Bruce Wagner - The Chrysanthemum Palace

To my surprise, when I told Miriam of the plan she actually wanted to come along. We’d always joked about going to see Celine Dion. Now, she said, was our chance.

I rented an obnoxious silver Porsche, and we headed out on the highway, looking for adventure (and whatever came our way). It wasn’t quite summer — the weather was tolerably warm. We used the Mirage as our headquarters; while Meerkat lay by the pool I got in touch with a detective who’d worked the case, and was naturally a mega- Starwatch buff. He provided me with a rough itinerary of Thad and Clea’s meanderings in the days before their deaths.

We didn’t get around to seeing Celine, though I did wind up at sundry downtown casinos offering $3.89 all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets. The detective said that once Mr. Michelet arrived, he managed to get his hands on a shitload of cash, wired from a bank in Fort Lauderdale. He blew through two hundred grand at blackjack (the irony of the name of the game wasn’t lost on me) at the Palms. According to phone records, Thad and Clea were in constant touch before she left L.A. When she joined him, they pissed away another $75,000 (most of her savings, no doubt) at a divey gaming parlor off the Strip and by then were in for an additional fifty “large.” I met with the owner, who was a fairly decent guy. His kids were huge fans of The Jetsons and when the hotelier saw the tough straits Thad was in, he offered to help. His son was being bar mitzvahed that weekend and the guy was ready to knock off $20,000 from the debt if the actor made an appearance at the party to sign autographs. They shook hands over it — but “Bonnie and Clyde,” he smirked, were no-shows.

Miriam and I hit the Wheel of Fortune slots and took in a raggedy-ass rock-’n’-roll lounge revue. In the spirit of “What Happens Here, Stays Here,” I sampled the Viagra I’d been carrying around in my wallet the last few months; it seemed the appropriate thing to do. The pill worked OK but I didn’t get much sleep, and not for the reason you might think. When I finally passed out, I had recurrent dreams of snorting coke. In the morning, Meerkat and I had a stupid argument — it was definitely time to decamp.

Death Valley would be the next and last stop. Miriam didn’t think she had it in her to go. I wasn’t sure I did either.

I dropped her at the airport around 2:00 P.M. She tenderly kissed me, not envying the ordeal ahead. I hate to be noir about it, but somewhere inside that good-bye was the thought we might be done with each other for good. We embraced long and hard, the subtext being that we’d shared forbidden fruits. We knew our friendship would survive regardless of what the future held. It was kind of a cinematic moment, part Casablanca, part Planet of the Apes (just before Heston rounds the corner to howl at Lady Liberty) — because neither of us could shake the feeling that some awesome, half-buried truth was waiting for me in the desert.

THIS TIME, THE APPROACH WASfrom the east — though all roads led to the Bun Boy Motel. Around the time I passed Pahrump, that first trip flashed back in all its carefree glory. It was like a teen memory: I heard the girls’ voices and lusty giggles — I could practically smell them. Inseparable from Clea’s image was Thad’s, a grizzled, fine-witted contradiction, bellowing and gracious, born to be wild.

It grew hotter as I drove. Soon I was dipped in that serenely alien palette, the grotesque, infernal outcroppings and magnificent desolation of apocalyptic pastel. Déjà vu: that uncomfortable feeling the Furnace Creek Inn didn’t exist, and somehow I’d taken a wrong turn, never again to reclaim my superheated Shangri-La. Then suddenly there it was, in all its Spanish Colonial glory, the parking lot oddly filled to capacity — just as before.

Upon arrival, the clerk did some registering too (of my face) — the same garrulous oddball who’d given us the lowdown on the dicey denizens of that aridly majestic park. (My detective said he’d been a helpful source.) He smiled broadly until his memory linked me to the man whom everyone, postmortem, unfailingly called Mr. Michelet. His amiable expression begged I explain my return. I told him I was a friend of both Michelet and his companion — recent acquaintance of the former, childhood friend of the latter. He expressed discreet condolences. By now, other guests had gathered, either to check in or have the registrar dispense a map to Scotty’s Castle along with a quickie historic spiel. I said I was going to freshen up and asked how long he’d be at the desk. He got off at 5:00 P.M., he said — little more than an hour away. I told him I’d be pleased if he would allow me to spring for a couple of date shakes. I even dropped the name of the detective, respectfully adding that the gumshoe told me to look him up.

We met on the terrace.

“He’s a wonderful actor. Was. Always a favorite. They got here — Mr. Michelet and your friend…”

“Clea Fremantle.”

“I remembered them from when you came.”

“They’re hard to forget.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed. “But this time, I have to say they didn’t look so well.” He lowered his voice, hesitant to desecrate the dead. “A little ‘worse for wear.’ It wasn’t so much intoxication, per se. They just looked… exhausted. Like they’d ‘been through it.’ We get people like that in the valley but not so much here at the inn. I see ‘newcomers’ once or twice before they usually get — what’s the word? — assimilated. If you see ’em again, they’ve usually cleaned up their act. Course most you don’t see again. People on the run. Come to the valley same way they go to Mexico these days only it’s a little tougher here. To get by. You don’t have the sand and sea, the surfers and beach life to lose yourself in. Harder to be invisible I guess. If that’s what you’re after. You really kind of have to find a rock. To crawl under. Anyhow, they ate in the restaurant on Saturday night — I told Detective Raintree all this.”

“I know that. And I appreciate you sharing it with me.”

“Mr. Michelet didn’t have a coat so I gave him one that we keep behind the desk for people who don’t know about the code. It’s unusual when a guest doesn’t have a sport jacket but if it happens we’re prepared. They looked a little better — I think they must have taken baths!”—again, the clerk seemed embarrassed—“and were pretty well behaved during dinner. I don’t think anyone bothered him. No one asked for his autograph. But the girl — Ms. Fremantle — she’s an actor too, isn’t she?” He’d cordially slipped into present tense.

“Yes.

“Her mother was Roosevelt Chandler.”

“That’s right.”

“After dinner, they went swimming. We have towels out there. We leave our guests alone. The caretaker said they sat by the fire quite a while. He left at 11:00 P.M. and they were still there. Not making a ruckus or anything but they may have had a bottle with them. That wouldn’t be unusual. It’s nice to have a little vino under the stars.

“I was working double shifts — I don’t actually live here, I swear!” he added, cracking himself up. “Though sometimes it seems like I do. No one saw them in the morning, far as I recall. They breakfasted in their room; we have a record of that. They didn’t have a suite like when you came before. A single, adjacent to the terrace. We call it the smokers’ terrace. People can go out and get their nicotine fix. It overlooks the valley — I think I saw you and your other friend up there. What was her name?”