Silent Partner Page 3

  “Not for a while, D. Just one semester—and yes, I'm being defensive. The guy was a sleaze. My excuse is that I was broke—just married, slaving over the dissertation, and my NIMH stipend ran out mid-semester.”

  “C'mon, fess up, Larry. It was a plum job. You guys sat around all day watching dirty movies.”

  “Not fair, Delaware. We were exploring the frontiers of human sexuality.” He laughed. “Actually, we sat around all day and watched undergraduates watch dirty movies. Oh, for those licentious seventies—could you see getting away with that today?”

  “A tragic loss to science.”

  “Catastrophic. Truth be told, D., it was total bullshit. Kruse got away with it because he'd brought in money—a private grant—to study the effects of pornography on sexual arousal.”

  “Did he come up with anything?”

  “Major data: fuck films make college sophomores horny.”

  “I knew that when I was a sophomore.”

  “You were a late bloomer, D.”

  “Did he publish?”

  “Where? Penthouse? Nah, he used the results to go on talk shows and cheerlead for porn as a healthy sexual outlet, et cetera, et cetera. Then, in the ‘uptight eighties,' he made a complete about-face—supposedly, he'd ‘reanalyzed' his data. Started giving speeches about porn promoting violence against women.”

  “Lots of integrity, our new department head.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “How'd he climb this high, Larry? He used to be parttime help.”

  “Part-time help with full-time connections.”

  “The name on the endowment—Blalock?”

  “You got it. Old moolah—steel, railroads—one of those families that gets a penny every time someone west of the Mississippi breathes.”

  “What's Kruse's connection?”

  “Way I hear it, Mrs. Blalock had a kid with problems, Kruse was the kid's therapist. Must have made it all better because Mommy's been pouring money into the department for years—on condition that Kruse administer it. He's been promoted, given everything he wants. His latest want is to be department head, so, voila, party time.”

  “Tenure for sale,” I said. “I didn't know things had gotten that bad.”

  “That bad and worse, Alex. I still give those lectures in family therapy, so I'm involved enough in the department to know that the financial situation sucks. Remember how they used to push pure research at us, look down their noses at anything even remotely applied? How Ratman Frazier used to keep telling us relevant was a dirty word? It finally caught up with them. Nobody wants to fund grants to study the eyeblink reflex in decorticate lobsters. On top of that, undergraduate enrollment's way down—psych's not a hip major anymore. Nowadays everyone, including my oldest, wants to be a business major, inside-trade their way to health and happiness. Which means budget cuts, layoffs, empty classrooms. They've had a hiring freeze for nineteen months—even the full profs have got their noses to the floor. Kruse brings in Blalock money, he can eat tenure for breakfast. In the words of my oldest: Money talks, Dad. Bullshit walks. Hell, even Frazier's jumped on the bandwagon. Last I heard he was into mail-order, marketing stop-smoking tapes.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “I kid you not.”

  “What does Frazier know about how to quit smoking? About anything human?”

  “Since when is that important? Anyway, that's the situation. Now, about Saturday. I managed to farm out all five cupcakes for three hours tomorrow. I could use the time to pump iron, watch the game, or do something else comparably thrilling, but the idea of getting all spiffed up and saturating myself with free drinks and haute-cuisine munchies at some Holmby Hills pleasure dome didn't sound half bad.”

  “The drinks are bound to be lousy, Larry.”

  “Better than what I'm drinking now. Diluted apple juice. Looks like piss. It's all that's left in the house—I forgot to go shopping. I've been shoveling sugared cereal into the kids for two days.” He sighed. “I'm a trapped man, D. We're talking terminal cabin fever. Come to the damned party and trade cynical barbs with me for a couple of hours. I'll R-S-Veep for both of us. Bring Robin, parade her around, and let the rich farts know money can't buy everything.”

  “Robin can't make it. Out of town.”

  “Business?”

  “Yup.”

  Pause.

  “Listen, D., if you're tied up, I understand.”

  I thought about it for a moment, considered another lonely day and said, “No, I'm free, Larry.”

  And set the gears in motion.

