Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

  "You were the one who got him to come up here in the first place, Jerry. So you're the match-maker. And thank you. From both of us, thank you. It's been quite a remarkable time for me, Jerry. I never thought I'd ever fall in love again. And with an actor." She laughed. "You'd think I'd have learned by now."

  "I hope it's a happy mistake."

  "Oh it is, Jerry. It's perfect. He's perfect."

  "Is he?"

  "For me. Yes. Perfect for me."

  "So will you be joining him somewhere?"

  "Yes."

  "But you're not exactly sure where?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, I'm going to hazard a guess and say he's at Maxine's, because I know she's having a big bash tonight. Do you want me to call her, and ask her if he's there? Maybe tell her I'm bringing a special guest?"

  "No, I think it's best we just do this quietly, don't you?"

  "However you prefer. Tonight's your night."

  "I don't want any big hoopla," Katya said. "I just want to find him."

  For a moment the illusion disappeared completely, and reality showed itself: the desperate hunger of a woman who needed to find the love of her life. Not tomorrow, or the day after, but tonight. She had no time to waste, this woman; no time for error or procrastination.

  "Shall we go?" she said.

  "Ready when you are."

  She went to the car and started to fumble with the doorhandle.

  "Please," Jerry said. "Allow me." He came round to the passenger side and opened the door.

  "Thank you, Jerry. How nice. Old-fashioned manners," she said. She got into the car in one elegant movement. Jerry closed the door and went to the driver's side. She was trembling, he saw; just the slightest tremor.

  "It's going to be all right," he reassured her when he was settled in beside her.

  "Is it?" she said, with a smile too tentative to survive more than a breath.

  "Yes. It's going to be fine."

  "He's the one, Jerry. Todd is the one. If he were to turn me down—"

  "He's not going to do that, now is he?" Jerry said. "He'd be a fool to say no to you. And whatever else Todd is, he's no fool."

  "So find him for me. Will you?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Then I can start to live again."

  SIX

  It had taken Todd a few minutes to get used to sitting behind the wheel of the old Lincoln sedan which Marco had chosen, many years before, as the vehicle in which he preferred to anonymously chauffeur Todd around. Sitting in the seat adjusted for Marco's huge frame made him realize—for the first time in the chaotic sequence of dramas that had unraveled since Marco's sudden death—how much he would miss the man.

  Marco had been a stabilizing influence in a world that was showing signs of becoming more unstable by the hour. But more than that: he'd been Todd's friend. He'd had a good nose for bullshit, and he'd never been afraid of speaking his mind, especially when it came to protecting his boss.

  There would come a time, Todd had promised himself, when he would sit down and think of something to do that would honor Caputo's name. He'd been no intellectual, so the founding of a library, or the funding of the Caputo Prize for Scholastic Achievement, wouldn't really be pertinent: it would need some serious thought to create a project that reflected and honored the complexity of the man.

  "You're thinking about Marco Caputo," Tammy said as she watched Todd adjust to the spatial arrangements of the driver's seat.

  "The way you said that, it didn't sound as though you liked him very much."

  "He was rude to me on a couple of occasions," Tammy said, making light of it now. "It was no big deal."

  "The fact is he was more of a brother to me than my own brother," he replied. "And I'm only now realizing how much I took him for granted. Christ. First I lose my dog, then my best buddy—"

  "Dempsey?"

  "Yeah. He died of cancer in February."

  "I'm sorry."

  Todd turned on the ignition. His thoughts were still with Marco. "You know what I think?" he said.

  "What?"

  "I think that the night he got killed he wasn't just drunk. He was panicked and drunk."

  "You mean he'd seen something?"

  "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. He'd seen something up at the house and was running away." He drew a loud breath through his nose. "Okay. Enough of the detective work. We can do some more of that when all this is over. Right now, we're heading for Malibu."

