Our staircase crossed the pool and continued on, I saw, ending at a huge deck in front of the lowest portion of the house, a deck overlooking a steep drop and a broad and lovely view. But Connie turned off down a narrow branching staircase that brought us down to poolside under the middle segment of the house. Some sleek young things were enjoying the pool, swimming back and forth from sunlight to shadow.
We climbed a curve of staircase into the middle portion of the house, to a vast room vaguely reminiscent of a Miami Beach hotel lobby, but in better taste. People stood in chatting groups. Tawny little men in white coats brought their drinks to them. Chunky little Eurasian girls in uniform circulated with trays of little hot meats and pastries. The guests seemed like glossy people, filling the room with a cocktail buzz, a controlled laughter. Eyes slanted toward us in swift appraisal, and I adjusted my mild and fatuous smile.
A slender blonde woman detached herself from her group and came hurrying over to us. She was slightly long in the tooth, but she had carefully preserved a lot worth preserving. She gave little coos of pleasure and she and Connie exchanged a small kiss of greeting and told each other how marvelous they were looking.
“Rhoda, dear, may I present Mack Smith. Rhoda Dwight, one of my oldest and dearest friends.” There was a dirty little emphasis on “oldest”.
Rhoda beamed at me, squeezed my hand. “Connie, darling, where have you been hiding such a beautiful man?”
“Mack is helping me find a nice boat, dear. When we find one, he’s going to run it for me.”
“What fun! I hope I’ll be asked to come cruising with you, dear. But don’t you get quite horribly seasick, Connie?”
“We may never take it away from the dock darling. How is Norm, by the way?”
“Who? Norm? But why in the world should you ask me how he is? Shouldn’t I be asking you?”
Connie gave her a tiger smile. “Now isn’t that strange! I haven’t seen the dear boy in months. It must be some mistake, darling. I was told you were seen with him in Santa Barbara just last week. Really I didn’t think anything of it. After all, you and Quenton both seemed to like the lad.”
“I haven’t been to Santa Barbara in decades, darling.”
“There’s no reason for you to be upset, Rhoda.”
“Upset? What gives you that odd idea?”
A little man came up to take our drink orders. Connie began slapping at my pockets to locate her cigarettes. Rhoda gave us a glassy smile and drifted away.
“Bitch,” Connie rumbled. “Scavenger bitch.” Our drinks came. As she had promised, they were inferior. She touched my arm. “There’s the man. Come on.”
Calvin Tomberlin was in a small group. He was a grotesque. He was of middle size, fairly plump, and stood very erect. He was completely hairless, without brows or lashes. He wore a toupee so obviously fraudulent it was like a sardonic comment on all such devices. It was dusty black, carefully waved, and he wore it like a hairy beret. His eyes were blue and bulged. His face was pale pink, like roast beef. His lips were very heavy and pale, and they did not move very much when he spoke. His voice was a resonant buzz, like a bee in a tin can. He wore a pewter grey silk suit, with a boxy jacket, cut like a Norfolk jacket but without lapels. He wore a yellow ascot with it.
Be greeted Connie with what I guessed was supposed to be warmth, gave her a little hug, and placed two firm pats on her ample knitted stern. But it was done in a curiously mechanical fashion, as though he was a machine programmed to make these social gestures.
Connie introduced us. His hand was cold and soft and dry. He looked at me as a butcher looks at a questionable side of meat, and turned away. I had it feeling a relay had clicked and my file card had fallen into the right slot. I was next to him, but in an identity where I could not establish contact. Stud for the Venezuelana. Ambulatory service station. I sensed the same recognition and dismissal in the others. They weighed me with their eyes, so much captive meat, and turned away. I did some drifting. Groups formed, broke, reformed, changed. I saw the pool people. I paced the big suspended deck. The lowest level was bedrooms. The upper level was lounge area, dining areas, a library. The day was gone, and the lights came on as they were needed.
I found Connie and, after a patient time, cut her out of the pack.
“What was that about a west wing or something?”
“Cat’s little museum. Up the stairs and to the left. Locked tight.”
“Any way to get to see it?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. I can try. Hang around this area, dear. If it works, I’ll be back to get you.”
While she was gone a wobbly type came up to me, a big blond kid with a recruiting poster face. He looked ready to cry.
“You have some good laughs when she pointed me out, pal?”
“You’re wrong. She didn’t.”
“I saw it, buddy. I saw it happening. You know what you got to do. You got to take her a damn big bug.”
“A what?”
He wavered and held up a thumb and finger, a quarter inch apart. “There’s a hell of a smart spider. A spider, no bigger’n this. When he goes to see the old lady spider, he wraps up a big juicy bug and takes it along, like an offering. He’s one smart little old son of a bitch, because he knows that it’s the only way he can have his fun and get away alive, because she gets so busy eating that bug she doesn’t get around to eating him. You got the message, buddy boy? You take Connie a hell of a big bug, and remember I told you so.”
“Thanks a lot. Take off.”
He shook his head. “You’re so smart, aren’t you? You know every damn thing. She’s worth millions, and she’s the best piece you ever ran into, and you’re set forever. That’s the way it is, huh? Living high, boy. Well, brace yourself, because she’s going to…”
“Chuck!” she said sharply. He swung around and stared at her. She shook her head sadly. “You’re turning into the most terrible bore, dear. Run along, dear.”
“I want to talk to you, Connie. By God, I want to talk to you.”
“You heard the lady” I said.
He pivoted and swung at me. I caught the fist in my open hand, slid my fingers onto his wrist. He swung the other fist, off balance, and I caught the other wrist. He bulged with the effort to free himself, then broke and started to cry. I let him go and he went stumbling away, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.
“Nicely done,” she said.
“I am supposed to bring you a wrapped bug.”
“Yes. I remember that little analogy. He got very fond of it. He did turn into a dreadful bore. Come along. Cal is waiting. I told him I wanted to see how you’d react.”
“How should I react?”
“Suit yourself. It gives me a funny feeling.”
He was waiting for us, mild as a licensed guide. He unlocked a very solid-looking door, closed it and locked it again when the three of us were inside. Lines of fluorescent tubes flickered and went on. There were little museum spotlights. The room was about twenty by forty. There were paintings and drawings on the walls. There was a big rack of paintings and drawings. There were pieces of statuary on pedestals and on bases, and set into glassed-in niches in the walls. There were display cases. It was all very tidy and professional and well organized. The windows, two small ones, were covered with thick steel mesh.
“I have here, and in the next room,” he said in that buzzing voice, “what is probably the most definitive collection of erotica in the world today. It has considerable historical significance. The historical portion of the collection, the library of over two thousand volumes, the ancient paintings and statuary, are available for the use of qualified scholars by appointment. Because so many of these things are irreplaceable, I could not venture a guess as to the value of the collection.”