William Lashner - Marked Man

“We’re not here for recreation,” I said.

“This is L.A., kid. Everything here is recreation. But I got no time now. Anglethorp’s on his way. We’ll talk later. Just the three of us.”

“We need to talk now,” I said.

“I’d like to, really would, got lots to say, but I can’t. Just can’t. Ahh, Lou, set these two up with towels and suits. Make sure hers is nice and tight. And give them something to drink. You drink, Victor?”

“Not well,” I said.

“Then learn. You going to make it in this town, kid, you got to be able to drink the money boys under the table and then steal them blind. Fix them something hard, Lou. We’ll chatter later, I promise. But right now I’m in the middle of something big. When was Anglethorp due?”

“An hour ago,” said Reggie.

“Bastard. Hey, Victor, while you’re waiting, take a gander at this.” He picked up a set of bound pages and tossed them at me. “Just came in. Brilliant. Genius. Let’s see if you got an eye.”

He stood up from his chair and walked swiftly past us, toward the pergola and the house. He was shorter than I thought, almost a foot shorter than me. Reggie walked behind him and to the side, like a subservient wife.

“Did you call twice?” said Purcell.

“Twice,” said Reggie.

“What did he say?”

“No answer.”

“Ahh, the son of a bitch would be late to his own orgasm.”

“What happened to my sister?” said Monica loudly.

Purcell stopped, turned around, stared at her for a moment with those big eyes. “I didn’t have to let you in, kid,” he said finally. “I’ll get to it in time, you have my word, but in this business, business comes first.”

“We’re not going away,” I said.

“I’d be disappointed if you did. That tattoo Lavender told me about, was that painted on or is it the real thing?”

“The real thing.”

“Is there a story behind it?”

“I’m still trying to find out.”

“I bet you are. You’re a bulldog, kid. I admire the type. Philly boys are tough enough to make noise in this town.” He waved to the pool and the ocean beyond. “But just because you got your teeth in a bone doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the scenery.”

He put the cigar in his mouth, sucked it for a moment, then turned around again and kept on walking until the two men disappeared under the pergola. Quick as that, in a puff of smoke, the astonishing Theodore Purcell was gone.

“I take care both of you,” said Lou, “find bathing things that fit.” He gestured us toward a small, low cabana by the side of the pool. “This way. In here you change.”

You might think thatI told Lou where to stick his bathing suits, that I charged after the inscrutable Theodore Purcell demanding answers, that I determined then and there to get to the bottom of the whole rotten mess, but you’d be wrong. I could give you all the strategic reasons for biding my time, but strategy would only be part of the reason. The other part was that it was hot and my suit jacket was sweaty and the idea of a swim, even in the murky waters of Teddy Purcell’s pool, didn’t seem such a terrible idea. It was L.A., baby, and if this wasn’t the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, it was as close as I was ever going to get.

With a borrowed swimsuit, a terry cloth robe tied tight like a trench coat, sunglasses on and the script in my hand, I stepped out of the cabana to the edge of the pool. The sun was hanging hot and fat over the Pacific. In the torpor of the afternoon, with the weeds and the heat and the color of the water, the deserted deck felt like the pool of a second-rate hotel in a Third World country. I looked down. My feet glowed in the sunshine like startled albino mice.

“Why is the water green?” said Monica, sidling up next to me.

“Maybe the pool boy has been taken out for cleaning, along with everything else in the house,” I said.

“Didn’t this Purcell in effect just admit that he did something to my sister?”

“He pretty much admitted that he was Teddy Pravitz and that he knew your sister. Beyond that, it’s hard to say.”

“But whatever he did, he’s not racked with guilt, is he?”

“No, not at all, though he doesn’t seem the racked-with-guilt type of guy. But he also doesn’t seem like someone who has been murdering his old pals to keep his secrets.”

“Maybe you’re wrong about him,” she said.

“I doubt it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Swim.”

I glanced at her and couldn’t help but glance again and then to stare. Monica Adair was born to wear the little two-piece nothing Lou had given her. There was something American about her body, healthy, abundant, maybe too much of a good thing, but then what’s a little excess among friends?

“I don’t think it’s right accepting his hospitality,” said Monica. “It makes me feel dirty.”

“He seems to have a story he wants to tell. I figure we should accept his hospitality to the fullest, put him at ease, and let him tell it.”

“So this whole lounge-by-the-pool thing is part of our strategy?”

“Of course it is, Monica. Do you think I’m enjoying this?”

Just then Lou appeared, a sweating glass with an umbrella standing tall on his tray. “I bring your colada,” he said. “Made it fresh, right out of can.”

“I’ll be sitting there, Lou,” I said, pointing to a lounge chair in the shade of a canopy. “And could you put these things over there, too?” I unbelted my robe, slipped it off, and handed it to him, along with the script.

“Why not? Lou has nothing better to do than to serve you foot and mouth?”

“Thank you so much. Can you bring one of these concoctions for my friend? And, Lou, keep them coming.”

Lou huffed. I smiled broadly at Monica. She put her hand up as if blinded by the white of my smile. Or was it the white of my sun-starved skin?

“I didn’t know you were German,” she said, taking in the little Speedo that Lou had given me to wear. “I’ve worn G-strings with more material than that.”

“It’s all Lou had in stock.”

“Teddy Purcell’s hand-me-downs.”

“When you put it that way, yuck.”

“And with the color of the water, I wouldn’t go in that pool if you paid me. It’s like colonies of mutated life-forms are swimming in there. I expect the blob to crawl out of it at any moment.”

“Where is Steve McQueen when you need him?” I said as I peered into the water. I couldn’t see the bottom of the pool. Instead of diving, I lowered myself carefully until I was sitting on the edge, my legs dangling in the murk.

While I was sitting there, a young girl came out of the house, climbed onto the diving board, and leaped into the water like a graceful slip of light. She swam the length with perfect form. When she got to the end, she effortlessly lifted herself out of the pool. Clean enough for her, it was clean enough for me. I lowered myself in, keeping my head above the water as I paddled around. The water was cool and silky, more like lake water than the usual chlorinated pool.

When I pulled myself out, I walked over to my lounge chair in the shade of the canopy and toweled myself off with the robe. The white toweling took on a strange green tint. I sat down, drank a deep draft from the piña colada, and then lay back with a strange sense of contentment. Just yesterday I was in an old Philly row house, stuck with a dead man. Today I was poolside in the mountain retreat of a big-time Hollywood producer. That the two places were related, I had no doubt, but still I savored the pleasure of the juxtaposition. And then something caught my eye. It was the young girl who had been swimming in the pool. She was standing again on the diving board, her back straight, arms outstretched.