  On the way down to the ocean, Todd provided Tammy with a little portrait of where they were going. She knew about the Colony, of course— the guarded community of superstars who lived in houses filled with Picassos and Miros and Monets, with the ever-unpredictable Pacific a few yards from their back doors, and—just a jump across the Pacific Coast Highway—the Malibu Hills, which had been the scene of countless wildfires in the hot season, and mud-slides in the wet. What she didn't know was just how exclusive it was, even for those who were powerful enough to write their own rules in any other circumstances.

  "I was planning to buy this house next door to Maxine's place, way back," Todd told her, "but my lawyer—who was this wily old fart called Lester Mayfield—said: 'You're going to want to rip out that concrete deck and take off the old shingle roof, aren't you?' And I said: 'You betcha.' And he said: 'Well, dream on, buster, 'cause they won't let you. You'll spend the next ten years fighting with the Colony Committee to change the color of your toilet seat.'

  "So I didn't buy the place. They've lightened up on the rules a lot since then. I guess somebody must have pointed out that they were preserving some pieces of utter shit."

  "Who ended up buying the house next door to Maxine?"

  "Oh . . . he was a producer, had a deal with Paramount. Made some very successful movies for them. Then the IRS taps him on the shoulder and asks why he hasn't paid his taxes for six years. He ended up going to jail, and the house stood empty."

  "Nobody else bought it?"

  "No. He wanted to be back making movies when he got out of the slammer. Which is what he did. Went straight back into the business. Made six more huge movies. And he still snorts coke from between the tits of loose women. Bob Graydon's his name."

  "Isn't he the one who had an artificial septum put in his nose because he'd had the real thing eaten away by cocaine?"

  "That's Bob. Where'd you hear that?"

  "Oh, the National Enquirer probably. I buy them all in case there's something about you. Not that I believe everything I read—" she added hurriedly.

  "Just the juicy bits."

  "Well after a time you get a feeling about what's true and what's not true."

  "Care to give me an example?"

  "No."

  "Go on."

  "That's not fair. I'm screwed whatever I say. No! Wait! Here's one! About two years ago they said you were going into a private hospital in Montreal to have your ding-a-ling enlarged."

  "My ding-a-ling?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Do you say ding-a-ling to Arnie? It is Arnie, isn't it?"

  "Yes it's Arnie and no I don't say ding-a-ling."

  "Tell me about him."

  "There isn't much to tell."

  "Why'd you marry him? Tell me that."

  "Well it wasn't because of the size of his dick."

  "Dick! That's what you call it: dick."

  "I guess I do," Tammy said, amused, a little embarrassed to have let this slip. "Anyway, back to the story in The Enquirer. They said you were in Montreal getting your thingie—your dick—made bigger. Except I knew that wasn't true."

  "How come?"

  "It just didn't make any sense. Not after the articles I'd read about you."

  "Go on," Todd said, fascinated.

  "Well . . . you know I read everything that's ever been written about you? Everything in English. And then if there's a really important interview in, say, Paris Match or Stern, I get it translated."

  "Jesus. Really? What for?"
>
  "So I can keep up with your opinions. And . .. sometimes in the foreign magazines they write the kind of things you wouldn't read in an American magazine. One of them did a piece about your love-life. About all the ladies you'd dated, and the things they'd said about you—"

  "My acting?"

  "No. Your . . . other performances."

  "You're kidding."

  "No. I thought you knew about these things. I thought you probably signed off on them."

  "If I read every article in every magazine—"

  "You'd never make another movie."

  "Exactly. So, go back to the article. The ladies, talking about me. What does that have to do with the story in The Enquirer?"

  "Oh just that here were all these women talking about you in bed—and a few of them were not exactly happy with the way you treated them— but none of them said, even vaguely intimated that . . ."

  "I had a small dick."

  "Right."

  "So I thought, there's no way he's gone to Montreal to have his ding-a-ling enlarged because it's just fine as it is. Now. Can we move on, or shall I throw myself out of the window from sheer embarrassment?"

  Todd laughed. "You are an education, do you know that?"

  "I am?"

  "You are."

  "In a good way?"

  "Oh yeah, it's all good. It's all fine."

