said Kurt. ‘But… but why?’ The receiver actually shook in his hand.
He had never done anything illegal in his life (although some of his acquaintances considered that squandering his huge wealth and fame on a boring, healthy lifestyle was something of a crime). None the less, Kurt was a nervous sort of fellow and anybody suddenly confronted by the police tends to feel an irrational sense of guilt, particularly at so early an hour. Had he done anything wrong? Was it possible that he’d gone over the speed limit when he drove back from the Oscars on the previous night? Or else maybe, like Dr Jekyll, he had a terrifying subconscious alter ego, who roamed the night committing terrible murders of which his conscious self had no memory in the morning.
‘Good morning, officer,’ Kurt said, attempting to sound calm, as he answered the door. He had tried to communicate with them only over the intercom, but they had asked him to come down in person. He half expected to be brutally handcuffed the moment the door was open.
‘How can I help you?’
Should he have said even that without his lawyer being present? Kurt couldn’t remember the rules. Was saying hullo incriminating? He longed to tell them that his copious sweating was the result of an hour on the treadmill, not because he was desperately attempting to cover up some guilty secret. But would that sound like protesting too much? Probably.
‘Just a routine enquiry, sir,’ said Detective Jay ‘Have you been visited or contacted during the night? Have any strangers attempted to speak to you?’
‘No,’ said Kurt.
‘In that case we won’t bother you further. Sorry to have interrupted your workout, sir.’
Detective Jay gave Kurt his card and asked him to call if anything out of the ordinary occurred, and then he and his partner departed.
Kurt worried about it all day.
Chapter TwentyTwo
In the doorway to Bruce’s lounge stood Wayne and Karl Brezner, Bruce’s agent. Karl was a tough, hardbitten operator from New York. He had been in the business for thirty years, but judging by his manner it did not seem to have made him happy.
‘Here’s your man, Bruce,’ said Wayne.
Karl threw a questioning glance at Bruce. Understandably he was wondering who the lowlife might be.
‘Hi, Bruce. Sorry to call so early,’ he said. ‘Coupla real important things. So, having a party?’
Karl looked round the room. Brooke was still kneeling on the carpet in front of Scout. Wayne was also taking in the scene. Both he and Karl were surprised to see the two women in this position.
Brooke got up from the rug with what dignity she could muster and returned to her seat on the couch.
‘Yeah, a party, kind of,’ said Bruce. ‘This is Brooke Daniels.’
Karl had eyed Brooke appreciatively as she crossed the room. He would have had to have been made of stone not to. She was extremely beautiful at any time and if anything she was even more fascinating now, looking sad and vulnerable in her increasingly absurd evening gown.
‘Brooke Daniels!’ said Karl with delight. ‘Well, well, well. Miss February, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on. Great spread, by the way. I’ll bet the nozzle of that gas pump was cold, am I right? Who’re these two, Bruce?’
Karl spoke as if Wayne and Scout did not exist. He was not actually quite as rude as he appeared. He came from a brusque culture, in which good manners were commonly interpreted as bullshit and prevarication. His style would not have gone down well in Japan or over tea at Buckingham Palace, but in New York showbusiness circles it had served him well.
Bruce struggled for a reply to his question.
‘A couple of… actors. I saw them in an improv’ night out at Malibu… thought I’d talk to them. Might be right for Killer Angels.’
Killer Angels was the project that Bruce and Karl currently had in development. It was again to be about people who killed strangers, but this time for a reason, antiabortion, the environment, wiping out a sporting rival, whatever; the idea being to show that all murder is in fact arbitrary. Or something like that, anyway. They intended it to duplicate the enormous success of Ordinary Americans.
‘Seeing actors in the early morning after Oscars night? That is dedication.’ Karl turned to Wayne and Scout. ‘No offence to you guys, but for me talking to actors is only one step up from visiting with the dentist.’