Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“Howard Hughes’ compliments. Drop by anytime.”

The door closed behind me, and for about four seconds I felt swell. At the end of that four seconds I noticed the car parked next to mine. It was the yellow Mirador police Ford. Leaning against it was the Mexican cowboy. Next to him was a wiry little guy in a sweaty lightweight suit who was wiping the sweatband of his straw hat with a moist handkerchief. He looked like he was around forty, and he squinted as if the sun were particularly bright, which it wasn’t. Then he spotted me, put his hat on and gave me a fake grin.

“Mr. Peters?” he said, advancing on me while the Mexican watched passively.

“Right,” I said.

“I’m Mark Nelson, Sheriff of Mirador. You’ve already met Alex, my deputy, which means you are acquainted with the entire constabulary of Mirador.” He chuckled and I chuckled back. Nelson moved to my side and put a hand on my shoulder and his head near mine. He smelled like onions. We walked a few feet from the car while he whispered confidentially.

“Was a time Mirador looked as if it would be a big resort area,” he said. “Look around at these trees. Listen to the ocean. What has Laguna got that we haven’t?”

“I give up,” I said.

“Developers,” he whispered confidentially through his teeth. “People willing to make a commitment to the community. We had a couple of them before the Depression back in ’28, but it fell through. We’ve even got a big hotel almost finished on the beach. Looks just like it did back in ’30.”

I looked around at the trees and listened to the ocean. Then I looked at Alex, who looked at me.

“There’s a point to all this, isn’t there?” I said, “and I’m going to get it soon?”

Nelson took his hat off and did some more work on drying the stained hatband of his straw hat.

“Right,” he said, pointing a finger at me and smiling. “I’ll get there soon. And I’ll try not to bore you. What we have in Mirador instead of fancy resorts and shops with junk, is a handful of people barely making it and another handful of very rich people who like Mirador because it is peaceful and secluded.”

“Like Anton Gurstwald?” I guessed.

“Just like Mr. Gurstwald,” he confirmed.

“And people like Mr. Gurstwald are willing to pay a few extra bucks each month or so to insure that privacy?”

“You are a smart man,” Nelson said, shaking his head in appreciation. “We’d prefer that people who are not wanted by those who value privacy respect that wish. Now you’ve intruded on one of our leading citizens and assaulted a resident.”

“I’m also working for another resident,” I pointed out. “Howard Hughes.”

“Right enough,” said Nelson, “but a man has to make decisions, a sheriff has to make decisions and sometimes they aren’t easy ones. Now Mr. Hughes is really just renting his privacy and he doesn’t pay those few extra dollars to insure it.”

“He just pays his rent and his taxes,” I said, “and those are supposed to give you some rights without kickback.”

Nelson shook his head sadly.

“I believe you are becoming slightly abusive,” he said. “I was hoping we could handle this without abuse. I’m going to have to insist that you leave Mirador and never return.”

I looked deeply into his very moist grey eyes, and he looked back steadily. I had to give him that. He could hold a gaze with the best.

“And suppose I don’t give a shit what you insist?” I whispered.

“Ah, well then, let’s pretend I told you a joke. Here’s the punch line.”

And I got the punch line from Alex, who has stepped silently behind me. He hit me in the right kidney and sent dry ice up my spine. My bladder, filled with three beers, almost let go, but I held on and slipped to my knees.

“I got it,” I gasped.

“Good,” sighed Nelson. “I hoped you would. Please help the man up, Alex.”

Alex helped me up and handed me my hat. I staggered, considered hitting Alex with something, ideally with Sheriff Nelson, and changed my mind.

“Well, it has been nice meeting you, Mr. Peters. Maybe we’ll run into each other in the city some time.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

Alex opened the door of my Buick and helped me inside. Nelson squinted up at the sun and moved to the open window.

“By the way,” he whispered again, “Alex and I noticed that your car had a little accident, front bumper’s been ripped off by a vandal. Alex stuck it in your back seat.”

“Thanks,” I said, making a mental note to charge it to Hughes and give him a full account of what happened. “Anything else that might affect my transportation?”

“No, no,” he grinned, stepping back so I could drive away, “we wouldn’t let anything happen that might prolong your stay in Mirador. Now you know the way out of town, but just in case, we’ll follow behind as an escort.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, trying not to wince from the pain above my kidney. I needed a toilet or a clump of trees fast, but I wasn’t going to find a hospitable place in Mirador.

The drive back to and through Mirador was uneventful. The kid wasn’t on the curb and the cat was gone, but the car door was still there. There were two more cars parked in front of Hijo’s, but I didn’t pay any attention. I just watched Alex and Nelson in my rear view mirror. They stopped when the street turned to road, and Nelson stuck his hand out the window to wave goodbye.

I didn’t wave back.

I found a Sinclair station on the highway, told the guy to fill it up and made a Groucho dash to the men’s room. The dash resulted in pain and relief, along with a feeling of satisfaction. I had some decent leads paid for with a firm belt in the kidney. Maybe that evened the score with Fate and the Gods. They let me have a little information and I paid for it in pain. It was a deal the Gods and I had had for almost thirty years, and we both understood it. I would have felt uneasy if things came without a price. I think I inherited that from my father. It was probably the only thing I inherited from the poor guy besides a watch that wouldn’t tell time.

I paid the gas station attendant who looked like Andy Devine, asked him the time and drove back toward Los Angeles humming “Chatanooga Choo-Choo.” My back was being reasonable.

I drove to Arnie’s garage on Eleventh Street and told no-neck Arnie, whose face was so thick with grease that he looked like something from the road show of The Jazz Singer , that he should get my bumper back on as soon as possible. Arnie shifted his stub of a cigar and grunted. He never asked how bullet holes, blood and ripped bumpers appeared. He just fixed and charged.

I legged it over to my office, trying to ignore the memory of Alex’s kidney attack and stand up straight as I walked. I made it to Ninth, passing Montoya the Dropper, a neighborhood character who would walk about thirty feet, only to repeat the thing over again. Montoya refused to acknowledge that he kept falling and became indignant if anyone confronted him with it. This affliction caused Montoya some professional difficulty since he made his meager living as a pickpocket. He was certainly the world’s most conspicuous pickpocket. I also passed Old Sol. Old Sol walked around with a whistle in his mouth and a book in front of his eyes. He blew the whistle whenever he came to a streetcorner and traffic stopped, green light or not. Since Old Sol was about seventy and he was still healthy, he was apparently doing something right.

They were two of the more savory characters of the neighborhood I met as I turned down Hoover to the Farraday Building, the four-story refuge for second-rate dentists, alcoholic doctors and baby photographers where I had my office.