  "You realize, of course, that there's stuff being written about you right now, a lot of people upset and worried."

  "Why?"

  "Because nobody knows what happened to you. There are plenty of people, fans of yours, like me, who think of you practically as a member of the family. Todd did this. Todd did that. And now, suddenly, Todd's missing. And nobody knows where he's gone. They start to fret. They start to make up all kinds of ridiculous reasons. I know I did. It's not that they're crazy—"

  "No, look. I don't think you, or any of them, are crazy. Or if you are, it's a good crazy. I mean, what you did last night . . . none of my family would have done."

  "You'd be surprised how many people love you."

  "They love something but I don't think it's me, Tammy."

  "Why not?"

  "Well for one thing, if you could get inside here, in my head with Todd Pickett, you wouldn't find much worth idolizing. You really wouldn't. I am painfully, excruciatingly, ordinary. My brother, Donnie, on the other hand: he's worth admiring. He's smart. He's honest. I was just the one with this." He turned on his smile as he drove and gave her the benefit of its luminosity. Then, just as easily, he turned it off. "See, you learn to do that," he went on. "It's like a faucet. You turn the smile on, and people bathe in it for a while, then you turn it off and you go home and wonder what all the fuckin' fuss was about. It's not like I deserve the adulation of millions. I can't act. And I've got the reviews to prove it." He chuckled at his self-deprecation. "That's not mine," he said, "it was Victor Mature."

  "Okay, so you're not the best actor in Hollywood. You're not the worst either."

  "No. I grant you, there's worse."

  "A lot worse."

  "All right, a lot worse. Still doesn't make me a good actor."

  He obviously wasn't going to be moved on the subject, so Tammy left it where it was. They drove on in silence for a while. Then he swung the mirror round, and checked out his face. "You know I'm nervous?"

  "Why?"

  "In case there's anybody at Maxine's place." He went back and forth between studying his face and checking the road.

  "You look fine," Tammy told him.

  "I guess it's not so bad," he said, assessing his features.

  "You just look a little different from the way you used to look."

  "Different enough that people will notice?"

  Tammy couldn't lie to him. "Sure they'll notice. But maybe they'll say you look better. I mean, when everything's properly healed and you've had a month's vacation."

  "You will come in with me, won't you?"

  "To see Maxine? My pleasure."

  "Mind if I smoke?" He didn't wait for a reply. He just rolled down the window, pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, and lit up. The rush of nicotine made him whoop. "That's better! Okay. We're going to do this. You and me. We're going to ask Maxine a lot of very difficult questions, and figure out whether she's lying to us or not."

  They had reached the Pacific Coast Highway, and the roar of the traffic through the open window made any further talk impractical for a time. They drove north for perhaps five miles, before coming off the PCH and heading west. The area wouldn't have been Tammy's idea of idyllic. Somehow she'd imagined Malibu being more like a little slice of Hawaii; but in fact it was just a sliver of real estate two or three houses deep, with the incessant din of the Pacific Coast Highway on one side and a narrow strip of beach on the other. They'd scarcely driven more than a quarter of a mile when they came to the Colony gates. There was a guard-house, and a single guard, who was sitting with his booted feet up beside a small television. The set went off as soon as they drove up, a broad smile appearing on the man's face.

  "Hey, Mister Pickett. Long time, no see."

  "Ron, m'man. How goes it?"

  "It goes good, it goes good."

  The guard was clearly delighted that his name had been remembered.

  "Are you going to Ms. Frizelle's party?"

  "Oh . . . yeah," Todd said, throwing a panicked glance at Tammy. "We're here for that."

  "That's great." He peered past Todd, at the passenger. "And this is?"

  "Oh, this is Tammy. Tammy, Ron. Ron, Tammy. Tammy's my date for the night. "

  "Good goin'," Ron said, to no one and about nothing in particular. Just a general California yea-saying to the world. "Let me just call Ms. Frizelle, and tell her you're on your way down."