  Chapter

  4

  Holmby Hills is the highest-priced spread in L.A., a tiny pocket of mega-affluence sandwiched between Beverly Hills and Bel Air. Financially, light-years from my neighborhood, but only about a mile or so due south.

  My map put La Mar Road in the heart of the district, a winding bit of dead-end filament terminating in the rolling hills that overlook the L.A. Country Club. Not far from the Playboy Mansion, but I didn't imagine Hef had been invited to this bash.

  At four-fifteen I put on a lightweight suit and set out on foot. Traffic was heavy on Sunset—surfers and sun-worshippers returning from the beach, gawkers headed east clutching maps to the stars' homes. Fifty yards into Holmby Hills everything went hushed and pastoral.

  The properties were immense, the houses concealed behind high walls and security gates and backed by small forests. Only the merest outline of slate gable or Spanish tile tower floating above the greenery suggested habitation. That, and the phlegmy rumble of unseen attack dogs.

  La Mar appeared around a bend, an uphill strip of single-lane asphalt nicked into a wall of fifty-foot eucalyptus. In lieu of a city street sign, a varnished slab of pine had been nailed to one of the trees above the emblems of three security companies and the red-and-white badge of the Bel Air Patrol. Rustic lettering burned into the slab spelled out LA MAR. PRIVATE. NO OUTLET. Easy to miss at forty miles per, though a blue Rolls-Royce Corniche sped past me and hooked onto it without hesitation.

  I followed the Rolls's exhaust trail. Twenty feet in, twin fieldstone gateposts tacked with another PRIVATE ROAD warning fed into eight-foot stone walls topped with three feet of gold-finialed wrought iron. The iron was laced with alternating twenty-foot sections of vines—English ivy, passion fruit, honeysuckle, wisteria. Controlled profusion masquerading as something natural.

  Beyond the walls was a gray-green canvas—more five-story eucalyptus. A quarter-mile later the foliage got even thicker, the road darker and cooler. Mounds of moss and lichen patched the fieldstone. The air smelled wet and menthol-clean. A bird chirped timidly, then abandoned its song.

  The road curved, straightened, and revealed its end point: a towering stone arch sealed by wrought-iron gates. Scores of cars were lined up, a double file of chrome and lacquer.

  As I got closer I could see that the division was purposeful: sparkling luxury cars in one queue; compacts, station wagons, and similar plebeian transport in the other. Heading the dream-mobiles was a spotless white Mercedes coupe, one of those custom jobs with a souped-up engine, bumper guards and spoilers, gold-plating—and a vanity plate that said PPK PHD.

  Red-jacketed valets hopped around newly arrived vehicles like fleas on a summer pelt, throwing open car doors and pocketing keys. I made my way to the gate and found it locked. Off to one side was a speaker box on a post. Next to the speaker were a punch-pad, keyslot, and phone.

  One of the red-jackets saw me, held out his palm, and said, “Keys.”

  “No keys. I walked.”

  His eyes narrowed. In his hand was an oversized iron key chained to a rectangle of varnished wood. On the wood was burnt lettering: FR. GATE.

  “We park,” he insisted. He was dark, thick, round-faced, fuzzy-bearded, and spoke in a Mediterranean accent. His palm wavered.

  “No car,” I said. “I walked.” When his face stayed blank, I pantomimed walking with my fingers.

  He turned to another valet, a
short, skinny black kid, and whispered something. Both of them stared at me.

  I looked up at the top of the gate, saw gold letters: SKYLARK.

  “This is Mrs. Blalock's home, right?”

  No response.

  “The University party? Dr. Kruse?”

  The bearded one shrugged and trotted over to a pearl-gray Cadillac. The black kid stepped forward. “Got an invitation, sir?”

  “No. Is one necessary?”

  “We-ell.” He smiled, seemed to be thinking hard. “You'all got no car, you'all got no invitation.”

  “I didn't know it was necessary to bring either.”

  He clucked his tongue.

  “Is a car necessary for collateral?” I asked.

  The smile disappeared. “You'all walked?”

  “That's right.”

  “Where d'you'all live?”

  “Not far from here.”

  “Neighbor?”

  “Invited guest. My name is Alex Delaware. Dr. Delaware.”

