The Classic Car Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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all. Beat the daylights out of blowing up buildings and killing people. Now these Smart Set people are living in the 1920s.”
“Sounds harmless to me.”
“You know what, Lindsey? It probably is. Relatively speaking, anyhow. I studied another group, call themselves Creative Anachronists, live in the twelfth century. Hold courts and tournaments and bop each other over the head with rubber lances. A lot of violent acting-out in that bunch. The Art Deco people are nonviolent, but it’s the same syndrome.”
She slid some papers around on her desk. “People can’t stand it here, they go there. You see what I mean?”
Lindsey didn’t get much chance to answer.
“Move to Oregon or Canada or Australia.” She flailed her hands as if they were going to fly to another country themselves. “These people, their problem isn’t here, it’s now. They can’t cope with the closing decades of the twentieth century. Don’t blame ’em, it’s a tough era. So these Creative Anachronists go to live eight hundred years ago. I’ve looked at some science fiction fans, they do the same thing, they go to live in the future. What’s funny, some of them are the same people. They take turns living in the year 1200 and year 12,000! I’ve studied some Sherlock Holmes people. They have a slogan: ‘It’s always London, and always 1895.’ I kind of like that.”
She nodded, generously agreeing with herself. “And these Smart Set people live in 1929. Very interesting. Very, very interesting.”
Maybe she was finished. If she was just pausing to catch her breath, Lindsey wasn’t going to give her a chance. Not until he got in another question, at least. “So you’re not really interested in Art Deco yourself?”
“Vargas and Ert, silver fox furs and cloche hats? I know the buzz-words. It’s as interesting an era as any, I suppose. If I were a historian. I’m not. I’m a sociologist. Let me put it this way, Lindsey. I’m interested in the people who are interested in Art Deco.”
“Do you have a clue about who would steal the Duesenberg?”
“You mean somebody in the club?”
Lindsey nodded.
“I thought it was a passer-by. Somebody who saw the car and jumped in and drove away. Were the keys in it?”
“Apparently.” Lindsey unfolded the report he’d got from Gutiérrez at Oakland police headquarters. “They’re not certain, but nobody could turn up the keys at the mansion, so they figure they must have been in the car.”
“That isn’t conclusive.”
“No. Keys might turn up yet. They haven’t polled everyone who was in the mansion, everyone who might have had access to the keys.”
“So they don’t know whether it was an inside job or an outside job.”
“That’s right. I’m leaving the possibility of an outside job to the police, they’re better equipped to handle that. But if it was inside, I think I might do better than they can.”
“They don’t mind your getting into the case? I thought the cops didn’t like private eyes messing into their investigations.”
“I’m not a private eye, Dr. Bernstein. They need a special license and I don’t have one and I don’t want one. I’m just an insurance adjuster.”
“Yep.” She picked up a pencil and jotted something on a yellow pad. I’m making notes about her, Lindsey thought, and she’s making notes about me. Like the laboratory chimp who learned to peep through keyholes. Dr. Bernstein said, “That’s very interesting, too.”
“Well, do you think somebody in the Smart Set might be responsible?”
She went back to the tilted-chair, hands-steepled-under-the-chin, posture. “Someone might. Someone definitely might.”
Lindsey waited for her to elaborate. He waited a long time. Finally she said, “Let me think about this. I’ve got your number.” She scrabbled on her desk until she found his card. It had already burrowed deep into the mound of papers. She levered herself out of her chair and pinned his card to her cork bulletin board.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lindsey ate lunch at a student rathskeller on Telegraph Avenue. By the time he finished it was after two o’clock, so he phoned Joseph Roberts at the office number Roberts had given him. Roberts said he could come right ahead.
Lindsey drove back to Oakland, parked and went to see Roberts. The Clorox building was a huge marble-walled slab, part of downtown Oakland’s sometimes sputtering renaissance. Roberts’ office was at the top of the building on the twenty-fifth floor. A plain door marked J. Roberts Enterprises. Lindsey knocked.
Roberts’ voice invited him in.
The room was modern and light, its furnishings a minimalist’s handiwork. Roberts sat behind a metallic contraption. Atop the gadget on a thick slab of glass stood a computer. The walls were lined with framed movie posters. Lindsey actually recognized one or two of them from Vid/Vid/Vid. He thought he’d seen the opening credits of Wyoming Roundup once on a late show, but he certainly hadn’t caught any screen credit for Joseph Roberts.
“What do you think? Not bad, eh?”
“You look a lot better than you did yesterday.” Actually, Roberts had what the old razor blade ads called a five o’clock shadow, but Lindsey figured that the stubble was a fashion statement, just as Roberts’ coat with its folded-back sleeves was a fashion statement. His blow-dried hair looked fuller than it had yesterday. It should, after a good night’s sleep instead of a hard night’s drunkenness.
“Feel it, too. Wow, for a while there I figured I’d have to look for work as a George Romero extra. Night and a Half of the Living Dead.”
“Are you an actor, Joe?”
Roberts laughed. “Hardly! Hitchcock was right. Actors are cattle. Tell ’em where to stand, what to do, put words in their mouths. That ain’t me, babe!”
“Then what do you do?”
“I write the scripts. Did my first script when I was a sophomore at Hollywood High. Later on I was a mail boy at Paradox, made a friend in the script department and got ’em to look at my work. Couldn’t sell to Paradox, but they passed it along to Bookbinder and Bloom. You ever hear of ’em? Not surprising. Pipsqueak outfit. But they bought the script, made the picture. They got some Hong Kong money. Swinging Schoolmarms. See that poster, right behind you?”
Lindsey turned around and looked at the poster. It did list Joseph Roberts as screenwriter.
“I’d appreciate you help in this matter of the auto theft.” Lindsey had opened his pocket organizer on his knee and held his gold-plated pencil poised to write. “I realize that you weren’t quite up to par yesterday.”
“Yep, Swinging Schoolmarms. Maybe it wasn’t exactly Fatal Attraction but they brought it in under budget. Can you imagine making a feature film for one million eight-fifty any more? Of course that was in ’83. I was just twenty-seven years old. Not bad, what do you think? Lot of guys don’t get to do a feature till they’re thirty, thirty-five years old. Or never. Twenty-seven years old.”
“That’s wonderful, Joe.”
“I’ve done erotics, slashers, westerns, thrillers. Want to do a real, classic-style PI flick next. Very tough, very noir. Got a brilliant idea for casting, too. Sean Penn and Madonna. Nothing like a good, juicy divorce to energize a relationship. Think of the electricity on the set. Think they could bring it off, Bart? Do you? And I want to direct it myself. This is really important. Go right up there with Joseph H. Lewis, Nicholas Ray, Sam Fuller, Phil Karlson. They were the greats.”
“If you’re so interested in Hollywood, why are you working here?”
“Hah! Good question.” Roberts jumped from his seat and stood with his back to Lindsey, peering out the window.