  "Nah," Todd said, sliding a twenty-dollar bill into Ron's hand. "We're going to surprise her."

  "No problem," Ron said, waving them by. "Good to see you, by the way—"

  It took Tammy a moment to realize that Ron was talking to her.

  "It's always good to meet a new friend of Mister Pickett's." There didn't seem to be any irony in this: it was a genuine expression of feeling.

  "Well, thank you," Tammy said, thrown a little off-kilter by this.

  "Fuck. She's having a party," Todd said to her as they left the guardhouse behind them.

  "So."

  "So there'll be lots of people. Looking at me."

  "They've got to do it sooner or later."

  Todd stopped the car in the middle of the street.

  "I can't. I'm not ready for this."

  "Yes you are. The more you put it off the more difficult it's going to be."

  Todd sat there shaking his head, saying: "No. No. I can't do it."

  Tammy put her hand over his. "I'm just as nervous as you are," she said. "Feel how clammy my hand is?"

  "Yeah."

  "But we said we'd get answers. And the longer we take to ask her, the more lies she'll have ready."

  "You do know her, don't you?" he said.

  "She's my nightmare."

  "Really. Why?"

  "Because she stood between me and you."

  "Huh."

  Silence.

  "So what are we going to do?" Tammy said finally.

  "Shit. I don't want to do this."

  "So that makes two of us. But—"

  "I know, I know, if we don't do it now . . . All right. You win. But I will beat the living shit out of the first person who says one word about my face."

  They drove on, the houses they were driving past far more modest in scale and design than she'd expected. There was very little here of the kitsch of Beverly Hills: no faux-French chateaux sitting side by side with faux-Tudor mansions. The houses were mostly extremely plain, boxlike in most cases, with very occasional architectural flourishes. They were also very close to one another. "You wouldn't get much privacy there," Tammy commented.

  "I guess everybody just pretends not to look at everybody else.
Or they just don't care. That's more like it. They just don't care."

  "That's the connection between you and Katya, isn't it? You've both been looked at so much . . . and the rest of us don't know what that feels like."

  "It feels like somebody's siphoning out your blood, pint by pint."

  "Not good."

  "No. Not good."

  They rounded a corner, bringing their destination into view. The party-house was decorated with thousands of tiny white twinkle lights, as were the two palm trees that stood like sentinels to left and right of the door.

  "Christmas came early this year," Tammy remarked.

  "Apparently."

  There were uniformed valets working the street; taking cars from the guests and spiriting them away to be parked somewhere out of sight.

  "Are you sure you're ready for this?" Todd asked Tammy.

  "No more than you are."

  "Want to go one more circle around the block?"

  "Yes."

  "Uh-oh. Too late."

  Two valets were coming at the car bearing what must have been burdensome smiles. As the doors were opened, Todd caught tight hold of Tammy's hand. "Don't leave my side," he said. "Promise me you won't."

  "I promise," she said, and raising her head she put on her best impersonation of someone who was rich, famous and belonged at Todd Pickett's side. Todd relinquished the keys to the valet.

  "May I assume this is your first A-list Hollywood party in the flesh?" Todd said to Tammy.

  "You may."

  "Well then this could be a lot of fun. In a grotesque, 'there's a shark in the swimming pool' sort of way."

  SEVEN

  There came a point, as Jerry's car was carrying Katya out of Coldheart Canyon for the first time in the better part of three-quarters of a century, when her fears seemed to get the better of her. Jerry heard a voice, as dry as a husk, out of the darkness behind him: "I'm sorry ... I don't know that I can do this."

  "Do you want me to turn around?" he asked her. "I will if you want me to."

  There was no reply. Just the soft sound of frightened weeping. "I wish Zeffer was still here. Why was I so cruel to him?" None of this seemed to be for open discussion. It was more like a private confessional. "Why am I such a bitch? Jesus. Jesus. Everything I've ever loved . . ." She stopped herself, and looked up at Jerry, catching his reflection in the mirror. "Don't mind me. It's just a crazy old woman talking to herself."