Jonathan Kellerman - Silent Partner

“Delicate skin, I develop keloid scars- do you suppose I should bother with plastic surgery?”

“That’s up to you.”

“I’ve considered it, but it seems such a foolish conceit. The cancer’s bound to return. Ironically, the treatment includes radiation. Not that treatment has made much of a difference for any of the others.”

He folded his collar back in place. Tapped his Adam’s apple.

“What about Belding?” I said. “Was he exposed?”

He smiled, shook his head. “Leland was protected. As always.”

Still smiling, he opened a desk drawer, took out a small plastic squeeze bottle and shot some kind of atomized spray down his throat. He deep-swallowed a couple of times, put the bottle back, reclined in his chair, and smiled wider.

I said, “What is it you want to discuss?”

“Matters that seem to interest you. I’m willing to satisfy your curiosity on condition that you stop turning over rocks. I know your intentions are honorable but you don’t realize how destructive you could be.”

“I don’t see how I could add to the destruction that’s already taken place.”

“Dr. Delaware, I want to leave this earth knowing everything’s been done to cushion certain individuals.”

“Such as your sister? Isn’t cushioning her what caused all of it, Mr. Vidal?”

“No, that’s incorrect- but then, you’ve seen only part of the picture.”

“And you’re going to show me all of it?”

“Yes.” Cough. “But you must give your word that you’ll stop probing, let things finally rest.”

“Why pretend that I have a choice?” I said. “If I don’t give you what you want, you can always squash me. The way you squashed Seaman Cross, Eulalee and Cable Johnson, Donald Neurath, the Kruses.”

He was amused. “You believe I’ve destroyed all those people?”

“You, Magna, what’s the difference?”

“Ah. Corporate America as Satan Incarnate.”

“Just this particular corporation.”

His laugh was feeble and breathy. “Doctor, even if I did have an interest in… squashing you, I wouldn’t. You’ve acquired a certain… aura of grace.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. Someone cared deeply about you. Someone lovely and kind- dear to both of us.”

Not dear enough to stop him from erasing her identity.

I said, “I saw that someone talking to you at the party. She wanted something from you. What?”

The pale eyes closed. He pressed his fingers to his temples.

I said, “From Holmby Hills to Willow Glen. Five hundred dollars a month, in an unmarked envelope. Doesn’t sound as if she was that dear to you.”

He opened his eyes. “Five hundred? Is that what Helen told you?” He produced another wheezy laugh, wheeled his chair back, put his feet on the desk. He wore black silk corduroy slacks, tan lambskin kilties with argyle socks. The soles of the shoes were polished, unmarked, as if they’d never touched the ground.

“All right,” he said. “Enough shilly-shallying. Tell me what it is you think you know- I’ll correct your misconceptions.”

“Meaning you find out how much trouble I could cause you, then act accordingly.”

“I understand how you could see it that way, Doctor. But what I’m really after is preventive education- giving you the whole picture, so that you no longer have any need to cause trouble.”

Silence.

He said, “If my offer doesn’t appeal to you, I’ll have you flown back home immediately.”

“What are my chances of arriving there alive?”

“One hundred percent. Barring acts of God.”

“Or God pretending to be the Magna Corporation.”

He laughed. “I’ll try to remember that one. What is it then, Doctor? The choice is yours.”

I was at his mercy. Going along meant learning more. And buying time. I said, “Go ahead, educate me, Mr. Vidal.”

“Excellent. Let’s do it like gentlemen, over supper.” He pushed something on the desk front. The gun display wall half-rotated, revealing a closet-sized passageway with a screen door that he opened to fresh air.

We stepped onto a long, covered patio, supported by gray-brown turned-wood columns and paved with rust-colored Mexican tile. Thick-trunked bougainvillea rooted in clay pots wound their way around the columns and up to the roof, where they spread. Straw baskets of donkey-tail and jade plant hung from the rafters. A large round table was covered with sky-blue damask and set for two: earthenware dishes, hammered-silver flatware, crystal goblets, a centerpiece of dried herbs and flowers. He’d been sure of my “choice.”

A Mexican waiter appeared from nowhere and held out my chair. I walked past him, crossed the patio, and stepped out into the open air. The sun’s position said dusk was approaching, but the heat was midday strong.

I stepped back far enough from the building to take it in entirely: long, low, single-storied, textured mock-adobe walls, windows trimmed with the same gray-brown wood used for the columns. Flagstone walkways cut a swath through an acre or two of lawn bordered by yellow gazania. Beyond the grass was dry dust and an empty horse corral. Past the corral, more dust, miles of it, the biscuit-colored monotony broken only by clumps of aloe and Joshua tree, and paint-by-number splotches of ashen shadow.

And backing all of it, the source of the shadows: granite mountains. Majestic, black-tipped, knife-edged against a sapphire sky. Picture-postcard mountains, so perfect they could have been a photographer’s backdrop.

My eyes swept downward, to a particular spot on the lawn, seeking out a wooden garden bench. Nothing. But my memory placed one there anyway.

A posing spot.

Two little girls in cowgirl suits, eating ice cream.

I looked back at Vidal. He’d sat down, was unfurling his napkin, saying something to the waiter as his wine glass was filled.

The waiter laughed, filled my glass, and left.

The former Billy the Pimp held his hand out to my chair.

I took another look at the mountains, saw only stone and sand now. The play of light and shadow on inanimate surface.

All the memories wiped out.

Vidal beckoned.

I walked back to the patio.

He ate fiercely, obsessively, an impeccably mannered cobra. Striking at his food, cutting it into tiny pieces and tenderizing it to purée before ingesting. Guacamole ostentatiously mixed tableside by the waiter, using a rough stone mortar and pestle. A salad of wild greens and marinated onions. Homemade corn tortillas, newly churned butter, barbecued swordfish steaks, six kinds of salsa, pork loin roast in some kind of sweet, piquant sauce. A Chardonnay and a Pinot Noir he took pains to inform me were estate-bottled at a Sonoma winery run by Magna exclusively for its own consumption.

A couple of times I saw him wince after swallowing, wondered how much of his pleasure was gustatory, how much appreciation that his mouth still worked.

He’d accepted a second portion of pork before he noticed my untouched food.

“Not to your liking, Doctor?”

“I’d rather be educated than eat.”

Smile. Dice. Purée. The human Veg-O-Matic.

“Where are we?” I asked. “Mexico?”

“Mexico,” he said, “is a state of mind. Someone witty once said that, though for the life of me I can’t remember who- probably Dorothy Parker. She said all the witty things, didn’t she?”

Cut, chew. Swallow.

I said, “Why did Sharon kill herself?”

He lowered his fork. “That’s an end point, Doctor. Let’s proceed chronologically.”

“Proceed away.”

He drank wine, winced, coughed, kept eating, sipped some more. I looked out at the desert as it darkened to madder-brown. Not a sound, not a bird in the sky. Maybe the animals knew something.