Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“And work for Danny.”

“I gave him advice, that’s all. We helped each other out.”

Ben looked up, an off phrase, but so innocuous there was nowhere to take it.

“Well, thanks for coming to the funeral. Funny running into you again.”

“No, I’m here most days.” He got up to go, taking his hat off the table. “I’m sorry about your brother. That was a hell of a thing.”

“Whatever it was.”

The man stopped, his eyes fixed on Ben. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just a little fuzzy, wouldn’t you say? What happened? You’re the pro.”

He waited. Finally the man looked away, putting on his hat.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m retired.” He paused. “It’s tough to get over something like this. You should take it easy.”

“Everyone says. Would you? Your brother?”

“Something worrying you? You were close? Maybe he said something to you.”

Ben shook his head. “What would he say?” Now a cat and mouse game, but no longer sure who was which.

The man shrugged, then took out his wallet. “Sometimes you start something, you don’t know what you’re getting into. Here.” He took out a card and handed it to Ben. “If you need any technical advice.”

Ben looked at it. Dennis Riordan. No affiliation, just a telephone number.

“Technical advice,” Ben repeated.

“Maybe he left something. Might explain it. Maybe I could help. Figure it out.” He began to move off. “Anyway, tell your friend to keep his nose clean. Stop imagining things.”

“What about German writers?”

Riordan turned. “You’re a suspicious guy.” He looked down at the table. “It was just lunch.”

He crossed the patio to the exit near the vegetable stalls, unhurried, not even a backward glance.

“What the hell was that?” Kelly said at their table.

Ben handed him the business card. “What you thought. The Bureau. But retired.”

“They never retire. They just find another pack of hyenas to sniff around with.”

“Like Polly.”

Kelly shook his head. “But somebody. I’ll find out.”

“You know people at Republic? Find out if he ever got a consultant fee. On Danny’s pictures.”

“What if he wasn’t paid?”

“Then why do it?”

Kelly looked at the card again, memorizing the name, then handed it back.

“Christ, all I wanted was the girlfriend, an item, and now I’ve got the Bureau on my back.”

“I don’t think so. If he was tailing you, you’d never see him. Handing out cards. He wants something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But think where we’ve seen him-Republic, the funeral. You weren’t even at the funeral. He’s not tailing you. It’s like he’s tailing Danny.”

Lasner lived in a chateau near the top of Summit Drive with enough land for a full set of tennis courts and a formal garden. Danny’s house flowed easily outside and back, the pool another room, but here the effect was moated, drawn up behind the gravel drive, the high view just something framed by picture windows. Teenagers in uniforms had been hired to park the cars so that arriving felt like stepping out of a liveried carriage, something Lubitsch might have shot.

The inside rooms were Du Barry French, high and ornate and formal, with gilded side tables and silk fire screens and ormolu footed chairs. Ben wondered what Lasner made of it all, passing through each morning on his way to coffee. Or did they have breakfast in bed, a proper levee? Still, Fay clearly loved playing chatelaine, greeting people just inside the door with real warmth, so where was the harm? The money, all those nickels, would have been spent somehow. Why not on a French dream? With a hostess once pretty enough to have been a Goldwyn Girl, far more attractive than any of the originals. Even Sol, beaming by her side, was an improvement, at least a bulldog jaw, not a weak Bourbon chin.

“My god, look at the jewels,” Liesl said.

Bunny had said to dress, but Ben had expected country club cocktails in suits. Instead he felt he had walked into an A-picture party scene, everyone turned out by Makeup and Wardrobe, evening dresses and sparkling necklaces, the room like some velvet jewel case.

“Fake,” he said, smiling.

“No, they’re not.” She put her fingers to her throat. “Anyway, the pearls are nothing to be ashamed of. My mother wouldn’t sell them, not even in Paris when we-”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. The rest of you looks good, too.”

“Oh yes, in a roomful of movie stars.”

He glanced around, taking in what she’d already noticed, faces from covers, people you saw in magazine ads recommending soap. He thought of his mother’s parties before the war, gaunt women with hats and fur trim, not beautiful, using their jewels to light up the room. Here the faces themselves were luminous. Paulette Goddard had come, looking even better than she had on the train. Alexis Smith was talking to the Lasners, her chin at a patrician tilt. He recognized Ann Sheridan by the fireplace, the full mouth not drawn in a glamour shot pout, but smiling, as down to earth as the girl next door, if she’d been beautiful. They were all beautiful. It seemed a kind of joke, an ancien regime room finally filled with glorious-looking people instead of pinched-faced heirs.

“There’s Marion Wallace. I’d better say something to her. She sent a nice note.”

“Let me buy you a drink first.” He lifted two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray. “Who else is here?” he said, clinking her glass. “Do you know anyone?”

She smiled. “A few. There’s Walter Reisch. Daniel used to play tennis with him. Paul Kohner. You know him, the agent? He handles Bruce Hudson. In the series.” She took another sip. “It’s a small town. Nobody ever believes that, but it is. They never see anyone else. If my father walked in, no one would know who he was. Alma used to complain about it. After Bernadette, when people asked Franz to parties.” She giggled. “People thought she was a character actress.”

“Ah, you’re here,” Lasner said, not really in a receiving line, but hovering near the door. “A clean shirt even. You know Fay.”

“So glad you could come,” she said. “Sol tells me everything’s great with the picture.”

“Well, the cutter is. Now all I have to do is listen to him.”

“You think you’re kidding, but I’ve seen it happen. So maybe you are as smart as he says.” She smiled, rolling her eyes toward Lasner. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand to Liesl.

“I’m sorry. Fay, Liesl Kohler.”

“Talk about smart,” Sol said quickly, missing the introduction but taking Liesl’s hand. “One week in town, already a beautiful woman.”

“Sol,” Fay said, then to Liesl, “Pay no attention, he thinks he’s a comedian.”

“No, Jack thinks he’s a comedian. He tells jokes to Jessel. The same jokes. You meet Jack?” he said to Ben. “When we were over in Europe? He was with the group.”

“Jack Warner? Just to shake hands.”

“You’re lucky. He tells one tonight, it’ll sound like the first time to you. Maybe even funny.”

“Sol,” Fay said, but with a glint, agreeing. She looked at Liesl. “Your pearls are lovely. I couldn’t help noticing.”

“My mother’s.”

“I knew it. The old ones have that rich tone. They say it comes from being worn next to the skin. All those years.”

“Do me a favor,” Lasner said to Ben. “I want to introduce you later. Fay’s cousin. We just got her out. Over there. All along, we’re thinking she must be dead and then the Red Cross calls and says she gave them our name, she’s alive, would we send for her? So, we’re crying, thinking, what are the odds? And now she’s here, she just smokes.”