Potboiler Page 3

  How naïve they had been. Pfefferkorn nearly laughed out loud. The sound of dirt being shoveled atop the grave helped him maintain his composure.

  It took Carlotta more than an hour to shake the hands and kiss the cheeks of everyone who had come to pay respects. At her request, Pfefferkorn lingered nearby.

  “Hell of a guy,” Lucian Savory said.

  Pfefferkorn agreed.

  “Hell of a writer. I knew from the first line of that first book that this fellow was something special. ‘Savory,’ said I, ‘Savory, behold something rare here. Behold talent.’” Savory nodded in confirmation of his own judgment. Then he glanced sidelong at Pfefferkorn. “You probably can’t guess how old I am.”

  “Well—”

  “Ninety-eight,” Savory said.

  “Wow,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Ninety-nine in November.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Of course I fucking don’t. That’s not the point. The point, dingleballs, is I’ve been around the block. Updike, Mailer, Fitzgerald, Eliot, Pound, Joyce, Twain, Joseph Smith, Zola, Fenimore Cooper. I knew em all. I fucked all three of them Brontës. And let me tell you, I never met a writer like Bill. And I never will again, even if I live to be a hundred.”

  “I think that’s likely,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “What is.”

  “That you’ll live to be a hundred.”

  Savory stared at him. “You’re a smart-ass.”

  “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Savory said. “Fucking smart-ass.”

  “I’m sorry,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Pfft. Any rate, I’m telling you: Bill’s name belongs up there with the greats. We could chisel it into Mount Rushmore. Maybe I’ll do just that.”

  “Mark Twain?” Pfefferkorn asked.

  “Nicest guy you’ll ever meet,” Savory said. “Not like that Nathaniel Hawthorne, he was a cunt. You’re a writer?”

  “Of sorts,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Publish anything?”

  “A little.”

  “How little.”

  “One novel,” Pfefferkorn said. “In the eighties.”

  “Name?”

  “Shade of the Colossus,” Pfefferkorn said.

  “Shitty title,” Savory said.

  Pfefferkorn bowed his head.

  “Not a selling title,” Savory said.

  “Well, it didn’t sell.”

  “There you go.” Savory rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “You should have called it Blood Night.”

  “What?”

  “Or Blood Eyes. Now those are selling titles. See? I haven’t even read it and I came up with two better titles in thirty seconds.”

  “They don’t really relate to the book.”

  Savory looked at him. “You don’t understand this business, do you.”

  12.

  “Never mind him,” Carlotta said. “Lucian likes to make himself feel more important than he is. Bill keeps him on out of habit, or maybe compassion. God knows he doesn’t need an agent anymore.” She paused. “Listen to me. That’s what people do, isn’t it, use the present tense.”

  Pfefferkorn squeezed her hand.

  “Thank you for coming, Arthur.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve no idea how meaningful it is. These people . . .” She gestured to the vanished crowd. “They’re nice in a way but they’re not our friends. Or, they are in one sense, but you have to understand: this is Los Angeles.”

  Pfefferkorn nodded.

  “I know what they’re saying about me,” she said. “They think I’m not sad enough.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “What they don’t understand is that I’ve been mourning him for months. You can’t sustain a fever pitch that long. It’s unnatural. I’ve known more than a few widows like that, going around all day beating their breasts. There’s something terribly stagy about it. And wouldn’t you know, they always seem to recover as soon as the inheritance check clears.”

  Pfefferkorn smiled.

  “Let them think what they want,” she said. “This, here—it’s just a formality. It’s for everyone else. The real horror is all mine, and it only starts when I’m alone.”

  Arm in arm, they crossed the burial grounds, parting eddying clouds of midges. The abundant lawns gave off a humidity that drove Pfefferkorn to loosen his tie.

  “I expected them to hassle me about burying an empty casket,” she said. “But they were darling. They’re exceptionally good at dealing with people in a time of grief.”

  “I bet.”

  “It’s not out of charity,” Carlotta said. “It’s shameful what they charge. The flowers alone, you can’t imagine. And don’t get me started on the search company. But I didn’t bat an eye. I said find him, whatever it costs. Although in hindsight I have to wonder if they dragged things out on purpose, to soak me.”

  “I hope they’d have more scruples than that.”

  “You never know,” Carlotta said. “Money is money.”

  They stood under the umbrella while the valets ran to fetch their cars.

  “That’s yours,” Carlotta said.

  Pfefferkorn looked at his tiny, bright blue rental car. “Point A to point B,” he said.

  Carlotta’s car arrived, an oyster-colored Bentley with the gleam of the showroom floor. The perspiring valet got out to hold the door for her.

  “It was good to see you,” Pfefferkorn said. “Circumstances notwithstanding.”

  “Yes,” she said. She leaned in to kiss him goodbye but pulled back. “Arthur. Do you really have to go so soon? You can’t stay a little? I hate to see you off this way. Come by the house and have a drink first.” She clasped her hands to her face. “My God. You’ve never been.”

  “Sure I have. I came for his fiftieth, remember?”

