As a perpetual party guest, one who depended on repeat invitations, Peter found it expedient to develop a specialty. A shtik, his friend Kravitz would have called it in his bogus East Side accent. Peter's shtik was palm reading. He read a paperback book on the subject and decided that since it was all bullshit anyway, it would be no problem for him.
He was at his best with women in the forty-and-up bracket who enjoyed having their hands held by a handsome young man, no matter what kind of nonsense he gave them about life lines. Peter developed a smooth patter along the lines of "I see you've had a fascinating life, and you've overcome some really rough obstacles all on your own." Who was going to deny a piece of flattery like that? Sometimes he would take a flyer like "Within the next two weeks you should receive a large sum of money that you don't expect," or sympathetically, "I see in your hand the signs of a very recent tragedy." He managed to hit on these often enough so people began to seek him out especially for readings of their hands. To Peter's surprise, they pressed money on him for the service.
One of his early patrons, the wife of a hair-transplant tycoon, encouraged Peter to turn professional and to branch out from palmistry to other occult fields, capitalizing fully on his "gift." It was she who set him up in the house off Laurel Canyon. As for Peter's part of the bargain, he had merely to provide a weekly Ouija-board contact with the lady's late first husband and provide some bedtime activities that the current husband was unable or unwilling to manage.
Peter's clientele came to him entirely through referrals. The tasteful business cards were the closest he came to advertising, and he had only had those printed because in Hollywood you had no identity unless you had a business card.
While his psychic-counseling business kept him hopping, Peter did not lack for social life. There was in Southern California an endless supply of nubile ladies like the blonde at the Marina Village, who were eager to jump into the sack with him. Their firm young bodies helped restore him for the sessions with his sagging clients, but sometimes he wished one of them might come up with something like an original thought.
Joana Raitt, now, she was something else. Peter had spotted her intelligence across the recreation deck almost at the same instant he spotted her tight white jeans. He had made his standard approach, and was not really surprised when she turned him down. Girls like Joana were not usually susceptible to his mellowed-out charm, but it was always worth a try. He had felt a genuine sense of loss when it appeared she had drowned in the pool, and had been glad to see her looking alive and alert in the parking lot this morning.
He concentrated, trying to remember exactly what Joana had said while they carried her from the pool to the apartment. Everyone else was shouting instructions and not paying any attention, but Peter, trotting alongside, had heard her clearly. It sounded crazy to him at the time, but when he mentioned it to her this morning it must have been important enough to get her over here.
It was something about her not belonging somewhere, wanting to get away. It still didn't make any sense to Peter, but it was enough to open up a dialogue. And if he handled it right, there was no telling where it might lead.
Chapter 7
Joana drove up Laurel Canyon Boulevard to the twisting little street where Peter Landau lived, and turned off. She found his address painted on the curb about half a block up the street. She parked the Datsun and sat for a moment still holding the steering wheel. She had the sudden what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling that came over her sometimes as she was about to board an airplane, or when she was walking into a strange party. At the airport she could always take a deep breath and remind herself where she was going and why, and at a party someone she knew usually would come out to greet her, but up here in the green canyon above Hollywood she could not shake the feeling of anxiety.
Yesterday-was it really less than twenty-four hours ago? — when she had met the self-absorbed Peter Landau, she would no more have imagined herself driving to his house the next day than she would have imagined, well, drowning in the swimming pool. Even this morning she had had no intention of ever seeing him again. However, after the unsatisfactory talk with Dr. Hovde and the near-miss with the wild driver in Westwood, she felt she absolutely had to tell her story to somebody, and Peter seemed to be the only one who might be willing to listen.
She got out of the car and looked up at the rustic cottage surrounded by a heavy growth of chaparral. She smiled at the rickety-looking flight of painted wooden stairs leading up to the porch. She disliked the word, but funky seemed the only way to describe the place. She started up the steps.
Peter Landau, smiling and sure of himself, answered her knock at the door. He wore a pair of black leather jeans and a safari shirt open, of course, to the belt buckle. On a gold neck chain hung a little gold lion.
A Leo, thought Joana; I might have known.
"Welcome, welcome," he said, giving her a big white smile. "Come on in."
The room she entered was small and warm, filled with cushions and low, seductive furniture. A thick shag rug covered the floor. The lighting was indirect and subtle. Soft guitar music flowed from concealed speakers. Joana wondered whether coming here was a big mistake.
"Have any trouble finding the place?"
"No."
"Can I get you anything?"
Joana was about to decline, then thought what the hell. "What I'd really like is a martini."
"Hey, I'm sorry, but I don't have a drop of hard stuff in the place. How about a glass of wine?"
"That'll do."
Peter went out through a beaded curtain into another room. Joana wandered around looking at the books and pictures. The books were mostly occult or psychological, of the self-help variety. The pictures suggested the psychic, but with taste. Joana had the feeling they had been picked out by a woman.
The beaded curtain rattled and Peter reappeared carrying two glasses of pale wine, with a tall green bottle tucked under his arm. Joana took one of the glasses from him and tasted the wine. It was nicely chilled and had a clean, dry flavor. She nodded her approval and Peter beamed.
"I hope I'm not taking you away from your business," she said.
"Nope. I'm all yours"-he checked his wrist-watch-"until four o'clock."
"This sounds silly," she said, "but I'm not sure I know why I'm here."
"You want to talk about what happened to you last night," he suggested.
"Well, yes. That's part of it, anyway."
"Get comfortable, then, and let's hear about it."
He motioned her into a cozy love seat. Joana sat down carefully and was a little surprised when Peter took a chair facing her instead of sitting next to her. She was thankful, being in no mood to fend off a pass right now.
Pale-green draperies were drawn across the windows, allowing only a diffused afternoon light to come into the room. Combined with the gentle music, the purr of a fan somewhere, and Peter's soft, reassuring voice, it had a hypnotic effect. Joana had to remind herself not to get too relaxed.