“If you live in L.A., you have to,” Mary said.
She heard him using a shaker and turned to see him pouring its contents into a martini glass. He came over and sat to her left, in a club chair facing the ocean.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. The smooth voice had taken on the role of trusted confidante.
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know who Noah Baxter is?” she said.
“Of course,” he said, and took a sip of his martini. Mary looked down at her drink. A bunch of ice. She held it out and shook it at Braggs. He hopped up and refreshed it, then brought it back to her.
“So?” she said.
“We all knew him,” Braggs said. “He was a stand-up, just like all of us. But he was the worst of the worst. He had a really, really dark sense of humor that never came across well with audiences. He shocked them instead of making them laugh. Not a good trait for a comedian.”
He drank from his martini and Mary drained half of her Jack on the rocks.
“He ended up writing for other comedians, who would take his stuff and lighten it up a little bit. It really wasn’t that bad, it just needed a little bit of…sanity.”
“Yeah, that’s the impression I had of him,” Mary said. Already her brain was going slightly numb. It felt good.
“But eventually, his stuff fell out of favor and as I recall, he had some personal problems. Drinking, drugs, or something.” Braggs waved his hand around as if a mosquito were bothering him.
“And then?” Mary said.
“And then he bought a one-way ticket to the Land of Hollywood Forgottens. It’s a community that keeps growing, every day. Easy to get into, very difficult to get out.”
Mary nodded. Of course. He went where it seemed like every lead in the case of her uncle’s murder had gone: nowhere.
Her glass looked empty so she held it out to Braggs again. He refilled hers and his own, then came back.
“I thought I heard some rumors about him getting a job in Las Vegas or something,” Braggs said. “Managing some female comedian, but that was it. He fell off of everyone’s radar.”
Mary nodded. Her head felt like it had put on ten pounds.
“There’s a million guys like Noah Baxter,” Braggs said. “A little flash of success, then a disappearing act when they realize the big payday is never going to come. Most of them don't even realize it's over. Can't admit it to themselves. It's really kind of sad. Of course, I can't speak from experience. It's just that I'm very sympathetic-”
Mary stretched out and put her head on a pillow. She drank awkwardly from her glass, but she got the Jack down. Drinking Jack made her think of Jake. Jake the Jerk. She giggled.
“I might know someone who could tell us more about Noah,” Braggs said.
“Oh, yeah?” Mary said. Her voice was thick with sleepiness.
“Margaret Stewart.”
“Martha Stewart? The domestic goddess?”
“No, Margaret Stewart,” Braggs said.
“Who the hell is that?” Mary slurred.
“She used to be my agent. And Brent’s agent. And Noah’s agent.”
“Lady gets around.”
“In fact, she was everybody’s agent back then. A powerhouse.”
Mary closed her eyes and the first faint stirrings of sleep, like the start of the incoming tide, slowly swept across her forehead.
“I think I'm going to fall asleep,” she said, a sound suspiciously similar to snoring began to come from her mouth. “You can let yourself out-” she started to say, but never finished the sentence.
“She knew everyone,” Braggs said. “But most of all, she knew where all the skeletons were. That's more valuable than anything for sale on Rodeo Drive, that's for sure.”
Mary fell asleep then, an image of the old man she’d shot as a skeleton, dancing around in the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Her eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.
Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.
10 a.m. Margaret Stewart.
It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.
She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress, and get out to Beverly Hills.
Great.
Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.
She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying thought nearly drove her to her knees.
Had she put them on herself?
Or had Braggs?
Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache?
“That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.
“Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmark of a good time.”
They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.
“They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a big party.”
“In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.
“Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I'm sure at some point, animals were involved.”
“Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”
Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”
Braggs shook his head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”
“Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”
“It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.
“I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”
“That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”
“Yes, I’m sure all actors and actresses prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”