“Well, one more, maybe.”
He took two. We pretended not to notice.
As he left, I opened the file folder again.
“What else have I got in here?”
“There’s a list of everyone we met at the party,” Templeton said, “along with their phone numbers. Except one for Dylan Winchester. Directors aren’t so easy to find.”
I told her about the names and numbers I’d gotten from Reza JaFari’s answering machine.
“I left Winchester a message this morning. I have a feeling he’s not terribly eager to talk to us. Or Claude DeWinter, for that matter.”
“That’s not surprising, since he was angry with JaFari.”
“There’s another reason, on the more delicate side.”
“I’m all ears.”
“At one time, Winchester and JaFari were sexually involved.”
Templeton widened her eyes.
“Winchester’s gay?”
“According to Lawrence Teal.”
I glanced down my list of names.
“I need you to have someone in the libray run two names through the database.”
She flipped to a new page in her notebook.
“For starters, Bernard Kemmerman. He left several urgent messages for Reza JaFari in recent weeks. Also, Anne-Judith Kemmerman.”
I guessed at the spellings and she jotted them down.
“I’ll do it right now—before Harry comes back with a news story he wants me to chase.”
I watched her disappear into the maze of computer pods, where reporters busied themselves with notebooks, keyboards, and telephones. I shifted to the chair behind Harry’s desk and was picking up the phone when Templeton stuck her head in the door.
“Justice—it’s good to be working with you again.”
The last time had been a year ago, on the Billy Lusk murder case. I’d done the bulk of the research, Templeton the writing, while Harry had front-paged her piece in the
Sun
, nailing the true culprit for a murder the cops had wrongly pinned on a sexually troubled Hispanic kid. It had resurrected Harry’s career from the ashes of the Pulitzer scandal I’d caused, and boosted Templeton to the top of his reporting staff. For obvious reasons, my name had been kept off the story.
“I appreciate the chance to make a few bucks, Templeton.”
“Maybe it will lead to something more than that.”
I assumed she meant professionally, but I wasn’t sure.
“Maybe.”
Her eyes lingered on mine longer than they needed to.
“We’ve both got work to do, Templeton.”
“Yes, we do.”
She smiled cryptically, then slipped away.
I put the phone to my ear and dialed Leonardo Petrocelli’s number.
The phone rang several times before it was picked up by a grandmotherly sounding woman tryng to catch her breath.
“Sorry. I was out for my morning fast walk. I forgot to turn on the answering machine.”
“I believe that’s a felony in this town.”
She laughed, and it sounded genuine. I pictured a trim, vibrant lady with silvery hair, not much makeup, and a jogging suit of soft pink velour, an image I’d later learn was not far off the mark.
“I usually take my morning walk about now and then a longer walk in the early afternoon, but Leo has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon, so I—”
I heard her cluck her tongue behind her teeth.
“I’m going on and on like a ninny and I don’t even know who I’m talking to.”
“My name’s Benjamin Justice. I was calling for Leo.”
“Have we met, Mr. Justice? That name sounds awfully familiar.”
“I believe we have,” I lied.
“You must be a writer.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Beatrice, Leo’s wife. Most people call me Betty.”
“Nice to talk to you again, Betty.”
“Leo just left for the guild, to straighten out some insurance matters. You know what it’s like after a lengthy hospital stay.”
I flipped to a fresh page in my notebook and got my pen ready.
“His heart, wasn’t it, Betty?”
“No, no. That was last year. This time it’s his prostate.”
“Of course,” I said, and jotted it down. “I hope he’s doing better.”
“We’re very optimistic. What’s the point of being anything else?”
“Thank goodness for that guild medical plan. He’s been a member—how long now?”
“Let’s see,” she said. “He qualified for membership in 1958. I remember, because he wrote two scripts for Warners that year which were produced, and another for MGM. My goodness, that’s half a lifetime ago!”
We chatted for another minute or two, and I slipped in the name Raymond Farr to see if she knew it.
“The boy who died the other night,” she said, and clucked again. “So sad. He was here once or twice some time back, not long before Leo had the surgery. Trying to learn more about screenwriting. Very likable boy, though a bit anxious.”
“Speaking of anxious, Mrs. Petrocelli, I think I’ll try to catch Leo at the guild. Thanks very much for your time.”
