Rage (31 page)

“Oh,
wow, you don’t have to,” she said, but she made no effort to return the money.
“If you want I can keep an eye out and if they come in again I’ll call you.”

“I
was just going to ask.” I handed her my card.

“Psychologist,”
she said. “Like crazy criminals, Hannibal Lecter stuff?”

“It’s
not always that exciting.”

“My
sister went to a psychologist. She was pretty screwed up, had some real bad
friends.”

“Did
it help her?”

“Not
really. But at least she moved out and I don’t have to listen to a bunch of
yelling.”

“Guess
you’d call that partial success,” I said.

“Yeah,”
she said absently. As she drifted back to the register, I saw her re-count her
money.

* * *

I got
back on the 134 West, checked for messages when traffic slowed.

One
from Olivia Brickerman. I exited the freeway on Laurel Canyon, drove to Ventura
Boulevard, found a spot across the street from an adult motel, and called her
office.

“Your
Mr. and Mrs. Daney are pretty good at the paper game,” she said. “They total
about seven grand a month fostering. They’ve been taking in kids for just over
seven years, haven’t made any attempt to hide the fact that they’re exceeding
the limit by two wards. That tells me they’re vets who know the system’s broke.
Mrs. Daney has also applied for certification as an educational therapist,
which would entitle her to additional treatment money. Generally, that requires
some sort of teaching credential but there’s been some loosening of the regs
due to shortages of providers. This help?”

“Very
much. How badly is the system broken?”

“The
geniuses in the state legislature just turned down a request for more
caseworkers and the counties are already severely shorthanded. Meaning no one
checks anything. A couple more things about the Daneys: They always foster
teenagers with learning disabilities. What I found really interesting is that
all their wards have been females. Which is unusual, there’s no shortage of
boys in the system.”

“Can
foster parents pick and choose age and sex?” I said.

“There’s
supposed to be mutual consent between the agency and the caregiver. In the best
interests of the child.”

“So
you can ask for a girl.”

“Alex,”
she said, “right now, if you’re white and middle class and don’t have a
criminal record, you can ask for just about anything and get it.”

I
thanked her and asked for a list of the Daneys’ wards.

She
said, “All I’ve been able to find is the last few years. I’ll fax it to you
soon as I get off. Regards to Allison. I hope I wasn’t too cheeky with the Snow
White stuff.”

“Not
at all,” I said. “Brilliance has its privileges.”

“You
flatter me, darling.”

* * *

The
only Martin Boestling I found listed in the phone book was a “confectionery
dealer” on Fairfax Avenue. Unlikely, but it was an easy drive over Laurel
Canyon.

The
Nut House turned out to be a double storefront a block north of the Farmer’s
Market/Grove complex. The
Parking in Rear
sign kept its promise and I
found a space next to a green van with the store’s name, address, and website
under a giant cashew that resembled an eyeless grub. A locked screen door
covered an open delivery arch. I rang the bell and a heavy, kerchiefed woman in
her sixties peered out, turned the bolt, and trod back wordlessly toward the
front of the store.

The
space was one big room lined with bins of candy, coffee, tea, rainbow-hued
desiccated things, equally garish jellied morsels, and nuts. At least a dozen
varieties of almonds. A sign said
No Peanuts Here, Allergic People Don’t
Worry.

The
shoppers, all female, strolled the aisles and scooped goodies into green bags
rolled from overhead spools. The green-aproned man at the register was
mid-fifties, round-shouldered, and stocky with dark wavy hair. His face looked
as if it had argued with a wall and lost. His hands were outsized and blocky
and he bantered easily with two women checking out. In the Internet photo I’d
found, he’d been tuxedoed, arm in arm with Sydney Weider. She’d changed a lot.
Martin Boestling hadn’t.

I
scooped smoked almonds into a bag, waited until the shop was quiet, and
approached.

Boestling
rang up the sale. “You’ll like these, an Indian family in Oregon does the
smoking themselves.”

“Great,”
I said, paying. “Mr. Boestling?”

His
eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I’m
looking for a Martin Boestling who used to produce films.”

He
transferred the almonds to a paper bag, slid it across the counter, started to
turn away.

I
showed him my police I.D.

He
said, “Police shrink? What’s this all about?”

“I
consult to— ”

“And
now you’re at The Nut House. How apropos.” His eyes aimed at the woman behind
me in line. “Next.”

I
stepped aside, waited until she checked out.

Martin
Boestling said, “Anything else I can do for you, purchase-wise?”

“It’s
about Sydney Weider,” I said. “And Drew Daney.”

His
big hands became flesh cudgels. “What is it
exactly
that you want?”

“A
few minutes of your time, Mr. Boestling.”

“Why?”

“Daney’s
the subject of an investigation.”

Silence.

“It
could be serious,” I said.

“You
want dirt.”

“If
you’ve got any.”

He
waved the kerchiefed woman over. “Magda, take over. An old friend just dropped in.”

* * *

We
walked up Fairfax, found an unoccupied bus bench, sat down. Martin Boestling
had forgotten to remove his apron. Or maybe he hadn’t.

He
said, “Sydney was a bitch from hell, he was a fucking bastard, end of story.”

“I
know about the gonorrhea.”

“Know
how big my dick is, too?”

“If
it’s relevant I can probably find out.”

He
grinned. “You’d think it
would
be relevant, size mattering and all that.
I married Sydney because she was smart and rich and good-looking and loved to
screw. Turned out, she was making a fool out of me from the day we tied the
knot.”

“Promiscuous.”

