by Alan Cook
Chapter 13
Arrow slowly became a human being again as I drove our
rental car south on 101 toward the airport. Before
leaving San Francisco she had drunk black coffee in her
hotel room and then orange juice (my idea) at the
restaurant next door to the hotel. She also managed to
eat some French toast.
Her short hair didn't need much maintenance, and she
looked surprisingly good, if a little pale, in a sweatshirt
and jeans. I wondered how much she remembered about
our adventures at the casino--and the hotel.
Now, almost her first coherent words were, "I'm sorry
about last night." And then, fiercely, almost to herself,
"It's not going to happen again."
What was not going to happen again? My first thought was
egotistical--it must be something to do with me. But the
more I thought about it the more I realized that she was
speaking about all her actions. She had lost control. She
had not acted like a business executive. And executives,
as I knew from observing my father, always had to be in
control.
I was not blameless. I shouldn't have used liquor to try to
get Stan to talk. That had backfired on us. The best thing
to do was to forget about last night altogether. Write it off
as a bad dream. Of course, women with bodies like Arrow's
didn't appear in bad dreams. Did I screw up by not taking
advantage of her? If I had, she would hate me now. And,
as I firmly reminded myself, I was going with Esther.
To get the look and feel of Arrow out of my mind, I mentally
reviewed what had happened before we left the casino. I
congratulated myself on being able to walk away from the
blackjack table. A few years ago I might not have been
strong enough.
But my gut told me that something bad had happened also.
What was it? After some thought it came to me. I said to
Arrow, "Stan said something to me as we left."
"I'm never going to speak to Stan again," Arrow groaned.
"I thought he was my friend." She ransacked her purse for
a headache remedy.
"He said, 'Do you know what happens to welshers?
Remember what happened to Ned.'" I changed lanes to
pass an 18-wheeler while I waited for her reaction.
She found some pills and swallowed a couple, without
water, an ability I envied. She didn't speak for a minute.
I couldn't tell whether she had heard me and I was about
to repeat Stan's statement when she said, almost too
softly for me to hear over the road noise, "That bastard."
I assumed she was talking about Stan. I said, "What do
you think he meant by it?"
Arrow pondered. Or maybe she was just trying to clear her
head. "I guess it could have been either a threat or a joke.
Knowing Stan, I think it's more likely it was a joke--an
unfeeling joke. He's got a weird sense of humor. But he's not
a very threatening person."
"I'm beginning to suspect that Buchanan is. And Stan works
for him." I had another thought. "What if it was a slip?"
"A slip? You mean as in 'slip of the lip?'"
"Yes. What if Buchanan was somehow involved in Ned's
murder?"
"That's...hard to believe. He's a business man, not a
member of the Mafia."
"Maybe there's a Scottish Mafia." I drove and thought.
"What are we going to tell my father?"
"About what?"
"About James. About last night."
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?" Didn't we owe him some sort of report?
"Look," Arrow, said, speaking carefully and not too loudly,
"we didn't learn anything he doesn't already know. And
we didn't cover ourselves with glory. At least, I didn't.
If Richard asks what we did after you talked to the
police, I plan to tell him I visited one of our customers.
That should keep him happy."
# # # #
I drove the Jaguar to the Emerge fundraiser that evening.
Even though I was going as a volunteer and not one of
the 950 paid supporters of Emerge, I would be hobnobbing
with the cream of Los Angeles society, thanks to the
connections of the Board of Directors and the hard work
of Esther and her staff, and I wanted to look the part.
I drove confidently into the Paramount lot at the Melrose
Avenue entrance and flashed my invitation at the guard.
When he found out I was a volunteer he told me to make
a U-turn and park in the garage across the side street
from the studio.
So much for being a part of high society. I found a space on
the second level of the garage next to a concrete post
and snuggled the car up close to it, leaving plenty of room
for someone to park on the other side. Someone who
hopefully wouldn't inflict any dents on the Jag.
