Indigo, page 16
“Everything else she found on the Internet, all that bushwah about a great Hollywood mystery. When I let go of Bleak Street, she thought I was going screwy, setting myself up for some kind of rap, maybe even a pair of cement overshoes. She’s sharp—sharper than Emiliano, for sure—but she let her heart get in the way of her head, protecting me from mugs that were taking a dirt nap before she was born.”
His tone dripped with derision, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. With her brother as an accomplice, she’d nearly brought off a con job that Van Oliver and his old associates could have imagined only in their dreams.
Emiliano called out from the front seat. “The hat and coat were my idea, Grandpapa.” His tone was indignant.
“Shut up and drive.”
“What about the rest of your family?” Valentino asked. “Do they know?”
Bozal shook his head. “They’re bound to, after I’m gone and the biographers nose around long enough to pick up the scent. It won’t matter then. I worked a hell of a lot longer getting Bozal right than that character I played in the movie, and anytime you watch an actor put everything into a part and tell him what a good actor he is, it means he screwed up. I’d rather not get bad reviews from my own flesh and blood.
“’Course,” he said, “I won’t hold you to anything. A deal’s a deal, and you held up your end. You got clear title to Bleak Street and everything caught up in it.”
The archivist made a decision.
“I’ve got a born-again classic, and an enduring Hollywood mystery to promote it. At this point, a solution would only gum up the works, like if they raised the Titanic or identified Jack the Ripper. It could squelch any interest in the film before it sees the light of day.”
“You sure? Connie Turkus was camera-shy. If you showed Fitzhugh his picture, you must of got it from his nephew. He won’t be too happy to see that can of worms spill out.”
“Let me worry about Mark David Turkus, sir. It took me three times as long as it should have, but in the end I’m usually smart where it counts.”
Ignacio Bozal—the name Valentino would always associate with him first and foremost—reached over and took his knee in a grip that would crack iron. “My whole film library goes to UCLA two minutes after I croak. There’s some stuff there I bet even you never heard of.”
Valentino was moved. “Señor, when that day comes, I’ll make all the arrangements.”
Van Oliver put his hat back on, tugging the brim over his left eyebrow, and buttoned and belted his trench coat. His grin was sinister.
“You and what army?”
29
THE CEO OF Supernova International kept his office in the penthouse suite of a former luxury hotel in Century City, where, local legend maintained, mega-producer Darryl F. Zanuck had kept his succession of mistresses during his reign at Twentieth Century Fox.
An armed man in uniform stood sentry before the entrance of the only elevator that went there, beside a white telephone on a fluted pedestal. He took Valentino’s name, checked it against a steel clipboard, and lifted the receiver without dialing. He repeated the name to whoever picked up and cradled it. He pressed a button and the doors to the elevator slid open.
The car was done in green marble and red mahogany—invoking Christmas year-round—with the corporation’s logo, the eye of a raptor in a circle like a camera lens, embossed on the paneling. As it climbed with no effort on Valentino’s part, the piped-in sound system played an orchestration without lyrics that the passenger quickly identified as “Saturday Night at the Movies (Who Cares What Picture We See?).” The illusion of purely emotional, non-commercial devotion to the lively art extended only as far as the room where the company conducted negotiations; that was where the raptor came out, talons first.
The doors opened directly into the suite. It took up the entire top floor without partitions. There was space enough for a vast and glossy desk, a huge table holding up a three-dimensional scale model of a resort on the Riviera, a Nautilus weight-trainer, a complete indoor putting green, and a bank of vintage pinball machines, restored to their original gaudy condition. Windows looked out on Los Angeles in every direction, with a Blu-ray–quality view of the Santa Monica Mountains to the west.
Inside this panoramic display stood a ring of seventy-inch plasma screens, blank at the moment, and inside that a bank of computer monitors on pedestals, a circle within a circle within a circle; this one affording a view of the globe from New York to London to Paris to Moscow to Tokyo to the parking lot at the base of the building, where a man in a uniform identical to the one worn by the guard on the ground floor walked around taking pictures of license plates with a camera phone.
