Skin Deep sg-3 Read online

  "Poor little jerk," Nana said.

  "Remember the garage sale?" Saffron was crying openly now.

  "I told Simeon about it last night," Nana said. "That kid just couldn't pick a friend."

  "I hated that bugger," Saffron said. "Oh, Jesus, remember Homer?"

  "Who?" Nana asked.

  "Who was Homer?" I asked Saffron.

  "This dork Amber was supporting for a while. Before Claude."

  "No," I said to Saffron. "We're going to have to be more specific than that. You're going to tell me everything you know about Amber, and we're going to start with Homer. Then we'll work backward. Then we'll work forward. Until we finish."

  Nana looked at Saffron, and Saffron looked at Nana. Then the two of them looked at Toby.

  "We're going to start now," I said.

  Three hours later, I knew a lot more about Amber. I wasn't sure that any of it would help, but at least I had her address, a place to start looking, and someone who might have seen them drop her there. Toby had volunteered to give Nana a ride into town, and when they left she and Saffron were arm in arm. When women cry over someone they love, they forget who they hate.

  I was on the way to the phone to call Eleanor when I heard a whirring sound. After a moment I identified it as the fan in the computer. The screen was dark. I touched a key, and words leapt onto the screen.

  SIMEON IS OKAY WITH NANA, it said.

  I looked at it for a long time and then went to call Eleanor.

  9

  Norman's Conquest

  I'd had lazier weekends. After finishing with Toby, Nana, and Saffron, I'd made an arrangement to keep Toby under wraps for the duration of Saturday and, probably, Sunday as well. Then I'd fooled around with the computer, writing down practically everything the three of them had told me about Amber. Sooner or later, though, I was supposed to do something about it.

  Well, the first thing to do was check the alibi.

  Amber had apparently been shifting from place to place, and when they told her they were going to take her home- according to Saffron-she hadn't known where she wanted to go. That had the ring of truth to it; I didn't think she could have found her leg in the dark. After some futzing around, they'd taken her to Pepper's place and let her off. The last they'd seen of her she was stumbling toward the door.

  The apartment house was on Fountain, on a block where paint was allowed to peel and most of the shrubbery had gotten a jump on the summer heat by dying months before. The building was two stories high, built in the shape of a V open to the street. Someone was frying bacon when I climbed out of Alice, several pounds of bacon by the smell of it. It was almost two. People get up late in Hollywood.

  There was no answer when I thumped on the door of Pepper's apartment, which was to be expected. I'd been told she spent most of her nights abroad.

  That left the Peeper, as Saffron had called him, an old man who lived on the second floor in the unit nearest the street. "I think he's got his finger caught in the window," she'd said. "I've seen him every time I swung by, and Pepper says he's always there. One of those, you know, voyers. One hand stuck in the window and the other one down his pants."

  I knocked again, looked down at my watch, and glanced up at the Peeper's window. A white curtain dropped into place. There were stairs at the juncture of the V, and I climbed them two at a time, tiptoed to his window, and ran my nails down the screen.

  The curtain flapped back, and I found myself inches away from a pair of very bright eyes set into an absolutely hairless head. "Well, hey," I said. "How you doing?"

  "Who's askin'?" The voice sounded a lot like my fingers on the screen: scratchy and dry, as though it hadn't been used in years.

  "It's about the girls downstairs," I said.

  "There's a lot of girls downstairs." He sounded guilty, but he didn't drop the edge of the curtain.

  "Those girls," I said, thumbing back toward Pepper's door.

  "The hootchy-koo girls," he said. Then he laughed briefly, a sound like someone stepping on a glass in a paper sack. "What about 'em?"

  "Oh, come on. Weren't the cops here today?"

  "You with the cops?"

  "How else would I know they were here?"

  "You didn't get around to me the first time," he said. "Sloppy work. Well, you might as well come in. Lot of nosy folks here, don't want 'em to see me talking to you through the window." The curtain fell back into place. "Door's open," he rasped from behind it.

  When I opened it, hundreds of girls smiled at me. Centerfolds gleamed down at me from the walls, all skin and teeth and amateurishly come-hither eyes. "Quite a collection," I said.

