CHAPTER THREE

      Joseph’s map took Peter into Pasadena and down a series of narrow streets. The summer evening air oozed through the half-open windows, filling the car with the green odors of juniper and eucalyptus cut by the sweetness of honeysuckle. Sticky jacaranda flowers filled the gutters with purple rivers. Old-fashioned street lamps dropped puddles of dim yellow light. He drove slowly, looking for a restored Greene and Greene home, a classic wood-frame bungalow with Japanese touches.

      Can’t miss it, Joseph had written on the map. Numbers hidden. Guidebook says it’s fronted by a huge river rock wall. Bamboo garden inside.

      Joseph and Peter’s last picture together, in 1983, had been Q.T., the Sextraterrestrial, Peter’s biggest budget production—half a million dollars. Too old-fashioned, the film had gone straight to late-night cable.

      The hard-core porn revolution had punched heavy-gauge nails into Peter’s film career. Whatever his morals, Peter had been more of a gentleman than his competitors. He had cared for his ladies. It had been tough watching them waltz off to shoot hard-core. Some had ended up sadly; others had become underground legends.

      Movies had never left his thoughts, however, and in the early nineties, while visiting Benoliel to drum up support for a low-budget horror feature, Peter had discovered a new element in Flaubert House: Joseph’s young wife. They had been married two months. Michelle had taken an immediate liking to Peter and had talked up his screenplay, but Joseph had refused to lay out good money for bad horror. Persistent almost to a fault, Michelle had asked Peter if he could do other work. Down to his last few hundred dollars, he had agreed.

      Gruff, never easy to get along with, Joseph Adrian Benoliel could turn on the charm when he wanted to, but only if he needed something. Worth half a billion dollars, he rarely admitted to needing anything. Under Michelle’s tutelage, Peter had become his more charming face.

      ‘You’re a gem, you know that?’ she had told Peter at the beginning of his new role, as she had walked ahead of him, a slight, wiry figure in shorts and halter top, her lambent contralto and slapping zoreys echoing across the marble-lined entry of Flaubert House. ‘You won’t believe the weirdoes trying to take advantage of Joseph. You’re just what he needs.’

      For thirteen years now, Peter had toted, met with, dismissed, couriered, and kept mum. He had made more money from helping Joseph and Michelle than he had ever earned from his movies. In the end, Peter had become a decent factotum, fed his family, and acquired a loose sort of freedom from want.

      Now he was locked in, wary of trying anything new, of making another wrong move and losing the last important things left in his life.

      A fair number of people in LA now knew Peter only as Joseph’s dogsbody.

      So had ended his big dreams.

      Peter spotted a river rock wall nine feet high and thirty feet long, then found an open space across the street just big enough to fit the Porsche. Beside the wall, twin red cedar garage doors were illuminated by hyperbolas cast by jutting tin-saucer lights fitted with clear glass bulbs. Authenticity meant a lot in Pasadena.

      He walked along the rock wall, knuckles brushing the jutting boulders, until he came to the cedar gate. Somewhere deep within the night behind the wall, chimes tinkled. A breeze stirred dry leaves and they made a sound like little hands rubbing together.

      Peter found a small ivory button mounted in green bronze above the standard NO SOLICITORS sign and re-checked the description. Nothing else like it on the block. He pushed the button. Security lights switched on within the yard. Two minutes later, a thin woman of sixty or so peered through the gate with intense black eyes.

      ‘Yes?’ she said, leaning to look behind him.

      ‘My name is Peter Russell. I’m here for a private meeting with Sandaji.’

      ‘Representing yourself?’

      ‘No,’ Peter said.

      ‘Who, then?’

      ‘I was told to come here and you’d know everything you needed to know.’

      ‘Well, identification would certainly help,’ the woman said. Peter produced his driver’s license. She held out a small flashlight and examined it with wrinkled brow. ‘You make a good picture,’ she said, and then stepped back. The gate pulled open on a metal track. To either side of a slate walkway, bamboo formed an undulating curtain, up to and around a stone lantern. Through the stalks, he could see a porch and dimly lit windows.

      ‘Come in, Mr Russell,’ the woman said. ‘My name is Jean Baslan. I’m Sandaji’s personal assistant. She’s very busy this time of year. We always love coming back to this house. A peaceful place.’ Her voice had a pleasant ululation to it, accompanied by a trace of Nordic accent.

      Peter followed her up the winding walkway.

      ‘We’ve cleared this hour for you,’ Jean Baslan said. ‘If you plan on taking less time, please let us know. Have you met Sandaji?’

      Peter said he had not.

      Baslan smiled. ‘You have a treat in store, Mr Russell. We’re all totally devoted to her.’ With a gentle wave, she guided him through the front door into the living room. Dark wood and exquisite built-in cabinetry set off antique furniture and hand-woven oriental carpets. Tiffany lamps sat contented and elegant on long tables of solid bird’s-eye maple. Peter recognized Morris chairs that looked genuine, and the books within the glass cases were rich and interesting: leather-bound sets of Voltaire, Trollope, Dickens. He wondered what kind of women had lived in this house when it was first built: no doubt lovely, their dresses ankle-length, stepping like young deer with charming hesitations and subtle glances. He could almost smell their perfume.

      ‘We’re here to help needy people,’ Jean Baslan said, ‘people living in pain and confusion, who desperately need Sandaji’s message of hope. What sort of question did your friend, your employer, have?’

      ‘Well,’ Peter said, ‘it’s private.’

      ‘Is