I pulled a west side phone book from the stack behind Harry’s desk and looked up the address of the Writer’s Guild of America West. It was located at Third and Fairfax, more or less on my way home.
I guided the Mustang through the downtown traffic crush, then cruised out Olympic Boulevard through Koreatown to the city’s west side. The air was warm, the day bright with the familiar glare of sunlight filtered through a gauze of smog. I kept the top down, weaving past homeless paraplegics traversing the busy boulevard in wheelchairs and small-time drug dealers perched nervously on street corners like hungry birds. The streets became residential after that and then Midway Hospital loomed, giving me a jolt.
Two or three friends had died there, part of Midway’s sizable population of AIDS patients. Suddenly, the thought of Danny Romero was with me so powerfully he might have been sitting next to me. I swung right onto Fairfax, trying to put the hospital out of my mind, and kept going until I saw Farmer’s Market ahead, and CBS just beyond that, which told me I was approaching Third Street.
I parked at the curb, fed two quarters into the meter, and made my way past elderly Jewish ladies hobbling along with shopping bags until I reached the double glass doors of the WGA.
I knew from Templeton’s research file that this was the heart of the screenwriting profession on the West Coast. More than thirty thousand scripts and treatments were registered here each year for legal protection, by guild members and nonmembers alike, although that probably represented only a fraction of what was actually being written.
I’d expected a more venerable building, one or two stories, perhaps, with grass and trees around it and ivy on the walls and some sense of the tradition that had given the world
It’s a Wonderful Life
and
Casablanca
and
The Wizard of Oz
.
Instead, I found myself entering a modern, four-story building, chrome and glass surrounded by concrete, with sealed windows, a round lobby of fake tile, and a security guard in a navy-blue blazer who looked as efficient and impersonal as the rest of the place.
As the doors closed behind me, sealing in the artificially cooled air, I saw Leonardo Petrocelli at a bank of elevators, looking like a well-preserved museum piece as he attempted to straighten up from a painful stoop.
He was dressed in a well-tailored gray silk suit with vintage lapels, accented by a burgundy tie and matching pocket handkerchief, all of it topped off by his distinctive wavy white hair.
His wife had calculated his union membership at nearly forty years. It made me wonder why he’d shown up at Gordon Cantwell’s party, where most of the guests were decades younger and little more than eager novices.
“Hello, Leo.”
He adjusted his glasses and squinted at me with rheumy eyes the color of weak tea.
“Forgive me,” he said, regarding me as if I were a complete stranger.
“Benjamin Justice. We met at Gordon Cantwell’s party.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” He put out a spotted hand, and I shook it. “Do you belong to the guild?”
“No. Actually, I’m here to talk with you.”
“Oh.” Some of the warmth went out of his voice. “What was it you needed?”
“I’m helping Alexandra Templeton with her magazine piece.”
“We probably should make an appointment, then.”
He tucked a file folder under one arm and pressed the elevator button impatiently. Typed neatly and pasted to the top of the file was a label with the acronym WGA.
“Am I imposing, Mr. Petrocelli?”
“I’m rather surprised to see you here, that’s all.”
“I only have a couple of questions.”
“How did you know to find me here, Justice?”
“Your wife was kind enough to tell me.”
“My wife is a kind person.”
“She told me you’d been in the hospital recently.”
“My wife is also a talker.”
He pushed the button again.
“Damned elevators. Wait, wait, wait. They’re worse than Hollywood agents.”
“I hope you’re feeling better.”
He turned suddenly to face me, and I could see behind his frailty the old fire of a man who had once burned hot with pride and passion.
“What is it you’re after, Justice?”
“You sound wary.”
“I was a reporter myself before I became a screenwriter. I know how reporters work. Why don’t you quit dancing and get to the point?”
An elevator stopped, but it was going down.
“Damn!”
“All right, Leo. I’ll stop dancing. How well did you know Reza JaFari? The young man you knew as Raymond Farr.”
The stoop disappeared as he stiffened and raised his chin resentfully.
“Not well.”
“He’s been to your home.”
“On one or two occasions.”
“Yet you were looking for him Saturday night.”
“I would have liked to speak with him.”
“You could have called him.”
