“I just wanted to congratulate you on your amazing success,” said Val. “I’m kind of a geek freak — I guess I was into it more before the bubble burst. I’ve read about you the last few years and saw the article in Forbes—I think everybody saw that article. It was seminal! You guys became a hobby of mine. But this is actually the first time I’ve ever met a billionaire! Well, now wait a minute — that’s not true: I just saw Marvin Davis inside, sitting on his special chair. But he doesn’t count. And I didn’t actually go up to him. I don’t even think he’s in the top hundred anymore — you’re still way up there, no? Quincunx is holding its own. I guess you and Gates and Ellison and all those guys’ll do OK no matter how low the Nasdaq goes. But I’m being a bore! I hope you don’t mind! Thanks for letting me say hello.”
He started to edge away, and Dodd grabbed his arm. “No, not at all — and what are you doing these days, Val?”
“I own a restaurant — two, really — in Northern California. I’m afraid I operate on a slightly smaller scale than you.”
“Restaurants: that’s a very difficult undertaking. Super — high risk. What are they called?”
“DeWitt’s — not very imaginative. We’re actually pretty well known in the Bay Area. I’m only in L.A. today to sample the goods; they have some amazing wines here. Spago’s has a master sommelier. Not too many people know that — there’s only around forty in the whole country. Do you know Mike? He’s the sommelier. By the way, you should try the La Tâche. It’s only about a grand per bottle — you can afford it!”
“Have you kept in touch with Marcie?” he asked perfunctorily.
“Who?”
“Marcie. Marcie Millard.”
“Now, that’s a name from the past …”
“She organized the luncheon.”
“What luncheon?”
“You mean, you didn’t know this was a Vista event?”
“Vista?”
“Beverly Vista — we’re having a bit of a precelebration.”
“For what?”
“I’m rebuilding the old school. All the people here”—he nodded at the patio—“they’re all BV alumni.”
“Now wait a minute. Hold on. You went to Beverly Vista?”
“Oh come on, Val.”
“No way.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember the headlock.”
“Headlock?”
“Yeah, the damn headlock. The mythic fucking headlock. Bruised my damn windpipe.”
“There is no way I went to school with Dodd Trotter!”
“You absolutely did,” said Dodd, almost jovially. What did any of it matter now? “And I’ve the psychic scars to prove it.”
Just then, Marcie came over. Dodd began to introduce them, but there was no need — Marcie effusively declared she’d had a crush on fat-boy since second grade. He left them to their flirtation and eased his way to the rest room.
He sat in a stall and scrolled through his BlackBerry. Frances-Leigh said his mother had called; she seemed to be reaching out to him less often, even when there was a “big” death in the news. Dodd felt a pang of guilt, and promised himself he would spend more time at Saint-Cloud. It was anyone’s guess how much longer she’d be living there.
The men at the urinals spoke some kind of Arabic. He heard his name—Doahd Trotter—stranded like an oasis amid melodiously guttural consonants. One of them laughed, shifting to English, the accent clipped and British.
“No one can remember him? But how is it possible?”
“I’m telling you,” said his friend. “I spoke to the crazy woman — Marzie. And she said no one can recall. He is the Invisible Man!”
“As long as he puts his money where his mouth is, what difference can it make? He is going to build a hell of a thing.”
“I don’t know if you want your money where that mouth is,” he said nonsensically. “You don’t know where that mouth has been!”
“He is not the Invisible Man — he is the Indivisible Man. Because he will never divide that pile of money up.”
“Oh!” laughed the other. “Ho! The Indivisible Man! The Indivisible Man! Oh! Ho!”
There was more unintelligible Semitic discourse; urinals flushed and faucets turned at sink. As they toweled their hands, Dodd heard his name mentioned once more amid the babble, and then Forbes and then “number twenty-three.”
“I am predicting I too will be on the list — in the privacy of my home, I will soon make number two!”
They laughed all the way out.
On Sunday afternoon, the detective drove to Broad Beach and limped around an empty lot. He felt it would be irresponsible to share what he suspected — what he knew—before the computers gave confirmation. That could take a week, maybe more.
What if he was wrong? What if he was just lovelorn and in the wake of the perceived “breakup” with Trinnie had superimposed all this foolishness onto the wrong man? That’s insane—it was Marcus, he was certain … but what if he was withholding information from the family because deep down he was angry that the ghostly rival of his affections had returned to the scene? His predicament was even worse than when he had gotten shot; at least then, his role was clear-cut. There were pills to take and wounds to swab — the healing was visible. It behooved him to convey the weird development to his client, Louis Trotter (after all, he was still on the payroll); that was the right and happy solution. He fantasized breaking the news to Trinnie, but that wasn’t his place, as martyred or heroic as it would make him feel.
Samson headed back down PCH. He called Saint-Cloud and asked to speak to Mr. Trotter. The old man wasn’t home, but a servant patched him through to the Silver Seraph. That part of the highway was dicey when it came to cell phones; they could barely hear each other.
“Samson?”
“Yes! I need to talk to you.”
“Where——you?”
“Around——bu.”
“Where?”
“Malibu — Malibu!”
“Do you——where the——Dining Car is?”
“The what?”
“The Pacific Dining Car!”
“Yes! On W——?”
“The Pacific Dining Car!”
“On Wilshire!”
“Yes!”
The detective said he would see him there, but the phone was already dead.
By the time he arrived, his employer was seated in a bar banquette. He looked like someone who’d just been in a hit-and-run. As Samson slid into the booth, the barkeep brought another martini and it was just in time, because Mr. Trotter had downed the one at hand.
“I have something to tell you,” said the old man. To fortify himself, he swallowed the contents of the glass. “I–I—well, Samson, what I mean to say is — is — is … that I found our Marcus!”
CHAPTER 37. Twin Towers
Here is the tale Louis Trotter disgorged.
He explained how, at their reconciliatory dinner with the Weiners, they had been graced with Bluey’s presence and how they partook of “sweetmeats arranged upon a tray given her six decades ago by the redoubtable Peggy Guggenheim herself.” The offerings were delicious, but what had truly captivated, to the extent of rendering Ruth Weiner strangely mute, were certain thumbprint cookies smeared with pomegranate jam. At first they had thought she was choking, but when Mrs. Weiner recovered she took another bite and then another, rolling crumbs and syrup on her palate until she literally slapped the table.