“I’m doing it,” he said. “Got a script making the rounds right now at Universal- noble jurist takes on the system. Perfect for Michael Douglas. Things turn out right, I’ll be off the bench and on the set.” He laughed. “Right. Meanwhile, onward to stem the ever-rising tide of marital discord- you should see our dockets. How come people are so screwed up anyway, Alex?”
“How should I know?”
“We sent you to school to know that kind of stuff.”
“Maybe it’s poor water quality, Steve. Or not enough dietary fiber.”
At 4:45, I called Mahlon Burden. His machine answered and I told it I was still trying to reach Howard. Then I phoned Pierce, Sloan, and Marder and waited as the receptionist put me through to Howard Burden’s office.
A man’s voice answered, low-pitched and sluggish. “Burden. Speak.”
“Mr. Burden?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“This is Dr. Alex Delaware. I called before.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“It’s always a bad time.”
“Your father suggested I talk to you. About Hol-”
“I know what it’s about.”
“Let’s set up an appointment then-”
“How much is he paying you?”
“We haven’t discussed that.”
“Uh-huh. Doing the charity circuit? You a Schweitzer protégé?”
“I know you’ve been through a lot and-”
“Cut,” he said. “Dump the script and be straight. You want to talk about Holly? I’m gonna be here all night anyway, you might as well be my coffee break. You show up anytime before, say, ten-thirty, you can have ten minutes.”
Not much. But I sensed that ten minutes with this one would be interesting. “Where are you located?”
He rattled off an address in the sixteen-thousand block of Ventura Boulevard. Heart of Eucino. At this time of day, getting over the Glen into the Valley would take at least half an hour, add another twenty minutes braving the slog on Ventura, and I figured I’d be able to make it within an hour. Returning to the city would be faster. My date with Linda was for eight-thirty. Ample time.
I said, “I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Like I said, ten-thirty. Ten minutes.”
Encino had been built up since the last time I’d been there. It always seemed that way with Encino. Pierce, Sloan, and Marder: Consulting Actuaries. “Benefits and Pension Specialists” occupied the top floor of a narrow, seven-story pink limestone and mirrored-glass rectangle squeezed between a medical building with a Thai restaurant on the ground floor and a Rolls-Royce/Jaguar/Land Rover dealer.
The lobby was layered with rust-colored granite. There were two elevators on the south wall, both of them open. I rode up alone, stepped into a long hallway carpeted in gray plush and papered in white vinyl textured to look like troweled plaster. Track lights shone overhead. Mapplethorpe flower photos in Lucite frames lined the walls, looking disturbingly visceral in such a passionless place.
The main entrance was at the north end of the corridor, through a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass lettered in gilt that listed the partners of the actuarial firm and informed the uninitiated that Pierce, Sloan, and Marder had branches in San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta, and Baltimore. I counted twenty-two partners in the L.A. office. Howard Burden’s name was fourth from the top. Not bad for a thirty-year-old with poor manners.
Watch those value judgments, Delaware. Maybe, but for grief, he was the Prince of Charm.
On the other side of the glass the reception area was brightly lit. And empty. The door was bolted by a heavy slab of polished brass. I knocked, felt the glass tremble. Waited. Knocked again. Waited some more. Knocked harder.
So much for my ten minutes. Nothing like a drive into the Valley at rush hour to get the old juices flowing.
Just as I turned to leave, one of the elevator doors opened and a man stepped out. He was corpulent and walked with a flat-footed waddle. Fortyish, five-eleven, totally bald on top, thin brown hair fringing the sides, florid skin, a bushy brown mustache carelessly trimmed. Sixty extra pounds, all of it soft, most of it hanging over his belt. Gold buckle on the belt that glinted as he approached. Long-sleeved white shirt, double-pleated navy slacks, black loafers, a blue tie patterned with lavender squares and loosened at the neck. All of it expensive-looking but it seemed as much a costume as DeJon Jonson’s getup- as if someone had dressed him up.
He huffed toward me, using his arms the way race-walkers do, carrying a ring of keys in one hand, a wet-looking sandwich wrapped in cellophane in the other. Under the cellophane, a wilted pickle clung to the sandwich for dear life.
“You Delaware?” His voice was deep, slightly hoarse. He rattled his keys. The chain had a Mercedes-Benz logo. His neck was furrowed and sweaty. There was a grease spot on the pocket of his shirt, just under the HJB monogram.
I’d been expecting someone who looked ten years younger. Trying to hide my surprise, I said, “Hello, Mr. Burden-”
“You said an hour. It’s only been”- he raised the sandwich hand and flashed a gold Rolex Oyster-“forty-eight minutes.”
He walked past me and unlocked the brass bolt, letting the glass door fly back at me. I caught it, followed him to the right of the reception desk and around the walnut wall. Behind it was another ten yards of gray carpet. He stopped at double doors. Gold letters on the left one said:
HOWARD J. BURDEN, A.B., M.A.
FELLOW, SOCIETY OF ACTUARIES
He pushed it open, race-walked through an outer office and into a large walnut-paneled room. Not much wood showed through; the walls were blanketed with diplomas, certificates, and photographs. The desk was heavy-looking, very shiny and inlaid with elm burl bordered in ebony. The desk top was shaped like the letter P and piled high with books, magazines, mail, interoffice envelopes, tilting piles of papers. Behind it was a high-backed blue leather chair; behind that, a credenza. In the center of the credenza was an IBM PC; on either side of the computer, more clutter.
Above the credenza a plate-glass window offered a northern view: the high-rise profile of Ventura Boulevard dipping past housing tracts and mini-malls and the stone-colored ribbon of the 134 Freeway, vibrating like an enervated nerve fiber. Then onward, toward the brown expanse past Sylmar that stretched to the base of the Santa Susana mountains. The mountaintops had begun to fade into evening. Wisps of cinnabar and silver from the west alluded to a glorious sunset that had never quite made it. Smog pigments. Pollution art.
Howard Burden saw me looking, drew the drapes, and sat down behind the desk. Shoving papers aside, he began unwrapping his sandwich. Corned beef and sauerkraut on rye, the bread half-sodden.
I looked for somewhere to sit. The two chairs opposite his desk were filled with documents. So was a long blue leather chesterfield couch running perpendicular to the window. Some of the stacks looked ready to topple. The muddle and disarray lent the room a frantic but human energy- so different from his father’s sterile sanctum. I permitted myself some sidewalk psychoanalysis.
Burden liberated the sandwich and took a big bite, not bothering to swallow before saying, “Just throw some of that shit on the floor.”
I cleared one of the chairs and sat down. He continued to eat, using a paper napkin to dab at the sauerkraut juice that trailed down his chin. I glanced over at the photos on the wall. Burden and a pleasant-looking blond woman with a penchant for sleeveless knit tops, white slacks, and Top-Siders. She appeared to be around thirty; in some of the shots he looked like her father. About half the photos also featured a little girl of around five. Dark-haired. Eyeglasses on her, too. Something familiar…
Happy family poses. Smiles that seemed genuine. Disneyland. Sea World. Universal Studios. A water park. Miniature golf. The three of them in frog hats, both parents hugging the little girl. She, clutching an all-day sucker. Eating ice cream cones together. The little girl in a school play, dressed as an elf. Graduating from kindergarten in a miniature cap and gown. I realized what had struck me about her. She resembled the driver’s license picture Milo had shown me. A young Holly with something to smile about.