  “Yes but that was forever ago. We’ve moved since then.”

  Behind the invitation he sensed an accusation. He knew very well how long it had been. But whose fault was that? Then he remembered where he was and why he was there and he felt ashamed for clinging to grudges. Still, he hesitated, afraid to stir up more of his own ill will. He consulted his watch—unnecessarily, as he had already checked out of his motel, his flight didn’t leave for seven hours, and he had no pressing obligations other than to return the rental car. He told Carlotta he’d follow her, adding that she’d better not drive too fast.

  13.

  The de Vallées’ new home forced Pfefferkorn to revise his template for what a Beverly Hills mansion ought to be—a template established by their previous home. Set north of the boulevard, behind impenetrable hedges, through two sets of forbidding iron gates, at the end of a tortuous driveway snaking through jungly grounds, the house appeared as if from nowhere, following a final, sharp turn. Pfefferkorn marveled at the forethought and skill required to conceal a structure of such immensity until the very last moment. The house was in the Spanish Colonial style, a style whose humble materials and lack of pretense had, until that moment, led Pfefferkorn to think of it as intrinsically more heimish than, say, a supermodern cage of steel and glass, or the looming, pillared façades of neoclassicism. Now he reconsidered. The de Vallée house was born of earth and clay, but it soared, swelled, and bulged. Turrets and balconies abounded. It looked like the place to make a valiant last stand against an invading army. Reinforcing the feeling of besiegement were a host of security cameras, their lenses winking through the foliage. Pfefferkorn wondered if Bill had had a run-in with an obsessed fan. Or perhaps this was simply an example of thickening wealth demanding correspondingly thicker insulation.

  Carlotta put the Bentley in the care of the butler and told Pfefferkorn to leave his keys.

 
“Jameson will handle it for you. Won’t you, Jameson?”

  “Madame.”

  “Careful you don’t scratch it,” she said. “It’s a rental.”

  Pfefferkorn followed her through a mammoth carved wooden door, crossing the foyer and coming to an interior courtyard fragrant with citrus. A mosaicked fountain burbled. Cut flowers stood erect in vases. A chess set awaited players. Chairs awaited buttocks. Portraits smiled, landscapes sprawled, statuary thrust. Every object, living or inanimate, functional or decorative, appeared to Pfefferkorn peerless, including the compact white dog that sprung from its languor to greet them.

  “Say hello, Botkin,” Carlotta said.

  Pfefferkorn stooped to scratch the dog’s head. Its velvety coat and pleasant scent spoke of frequent grooming. Around its neck it wore a first-place ribbon. It rolled onto its back and Pfefferkorn rubbed its belly. It yipped happily.

  Sensing that this was expected of him, Pfefferkorn asked for a tour. Room by room they went, the dog trotting along at Carlotta’s heels. In the basement they visited the indoor swimming pool where Bill did his daily hundred laps. In the theater Carlotta handed Pfefferkorn a remote control as heavy as a dictionary and showed him how to raise and lower the curtain. There was a ballroom where Carlotta danced four nights a week with a professional partner and a music room filled with all manner of instruments, though Pfefferkorn knew for a fact that neither de Vallée could carry a tune. Atop the harpsichord sat a photograph of Botkin, perched on a rostrum, accepting his ribbon.

  The tour concluded on the third floor, in what Carlotta called the conservatory. A silver tea service had been laid out and crustless sandwiches prepared.

  “You must be starving,” Carlotta said.

  “I could eat,” Pfefferkorn said.

  They sat.

  “What is this?” he said. “Is this chicken salad?”

  “Foie.”

  “Well,” Pfefferkorn said, swallowing, “whatever it is, it’s delicious.” He picked up a second sandwich. “I couldn’t eat like this every day. I’d weigh four hundred pounds.”

  “You learn moderation,” Carlotta said.

  Pfefferkorn smiled. So far he had seen very little of Bill’s home life that could be described as moderate. “How the hell do you keep it clean? You must have a cast of thousands.”

  “Honestly, it’s not that bad. Aside from Esperanza, there’s just the butler, and I’m thinking of letting him go, now that Bill’s gone.”

  “Come on. One person for this whole place?”

  “She’s very efficient. Bear in mind that I rarely step foot into most of the rooms. You haven’t even seen the guest wing.”

  “Forget it. My knees hurt.” He reached for a third sandwich. “I feel like a swine.”

  “Please.”

  “They’re small,” he said. “And I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to make excuses,” she said, nibbling the corner of a scone. “These are good, aren’t they.” She fed the rest to the dog. “Don’t let me take any more.”

  She stood, stretched, and walked to the window. Her backlit form was lithe, and with sudden, agonizing clarity, Pfefferkorn remembered how much he had loved her. The seams of youth, those lines where disparate traits meet and fuse, had been gently effaced by time, and now he looked at her and saw womanhood in its most complete form. He saw what he had sought in his early lovers, in his ex-wife. All had come up short. How could they not? He was comparing them to her. He watched her for a moment, then set down his food and went to join her.

