Self-Defense (37 page)

Had App shared Lowell’s sympathy for
talented criminals? Or was he just a generous man?

Calculated generosity? Film people’s
self-esteem often lagged their wealth. Had App tried to buy himself
respectability by hitching up with a Great Man?

An “independent producer” had optioned
Command: Shed the Light
for film. App, or some other patron?

Paying to adapt poetry to the screen
seemed an absurd business decision. More charity?

Great Man on the skids... App buying in
cheap?

Sinking money into Sanctum, then watching
it all fall apart as Lowell lost interest.

He might very well have a few opinions on
Lowell.

No phone listings under his name. No great
surprise.

Didn’t producers belong to some kind of
trade group—the Producers Guild?

I found the address—400 South Beverly
Drive in Beverly Hills—and was just about to punch the number when my service
clicked in.

“Someone on your line from Mr. Lowell,
doctor. She wouldn’t give a last name. Sexy voice.”

I took the call.

Nova said, “Are you still planning to
bring the daughter up?”

“There were no plans.”

“I was under the impression there were.
He’s expecting her—the best time’s late afternoon. Five or later. He takes a
long nap after lunch, and—”

“There were no plans,” I repeated, “and
something’s come up.”

“Oh, really,” she said coolly. “And what’s
that?”

“Mr. Lowell’s son Peter was found dead
today.”

Silence.

“When did this happen?” she said
skeptically.

“The body was discovered this morning.
He’d been dead for a while.”

“How did he die?”

“Heroin overdose.”

“Damn,” she said. “How am I going to
tell
him?”

“Call the police and let them do it.”

“No, no, it’s my job.... This is
obscene,
the man’s been through so much. When he wakes up he’ll expect me
to tell him about the daughter’s visit. You should have her come. Especially
now. He deserves it.”

“Think so?” I said.

“Why are you being so hostile? I’m just
trying to do what’s right.”

“So am I.”

“I’m sorry.” Suddenly, a softer tone. “I’m
sure you are. This caught me by surprise. I have no experience with this kind
of thing. I really don’t know what to do.”

“There’s no easy way to tell him,” I said.
“Just find the right time and do it.”

“What’s the right time?” she said, almost
timidly.

“When he’s not drunk or highly medicated
or upset about something else.”

“That doesn’t leave much... but you’re
right, I’ll just have to bite the bullet.”

Sounding miserable.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

“What if I tell him and he has a fit
and—he’s in such bad shape. What if he has another stroke? What do I do, all
alone with him?”

“He obviously needs a doctor.”

“I know, I know, but he hates them.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“He likes
you.
Would you come up
and be there when I tell him—maybe coach me?”

I laughed. “I think you’ve got the wrong
guy.”

“No, no, he does. Said he’d given you both
barrels and you’d shot right back. He respects you. It’s the first time I’ve
heard him say anything respectful about anyone. I know it’s an imposition, but
I’ll pay you for your time. Please, this freaks me out; I don’t do death well.
Too much weirdness in this family, this wasn’t what I expected when I took the
job. But I can’t abandon him—too many people have.”

“It seems to me he’s the one doing the
abandoning.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But he doesn’t
see it that way. He can’t help himself—he’s too old to change. I’m really
worried I’m going to mess this up. Please help me. I’ll make it worth your
while.”

“I won’t take your money,” I said.
“Conflict of interest. But I’ll come up. And it has to be now.”

The kindly therapist, even as I mapped out
a walk through the grounds. Looking for lacy trees.

“You will?” she said. “That’s so incredible.
If there’s anything I can do in return...”

Sexy voice.

“Let’s just get through this,” I said. “I
feel sorry for the whole family.”

“Yes,” she said. “They’re a pitiful bunch,
aren’t they?”

She was sitting on the porch and got up to
meet me as I pulled up to the hitching posts. She had on a soft black minidress
and black sandals. A bra this time, the cups patterned in relief under the
cotton. She jogged down the big wooden steps, smiling, and I felt about to be
tackled as she came straight at me. Stopping inches away, she took my hand.

Her body was sleek, but this close, with
the sunlight bathing her face, I noticed tiny tuck scars where her ears met her
jawline.

Face lift. Older than I’d thought?

Her hand held on to mine and I looked down
and saw other scars, on her arms. Small, barely discernible, with the exception
of one long white line running parallel to the knuckles of her right hand.

“Thank you.” She pecked my cheek. “He’s
still sleeping.”

Letting go, she directed me onto the porch
with just a touch at the small of my back.

“How long does he usually sleep?” I said.

“He can go anywhere from two to five
hours. I try to ease up on the morphine before lunch, so he’ll have an
appetite, but he generally reacts strongly to it.”

“Who prescribes the morphine?”

“A doctor in Pacific Palisades.”

“Does this doctor ever actually see him?”

She rubbed her index finger with her
thumb, sighed, and smiled. “What can I say?”

I thought of how Lowell had despised Puck
for his addiction.

“Come on in.” She opened the front door.

“How about a walk?” I said. “I’ve been
cooped up all day.”

“Sure,” she said, smiling and smoothing
back her hair. “Let me get something, first.”

She ran up the stairs and came back with a
white plastic hand radio with a rubber antenna. The brand sticker said
KidStuff.

