straight-legged slacks, brown-and-black saddle shoes, black socks, a plain leather belt, a Burberry raincoat. He put a blue V-neck sweater, another shirt, another pair of identical slacks, some toilet articles, extra underwear and socks into one sack and ran through the pelting rain back to the car. The neon lights of the station reflected on the wet paving, in the windshield.
She handed him a bank envelope, thick. “Here’s some mad money.”
He opened it. “My God, this is too—”
“Toby! Don’t be an idiot. It’s five hundred dollars in tens and twenties. It’s all you’ve got, all you can get, and you can’t use any credit cards—we went through this last night. Take it, shut up about it, and tell me where we’re going.” She pulled back onto Sepulveda, heading north.
“The Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.
“And what are we going to do there? Maybe they’ll page you in the Polo Lounge.” She stopped at a red light, and an LAPD black-and-white drew alongside. The driver glanced over at Toby, who froze. The cop smiled faintly, nodded. Toby nodded back, feeling weak: he was going to have to get the hell over that. The light changed, and they moved away together.
“Look, we are not going to do anything. You are going to drop me off and I’m going to … well, begin. Alone.”
“I’m going to come with you. I want to help—”
“Listen to me, Morgan. I don’t want to sound corny, but there are some things a man has to do alone.”
“You’re right. You don’t want to sound corny, but you do anyway.”
“I’m not kidding. I’ve got to be alone and try to figure this out. It’s my life we’re playing around with. I can’t drag you in any further. They catch me now, you’re still clear. … I can’t let you risk your own welfare—”
“You know, Toby, you actually talk like one of your screenplays.”
“Please don’t make this any harder for me than it is, Morgan. Please. Just leave me at the hotel—”
“Oh, God, all right,” she said peevishly. “But I’m going to give you my address and telephone number. You never know. You might want to buy a book—you could stop by the store. Or come to the house and borrow one.” She turned right on Olympic, left on Beverly Glen, and was headed north toward Sunset. The rain swept past them, muddy in the gutters. She’d started the cassette again, and the piercing wail of Bechet’s “Laura” filled the car. Ahead of them the Bel Air gates loomed out of the rain. A light glowed in the guardhouse. Bel Air looked like a rain forest. Three Rolls-Royces stood in a row at the traffic light, waiting to make their sorties out into the real world. The first one was turquoise, and he’d never seen a turquoise Rolls-Royce before. All the Roth family drove Rolls-Royces, but none of them were turquoise. Dumb color for a Rolls.
She maneuvered the sharp left from Sunset into the hotel driveway. Above them the rain seemed to weigh the towering palm trees down, and the pink hotel looked crummy, water-streaked. It was meant to bake in the sunshine, welcoming Elizabeth Taylor back to her customary bungalow. Looking crummy and damp, it welcomed the convicted murderer.
She stopped at the crest of the glistening black driveway and waved the parking attendant away. She took a notepad from her purse and jotted down the address and the telephone number. Watching her, he already felt lonely. Left behind on an island full of ungodly dangers.
“Call me,” she said. “And give me a kiss.”
He leaned over and kissed her. Her mouth was like ice.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said. She was looking straight ahead, down the driveway. He opened the door, retrieved his sack from the seat, and shut the door. He watched as the Mercedes slid off down the driveway, back toward the traffic on Sunset.
One parking attendant was on the telephone. There were no waiting guests, no arriving cars. Another attendant was standing under the long marquee up the
She handed him a bank envelope, thick. “Here’s some mad money.”
He opened it. “My God, this is too—”
“Toby! Don’t be an idiot. It’s five hundred dollars in tens and twenties. It’s all you’ve got, all you can get, and you can’t use any credit cards—we went through this last night. Take it, shut up about it, and tell me where we’re going.” She pulled back onto Sepulveda, heading north.
“The Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said.
“And what are we going to do there? Maybe they’ll page you in the Polo Lounge.” She stopped at a red light, and an LAPD black-and-white drew alongside. The driver glanced over at Toby, who froze. The cop smiled faintly, nodded. Toby nodded back, feeling weak: he was going to have to get the hell over that. The light changed, and they moved away together.
“Look, we are not going to do anything. You are going to drop me off and I’m going to … well, begin. Alone.”
“I’m going to come with you. I want to help—”
“Listen to me, Morgan. I don’t want to sound corny, but there are some things a man has to do alone.”
“You’re right. You don’t want to sound corny, but you do anyway.”
“I’m not kidding. I’ve got to be alone and try to figure this out. It’s my life we’re playing around with. I can’t drag you in any further. They catch me now, you’re still clear. … I can’t let you risk your own welfare—”
“You know, Toby, you actually talk like one of your screenplays.”
“Please don’t make this any harder for me than it is, Morgan. Please. Just leave me at the hotel—”
“Oh, God, all right,” she said peevishly. “But I’m going to give you my address and telephone number. You never know. You might want to buy a book—you could stop by the store. Or come to the house and borrow one.” She turned right on Olympic, left on Beverly Glen, and was headed north toward Sunset. The rain swept past them, muddy in the gutters. She’d started the cassette again, and the piercing wail of Bechet’s “Laura” filled the car. Ahead of them the Bel Air gates loomed out of the rain. A light glowed in the guardhouse. Bel Air looked like a rain forest. Three Rolls-Royces stood in a row at the traffic light, waiting to make their sorties out into the real world. The first one was turquoise, and he’d never seen a turquoise Rolls-Royce before. All the Roth family drove Rolls-Royces, but none of them were turquoise. Dumb color for a Rolls.
She maneuvered the sharp left from Sunset into the hotel driveway. Above them the rain seemed to weigh the towering palm trees down, and the pink hotel looked crummy, water-streaked. It was meant to bake in the sunshine, welcoming Elizabeth Taylor back to her customary bungalow. Looking crummy and damp, it welcomed the convicted murderer.
She stopped at the crest of the glistening black driveway and waved the parking attendant away. She took a notepad from her purse and jotted down the address and the telephone number. Watching her, he already felt lonely. Left behind on an island full of ungodly dangers.
“Call me,” she said. “And give me a kiss.”
He leaned over and kissed her. Her mouth was like ice.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said. She was looking straight ahead, down the driveway. He opened the door, retrieved his sack from the seat, and shut the door. He watched as the Mercedes slid off down the driveway, back toward the traffic on Sunset.
One parking attendant was on the telephone. There were no waiting guests, no arriving cars. Another attendant was standing under the long marquee up the
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