asking,” she said. She ate a scallop carefully. “That’s what investigative reporting is. Talking, asking; asking, talking.”
I nodded. “Who you going to ask and talk with next?”
“Somebody at Oceania.”
“Got a name?”
“No. Any suggestions?”
“Why not the president. Might as well get as close as we can to God.” I ate some lamb chop.
“I agree. We’ll do it tomorrow morning,” she said.
A man next to us-dark suit, white French cuffs, large oynx cuff links-said to the waiter, “Tell Frank I’m out here and tell him to give me that center cut he’s been saving.”
The waiter, an old man with no expression on his face, said, “Yes, sir. How you want that?”
The middle-aged man said, “How do I want it? Frank knows damn well how I want it. Barely dead.”
He raised both hands as if measuring a fish while he spoke.
The waiter said, “Rare. Very good, sir.” He went away.
The middle-aged man was with a smooth red-haired young woman in a low-necked green dress and a younger man in a gray three-piece suit and a striped tie. They were all drinking red wine.
“Wait’ll you see the piece of beef Frank’ll have for me,” the middle-aged man said. He looked around to see if I was impressed. He had a diamond pinkie ring on his right hand. “You shoulda had a piece, honey,” he said to the woman beside him. She smiled and said yes, she probably should, but she could never eat all that. The guy in the gray suit drank his wine rapidly.
I said to Candy, “Would it violate the terms of my contract if I told that guy to shut up about his goddamn roast beef?”
Candy smiled. “I think you’re just supposed to concentrate on protecting me. I think you’re supposed to give etiquette instructions on your own time.”
When we left, the middle-aged man was eating a piece of rare rib roast and talking with his mouth full about the weaknesses of French cooking, and the problems he’d had with it on his last trip to Europe.
With a little pull from the Sound of the Golden West we had gotten Candy, under a phony name, the room adjoining mine at the Hillcrest. As we drove, the streets in Beverly Hills were as still as an empty theater in the night. The lobby was deserted.
We were alone in the elevator.
At her door I took her key and opened the door first. The room was soundless. I reached in and turned on the light. No one was there. I opened the bathroom and looked behind the shower glass. I opened the sliding closet door. I looked under the bed. No one was there either.
Candy stood in the doorway watching me. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“Sure. Just because it’s corny to hide under the bed doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t do it.”
I slid open the doors to the small balcony. No one there either. I went to the door connecting my room with hers. It was locked. “Before you go to bed, remember to unlock this,” I said. “No point me being next door if I can’t get to you.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll unlock it now.”
“No,” I said. “Wait until I’ve checked out the room.”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”
“I’ll go over now. Lock the corridor door behind me and chain it. I’ll yell through the connecting door if it’s okay.”
She nodded. I went out, went into my room, and made sure it was empty. The connecting door was bolted from each side. I slid my bolt back and said, “Okay, Candy.”
I heard her bolt slip and the door opened. She was on the phone, the phone cord stretched taut across the bed as she had to reach to unbolt the door. As she opened the door she said, “Thank you,” into the phone and hung up.
“I just ordered a bottle of cognac and some ice,” she said. “You want a drink?”
“Sure,” I said. “Your place or mine?”
“This isn’t a pass,” she said. “I’d just like to sit on the balcony and sip some brandy and talk quietly. I’m a little scared.”
I thought about the balcony. We were seven floors up, on a
I nodded. “Who you going to ask and talk with next?”
“Somebody at Oceania.”
“Got a name?”
“No. Any suggestions?”
“Why not the president. Might as well get as close as we can to God.” I ate some lamb chop.
“I agree. We’ll do it tomorrow morning,” she said.
A man next to us-dark suit, white French cuffs, large oynx cuff links-said to the waiter, “Tell Frank I’m out here and tell him to give me that center cut he’s been saving.”
The waiter, an old man with no expression on his face, said, “Yes, sir. How you want that?”
The middle-aged man said, “How do I want it? Frank knows damn well how I want it. Barely dead.”
He raised both hands as if measuring a fish while he spoke.
The waiter said, “Rare. Very good, sir.” He went away.
The middle-aged man was with a smooth red-haired young woman in a low-necked green dress and a younger man in a gray three-piece suit and a striped tie. They were all drinking red wine.
“Wait’ll you see the piece of beef Frank’ll have for me,” the middle-aged man said. He looked around to see if I was impressed. He had a diamond pinkie ring on his right hand. “You shoulda had a piece, honey,” he said to the woman beside him. She smiled and said yes, she probably should, but she could never eat all that. The guy in the gray suit drank his wine rapidly.
I said to Candy, “Would it violate the terms of my contract if I told that guy to shut up about his goddamn roast beef?”
Candy smiled. “I think you’re just supposed to concentrate on protecting me. I think you’re supposed to give etiquette instructions on your own time.”
When we left, the middle-aged man was eating a piece of rare rib roast and talking with his mouth full about the weaknesses of French cooking, and the problems he’d had with it on his last trip to Europe.
With a little pull from the Sound of the Golden West we had gotten Candy, under a phony name, the room adjoining mine at the Hillcrest. As we drove, the streets in Beverly Hills were as still as an empty theater in the night. The lobby was deserted.
We were alone in the elevator.
At her door I took her key and opened the door first. The room was soundless. I reached in and turned on the light. No one was there. I opened the bathroom and looked behind the shower glass. I opened the sliding closet door. I looked under the bed. No one was there either.
Candy stood in the doorway watching me. “You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“Sure. Just because it’s corny to hide under the bed doesn’t mean someone wouldn’t do it.”
I slid open the doors to the small balcony. No one there either. I went to the door connecting my room with hers. It was locked. “Before you go to bed, remember to unlock this,” I said. “No point me being next door if I can’t get to you.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll unlock it now.”
“No,” I said. “Wait until I’ve checked out the room.”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course.”
“I’ll go over now. Lock the corridor door behind me and chain it. I’ll yell through the connecting door if it’s okay.”
She nodded. I went out, went into my room, and made sure it was empty. The connecting door was bolted from each side. I slid my bolt back and said, “Okay, Candy.”
I heard her bolt slip and the door opened. She was on the phone, the phone cord stretched taut across the bed as she had to reach to unbolt the door. As she opened the door she said, “Thank you,” into the phone and hung up.
“I just ordered a bottle of cognac and some ice,” she said. “You want a drink?”
“Sure,” I said. “Your place or mine?”
“This isn’t a pass,” she said. “I’d just like to sit on the balcony and sip some brandy and talk quietly. I’m a little scared.”
I thought about the balcony. We were seven floors up, on a
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