  "They can't move very fast, either," he said, giving me the laugh again. He was sitting in a lawn chair, dressed in a white T-shirt and white boxer shorts. An aluminum walker straddled the carpet in front of him. His calves were thinner than his forearms.

  "Stop looking," he said. "You'll be old, too, you know. Sooner than you think. What happened to the hootchy-koos?"

  "One of them got into trouble last night."

  "The one who came home or the other one?"

  "Did one of them come home?"

  "Cops," he said. "No manners atall." He pronounced it as one word. "Yeah, Mr. Question Man, one of 'em came home."

  "Which one?"

  "Slow down. You think I just sit here and stare out the window?"

  "Yes."

  "He, he, he," he wheezed. "Well, I do. The one who dopes all the time. She can't walk no better than me."

  "What time?"

  He pursed his lips, making them disappear into a vortex of wrinkles. "Eleven," he said, "maybe eleven-ten."

  "She went into the apartment?"

  "Sure. Where else is she gonna go? Up here?"

  "You know for sure it was the dopey one?"

  "I was watching, wasn't I? Dropped her keys twice, kicked the door. Seen her do it before."

  "Who was she with?"

  "Nobody. Went in alone, for a change."

  "Did someone drop her off?"

  "That's a different question, ain't it? One of them little red cars."

  "Who was in it?"

  "Two people. One driving and one sitting, like usual. They drove off when she got to the door."

  I took a deep breath. "Did she leave again?"

  "Yup. Those girls don't stay home."

  "When?"

  "Pardon?" His eyes glittered maliciously.

  "When did she leave?"

  "Fifteen minutes. Walked out and turned left. That enough for you?"

  "Was anybody waiting for her?"

  "Nope. Staggering around on her own."

  "And did she come back?"

  "Dead, isn't she?" he asked.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Well, she didn't. Come back. And then you cops turn up."

  "We do indeed," I said.

  "Finished?"

  "Yes," I said, pulling the door open again, "I'm finished."

  "Not exactly Academy Award time," Norman Stillman was saying in what was supposed to be an incisive tone. "Not exactly Bette Davis in Dark Victory." Neither Dixie Cohen nor I pointed out that Davis had lost that year.

  It was the next day. After I'd waved good-bye to the Peeper, who was watching me from his aerie, I'd called my answering machine from a pay phone at Fountain and Vista. Dixie had called and, in the tone of voice Dan Rather might use to announce that Europe had disappeared from the map, told me that Stillman wanted to see me Sunday at nine a.m. At his house.

  We were in the den, an inevitably nautical room about the size of Colorado. If it had been any more shipshape, the floor would have rolled beneath our feet. I'd been kept waiting as a further hint that I was not the flavor of the month. After a precise fifteen minutes Stillman had swept in with Cohen in tow. He'd favored me with a well-practiced piercing glare and started right in by getting his Oscars wrong.

  "You've only got one job," Stillman continued. "That's to stay with Toby. You've got ten thousand dol
lars of my money to stay with Toby. So what happens? On the first night out, you let him get away from you, and a girl gets killed."

  Dixie clucked reprovingly and shook his head. The two of them were dressed right out of Western Costume: Stillman had come ashore in white slacks and a navy blue blazer with, honest to God, an anchor embroidered on the pocket in metallic thread, and Cohen was wearing yet another corduroy suit. Cord du roy, cloth of the king, come down a peg or two to hang on Dixie Cohen's despair-ridden, unregal figure.

  "So?" Stillman said.

  "I beg your pardon?" I'd stopped listening a minute ago, thinking about the "girl" who got killed. Stillman raised his eyes heavenward, a not-so-ancient mariner on the lookout for the albatross.

  "So why shouldn't I can you right now?" he said.

  "Can me. It's Toby's money anyway. He'll be interested to know that you're being so frugal with his residuals."

  Stillman was too much of a pro to look surprised that I knew he'd paid me with Toby's money. "His future residuals," he said. "If he's not in prison where he can't collect them. And, by the way, are you threatening me?"

  "Norman," Dixie Cohen said warningly.

  "I'd like some coffee," I said. "It's early. And yes, I'm threatening you."

