“So you never saw him act violent.”
“Not to me. He used to put on this Mr. Macho thing, walking around without a shirt, all these tattoos of naked girls. But he had talent.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Hell if I know. Idiot had all sorts of good stuff coming to him. I coulda had deals for him, and he just split.”
“Do you think Lowell knows where he went?”
“I always figured he did, but he never admitted it. That was the final straw between us. After all I did for the bastard, I figured I had some honesty coming. You meet him yet?”
“Just briefly.”
“Sick, isn’t it? Guy’s rolling in money and he lives like a pig.”
“If he’s rich, how come he needed to come to you for financing?”
He slid his arms from behind his head and placed them on the desk. “Because I was a jackass. Didn’t know he was rich, never checked him out. And I used to be a fucking financial analyst, no excuse.” Tapping the marble. “Hey, that’s showbiz.”
Another glance at the platinum watch.
I said, “So you have no idea about what happened to Trafficant?”
“No, but if you find out, let me know. Asshole owes me a script.” Shaking his head. “Stupid mudfuck. He coulda made a living. Great ear for dialogue, he knew how to conceptualize in terms of scenes. Now, Denny Mellors was another story—wooden ear, thought he was some fucking Ivy League literati-type. And no fucking boy scout, either. He never got the bad PR Terry got, but he was antisocial from day one, nasty temper. Not that I have anything against black people—not that he was even that black. I think his mother was white, or something. He talked like a white. But the guy . . .”
Waving disgustedly, he put his feet up on the desk. The soles of his shoes were shiny black, unmarked.
“What did he do?” I said.
He looked out the window. The San Gabriel Mountains were capped with brown air. “You know, my friend, talking to you is giving me ideas. Any film interest in your book yet?”
“Some.”
“You have any experience in film?”
“Not really.”
“Then don’t jump into anything. People are going to tell you they can do all sorts of things for you; meanwhile they’ve got a thumb in the Vaseline, ready to yank down your jockeys. I’ve been in the industry for twenty years, can get things done. And this book of yours is flashing concept lights. Like you said, fall from grace. And did you know the place used to be a nudist colony? How’s that for a premise? Writers and artists and nudists. They get thrown together and shit happens.”
“Violent shit?” I said.
“All kinds of shit. You’d have to change things around, of course. For legal purposes. Maybe make Lowell a musician—a cellist. Yeah, I like that. It’s a music retreat—nudists and musicians, rock types and classical types, all thrown together—seductive, right?”
“Interesting. So who’s the bad guy, Mellors? That’s not too PC.”
“So we make him white—he was mostly white anyway. Blond hair, little yellow mustache. Big, strong buck . . . nasty.”
“Nasty how?”
“Nasty temper. Talked all the time about hurting things—hurting women. I’m not saying he actually did anything, but you talk like that long enough, who knows?”
“See what you mean,” I said. “I’ve read about the grand opening party for Sanctum. Sounds like a wild affair—a love-in. That might be a good place for the shit to happen.”
He looked up at the ceiling. Cheap acoustical tiles. “Maybe, yeah. Like a Felliniesque thing. Dolce Vita with acid, pot—kind of a sixties/seventies thing. That’s coming back, you know.”
“Were you at the party?”
“In the beginning,” he said. “Then it got too loud, and my wife made me take her home.”
“Did you see Mellors or Trafficant?”
“Nah,” he said. “Too many people, noise, mess, all sorts of shit. One of those situations where you see everyone but you don’t see anyone, know what I mean?”
“La Dolce Vita meets The Trip.”
“Exactly.” He moved his eyes from the ceiling to me. “You know how to conceptualize. Have an agent?”