“I did call him, which I mentioned to you at the party. He failed to return my calls. I was told he might be there.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t see the importance of that.”
“Templeton and I want to put all the pieces together.”
“The pieces of what?”
“Saturday night.”
“Farr’s death, you mean.”
“That would be part of the story, now, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose that depends on the story you choose to tell.”
He faced the elevators again and pushed the button almost violently.
“You seem in a hurry to get away, Leo.”
His next words came tersely, defensively.
“I never saw Farr that night.”
“What was it you wanted to discuss with him?”
“Business.”
“That covers a lot.”
“Personal business.”
The elevator doors opened and he stepped in. Before they closed, I stopped them with my hand.
“At the party, I got the impression you wanted to cooperate with Templeton on her story.”
“I’d be happy to discuss the craft of screenwriting, Justice. It’s a profession of which I’m most proud.”
“But you don’t wish to discuss Reza JaFari.”
“As I said, I hardly knew him. Now please remove your hand.”
I did. The doors came together, and I was left staring at my own blurred reflection.
*
Maurice was raking leaves as I arrived back at Norma Place. The two cats, Fred and Ginger, watched from the front porch while an aria poured from the open windows of the small house.
“Enjoying your retirement, Maurice?”
“I miss the students already—all those eager young faces. I suppose I’ll get over it in time.”
“Maybe this will cheer you up.”
I pulled out the wad of cash Templeton had advanced me, peeled off ten fifties, and handed them over.
“My goodness,” Maurice said.
“That should buy some cat food.”
“I should say so. God bless you, Benjamin.”
He tucked the money away and I helped him transfer a pile of leaves into a recycling bin.
“You’re a film buff, Maurice.”
“Not so much as I once was.”
“But you’ve still got a shelf filled with movie books.”
“A bit dated, I’m afraid.”
“Could you see if you have anything on a screenwriter named Leonardo Petrocelli?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar. Let’s go inside.”
We brushed ourselves off and went into the dim, old house, which smelled of decades of incense and cooking. It was crowded with hospitable old furniture, a collection of kitschy bric-a-brac devoid of design or reason, and photographs of friends who had “made their transition,” as Maurice liked to put it. A few of the faces were of his generation, dead from old age, but most were on the younger side, taken by AIDS. I spotted Jacques’s face among them, and studied it a moment while Maurice paused to savor the swelling aria.
Moments later the music ended and I was following him down the hallway to the second bedroom, which served as a den.
He knelt down, ran a bony finger along a row of books, and found one between Leslie Halliwell’s
Filmgoer’s Companion
and Vito Russo’s
The Celluloid Closet
. The title was
The Film Encyclopedia
, the author Ephraim Katz.
“Let’s see,” Maurice said, turning and scanning its pages. “Screenwriters. Leonardo Petrocelli. Here we are.”
He handed the book over with his finger on a seven-line biography. It placed Petrocelli’s birth in 1925, and listed nearly three dozen produced films going back to 1958, with Academy Award nominations twice in the 1960s.
“Quite successful, it appears.” Maurice scanned the list of pictures while I looked over his shoulder. “My, my. He wrote some wonderful movies.”
“Look where his credits end.”
“Nothing after 1985.”
“Which means he hasn’t had a screen credit in more than a decade.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you, Benjamin. According to his biography, he’d be seventy-two now.”
“The man was nominated twice for Oscars, Maurice. It’s hard to believe his career was over at the age of sixty.”
Maurice raised his delicate hand and gave my chest a little push.
“Benjamin! Don’t be so naive!”
“About what?”
“Hollywood, darling!”
“To be honest, Maurice, I’ve never paid all that much attention to Hollywood.”
“Well, you should. Without Hollywood, Los Angeles has no point!”
He knelt again and slipped the book back into its slot.
“You must realize, Benjamin, that in Hollywood, old people are taken seriously as seldom as possible, and employed slightly less.”
“And Leonardo Peuocelli would be considered old.”
“Ancient, I’m afraid.”
“Which means Petrocelli, for all his considerable experience and skill, may be washed up.”
“He’d merely be one of many, my boy.”
Maurice got to his feet slowly, using the shelf to help himself up. “And if he’s anything like the older screenwriters I’ve known, he’s more than a little bitter about it.”