  There was a moment of silence. Stillman discovered that his cuffs needed adjusting and adjusted them. Dixie thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and balled them into fists.

  "You'll wreck your pleats," I told him. "It's hard to keep pleats in corduroy."

  "Don't I know it," Cohen said wearily. He took his hands out of his pockets.

  "Do we have coffee on this boat?" I asked. "Maybe I could have some hard tack or a ship's biscuit to go with it."

  Stillman made a small impatient gesture, and Dixie scurried out the door. To avoid looking at me, Stillman went over to a map of the Pacific just like the one in his office and regarded it dramatically. A red pin informed me that the Cabuchon was still in Honolulu. I was wishing I were, too, when he yanked the pin and moved it an inch to the right. California bound.

  "You should have a pin for Toby," I said.

  He didn't turn to face me. "I thought you were my pin in Toby," he said acidly. "Apparently I was mistaken." I let it ride. Beverly Hills birds sang outside the window. They didn't sound any better than Topanga birds.

  "I'm a successful man, Mr. Grist." Stillman finally passed on the Pacific and let his eyes wander around the den, taking in the results of all that success. "I'm not inclined to overlook failure."

  "Stop talking like a KGB operative. Toby scammed me. He's good at it. You should know. Anyway, I kept the cops away from him, for now. Of course, that's an omission I can always correct."

  "My God, you really are threatening me," Stillman said. He sounded relieved to be on familiar ground. "I'm not without influence, you know. I can have your license."

  "What would you do with it?"

  Dixie scuttled back in. In Stillman's presence, he seemed to walk sideways, like a crab eyeing a tourist. "Coffee's on the way," he said.

  "That's not the point, and you know it," Stillman said to me. He still hadn't raised his voice. I didn't imagine he ever raised his voice. "The point is-"

  "The point is that you're blowing smoke. It's only a matter of time before the cops get around to Toby. The boy's got bad habits, and the habits are on record, and the cops aren't stupid. What we should be talking about is where we go from here."

  "You mean you don't know?" Dixie said. He sounded disappointed. Stillman went back to the Pacific.

  "Sure, I know," I said. "We figure out who killed the young woman."

  "A drug addict," Stillman said fastidiously, eyeing an area just north of Guam. I was liking him less by the minute. I hadn't liked him that much to begin with.

  "Drug addicts can get killed just like the rest of us," I said. "They probably even object to it."

  "That's not my problem," Stillman said.

  "Yes, it is," Cohen and I said simultaneously. "Norman," Dixie added respectfully.

  "Good for you, Dixie," I said. "You're beginning to figure it out."

  "It doesn't make any difference whether he did it or not," Dixie explained to Stillman's back. "Once it gets out that the cops are talking to Toby, it's over. Six years of putting up with him down the toilet."

  "Well, I know that," Stillman said nastily. "That's why you geniuses are here, to keep it from getting to Toby. Isn't that what we're talking about?"

  "Of course, Norman," Dixie said.

  "Well, excuse me," I said. "I thought we were talking about firing me."

  "Oh, that," Stillman said, sounding impatient. "That was Dixie's idea." Now it was Dixie's turn to roll his eyes heavenward, but he did it behind Stillman's back.

  A stout Hispanic maid came in carrying a silver coffee service, and Stillman tore himself away from the briny deep. Dixie stopped rolling his eyes. "Thank you, Vicenta," Stillman said. There was one cup on the tray. I took it without asking and poured.

  Dixie cleared his throat. "I've already had a call, Norman," he said, "from Joanna Link."

  Stillman paled beneath his sunlamp tan. "Oh, no," he said. "Anybody but Joanna Link."

  "Sorry," Dixie said. "She wants to come to the set tomorrow."

  "What have I done?" Stillman said. "I take care of my mother. I contribute to African famine. I give to the Urban League."

  "Joanna who?" I said.

  They looked at me as though I'd lapsed into Morse code. "Three hundred and fifty papers," Cohen said. "Joanna three hundred and fifty papers Link. Joanna Here's the Fucking News from Hollywood Link."

  "Oh," I said. "Joanna Link." I'd never heard of her.