I crossed the street and went into a side entrance of
Paramount. This time my invitation got me waved through
and onto the lot. Dressing-room trailers lined the studio
streets, while the large hanger-like buildings containing
soundstages, somber and plain on the outside, restricted
my view.
I rounded a corner and a huge sky-wall loomed up into
the real evening sky, painted blue with white fluffy
clouds. Why was it necessary to have fake blue sky in
Los Angeles, where the sun shone almost every day?
The Paramount water tower also broke the skyline,
white with a blue Paramount logo on the top of the
tank, complete with stars. Stars, the symbol of
Hollywood.
Past the sky-wall I came to the New York street set,
where the party was. A red carpet with a theatrical
rope on either side guided me to the festivities. Facades
of brownstone row houses made the scene come alive,
while a four-story brick building with concrete crests
under the windows looked real until I got close enough
to look in those windows at the barrenness within.
Two of the New York streets, which intersected in a V,
were filled with 95 round, white-clothed tables, each
with 10 chairs around it. Waiters bustled from table to
table, setting the necessary utensils and dishes. A
centerpiece of cut flowers adorned each table. Esther
and her crew had thought of everything, even the
weather, which was unusually warm for an evening in
Los Angeles.
A small army of volunteers sat at other, rectangular
tables, without tablecloths, eating box lunches to fuel
them for handling the onslaught of guests, who would
soon start arriving. I picked up one of the cardboard
boxes of food and a bottle of apple juice and spotted
Jeri, the plump, eternally pleasant volunteer coordinator
who worked for Esther.
"Everything all set?" I asked her, raising my voice
above the chatter of the volunteers.
"Knock on wood," she said, tapping her head with
her knuckles. "Esther's around here somewhere--as
usual, doing 50 things at once."
"I'll catch up with her later," I said. I knew she would
be busy all night and didn't expect to get any of her
time. Jeri turned to talk to somebody else and I
contemplated sitting at one of the long volunteer
tables to eat my hamburger and apple, but I didn't
know many of the volunteers and I was too restless
to sit.
I leaned against a low stone wall that bordered the
open area near the red carpet and took a generous
bite of bun, beef, tomato and pickle.
"Hello, Karl," a voice said and I looked up to see Pat
Wong, the client who wanted to be an airport
shuttle driver, also carrying a box lunch.
"Hi Pat," I said, shaking his hand. "Are you working
tonight?"
"I wanted to give something back in return for all the
help I've received from Emerge. My interview went
well and I'm got a second one scheduled for next
week. If I don't blow that..."
"Good news. By the way, you're looking very dapper.
Nice suit."
"I got it from the clothes closet at Emerge."
It was a close fit. And he had gotten a haircut. It's
amazing what hope and a little help will do for a
person. We ate and chatted for a few minutes. I
thought of something. "I don't like to bring up the
past, but didn't you tell me you were living in San
Francisco when you were arrested for dealing?"
Pat nodded. "I'm not going back. I've got to stay away
from there. I don't want to get sucked back in..."
"May I tell you a story about what happened to a friend
of mine? And maybe you can tell me how plausible the
police version of what happened is." I told him about
Ned, how he had been found dead off Grant Avenue,
shot several times, with cocaine in his car.
Pat heard me out, and then said, "It doesn't ring true.
You're telling me a white devil--excuse me, Karl--who
doesn't even live in San Francisco is dealing in
Chinatown? Did he have any Chinese friends?"
"I have no idea."
He shook his head. "That's as fishy as the seafood
markets on Grant. Let me make a phone call. Is there
a pay phone...?"
"I don't have a credit card," I said, knowing that Pat had
little money.
"That's okay. I can call my uncle collect."
I wondered where there would be a pay phone on a
movie lot. At that moment Esther walked up and gave
me a quick hug. She was wearing a smart pantsuit,
designed for maximum mobility. She looked radiant.
She was in her element.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"It's going," she said. "There's no stopping it now."
