Walkers (6 page)

With the manila folder containing the accident report tucked under his arm, Dr. Hovde headed for the elevator.

Peter Landau pursed his lips and gently touched the tips of his fingers together as he stared down at the zodiacal chart. It was a pose he had practiced before the mirror. He knew it made him look thoughtful. Every twenty seconds or so he would take up a felt-tip pen and scrawl bold, cryptic markings across the chart. Then he would revert to the thoughtful look, alternating it with a concerned frown and a slight nod of satisfaction.

The table on which he worked was round and heavy, covered with a fringed cloth of thick purple velvet. In the air floated a bare hint of incense, exotic spice. From hidden speakers came the muted sitar excursions of Ravi Shankar.

Across the table from Peter sat Mrs. Leonora Griesbeck. People guessed Mrs. Griesbeck's age at anything from forty-five to sixty-five, depending on what stage of cosmetic surgery she was in. Today the skin of her face was taut and still a little shiny from her most recent lift. The flesh of her neck, however, was etched with deep wrinkles, still visible under a heavy layer of makeup.

Mrs. Griesbeck watched Peter's face intently. Her own expression reflected his changing moods of optimism or doubt. She stared hard at the marks he made on the chart, as though she might decipher them through sheer concentration.

At length he made a final series of notations and slashed a heavy line across the page. "Well, there we are," he said, sighing heavily to show the physical strain this cost him.

Mrs. Griesbeck leaned forward and peered at the chart. "How does it look for me, Peter?"

"Beginning with today, that's...iffy." He flipped his hand back and forth to indicate the unsettled nature of the day. "Tomorrow you can look for some good news."

Mrs. Griesbeck brightened. "I'll bet it's about my plans for redoing the upstairs rooms."

"The weekend," Peter went on, "is generally favorable. Beware, though, of somebody who is going around telling lies about you."

"Who? Who's telling the lies about me? What are they saying?"

"I'm afraid the stars aren't that specific," Peter said.

"That's all right, I'll bet it's that Sheila Fess from across the street."

"Very likely," Peter said, consulting the chart.

"I knew it. Go on, tell me more."

"On Monday there's a strong indication of some physical ailment."

"My back," Mrs. Griesbeck confirmed. "It's been acting up again."

"Monday would be a good day to have somebody look at it."

"I'll call Dr. Isaacs first thing when I get home."

"Tuesday—ah—Tuesday you will have the opportunity to get even with someone who has wronged you."

"Sheila Fess," said Mrs. Griesbeck happily. "It will serve her right."

"No doubt. Wednesday will be a slightly down day. You should be on guard against some bad advice."

"I wonder what that will be?"

"It's hard to say. Just be careful."

"Don't worry, I will. What else?"

"After that it's Thursday, and you'll be back here again."

"So I will. Such a fast week."

"Time flies," Peter said sagely.

Mrs. Griesbeck sighed. "You're such a comfort to me, Peter. You don't know how much these sessions mean to me."

Oh yes I do, he thought. I get a check from your accountant every week.

He said, "If, in my small way, I can smooth out the wrinkles in your life,"—oops, bad choice of words there—"then I'm happy."

"You are a dear."

Peter busied himself clearing away the zodiacal chart and smoothing out the velvet tablecloth.

"Before I go," said Mrs. Griesbeck, "how about a cup of that terrific herb tea? Nobody can make it as good as you do."

Peter put on a sorrowful face. "I wish I could brew you one, Leonora, but my herb dealer is out of town this week. Visiting relatives in Singapore. Just my luck that yesterday I ran out of a couple of the most hard-to-get ingredients."

Peter's herb dealer was actually the Ralph's Market at Sunset and La Brea, and the hard-to-get ingredient that Mrs. Griesbeck enjoyed so much was the hefty slug of vodka he always dropped into her cup.

"What a pity," she said. "That cup of tea always sets off my day just right."

"I'm sure I'll have a new supply of herbs by next week," he said.

