Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

Larry’s station wagon was parked in front of a pea-green pseudo-French pseudo-Regency pseudo-townhouse with Ramada Inn overtones: glitter-flecked stucco walls, multiple mansards, green-and-gray striped awnings, louver windows, olive trim. The lawn was two squares of ivy, split by a concrete path. From the ivy sprouted whitewashed plaster statuary- naked cherubs, Blind Justice in agony, a copy of the Pietà, a carp taking flight. In the driveway was a fleet of cars: hot-pink ’57 T-bird; two Rolls-Royce Silver Shadows, one silver, one gold; and a maroon Lincoln Town Car with red vinyl top and a famous designer’s logo on its smoked windows.

I parked. Larry waved and got out of the Chevy. He saw me looking at the house and said, “Pretty recherché, huh, D.?”

“Who are these people?”

“Their name is Fontaine- Gordon and Chantal. They made their money in patio furniture somewhere out in the Midwest- the plastic strap and tubular aluminum stuff. Sold out for a fortune several years ago, moved to B.H., and retired. They give lots to charity, distribute Thanks-giving turkeys on Skid Row, come across like benevolent grandparents- which they are. But they love porn. Damn near worship it. They’re the private donors I told you about, the ones who funded Kruse’s research.”

“Good simple folk, huh?”

“They really are, D. Not into S and M or kiddie stuff. Just good old-fashioned straight sex on celluloid- they claim it rejuvenated their marriage, can get downright evangelical about it. When Kruse was setting up his research, he heard about them and tapped them for funding. They were so happy someone was going to finally educate the world about the therapeutic benefits of erotica that they coughed up without a fuss- must have handed over a couple of hundred grand. You can imagine how they felt when he changed his tune and started playing to the pro-censorship crowd. And they’re still steamed. When I called, Gordon remembered me as Kruse’s R.A. and let me know that as far as they’re concerned, Kruse is the scum of the earth. I mean he really catharted . When he stopped to take a breath, I made it clear I was no great Kruse fan myself, and told him what we were after. He calmed down and said sure, come on over. I think the idea of helping us really jazzed him. Like all fanatics, they love to show off.”

“What reason did you give him for wanting to see the film?”

“That the star was dead, we were old friends, and we wanted to remember her for everything she’d done. They’d read about it, thought it would be a dandy memorial.”

The grimy, Peeping Tom feeling returned.

Larry read my face, said, “Cold feet?”

“It seems… ghoulish.”

“Sure it’s ghoulish. So are eulogies. If you want to call it off, I’ll go in there and tell them.”

“No,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

“Try not to look so tortured,” he said. “One of the ways I gained entree was telling them you were sympatico to their hobby.”

I crossed my eyes, leered, and did some heavy breathing. “How’s that?”

“Oscar caliber.”

We reached the front door, a solid slab painted glossy olive.

“Behind the green door,” said Larry. “Very subtle.”

“You’re sure they have the loop?”

“Gordon said definitely. He also said they had something else we might be interested in.”

He rang the bell and it chimed out the first few notes of “Bolero,” then swung open. A Filipino maid in a white uniform stood in the doorway, petite, thirtyish, bespectacled, her hair in a bun.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Daschoff and Dr. Delaware to see Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine.”

“Yes,” said the maid. “Come in.”

We stepped into a two-story rotunda with a pastoral mural: blue skies, green grass, fluffy sheep, hay bales, a shepherd playing the pipes in the shade of a spreading sycamore.

In front of all that agrarian bliss sat a naked woman in a deck chair- fat, middle-aged, gray-haired, lumpy legs. She held a pencil in one hand, a crossword puzzle book in the other, didn’t acknowledge our entry.

The maid saw us staring, rapped her knuckles on the gray head.

Hollow.

Sculpture.

“An original Lombardo,” she said. “Very expensive. Like that.” She pointed upward. Dangling from the ceiling was what appeared to be a Calder mobile. Christmas bulbs had been laced around it- a do-it-yourself chandelier.

“Lots of money,” said the maid.

Directly in front of us was an emerald-carpeted staircase that spiraled to the left. The space under the stairs terminated at a high Chinese screen. The other rooms were also blocked by screens.

“Come,” said the maid. She turned. Her uniform was backless and cut low, past the gluteal cleft. Lots of naked brown skin. Larry and I looked at each other. He shrugged.

She unfolded part of the Chinese screen, led us through twenty feet and yet another partition. Her walk took on a sashay and we followed her midway down the hall to a green metal door. On the wall was a keyhole and a key pad. She cupped one hand with the other, punched in a five-digit code, inserted a key, turned it, and the door slid open. We entered a small elevator with padded, quilted walls of gold brocade hung with ivory miniatures- scenes from the Kama Sutra . A button-press and we descended. The three of us stood shoulder to shoulder. The maid smelled of baby powder. She looked bored.

We stepped out into a small, dark anteroom and trailed her through japanned double doors.

On the other side was a huge, high-walled, windowless room- at least three thousand square feet paneled in black lacquered wood, silent and cool and barely lit.

As my eyes accommodated to the darkness, I was able to make out details: brass-grilled bookcases, reading tables, card catalogues, display cases, and library ladders, all in the same ebonized finish. Above us, a flat ceiling of black cork. Below, dark, carpeted floors. The only light came from green-shaded banker’s lamps on the tables. I heard the hum of air conditioning. Saw ceiling sprinklers, smoke alarms. A large barometer on one wall.

A room designed to house treasures.

“Thank you, Rosa,” said a nasal male voice from across the room. I squinted and saw human outlines: a man and woman sitting side by side at one of the far tables.

The maid bowed, turned, and wiggled away. When she was gone, the same voice said, “Little Rosie Ramos- she was a real talent in the sixties. PX Mamas. Ginza Girls. Choose One From Column X.”

“Good help’s so hard to find,” Larry whispered. Out loud he said, “Hello, people.”

The couple stood and walked toward us. At ten feet away, their faces took on clarity, like cinema characters emerging from a dissolve.

The man was older than I’d expected- seventy or close to it, short and portly, with thick, straight white hair combed back and a jowly Xavier Cugat face. He wore black-framed eyeglasses, a white guayabera shirt over brown slacks, and tan loafers.

Even shoeless, the woman was half a foot taller. Late fifties, slender and fine-featured, with an elegant carriage, poodle-cut red hair with a curl that looked natural, and the kind of fair, freckled skin that bruises easily. Her dress was lime-colored Thai silk with a dragon print and mandarin collar. She wore apple jade jewelry, gauzy black stockings, and black ballet slippers.

“Thanks for seeing us,” said Larry.

“Our pleasure, Larry,” said the man. “Been a long time. Excuse me, it’s Doctor Daschoff now, isn’t it?”

“Ph.D.,” said Larry. “Piled higher and deeper.”

“No, no,” said the man, wagging his finger. “You earned it- be proud.” He shook Larry’s hand. “Lots of therapists staking out L.A. You doing okay?”