“If
she had showed restraint, you could’ve called her promiscuous. Day of the
wedding, she screwed one of my so-called friends.” He began ticking his finger.
“The pool boy, the tennis pro, the fish tank guy, bunch of lawyers she worked
with. It was only later, after the divorce, that people started to come up and
tell me, phony sympathy in their eyes.
Sorry, Marty, we didn’t want to make
waves.
I could never prove it but I’m convinced she screwed some of her
clients, too. You know the kind of clients she worked with?”

“Indigent.”

“Murderers,
robbers, scumbags. Think about that: She’s keeping long office hours in order
to spread her legs for lowlife while I’m hustling to support her in the style
to which she’d become accustomed. I hated the industry, stayed with it because
I was desperate to impress her. Know where we met?”

“Where?”

“Your
investigation didn’t carry you that far back? We met at the Palisades Vista
Country Club where her family belonged and I was working my way through the U.
as a towel jockey. Spritzing rich people with bottled water while they turned
like chickens on a spit. Should’ve known how it was going to be when Sydney
left her rich boyfriend in the dining room so she could do me in a cabana. We
dated off and on for a while, until I graduated and got a job in the mailroom
at CAA and convinced her to marry me.”

I
said, “Was it her idea for you to go into the industry?”

“I
had a B.A. in English, which is about as useful as a second appendix. It
sounded interesting and I was good at it. Mostly, I did it for Sydney. I was
crazy about her.”

He
plucked at his apron. “Her old man got me the mailroom gig but I earned the
right to stay. Worked like a galley slave and took abuse from the worst people
you’ll ever meet. I produced more than all the Ivy League dilettantes who were
doing it for fun, climbed fast, was making serious money while Sydney finished
at the U. School-wise she was always smart, graduated summa, took a break to
have the kids, then we all moved to Berkeley so she could attend Boalt Law
School. I stayed down in L.A., flew up on weekends to be with her and the boys.
I had it down to a science, the four p.m. Friday into Oakland to avoid the fog,
return late Sunday. The boys turned out good, considering. They both hate her.
It didn’t take long for the marriage to go sour— we were bored with each other.
But no one else’s marriage seemed any better so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Until
the lab report,” I said.

“The
lab report came later. What blew everything up was I caught her doing Daney. In
my house, my bed, my robe and slippers on the chair.” He laughed. “Total
cliché. I had a meeting over at Fox TV on a script. The moron in charge cut it
short because she heard my demographic wasn’t right. Meaning my projects were
aimed at I.Q.s higher than that of a rutabaga. I was expecting a longer
meeting, brought along the writer, poor schmuck. So I’m out of there in ten
minutes, in a not-so-good mood, decided to go home, take a swim and a
shvitz
in the brand-new sauna I put in. When I get home, I hear moaning and groaning
from upstairs and go into the master suite— which I just paid a fortune to
remodel, let me tell you, our place in Brentwood was state of the art. The door’s
wide open and Sydney and that pissant are doing the two-headed goat.”

His
voice had risen loud enough for passersby to notice. Smoothing his apron, he
cracked his knuckles. “I yell, Sydney opens her eyes. Then she closes them and
keeps
going.
I rush over and I’m hitting Daney on the back and neck and
he
wants to get off her but she’s got a leg-lock on him. I’m pounding him on
the back, his head, anywhere I can land a punch and he’s struggling to get free
but Sydney still won’t let him. Finally she finishes and shoves him off and the
bastard grabs his clothes and runs out of there like his nuts are on fire.”

He
laughed until his eyes got wet. “I can laugh at it now. Even feel sorry for the
idiot.”

I
smiled.

“Mr.
Subdued Reaction,” he said. “Remind me not to put you in the audience. Anyway,
that’s the story.”

“Any
idea how long they’d been carrying on?”

“No,
because we never talked about it. Sydney locked herself in the bathroom, took a
shower, when she came out I was ready to fight. She breezes past, gets in her
car and leaves. She stayed out all night, luckily the boys were away at school.
I sat there like a lox, waiting for her, finally got myself a room at the Hotel
Bel-Air. A few days later, pus started coming out of my dick. But I got her
good. Guess how?”

“Something
financial.”

“The
pre-
nup.
Which
her
old man put in for
her
sake. The deal
was she got to keep all the assets she came into the marriage with. Only
problem for Sydney was the old man made some real bad investments and emptied
her trust fund. Her sole assets were
zippo
leaving only our joint
assets. Which wasn’t as much as either of us thought because we were living way
beyond our means. For me it was no big deal, my dad worked for a living— the
nut business. I used to put it down for not being glamorous, till I learned
about the industry.”

“Sydney
had trouble coping,” I said.

“Sydney
was a spoiled bitch who became a lawyer for status and
fulfillment.
After
we split, she tried to get herself a private practice job but it didn’t work
out. Meanwhile, the divorce lawyers are looting whatever’s left. Her mother
finally died and left her enough to get herself a place in the Palisades along
with a small monthly allowance. The zip code’s right but it’s a dump and she
doesn’t maintain it. She was always hyper, now I hear she’s downright manic.”

He
looked to me for confirmation. I said, “What happened to her private practice
job?”

“Ah,
that,” said Boestling, smiling. “Unfortunately, her boss received a copy of
that pesky lab report. So did every other serious criminal defense firm in
town. Now, who’d do something so vengeful?” He yawned.

“And
you told Daney’s seminary about him.”

“I
figured I was doing the Lord’s work. Thanks for the memories, Doc. Time to get
back to real life.”

“You
said Daney should have thanked you.”

“Damn
straight he should’ve. I got Sydney and him meetings with some serious people.”

“To
make a film?”

“No,
to make Polish sausage, yeah a film. A feature, not TV. Sydney made a
big
point of that, her attitude was always I was TV so I was low on the food chain.
Her project was going to be
stars
and a substantial
shooting
budget.
The two of them thought they had the greatest story ever told. But who did they
come to when they wanted references?”