Under normal circumstance Peter would have been happy to sit around another ten minutes or so with Mrs. Griesbeck while she knocked back a cup of vodka-laced tea. For the price she paid for these weekly sessions of bogus astrology, he could afford to indulge her. And a little tea-spiking was a good deal easier on him than some of the special services his other clients required. But Peter performed whatever was expected of him and never complained. What the hell, it kept him in Corvettes and Guccis.

Today, however, the circumstances were not quite normal. He was anxious to speed Mrs. Griesbeck on her way back to the eighteen-room house in Beverly Hills, on the right side of Sunset, where she lived with her gynecologist husband and a Yorkshire terrier named Bitsy Face. Peter wanted to be all relaxed and ready when Joana Raitt arrived.

Joana's call this afternoon had caught him by surprise. Young, attractive, vigorous women like her were not the ones who usually sought out his services. He must have said the right thing to her this morning. He did get lucky sometimes, as with his guess that Joana had undergone a strange experience last night. The expression on her face told him he had hit home. Sometimes Peter wondered in an abstract way whether he might actually have some kind of extrasensory talent. He was, however, too sensible to entertain the thought for long.

He walked Mrs. Griesbeck to the door and stood on the porch smiling and waving as she negotiated the zigzag wooden steps leading down to the twisty canyon street where he lived. Her gray Mcrcedes waited at the foot of the steps. As Mrs. Griesbeck approached, her young driver sprang out to hold the back door for her. He looked up at Peter with hooded eyes. In a sense, they were in the same line of work.

The doors chunked solidly closed and the car rolled down the hill to Laurel Canyon Boulevard and headed back toward Hollywood.

Peter stood for a moment breathing in the afternoon air. The little house was perfect for his purposes. It was near enough to the action, yet isolated from the commercial hullabaloo of the boulevards. The outside was California rustic, with a suggestion of a Walt Disney witch's cottage—a kind of nonthreatening occult look. Peter had selected the furnishings with care. The colors and textures were sensual without being blatant about it. There were just enough touches of mystery—a crystal ball shrouded by a dark-blue cloth, a zodiac clock, a Haitian voodoo mask—to suggest the supernatural without frightening off the clients.

He walked back inside. There was a quarter of an hour to kill before Joana was due. He snuffed the incense and turned on the exhaust fan over the big front window. Joana did not strike him as the incense type. Next he cut off the Far Eastern sitar music and replaced it with a tape of Laurindo Almeida playing some gentle guitar jazz. He listened for a moment and nodded his approval. Intimate, but not pushy.

He decided against setting out anything to drink. After all, she called him, let her establish the mood. He would play it by ear. Satisfied, Peter sank into his acrylic-fur Stratolounger and cranked it back to the full recline position. He closed his eyes and smiled. Life was good.

Some five years earlier, Peter Landau had not had it nearly so good. He was then one of several thousand good-looking young actors in Hollywood scrambling for the bare handful of parts that came up every season in television or the movies. He had been a great favorite in Kansas City community theaters, and was shocked to discover that doors did not spring open for him in Hollywood.

He was sharing a room then on Melrose Avenue near the Desilu Studios with two other young hopefuls. One was a would-be novelist whose work-in-progress always sounded like whoever he was reading at the time. By the time he had two-hundred pages of manuscript, the style ranged from Ross MacDonald to John Gregory Dunne, and included passages reminiscent of Philip Roth and Mark Twain. The other roommate was an aspiring stand-up comic. He felt he was being held back because he was a WASP, so to establish a more Jewish image he grew a beard and changed his name from Connor to Kravitz.

With acting jobs exceedingly scarce in those days, Peter spent much of his time scheming ways to eat cheap. One method he hit upon was to arrange to be invited to as many parties as possible, and there fill up on hors d'oeuvres. As an attractive, popular young man, he had no shortage of invitations, and this seemed to be as painless a way of eating free as was available. To be sure, a diet of Pringles, clam dip, salted almonds, Triscuits, caraway cheese, tortilla chips, marinated mushrooms, smoked oysters, and such was not high in nutrition, but Peter was strong and healthy, and it was better than nothing. It was also, he decided early on, better than dropping his pants for some of the town's important homosexuals, which was one popular route for aspiring young actors to take.