“It’s for babies,” she said, clipping it
onto her waistband. “But that’s what old people are, right? Big babies.”

She rotated a dial on the radio and static
came on.

“It’s got a range of about five hundred
feet, so we can’t go too far. Sometimes he wakes
up
like a baby—crying
out. He wears diapers, too.”

She stayed very close to me as we strolled
around the house. Directly behind the building was a dry unplanted parcel
broken only by an empty laundry line on metal posts.

Beyond that, the beginnings of forest, the
brush growing so thick it looked impenetrable. Nova and I crossed the dirt, and
I studied the house. No porches or balconies, just rough logs and windows and a
single door. Drapes covered three of the windows on the ground floor.

“Is that his bedroom?” I said.

“Uh-huh. It used to be the library but he
can’t get upstairs anymore.”

She started to walk. I kept looking at the
house and she stopped.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” she said.

“Like a big log cabin.”

She nodded and pressed her arm against
mine. “Yeah, that old rustic feeling.”

“In his shape,” I said, “I don’t imagine
decor means much.”

“I doubt it ever did. Money doesn’t mean
much to him either. Probably ’cause he’s always had it. He’s cued in to one
thing only: himself.” Cool appraisal, no malice. Everything about her seemed
cool.

“Have you worked for him a long time?”

“Six months.”

“What’s your background?”

She laughed. “I’m a writer.”

“What kind of things do you write?”

“Poetry, mostly. I’m thinking of doing a
screenplay. About California—the strange things you see here.”

“Are you from the East?”

“No, up north.”

“How’d you hook up with him?”

“I wrote him a fan letter and he answered.
I wrote back and he sent an even longer letter. We began a correspondence.
About writing: style and story structure, things like that. A few months later
he offered me a job as a personal assistant. He made it sound as if he was
fundamentally healthy and just needed light care. Then I arrived and found out
I was going to have to change diapers.”

“But you stayed anyway.”

“Sure,” she said, swinging her arms and
picking up her pace. “He’s an institution. How could I turn him down?”

Not to mention material for a screenplay.

I said, “My impression was that he’s a
faded institution.”

Her jaw tightened, deepening the tuck
scars. “Maybe to fools who follow the best-seller list.”

Stopping, she raised the volume on the
radio. Nothing but the static. She lowered it again but didn’t move.

I said, “I heard this place was once a
retreat for artists and writers.”

“Long time ago.”

“Nice concept.”

“What is?”

“Retreating. Getting away from the grind.”

“Oh, you never do. You just change gears.”

She turned and began circling back toward
the front of the house. I stayed with her.

“So you’re a fan of his.”

“Absolutely.”

“Any books in particular?”

“Everything.”

“Didn’t he write a book of poems that was
considered anti-woman?”

She gave me a sharp smile. “You mean, am I
being a traitor to my sex by admiring him? Yes, to him women are meat—he grabs
my ass at least once a day. But if women were honest, they’d admit men were
meat to them, too. Let’s face it, big cocks are better than little cocks.”

Holding the smile, she swung her arms and
brushed my thigh.

“We’re all meat,” she said, almost singing
it. “What else is there? At least Buck’s honest about it. I clean his shit, he
can’t hide anything from me.”

“Nor you from him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You still have to tell him about Peter.”

She made a grumbling sound, nearly
masculine. A scarred hand pinched her nose, then scratched the tip.

“Gnats,” she said, slapping the air. “They
think I’m delicious. Yes, I’ll tell him. But just the fact that you’re up here
makes me feel good—believe it or not.” Knowing smile. “You’ve got a certain
aura. You get off on helping people, don’t you?” Another thigh brush. “Thanks,”
she said, touching my chin.

I stepped away from her.

She looked amused. “Any advice for me?”

“What was his relationship with Peter
like?”

“Only met the little shit once. Faggodly
coward, begging for money. Here’s Buck, struggling to live, using dope only as
a last resort, and the stupid little snot shoots it voluntarily into his veins.
I caught him once trying to rip off some of Buck’s ampules. Told him to give
them back or I’d tell Daddy. You should have seen the way his mouth dropped. He
handed them over. Never came back.”

“Maybe he was being honest in
his
own way.”

“How?” she demanded, picking up her pace
and moving out of touching range. The front porch came into view.

“Maybe being nothing but meat was too much
for him to handle.”

“Why? What else is there? A house in the
suburbs? Look at that.” She pointed upward, to a bird skittering among the
treetops. “How long will it live? A month? A year? One day it will be flying
along, and some predator will come crashing down on it, crushing its bones in
its jaws, squeezing the juice out.” Her neck muscles were tense. The tuck scars
were deep black lines. “But it was
here.
It served its time. We’re fools
if we think we’re any different. Our only meaning is being.”

“So what’s wrong with cutting it short?”

She stopped. “You advocate suicide? That’s
a switch for a psychologist, isn’t it?”

“I don’t advocate it. But I don’t judge
either.”

“I
do.
A writer
always
does,
that’s the difference. You’ve devoted your life to learning the rules. I
cherish the exceptions.”

Good speech, but Lowell’s voice seeped
through.

She put her hands on her hips. “Get her up
here—the daughter. What else does he have left? Isn’t he entitled to it?”

“He hasn’t been much of a father.”

“He’s tried.”

“Has he?”

“In his own way.”

“Which is what?”