  "Keep her away," Stillman said. "How does she know anything, anyway?"

  "Keep Joanna Link away?" Cohen said. "I could keep the Huns from the gates of Rome if I had the time, I could keep Heloise from Abelard, but keep Joanna Link away from a story? I'd have to kill her. Not that I haven't thought about it."

  "How does she know anything?" I asked.

  "The young lady's picture was in the paper this morning," Dixie said. "It's the kind of story they love, nude dancer battered." He sounded like Toby. "As luck would have it, one of Link's spies, some two-bit paparazzi, has a picture of Toby and this dame. Going into Nicky Blair's, can you imagine that?"

  "Nicky Blair's?" Stillman parroted. "Toby took this junkie to Nicky Blair's?" He put both hands over his face. "He's got a death wish."

  "Trouble is," I said, "she's the one who's dead. And she's not a junkie anymore."

  "Spare me the self-righteous posturing. I've got enough on my mind. So you stay on the payroll, is that settled?"

  "Not quite. I need an assistant."

  "What time is Link supposed to be there?" Stillman asked Cohen nervously. "An assistant for what?" he asked me.

  "Three o'clock," Cohen said. "We're on Stage Six tomorrow."

  Stillman looked at his nautical watch, as if counting the hours between Sunday morning and Monday afternoon. Maybe the watch had Monday on it. It was big enough. "Does Toby know?"

  "Not yet."

  "Has he got much to do?"

  "About twelve pages."

  "Dialogue or action?"

  "Dialogue. Including the scene with the little kid."

  "Twelve pages, the little kid, and Link? He'll plotz."

  "To watch Toby," I said.

  Stillman looked at me blankly. "What?"

  "To watch Toby. I need an assistant to watch Toby."

  "I've missed something," Stillman said. "Something's got past me here. You're supposed to be watching Toby."

  "Think, Mr. Stillman. How can I bird-dog Toby twenty-four hours a day and figure out who killed the girl? It's two different jobs, or at least you'd better hope it is. If it isn't, Joanna Link's going to have a very big story."

  "Joanna Link," Dixie echoed, a kind of lugubrious verbal knee jerk.

  "Dixie?" Stillman said doubtfully.

  "I think you've gotta let
him try it, Norman. It's not that much more money, considering."

  "Exactly how much?" Stillman made a tent with his well-buffed fingers and regarded me through it. It was a gesture he'd put some work into.

  "Three fifty a day." The woman's asking price was one fifty, but she'd have to put up with Toby, and I didn't feel like saving Stillman money.

  "Jesus, I know agents I can get for that much."

  "Good. Get an agent."

  "Don't get huffy," Stillman said.

  "Agents." Dixie made it sound like a profanity.

  "Oh, damn it," I said, "don't nickel-and-dime me." I stood up. "We're lazing around here talking, and there are things I should be doing. Like it or not, the police are working their way toward Toby. Either you want to protect the goose who lays the golden eggs or you don't. Three fifty it is, and it's cheap at the price, considering the alternative."

  Stillman gave me something that would have passed for a soothing smile if the room had been a lot dimmer. "We're just haggling," he said. "Nothing personal. Call your man in. I'll leave a pass so he can get on the lot."

  "She'll come on the lot with Toby," I said. "She's been sitting on top of him since three yesterday afternoon."

  The smile scattered to the four winds. "She?" Stillman said. "You're putting a woman with Toby?"

  "She can handle him."

  Stillman pursed his lips and then nodded. "Good," he said. "No more haggling." He worked up the smile again. "But think ahead, okay? I like a man who thinks ahead."

  I smiled back. "And I like a man who likes a man who thinks ahead."

  "Done, then," Stillman said. He walked briskly out of the room.

  "Thank heaven," Dixie said. "That was getting disgusting." He picked up his oversize briefcase and gave it a tug to see if it had gained any weight during the conversation.

  "Dixie," I said, "what in the world are you doing here?"

  He looked surprised. "Earning my daily bread. Quite a lot of it, in fact."

  "You're too mournful to be a press agent."

  "I'm not a press agent." He drummed his fingers on the side of the case. "I'm a public relations consultant. Norman is my only client."