As a perpetual party guest, one who depended on repeat invitations, Peter found it expedient to develop a specialty. A
shtik
, his friend Kravitz would have called it in his bogus East Side accent. Peter's
shtik
was palm reading. He read a paperback book on the subject and decided that since it was all bullshit anyway, it would be no problem for him.

He was at his best with women in the forty-and-up bracket who enjoyed having their hands held by a handsome young man, no matter what kind of nonsense he gave them about life lines. Peter developed a smooth patter along the lines of "I see you've had a fascinating life, and you've overcome some really rough obstacles all on your own." Who was going to deny a piece of flattery like that? Sometimes he would take a flyer like "Within the next two weeks you should receive a large sum of money that you don't expect," or sympathetically, "I see in your hand the signs of a very recent tragedy." He managed to hit on these often enough so people began to seek him out especially for readings of their hands. To Peter's surprise, they pressed money on him for the service.

One of his early patrons, the wife of a hair-transplant tycoon, encouraged Peter to turn professional and to branch out from palmistry to other occult fields, capitalizing fully on his "gift." It was she who set him up in the house off Laurel Canyon. As for Peter's part of the bargain, he had merely to provide a weekly Ouija-board contact with the lady's late first husband and provide some bedtime activities that the current husband was unable or unwilling to manage.

Peter's clientele came to him entirely through referrals. The tasteful business cards were the closest he came to advertising, and he had only had those printed because in Hollywood you had no identity unless you had a business card.

While his psychic-counseling business kept him hopping, Peter did not lack for social life. There was in Southern California an endless supply of nubile ladies like the blonde at the Marina Village, who were eager to jump into the sack with him. Their firm young bodies helped restore him for the sessions with his sagging clients, but sometimes he wished one of them might come up with something like an original thought.

Joana Raitt, now, she was something else. Peter had spotted her intelligence across the recreation deck almost at the same instant he spotted her tight white jeans. He had made his standard approach, and was not really surprised when she turned him down. Girls like Joana were not usually susceptible to his mellowed-out charm, but it was always worth a try. He had felt a genuine sense of loss when it appeared she had drowned in the pool, and had been glad to see her looking alive and alert in the parking lot this morning.

He concentrated, trying to remember exactly what Joana had said while they carried her from the pool to the apartment. Everyone else was shouting instructions and not paying any attention, but Peter, trotting alongside, had heard her clearly. It sounded crazy to him at the time, but when he mentioned it to her this morning it must have been important enough to get her over here.

It was something about her not belonging somewhere, wanting to get away. It still didn't make any sense to Peter, but it was enough to open up a dialogue. And if he handled it right, there was no telling where it might lead.

Joana drove up Laurel Canyon Boulevard to the twisting little street where Peter Landau lived, and turned off. She found his address painted on the curb about half a block up the street. She parked the Datsun and sat for a moment still holding the steering wheel. She had the sudden what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here feeling that came over her sometimes as she was about to board an airplane, or when she was walking into a strange party. At the airport she could always take a deep breath and remind herself where she was going and why, and at a party someone she knew usually would come out to greet her, but up here in the green canyon above Hollywood she could not shake the feeling of anxiety.

Yesterday—was it really less than twenty-four hours ago?—when she had met the self-absorbed Peter Landau, she would no more have imagined herself driving to his house the next day than she would have imagined, well, drowning in the swimming pool. Even this morning she had had no intention of ever seeing him again. However, after the unsatisfactory talk with Dr. Hovde and the near-miss with the wild driver in Westwood, she felt she absolutely had to tell her story to somebody, and Peter seemed to be the only one who might be willing to listen.

She got out of the car and looked up at the rustic cottage surrounded by a heavy growth of chaparral. She smiled at the rickety-looking flight of painted wooden stairs leading up to the porch. She disliked the word, but
funky
seemed the only way to describe the place. She started up the steps.

Peter Landau, smiling and sure of himself, answered her knock at the door. He wore a pair of black leather jeans and a safari shirt open, of course, to the belt buckle. On a gold neck chain hung a little gold lion. A Leo, thought Joana; I might have known.