In the center of the last sat Mark David Turkus himself, at a potato chip–shaped desk with nothing on it but a yellow pad and a mechanical pencil, slurping something green through a straw from a tall glass tumbler. Somewhere a mobile phone or tablet hummed incessantly and without response; it could be the president of Pakistan or a pitch for a time-share in Florida for all the attention it got.
As Valentino entered, Turkus rose and came around the desk to offer his hand. He wore an old pullover, tan Dockers, and boat shoes threadbare at the toes; GQ had featured him on the cover as “The Man Who Invented Casual Friday.”
His grip was tentative, representing years of practice. He’d learned the art of disguise from those ocean predators who camouflaged themselves as harmless creatures.
“I was surprised when you called me so soon,” he said. “Does that mean you’ve made some kind of breakthrough?”
“Some kind.”
Turkus indicated a pair of chairs that matched the desk, curved yellow plywood with aluminum frames. “They’re more comfortable than they look,” he said.
“I’m sure they are, but I don’t think this will take long.”
“That’s unencouraging. Bad news always does.”
“That depends on what you consider bad. I know what became of Van Oliver.”
The eyes behind the glasses were as flat as washers. “Did my uncle have anything to do with it?”
“Yes.”
No change in expression. “And our arrangement stands? You will withhold the information, and Bleak Street will remain out of view, with no publicity attached?”
“For the time being.”
The barometer in the room dropped. The man carried around his own climate.
“That’s not what we agreed on. There was to be no time limit.”
“Constantine Venezelos Turkus didn’t kill Oliver.”
A muscle twitched in the other’s cheek; it was invisible unless one looked close. “But you said—”
“I can’t give details. I promised someone I wouldn’t during the party’s lifetime. After that I’ll be free to tell you the rest. At that time I’ll expect you to honor your part of our bargain and lift the restraining order. The film won’t be exhibited and no mention of it will be made to the public until then.”
“Can you throw me a bone of any kind?”
Valentino hesitated, as if thinking it over, then nodded. He’d made up his mind on that point before he’d asked for the appointment.
“Whatever else your uncle may have done, killing Van Oliver wasn’t one of them. He had nothing to do with the disappearance that could damage your reputation or that of Supernova International.”
“Now I’m more curious than ever.” But he didn’t look confused. Perhaps for the first time in his professional life, an emotion crossed “the Turk’s” face; a look of profound relief.
“For some reason I get the impression we’ll be meeting again soon,” he said.
“Not too soon, I hope. This film’s waited sixty years to premiere. A few more won’t hurt it.”
Something whirred. The elevator doors opened and Teddie Goodman stepped into the room.
She wore yet another of her outlandish outfits, part Theda Bara, part Jane Jetson, an angular metallic thing of scarlet and black supported by eight-inch heels and crowned by a curving spiked comb of blackest jet angling along the part in her hair; for all the world it recalled the tailfin of a German U-boat. She stopped when she spotted Valentino, so abruptly she might have fallen on her face but for her catlike ability to stay on her feet. Her eyes flashed—quite literally—and went from him to Turkus. But she was too accustomed to self-survival—the law of the jungle—to ask the question that was obviously on her mind.
“Miss Goodman. I wasn’t aware we’d scheduled a meeting.”
Icy calm was restored. “We didn’t. I had something to report, something I thought you should know right away. On second thought it can wait.”
“If it has anything to do with Mr. Valentino’s recent activities, I’m well aware of them. But thank you for your concern.”
Her long black lashes lowered in what for her served as a bow. She turned, re-entered the elevator, and faced front. The doors slid shut on her frozen alabaster features.
Valentino broke the silence that followed. “I’ll pay for that.”