I introduced Pat to her as a success story. She was
always looking for success stories for the newsletter
she published. They shook hands and he asked her if
she knew where a pay phone was.
"Use this," she said, handing me her cell phone.
"How will I get it back to you?" I asked as she zoomed
away.
"I'll find you," she called over her shoulder as she
disappeared into the growing crowd.
Pat punched in a number and carried on a rapid
conversation that I couldn't understand. After a minute
he disconnected and said, "My uncle knows about this
man, Mr. Mackay. The story was in the paper. My uncle
says he thinks the cocaine was planted."
"Does he have any idea who murdered Ned?" I asked.
Pat shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't make a guess."
I thanked him. It was time for me to get to work. I went
to the table where raffle tickets--excuse me, opportunity
drawing tickets; we weren't supposed to use the word
raffle, and the $20 asked for a ticket was a donation to
Emerge--were being sold. I took a book of tickets and
walked over to where the car itself was on display, a
Porsche Boxter convertible, sleek and white.
Since it was for a good cause I felt only a little like a
hypocrite, selling tickets for something I personally
wouldn't want to own. Not that the car wouldn't be fun
to drive, but I couldn't see paying income tax on the
value of the car, or the insurance for that matter, to say
nothing of the license fee, which was based on its value.
And when I had tried to sit in it I had barely fit into the
driver's seat. Completely impractical--perfect for rich
Yuppies.
The atmosphere was contagious for spending money.
Not far away, rows of donated art objects, dresses
worn by actresses, tickets for sports events and the
"Rosie O'Donnell Show," and even mini-vacations were
being sold in a silent auction; write down your name
and a bid--pay later.
The beautiful people of Los Angeles strolled by, the men
in sport coats, the women mostly in black, with varying
degrees of décolletage. I mentally compared them to
Arrow in her black dress; they all came up lacking.
I played the part of a circus barker, calling to the strollers
and drawing them in. My line was, "Wouldn't you like to own
this car?" Many smiled and stopped to look at it. Some
bought tickets. A pretty young lady hurried up waving a
hundred-dollar bill and purchased five tickets. Cool. Women
had never thrown money at me before.
The dinner started and the guests sat down at the 95 tables.
I wandered over to where I could see the stage set up at the
V where the two "dining" streets came together. Morgan
Freeman, of the movie, Driving Miss Daisy, was the emcee,
and he welcomed everybody in his rich, melodious voice. Sherry
Lansing, head of Paramount, spoke. Some super-volunteers
were being honored. One was a close friend of Rosanna Arquette
and Rosanna gave a ringing tribute in her honor. Esther, with the
help of her board members, was connected with everybody in the
entertainment industry.
Later, when Rosanna was leaving she walked close by me with an
entourage of young women. She was petite--smaller than she
appeared on the big screen. Seeing celebrities in person
confirmed for me that they really existed and weren't just media
creations. But was this proof? Even Mickey Mouse seemed real
at Disneyland.
I found Esther and returned her cell phone. She had a brief chance
to relax since the program was going so well. I stayed with her
and her team while they discussed the cleanup, which was already
starting even though most people hadn't left yet. In the
background, a live auction was being conducted, with items such
as the use of convention facilities going for five figures.
A successful evening. I stayed and worked until everything was done.
Because we were busy, I didn't talk much to Esther--didn't have to
look her in the eye. When the work was complete I went to her to
say goodnight. It was late.
"You throw a good party," I said.
"Thanks. And thanks for all your help."
"You must be exhausted."
She nodded. The adrenaline had worn off. She didn't invite me to
go home with her and I didn't ask. Maybe I should say something....
Somehow the evening wasn't complete. I told myself that there was
no reason for me to feel those stabs of guilt about Arrow. I was on
the verge of hanging around, looking awkward.
With an effort I kissed her lightly and headed for my car.
Aces and Knaves copyright ©2002 Alan L. Cook
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