“Very much. How badly is the system broken?”
“The geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of boys in the system.”
“Can foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.
“There’s supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best interests of the child.”
“So you can ask for a girl.”
“Alex,” she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”
I thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.
She said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow White stuff.”
“Not at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”
“You flatter me, darling.”
The only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confectionery dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel Canyon.
The Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s Market/Grove complex. The Parking in Rear sign kept its promise and I found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the front of the store.
The space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen varieties of almonds. A sign said No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t Worry.
The shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot. Martin Boestling hadn’t.
I scooped smoked almonds into a bag, waited until the shop was quiet, and approached.
Boestling rang up the sale. “You’ll like these, an Indian family in Oregon does the smoking themselves.”
“Great,” I said, paying. “Mr. Boestling?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I’m looking for a Martin Boestling who used to produce films.”
He transferred the almonds to a paper bag, slid it across the counter, started to turn away.
I showed him my police I.D.
He said, “Police shrink? What’s this all about?”
“I consult to- ”
“And now you’re at The Nut House. How apropos.” His eyes aimed at the woman behind me in line. “Next.”
I stepped aside, waited until she checked out.
Martin Boestling said, “Anything else I can do for you, purchase-wise?”
“It’s about Sydney Weider,” I said. “And Drew Daney.”
His big hands became flesh cudgels. “What is it exactly that you want?”
“A few minutes of your time, Mr. Boestling.”
“Why?”
“Daney’s the subject of an investigation.”
Silence.
“It could be serious,” I said.
“You want dirt.”
“If you’ve got any.”
He waved the kerchiefed woman over. “Magda, take over. An old friend just dropped in.”
We walked up Fairfax, found an unoccupied bus bench, sat down. Martin Boestling had forgotten to remove his apron. Or maybe he hadn’t.
He said, “Sydney was a bitch from hell, he was a fucking bastard, end of story.”
“I know about the gonorrhea.”
“Know how big my dick is, too?”
“If it’s relevant I can probably find out.”
He grinned. “You’d think it would be relevant, size mattering and all that. I married Sydney because she was smart and rich and good-looking and loved to screw. Turned out, she was making a fool out of me from the day we tied the knot.”
“Promiscuous.”
“If she had showed restraint, you could’ve called her promiscuous. Day of the wedding, she screwed one of my so-called friends.” He began ticking his finger. “The pool boy, the tennis pro, the fish tank guy, bunch of lawyers she worked with. It was only later, after the divorce, that people started to come up and tell me, phony sympathy in their eyes. Sorry, Marty, we didn’t want to make waves. I could never prove it but I’m convinced she screwed some of her clients, too. You know the kind of clients she worked with?”
“Indigent.”
“Murderers, robbers, scumbags. Think about that: She’s keeping long office hours in order to spread her legs for lowlife while I’m hustling to support her in the style to which she’d become accustomed. I hated the industry, stayed with it because I was desperate to impress her. Know where we met?”
“Where?”
“Your investigation didn’t carry you that far back? We met at the Palisades Vista Country Club where her family belonged and I was working my way through the U. as a towel jockey. Spritzing rich people with bottled water while they turned like chickens on a spit. Should’ve known how it was going to be when Sydney left her rich boyfriend in the dining room so she could do me in a cabana. We dated off and on for a while, until I graduated and got a job in the mailroom at CAA and convinced her to marry me.”
I said, “Was it her idea for you to go into the industry?”
“I had a B.A. in English, which is about as useful as a second appendix. It sounded interesting and I was good at it. Mostly, I did it for Sydney. I was crazy about her.”
He plucked at his apron. “Her old man got me the mailroom gig but I earned the right to stay. Worked like a galley slave and took abuse from the worst people you’ll ever meet. I produced more than all the Ivy League dilettantes who were doing it for fun, climbed fast, was making serious money while Sydney finished at the U. School-wise she was always smart, graduated summa, took a break to have the kids, then we all moved to Berkeley so she could attend Boalt Law School. I stayed down in L.A., flew up on weekends to be with her and the boys. I had it down to a science, the four p.m. Friday into Oakland to avoid the fog, return late Sunday. The boys turned out good, considering. They both hate her. It didn’t take long for the marriage to go sour- we were bored with each other. But no one else’s marriage seemed any better so I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Until the lab report,” I said.
“The lab report came later. What blew everything up was I caught her doing Daney. In my house, my bed, my robe and slippers on the chair.” He laughed. “Total cliché. I had a meeting over at Fox TV on a script. The moron in charge cut it short because she heard my demographic wasn’t right. Meaning my projects were aimed at I.Q.s higher than that of a rutabaga. I was expecting a longer meeting, brought along the writer, poor schmuck. So I’m out of there in ten minutes, in a not-so-good mood, decided to go home, take a swim and a shvitz in the brand-new sauna I put in. When I get home, I hear moaning and groaning from upstairs and go into the master suite- which I just paid a fortune to remodel, let me tell you, our place in Brentwood was state of the art. The door’s wide open and Sydney and that pissant are doing the two-headed goat.”