“Possibly. She frightens me, too, sometimes. The guard in the lobby is terrified of her, which is why she comes and goes as she pleases. It can be a valuable property in one’s representative. It can also be an intolerable annoyance.” He rolled a shoulder. “I can’t promise to call her off, short of firing her. She’d be a dangerous character set loose in the wild.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’d miss her, to be honest.”
Once again, Turkus put out his hand.
“Thank you. On behalf of myself, my company, and my family. Thank you.”
For the third time in two days, Valentino felt that deceptively mild grip. He’d heard there were close associates who hadn’t shaken the billionaire’s hand even once.
30
THE ORACLE WAS lit up as if for the 1927 premiere of Wings, the first feature to win the Academy Award for Best Picture. Light chased the LED bulbs around the towering marquee, left, right, up, down, and left again, technology’s answer to man’s quest for the eternal. Searchlights the size of trampolines tinted the bellies of clouds in cotton-candy colors, the shafts crisscrossing like swords in combat. Guests in full evening dress crossed the red carpet under the glittering canopy, admiring the barbaric splendor of ancient civilizations, mythic beasts, and pagan deities restored to life in gilt, plaster, and resin; all the illusionary, elusive, over-the-top art of the Hollywood Dream Factory.
Harriet Johansen was first to arrive, in a silver lamé gown that clung to her slim athletic frame and reflected the light in flat sheets. She kissed Valentino and pointed the corner of her clutch purse at the man who’d taken her gold-bordered pass, in a tuxedo that could only have been cut to his massive measure. A black velvet band of mourning encircled one sleeve.
“Wherever did you find him?”
Valentino was standing next to the vacant ticket booth wearing a white dinner jacket.
“His name’s Vivien, believe it or not. He came to me three days ago, saying he owed me a favor. He doesn’t—I was just a catalyst—but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. He’s already turned away a dozen people who thought this was a public event.”
“I can’t think how they made that mistake. The place only looks like the World’s Fair.” She looked at the man again. “He reminds me of someone.”
“Only if you’ve seen The Incredible Hulk.”
“The TV show? Loved it. In re-runs, I mean. Is he—?”
“Not Lou Ferrigno. Leave it to a forensics expert to recognize a stunt double after all these years.”
She beamed. “How can I help?”
“Stand beside me. That way no one will notice I borrowed this outfit from the Hallmark Channel.”
“You look like Rick Blaine.” She studied his face.
“Just by coincidence; it was the only thing available. I won’t play it again, Sam. This time.”
She was looking at the next arrivals. “I think I just got upstaged.”
Fanta Broadhead approached, her arm linked with her husband’s. She was a glittering mermaid in sparkling green sequins and a white wrap that would have passed for ermine if she didn’t do pro bono work for the ASPCA.
The host kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“This old thing?” She hugged Harriet. “You clean up well, too.”
Valentino shook Broadhead’s hand. “So do you.”
The professor tugged at his starched collar. In a black tuxedo with onyx studs he might have passed for a truck driver at his daughter’s wedding. “Third time I’ve worn the monkey suit, thanks to you. I should’ve suspected what Fanta was up to when she talked me into buying it instead of renting one for the hitching post. I thought she intended to bury me in it.”
“We’ve heard it all before, old man,” said his wife. “I told you when you proposed I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life in sensible shoes and a tailored suit like all the rest of the faculty wives. That meant dressing you up so it wouldn’t look like I checked you out of a hotel for transients. And just for the record, I proposed to you.”
“I said I’d think about it. I was still thinking when you dragged me to the cake-tasting.”
“You forget a lawyer never asks a question she doesn’t know the answer to,” she said.
Broadhead turned to survey the small group lined up behind them. “Not much of a turnout. I warned you when this whole thing started you’ll never lure people away from their living rooms and Netflix.”
“Did you look at the invitation?” Valentino said.
“‘Admit two,’ along with the lame tease of a sneak premiere. What part of ‘grand opening’ did you not understand?”