  “One minute.” He walked to the box, picked up the telephone, and spoke. Replacing the receiver, he said “One minute.” again, and ran to open the doors of a white stretch Lincoln.

  I waited, looked around. Something brown and familiar caught my eye: a truly pathetic vehicle pushed to the side of the road, away from the others. Quarantined.

  Easy to see why: a scabrous Chevy station wagon of senile vintage, rust-pocked and clotted with lumpy patches of primer. Its tires needed air; its rear compartment was crammed with rolled clothing, shoes, cardboard cartons, fast-food containers, and crumpled paper cups. On the tailgate window was a yellow, diamond-shaped sticker: MUTANTS ON BOARD.

  I smiled, then noticed that the clunker had been positioned in a way that prevented exit. A score of cars would have to be moved in order to free it.

  A fashionably thin middle-aged coupled climbed out of the white Lincoln and were escorted to the gate by the bearded valet. He put the oversized key in the slot, punched a code, and one iron door swung open. Slipping through, I followed the couple onto a sloping drive paved with black bricks shaped like fish scales. As I walked past him, the valet said, “Hey,” but without enthusiasm, and made no effort to stop me.

  When the gate had closed after him, I pointed to the Chevy and said, “That brown station wagon—let me tell you something about it.”

  He came up next to the wrought iron. “Yes? What?”

  “That car is owned by the richest guy at this party. Treat it well—he's been known to give huge tips.”

  He swiveled his head and stared at the station wagon. I began walking. When I looked back he was playing musical cars, creating a clearing around the Chevy.

  A hundred yards past the gate the eucalyptus gave way to open skies above a golf course-quality lawn trimmed to stubble. The grass was flanked by ramrod columns of barbered Italian cypress and beds of perennials. The outer reaches of the grounds had been bulldozed into hillocks and valleys. The highest of the mounds were at the farthest reaches of the property, capped by solitary black pines and California junipers pruned to look windswept.

  The fish-scale drive humped. From over the crest came the sound of music—a string section playing something baroque. As I neared the top I saw a tall old man dressed in butler's livery walking toward me.

  “Dr. Delaware, sir?” His accent fell somewhere between London and Boston; his features were soft, generous, and pouchy. His loose skin was the color of canned salmon. Tufts of cornsilk circled a sun-browned dome. A white carnation graced his buttonhole.

  Jeeves, out of central casting.

  “Yes?”

  “I'm Ramey, Dr. Delaware, just coming to get you, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience, sir.”

  “No problem. I guess the valets aren't equipped to deal with pedestrians.”

  We stepped over the crest. My eye was drawn toward the horizon. Toward a dozen peaks of green copper tile roof, three stories of white stucco and green shutters, columned porticoes, balustered balconies and verandas, arched doors and fanlight windows. A monumental wedding cake surrounded by acres of green icing.

  Formal gardens fronted the mansion: gravel paths, more cypress, a maze of boxwood hedges, limestone fountains, reflecting pools, hundreds of beds of roses so bright they seemed fluorescent. Partygoers clutching long-stemmed glasses strolled the paths and admired the plantings. Admired themselves in the mirrored water of the pools.

  The butler and I walked in silence, kicking up gravel. The sun beat down, thick and warm as melting butter. In the shadow of the tallest fountain sat a Philharmonic-sized group of grim, formally dressed musicians. Their conductor, a young, long-haired Asian, lifted his baton, and the players broke into dutiful Bach.

  The strings were augmented by tinkling glass and a ground bass of conversation. To the left of the gardens a huge flagstone patio was filled with round white tables shaded by yellow canvas umbrellas. On each table was a centerpiece of tiger lilies, purple irises, and white carnations. A yellow-and-white-striped tent, large enough to house a circus, sheltered a long white-lacquered bar manned by a dozen elbow-greased bartenders. Three hundred or so people sat at the tables and drank. Half that amount crowded the bar. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks and canapés.

  “Yes, sir. Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  “Soda water would be fine.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Ramey widened his stride, walked ahead of me, disappeared into the bar throng, and emerged moments later with a frosty glass and a yellow linen napkin. He handed them to me just as I reached the patio.