  The window overlooked a stone terrace, which in turn overlooked the grounds, which were in keeping with the rest of the house: at once intricate and overwhelming. Other wings jutted obliquely, massive clay walls and burnt-orange roofs.

  “All this,” she said.

  “It’s a beautiful home,” he said.

  “It’s grotesque.”

  “Maybe a tad.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak,” he said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I feel bad.”

  “Don’t. I’m just glad you’re here. It’s been so long, Arthur. I feel as though I have to get to know you all over again. Tell me about your life.”

  “It’s the same. I’m the same.”

  “How’s your daughter?”

  “Engaged.”

  “Arthur. That’s wonderful. Who’s the lucky fellow?”

  “His name is Paul,” Pfefferkorn said. “He’s an accountant.”

  “And? What’s he like?”

  “What do you think he’s like? He’s like an accountant.”

  “Well, I think it’s wonderful.”

  “It will be come April fifteenth.”

  “You are happy for her, aren’t you?”

  “Sure I am,” he said. “I hope it works out.”

  Carlotta looked alarmed. “Do you have reason to suspect it won’t?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “There isn’t any.” He paused. “I think I always pictured her with—I know how it’ll sound, but—someone more like me.”

  “And he’s the opposite of you.”

  “More or less.” He tapped his lips. “It feels like a rejection of everything I stand for.”

  “And what do you stand for.”

  “Poverty, I suppose. Failure.”

  “Tch.”

  “I’m jealous,” he said.

  “Think of it this way. She thinks you’re so fantastic a man that she could never hope to find someone as fantastic unless she chose someone utterly unlike you.”

  “That’s an interesting interpretation.”

  “I try,” Carlotta said. “When’s the wedding?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “That’s the way it’s done these days, isn’t it. Get engaged and wait until having children becomes medically impossible. It was different in our day. People couldn’t wait to get married.”

  “They couldn’t wait to screw.”

  “Please. You make it sound like we grew up in the fifteenth century.”

  “Didn’t we?”

  “Oh, Arthur, you really are such a grump.” She pointed below to a narrow path, barely visible, that led into an area of unchecked greenery. “That’s the way to Bill’s office.”

  He nodded.

  “Would you like to see it?” she asked.

  “If you’d like to show it to me.”

  “I would,” she said. “And I think he would have wanted you to see it, too.”

  14.

  They moved through the underbrush, ducking ferns and low-hanging vines, the dog bounding ahead in pursuit of a dragonfly. The light turned murky. Pfefferkorn felt as though he was heading into the heart of darkness. Rounding a mossy outcropping, they came to a glade flecked with dandelions and Queen Anne’s lace. Botkin sat by the door to a boxy wooden building, his tail swishing.

  “Voilà,” Carlotta said.

  Pfefferkorn regarded the building. “Looks like a barn,” he said.

  “It was.”

  “There you go.”

  “The previous owner was something of a gentleman farmer. He bred champion goats.”

  Pfefferkorn snorted.

  “Don’t laugh,” she said. “The good ones go for upwards of fifty thousand dollars.”

  “For a goat?”

  “You don’t live around here if you’re poor. You know the part on a ballpoint pen cap that sticks out? So you can clip it onto something? He invented that.”

  “My future son-in-law will be impressed.”

  “Bill loved it out here,” Carlotta said. “He called it his
refuge. From what, I wanted to know. He never did say.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it literally,” Pfefferkorn said. “You know how he could be.”

  “Oh I know. Believe me.” She smiled mischievously. “Sometimes when I’m out here I swear I can smell them. The goats.”

  Pfefferkorn tried and failed to smell the goats.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s see where the magic happens.”

  What struck Pfefferkorn most of all about Bill’s office was its modesty. Only a tenth of the barn had been sectioned off and finished, and that left comparatively spare. Indeed, it was strange to think that such phenomenal wealth as Pfefferkorn had just seen could be produced in a room so plain. Atop a rickety desk were an electric typewriter, a jar of pens, and a neatly stacked manuscript. The familiarity of the arrangement caused Pfefferkorn to shiver.

  There had been few embellishments in thirty-some-odd years. There was an easy chair that looked as if it had been slept in a lot. There was a low bookcase filled with Bill’s own prodigious oeuvre. On the wall above the desk hung a framed photo of Carlotta, a formal portrait made perhaps fifteen years prior. Below it was a photo Pfefferkorn identified as the source for both the pop-up invitation and the enlargement displayed at the funeral. The uncropped original had been taken at the marina. Bill stood on a dock piled with rope, smiling jauntily from beneath his captain’s hat as sunset inflamed a sliver of ocean.

  The dog, seeking his missing master’s feet, settled morosely beneath the desk.

  “I almost went out with him,” Carlotta said.

  Pfefferkorn looked at her.

  “That day, I mean. I changed my mind at the last minute.”

  “Thank God.”

  “You think? Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I have any notion of us waltzing off together into some spongy afterlife . . . Still. There’s guilt.” She indicated the manuscript. “That’s the new one.”