A Savage Place by Robert B. Parker Page A

or go out sometime,” Candy said.
    “Back way?” I said.
    “Not in these hills,” Candy said. “You’d have to drive over someone’s roof.”
    I nodded. We waited. We ate our picnic. At ten of seven a dark green BMW sedan drove into a turn in front of Felton’s house and stopped. A man peered out at us through the front windshield.
    “Felton,” Candy said.
    He got out of the car and waddled toward us. “Something I can do for you?” he said.
    “Mr. Felton, it’s Candy Sloan, KNBS, remember? I spoke with you before about movie racketeering.”
    “I remember. I thought that was finished.”
    “There’s been some new developments, Mr. Felton. I’ll need to discuss them with you before we broadcast them.”
    “I don’t believe I know this gentleman,” Felton said.
    “Mr. Spenser is helping me with the investigation.”
    Candy said.
    Felton nodded at me. I said, “Glad to meet you.” Felton looked at the gate and then looked at us and then looked at his car. If he opened the gate to go in, would we go in with him? It would be embarrassing to get back in the car and drive away. Could he stall till the Bel-Air Patrol galloped by? He looked at me again. There was nothing he could do with me. I was twenty years younger and four inches taller. He opted for dignity.
    “Come on in,” he said. “We’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you what I can.”
    “Thank you,” Candy said.
    Felton unlocked the gate with a key that hung on a retractable key chain, attached to a clip on a big wide Western-style belt. He had a large stomach, and the belt was cinched right across the middle so that there was an unseemly bulge both above and below the belt. The belt held up some brand-new baggy jeans and was supplemented by wide red suspenders. Glamorous. He had on a white collarless shirt with a pleated front. His hair was shoulder length. On his feet were sandals. No socks. He held the gate open, and we went through and preceded him up the path. At the front door he used a different key, and then we were inside.
    The house was cool, elegant, and expansive, gleaming with brass and ebony, filled with Oriental objets d’art, with parqueted and marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows providing a view from almost every room.
    An aging Mexican woman in a green housedress and a white apron appeared in the foyer. She stood quietly by an arched entry that appeared to lead into a dining room.
    “What will you drink?” Felton asked us.
    “White wine,” Candy said.
    “Beer,” I said.
    Felton spoke to the woman in Spanish. She smiled and disappeared.
    “Come on in the living room,” Felton said. “We can get comfortable and then we can talk.”
    There was an enormous black marble fireplace in the far wall of the living room. On either side were French doors, thinly curtained, through whose translucence the lights of Los Angeles glittered in the gathering evening.
    Candy and I sat together on a huge white couch highlighted with bright green satin casual pillows. I tucked two behind me to keep from sinking into the quagmire of cushions. The Mexican woman brought in a large silver tray. On it were a glass of white wine and a bottle of Carta Blanca beer and a glass, and what I took to be a glass of tequila on a saucer with a wedge of lime and a small dish of salt with a silver spoon beside it. She placed the tray on a low glass coffee table and smiled and left.
    I poured my beer. Felton picked up the lime wedge, sucked on it, put a little salt on his hand, drank the tequila and lapped the salt. He smiled. “The only way to go,” he said. Jolly.
    Candy sipped her wine. I drank some beer.
    Felton said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wash my hands and then we can talk.”
    Candy said, “Of course.”
    Felton left the room. The Mexican woman came back in with a fresh glass of tequila and a fresh lime and smiled at us and left.
    The room was still. There were Oriental rugs on the floor. Opposite me, on a tapestry that ran from