“Why don’t you ask Byron? Maybe he’ll tell you about the work he did for the Haskell Foundation.”
CHAPTER 8
We drove up the coast along Highway 101, and just beyond the moneyed town of Santa Barbara we, turned onto Refugio Road. Heading northwest, we climbed the Santa Ynez Mountains, at the ocean’s edge, and wound around on the one-lane paved road for a number of miles until we descended into a valley of grasslands, large estates and small farms. I’d read in the Times that Governor Reagan had just bought a 600-acre ranch around here somewhere.
We hadn’t taken Sol’s limo. What kind of journalist rode around in a long black limo with a driver who looked like a sumo wrestler? So we made the two-hour trip in my Corvette with Sol in the passenger seat, hollering out directions from a map.
“Slow down, Jimmy! Ah, too late. You just passed the road where we were supposed to turn.”
“Shoulda told me earlier.”
“You weren’t paying attention. Gotta keep your eye on the ball.”
“What ball? There’s no ball out here, just miles of grass, weeds, and a few fenced-in mansions.”
“Those are farmhouses, my boy.” A grin surfaced on Sol’s face. “Ah, the small farmer, back to the soil, and all that. Makes my heart warm just to think of the tax benefits.”
I hung a U, drove back, and turned onto the gravel road. After driving about a mile farther the road ended at Frank Byron’s ranch. A sign, “Rancho de la Estrellas,” hung over the entrance of a long driveway. We pulled up in a front of an adobe-style mansion, a two-story house with rough plaster walls made to look like sun-dried brick. Red clay barrel tiles covered the roof.
A man who said he was Byron’s valet answered the door and we stepped into the entry, an open space with a rough-hewed wood-beam ceiling, Saltillo tile floor, and windows that looked out onto a rocky cactus garden. We followed along behind the slow-walking stiff as he escorted us to the library. He wore a white dinner jacket with a black tie. His outfit didn’t seem to fit with the Santa Fe decor. A sombrero would’ve helped.
“Mr. Byron had an unexpected long distance phone call. He will join you momentarily,” he said and quietly slipped away, closing the door behind him.
Built-in bookcases lined the walls next to a huge sandstone fireplace. A mahogany desk with a surface the size of Rhode Island stood at the far end of the room, and a set of enormous steer horns, mounted high on the wall opposite the fireplace, added a touch of whimsy, I thought. Were the horns a trophy? Did Byron go out and shoot a cow? At least he didn’t stick the whole damn head up there. That would’ve been a bit much.
Threadbare, probably ancient Navajo rugs covered the floor, and a bronze sculpture of a bucking bronco, about two feet tall, rested in a lighted cubicle cut into the wall. The room reminded me of a cowboy museum. I wondered if Byron had Gabby Hayes stuffed and mounted somewhere in the house.
A portrait of a beautiful woman with waves of scarlet hair, wearing skintight riding pants tucked into her high-top boots, hung above the fireplace. The jewels she wore must’ve cost more than a battleship. Her head was tilted back, her lips were slightly parted in an alluring manner and she held a riding crop in her hand. Like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, she had a look about her that suggested she’d just been crowned queen of the Bar-None. She had it all, face, figure, and money. She was the kind of cowgirl that’d cause Roy to kick Trigger out of the hayloft.
A dozen leather club chairs were scattered about and a sofa covered with horsehide rested against one wall.
“This layout looks expensive, Sol,” I said. “The retired politician business must be lucrative.”
“Why would anyone spend a million bucks or more to be elected to public office if there wasn’t a few dollars to be made?” Sol said as he sank into one of the leather club chairs. He pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and fired up, chucking the wrapper in the Pullman ashtray standing next to the chair. “Yep, all this crap cost money, all right.”
A second later the door banged open and a man I assumed to be Frank Byron marched in, the valet trailing in his wake. “Oliver, didn’t you offer our guests any refreshments?” Without waiting for Oliver to answer he announced, “Remain seated, gentlemen. I’m Frank Byron.” Sol stood. I was already standing. Byron came over and gave each of us a hearty pat on the back and a solid handshake. We told him our names and he said, “First names only. Call me Frank.” He then told the butler, “Oliver, get Sol and Jimmy a drink.”
“Of course, Mr. Byron,” he said in a tired voice “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”
Sol glanced at his Rolex. “It’s still morning, so I’ll only have gin and tonic. Beefeaters, if you have it.”
“Just black coffee,” I said.
“Well, if Sol is going to imbibe, I’ll have a small toddy as well,” Byron said. “Make it my usual, Oliver.”
Byron was slim, tall, and middle-aged with a full head of ash gray hair, trimmed and blow-dried. He had a rugged, long face, tanned by the sun and creased by the years, pale blue eyes, and a wide mouth with thin lips that barely moved when he spoke. He wore western garb-checkered shirt, bolero tie, and a wide leather belt with the requisite gold and silver buckle that had to weigh ten pounds. He could have been a cattle baron out of the past, but he didn’t have any cow shit sticking to his hand-tooled snakeskin boots.
“Please, be seated gentleman and we’ll get down to business.” Byron turned and stood motionless for a moment, gazing up at the woman’s portrait. He shook his head once and continued toward his desk, where he sat. “I understand, Jimmy, that you’re doing a piece about my career as the District Attorney of Los Angeles.”
Sol took a puff of his cigar, looked at the glowing tip, and settled into the same club chair as before.
“That’s right,” I answered, sitting next to Sol.
“Who-may I ask-are you writing this for, the Los Angeles Times?”
“Frank,” Sol said. “Jimmy’s writing it for the New York Times, syndicated worldwide.”
Christ, Sol! What are you doing? I thought. You’re laying it on pretty thick. “That’s right,” I said, “New York Times. Now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Really, the New YorkTimes, that’s impressive. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen any of your work. Where have you been published before?”
“Everywhere,” Sol said and took another drag on the cigar. “Jimmy’s chronicling the history of L.A. in the forties. Big project.”
“Los Angeles history is kind of a hobby of mine,” Byron said. “I’m well versed with journalists writing about our exciting past. But, I’m afraid I haven’t seen anything you’ve written.”
“Well… ah, my articles have been-”
We all turned toward the sound of the door opening; the butler entered with the drinks. Thank God.
The discussion stopped for a minute while we sipped our drinks. Then I set my coffee cup down. “Let’s not talk about me,” I said. “I’m here to ask you, Mr. Byron, a few questions for the article. I understand you were a young man when elected to the office of District Attorney. Can you tell me a little about your background, and so on?”
“Be delighted to, Jimmy. It all started when I was just a child, before that really. You see, my grandfather…”
Whenever anyone starts telling his life’s story and starts it with when I was a child you know he’s going to bore the hell out of you. But I scribbled on my pad, trying to look like a journalist who cared about what he was saying.
Byron continued to ramble on. He told us about his family, his childhood, and then took us through his school years. He explained that although he came from a privileged background, his family’s wealth and connections had no bearing on his success. The very fact that two generations of Byrons had graduated from Harvard, and through the years had contributed generously to the university, had nothing to do with him being accepted there, of course.