She disappeared and with her my hope of getting Carmen excited at the wrestling matches that night. If Trudi Gurstwald had something to say, it might be worth the loss. I felt pretty good as I jogged the twenty yards or so to my car.
I caught a few minutes of some soap opera advertising Hormel Chili, which reminded me that I was hungry. I tried to forget it as I continued down the road in the general direction of the Hughes house, according to the directions from the kid in Mirador. It was no more than a mile from the Gurstwald place, which seemed a hell of a coincidence. Hughes’ place was smaller than Gurstwald’s, with a nice lawn and a great view of the Ocean. It was a big red brick lump of a house trying to look like something English. I drove up to the door, got out and rang. It took about thirty seconds for the door to open. The opener was Japanese, in his late twenties and wearing a white jacket.
“Yes?” he said. I caught no accent in the answer.
“Name is Peters, I’m working, like you, for Mr. Hughes and I’ve got some questions.”
“Right,” he said, stepping back so I could enter. “My name’s Toshiro. Mr. Dean called and said we might be hearing from you. Mind if we talk in the kitchen? I was making myself some lunch.”
I said sure and followed him into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen. He had some onions and tomatoes on a wooden counter and a large can of tuna, half open.
“Like a sandwich?” he said.
“I’d like two,” I said.
He nodded and worked while we talked.
“Work for Hughes long?” I asked, sitting on a stool near the table.
“About three weeks,” he answered, opening the can and forking the white chunks of tuna into a bowl. “You like mayonnaise?”
“Yeah, as much as you can tolerate. You’ve only worked for him three weeks? What about the other servants?”
“Same,” he said. “Hughes just rented this place to set up a dinner for a guy down the road named Gurstwald who has even less love of company than Hughes. Normally, I’m a grad student at Cal Tech, but I take off every once in a while to make a few dollars. This seemed like a good deal.”
He held up a bottle of Rainier Beer from the refrigerator, and I nodded yes. So he pulled out one for himself too.
“Where are the others, the cook and the butler?”
“Schell, the butler, is out,” said Toshiro, opening the Rainier. “Nuss, the cook, is in, but he got bored and drank himself to sleep. We’re all waiting to be canned and meanwhile collecting our pay for sitting around.”
I picked wheat bread and Toshiro joined me. We ate quietly for a few minutes and sipped our ice cold beer.
“I think Hughes really lives in the Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said, emptying his beer bottle. “I get a lot of reading done here.”
“What about the night of the dinner party?”
Toshiro got us both seconds on the beer.
“Hughes stayed the day before. Brought a guy named Noah and a couple of well-dressed bruisers. Stayed in his room going over stuff he brought in an old briefcase. Nuss made him an avocado and bacon sandwich for dinner and Schell brought him some crackers and milk around three in the morning.”
I gurgled some more beer and leaned forward to put some salt on half a tomato I was nibbling.
“Night of the big blast,” Toshiro continued, “Everything went as scheduled. We actually had a typed schedule right down to when we circulated with drinks.”
“What’d you make of the guests?” I said. Toshiro shrugged.
“Money,” he said. “They’ve all got it except maybe that major. He’s got a problem in a bottle. Which reminds me, another beer?”
I said yes and we downed a third.
“Well,” he resumed, leaning against the sink, “everything was routine till Hughes went up to his room about an hour after dinner to get something. When he came back, he called the servants into the kitchen, changed the schedule and shuffled the guests out as fast as he could.”
“How’d they take it?” I burped. “Sorry.”
“Fine, except the Gurstwalds, but they seemed kind of odd the whole night anyway. Something was eating them. You know. They were just irritable.”
“They say they had a great time,” I said.
Toshiro shrugged.
“Well maybe, I’ve never seen them having a bad time.”
“You going back to Cal Tech when this job ends?”
Toshiro raised his eyebrows and carted dishes over to the sink.
“A guy named Toshiro might have a rough time around the states for a while if Japan gets a war going. I might just be better off getting a job around here and riding it out. Maybe I’ll even join the army. But that would be tough on my parents. We’ve got lots of relatives in Japan.”
“Where are your parents?” I said.
“You grilling?”
“Yeah, I can’t help it.”
“Parents live in San Diego.”
I got up and let Toshiro show me Nuss the cook sleeping in his room. His clothes were on and he smelled of wine. He also hadn’t shaved in a few days. Toshiro closed the door behind us as we left.
“Seems like a decent guy,” Toshiro said leading me to the front of the house. “The butler, however, is not one of my favorite people.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Don’t know,” said Toshiro, opening the front door for me. “Strong silent type. Looks at everyone like they were ants and he was a big shoe. Not the kind of guy I’d want for a butler, but no one asked me.”
“Thanks for the lunch and beer,” I said, stepping out into the humidity.
“Howard Hughes’ compliments. Drop by anytime.”
The door closed behind me, and for about four seconds I felt swell. At the end of that four seconds I noticed the car parked next to mine. It was the yellow Mirador police Ford. Leaning against it was the Mexican cowboy. Next to him was a wiry little guy in a sweaty lightweight suit who was wiping the sweatband of his straw hat with a moist handkerchief. He looked like he was around forty, and he squinted as if the sun were particularly bright, which it wasn’t. Then he spotted me, put his hat on and gave me a fake grin.
“Mr. Peters?” he said, advancing on me while the Mexican watched passively.
“Right,” I said.
“I’m Mark Nelson, Sheriff of Mirador. You’ve already met Alex, my deputy, which means you are acquainted with the entire constabulary of Mirador.” He chuckled and I chuckled back. Nelson moved to my side and put a hand on my shoulder and his head near mine. He smelled like onions. We walked a few feet from the car while he whispered confidentially.
“Was a time Mirador looked as if it would be a big resort area,” he said. “Look around at these trees. Listen to the ocean. What has Laguna got that we haven’t?”
“I give up,” I said.
“Developers,” he whispered confidentially through his teeth. “People willing to make a commitment to the community. We had a couple of them before the Depression back in ’28, but it fell through. We’ve even got a big hotel almost finished on the beach. Looks just like it did back in ’30.”
I looked around at the trees and listened to the ocean. Then I looked at Alex, who looked at me.
“There’s a point to all this, isn’t there?” I said, “and I’m going to get it soon?”
Nelson took his hat off and did some more work on drying the stained hatband of his straw hat.
“Right,” he said, pointing a finger at me and smiling. “I’ll get there soon. And I’ll try not to bore you. What we have in Mirador instead of fancy resorts and shops with junk, is a handful of people barely making it and another handful of very rich people who like Mirador because it is peaceful and secluded.”
“Like Anton Gurstwald?” I guessed.
“Just like Mr. Gurstwald,” he confirmed.
“And people like Mr. Gurstwald are willing to pay a few extra bucks each month or so to insure that privacy?”
“You are a smart man,” Nelson said, shaking his head in appreciation. “We’d prefer that people who are not wanted by those who value privacy respect that wish. Now you’ve intruded on one of our leading citizens and assaulted a resident.”