“It’s the grandest company I could have wished for.”
Fanta turned toward the centerpiece of the ornate lobby, an oil portrait of a hauntingly lovely brunette in its original Deco frame, securely sealed in a shadow box made of beveled glass. “It looks even better than it did in the Bradbury.”
“I hoped it would. Mounting it in that case cost me four hundred dollars. Anytime someone offers you a gift, make sure you can afford it.”
“You know,” she said, “I like it more than the one they used in the film.”
“Meaning no disrespect to a beautiful actress, that’s because the one Preminger had made looks like Gene Tierney. This one looks like Laura, the unachievable ideal. That’s an impossible undertaking for any mortal casting director, no matter how talented. Vera Caspary preferred it to the other; but what did she know? She only wrote the novel the picture was based on.”
“Will Bozal be coming?” Broadhead said.
“He declined. He’s in Tuscany, scouting locations for a theme park he wants to build. It seems the Catholic Church liked the idea well enough to clear it with the authorities. Anyway, he’s seen the picture.”
Fanta said, “What is the picture, by the way? Casablanca? Harriet told me about that.”
He smiled. “Not Casablanca.”
“He won’t even tell me,” Harriet said.
Still smiling, he turned and opened the embossed bronze door that led into the auditorium.
Henry Anklemire was next in line, in his purple smoking jacket and a green-and-yellow-striped bow tie. “Snazzy joint, kiddo. You could put up the Lost Tribe of Israel in a room this size and still have space for a pool table.”
“Good of you to come, Henry. No hard feelings about what we discussed, I hope.”
“What the heck. Don’t take it the wrong way, but I didn’t really think you could do it. Land on Mars, maybe, but rip the lid off a case the cops gave up on before you was born? Meshugana!”
“You can’t win ’em all.”
Anklemire patted his arm. “Better luck next time. Just let me know when I can go to work on the pitch. I’ll come up with something.”
“I will.”
“Popcorn’s free, right?”
“I hired a caterer. You can have shrimp and lobster if you like.”
“Just so long as you don’t rat me out to Temple Beth Shalom.” He adjusted his toupee and strutted through the door.
Harriet smiled after him. “No one’s that Jewish. I bet he’s a closet Methodist.”
“Nobody knows Henry,” Valentino said. “He’s entirely a creature of manufacture: Mr. Whipple out of Betty Crocker by way of Morris the Cat. They were all born on a drawing board on Madison Avenue.”
“You’re a puzzle yourself. For someone who was so determined to get to the bottom of the Van Oliver case, you seem to have dropped it like a hot lightbulb. What’d I tell you about keeping secrets?”
“This one isn’t mine to share,” he said. “When it is, you’ll be the first to know.”
A new voice interrupted the conversation.
“I like what you’ve done with the place. Ditching the skeleton was a good start.”
Valentino straightened at the sight of the tall redhead in the shimmering blue gown; it was part surprise, part force of habit whenever he found himself face-to-face with an old adversary. She looked more statuesque than ever in six-inch heels and pearls. For the first time it struck him that she was a remarkably beautiful woman, something she managed to camouflage through fierce intelligence and ruthless efficiency on the job.
“Sergeant Clifford. I’m so glad you came.”
“I can tell. I haven’t seen that look on anybody’s face since I slapped the cuffs on a former child star with blood on his shirt. This is my husband, Ray. He’s a criminal attorney. We only fight when he’s cross-examining me in court.”
He shook the hand of a stout, ruddy-faced man whose head barely cleared his wife’s bare shoulders. “Don’t listen to her. She was thrilled when she got the invitation. The last time she got to gussy up, it was in dress blues with a black band on her shield.”
“I object,” she said.
“Overruled.”
Valentino said, “Enjoy the show.”
On her way past, Clifford bent to his ear. “When can I expect a signed statement? I’m not talking about Ivy Lane. The Oliver file’s still open downtown.”