  “Here you are, sir. Sorry again for the inconvenience.”

  “No problem. Thanks.”

  “Would you care for anything to eat, sir?”

  “Nothing right now.”

  He gave a small bow and walked off. I stood alone, sipping my soda, scanning the crowd for a friendly face.

  The crowd, it soon became obvious, was divided into two discrete groups, a sociologic split that echoed the double-filed cars.

  Center stage was dominated by the big rich, an assemblage of swans. Deeply tan and loose-limbed in conservative haute couture, they greeted each other with cheek-pecks, laughed softly and discreetly, drank steadily and not so discreetly, and made no notice of the ethnically diverse bunch sitting off to the side.

  The University people were the magpies, intense, watchful, brimming with nervous chatter. They'd congregated, reflexively, into tight little cliques, talking behind their hands while darting their eyes. Some were conspicuously sleek-in off-the-rack suits and special-occasion party dresses; others had made a point of dressing down. A few still gaped at their surroundings, but most were content to observe the rituals of the swans with a mixture of raw hunger and analytic contempt.

  I'd finished half my soda when a ripple spread through the patio—through both camps. Paul Kruse appeared in its wake, weaving his way adroitly through Town and Gown. A small, lovely-looking silver-blond woman in a strapless black dress and three-inch heels hung on his arm. She was in her early thirties but wore her hair like a prom queen—ruler-straight down to her waist, the ends puffed and curled extravagantly. The dress clung to her like a coat of pitch. Around her neck was a diamond choker. She kept her eyes fastened on Kruse as he grinned and worked his audience.

  I took a good look at the new department chairman. By now he had to be close to sixty, fighting entropy with chemistry and good posture. His hair was still long, a dubious shade of corn-yellow and cut new-wave surfer-style, with a flap over one eye. Once, he'd resembled a male model, with the kind of coarse handsomeness that photographs well but loses something in the translation to reality. And his good looks were still in evidence. But his features had fallen; the jawline seemed weaker, the ruggedness dissolved into something mushy and vaguely dissolute. His tan was so deep he looked overbaked. It put him in sync with the moneyed crowd, as did his custom-tailored suit. The suit was featherweight but conspicuously tweedy and arm-patched—an almost snotty concession to
academia. I watched him flash a mouthful of white caps, shake the hands of the men, kiss the ladies, and move on to the next set of well-wishers.

  “Smooth, huh?” said a voice at my back.

  I turned around, looked down on two hundred pounds of broken-nosed, bushy-mustached square meal packed into five feet five inches of round can, wrapped in a brown plaid suit, pink shirt, black knit tie, and scuffed brown penny loafers.

  “Hello, Larry.” I started to extend my hand, then saw that both of his were occupied: a glass of beer in the left, a plate of chicken wings, egg rolls, and partially gnawed rib bones in the right.

  “I was over by the roses,” said Daschoff, “trying to figure out how they get them to flower like that. Probably fertilize them with old dollar bills.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the mansion. “Nice little cottage.”

  “Cozy.”

  He eyed the conductor. “That's Narahara, the wunderkind. God knows what he cost.”

  He lifted the mug to his mouth and drank. A fringe of foam coated the bottom half of his mustache.

  “Budweiser,” he said. “I expected something more exotic. But at least it's full strength.”

  We sat down at an empty table. Larry crossed his legs with effort and took another, deeper swallow of beer. The movement inflated his chest and strained the buttons of his jacket. He unbuttoned it and sat back. A beeper was clipped to his belt.

  Larry is almost as wide as he is tall and he waddles; the reasonable assumption is obesity. But in swim trunks he's as firm as a frozen side of beef—a curious mixture of hypertrophied muscle marbled with suet, the only guy under six feet to have played defensive tackle for the University of Arizona. One time, back in grad school, I watched him bench-press twice his weight at the university gym without breathing hard, then top it off with one-handed push-ups.

  He ran blunt fingers through steel-wool hair, wiped his mustache, and watched as Kruse charmed his way through the crowd. The new department head's route took him closer to our table—near enough to observe the mechanics of small talk but too far to hear what was being said. It was like watching a mime show. Something entitled Party Games.