UPON RECEIVING THE CALL, DUNNY WHISTLER at once responds to it, driving directly to Beverly Hills.
He doesn’t need the car anymore. Nevertheless, he enjoys being behind the wheel of a well-engineered automobile, and even the simple pleasure of driving has a new poignancy in light of recent events.
En route, traffic lights turn green just when needed, gaps in traffic repeatedly open for him, and he makes such speed that dark wings of water plume from his tires most of the way. He should feel exhilarated, but many concerns weigh on his mind.
At the hotel, where the arriving and departing vehicles seem to be those makes that retail for six figures, he leaves his car with valet parking. He tips the attendant twenty bucks, going in, because he’s not likely to be around long enough to spend all his cash on pleasures for himself.
The sumptuous luxury of the lobby embraces him with such warmth of color, texture, and form that Dunny could easily forget that the night outside is cold and rainy.
Richly paneled, expensively appointed, lighted for romance, a textbook on glamorous decor, the hotel bar is huge, but crowded in spite of its size.
[213] Every woman in sight, regardless of age, is beautiful, by either the grace of God or the knife of a good surgeon. Half the men are as handsome as movie stars, and the other half think they are.
Most of these people work in the entertainment industry. No actors, but agents and studio executives, publicists and producers.
In another hotel, elsewhere in the city, you might hear several foreign tongues, but in this place only English is spoken, and only that narrow but colorful version of English known as the dialect of the deal. Connections are being secured here; money is being made; sexual excesses are being plotted.
These people are energetic, optimistic, flirtatious, loud, and convinced of their immortality.
In the manner that Cary Grant once navigated crowded parties in the movies, as though skating while everyone around him walked with leg weights, Dunny glides past the bar, among the crowded tables, directly to a prized corner table for four where only one man sits.
This man’s name is Typhon, or so he would have you believe. He pronounces it tie-fon, and tells you on first meeting that he bears the name of a monster from Greek mythology, a beast that traveled in storms and spread terror wherever the rain took it. Then he laughs, perhaps in recognition that his name is dramatically at odds with his appearance, his genteel business style, and his polished manners.
Nothing about Typhon appears the least monstrous or stormy. He is plump, white-haired, with a sweet androgynous face that would serve well in a movie as either that of a beatific nun or that of a saintly friar. His smile comes easily and often, and seems sincere. Soft-spoken, a good listener, irresistibly likable, the man can make a friend in a minute.
He is impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit, white silk shirt, blue-and-red club tie, and red display handkerchief. His thick white hair has been cut by a stylist to stars and royalty. Unblemished skin smoothed by expensive emollients, bleached teeth, and manicured nails suggest that he takes pride in his appearance.
[214] Typhon sits facing the room, pleasantly regal in demeanor, as might be a kindly monarch holding court. Although he must be known to this crowd, no one bothers him, as though it is understood that he prefers to see and be seen rather than to talk with anyone.
Of the four chairs at the table, two face the room. Dunny takes the second.
Typhon is eating oysters and drinking a superb Pinot Grigio. He says, “Dine with me, please, dear boy. Have anything you wish.”
As if conjured by a sorcerer, a waiter instantly appears. Dunny orders double oysters and a bottle of Pinot Grigio for himself. He has always been a man of large appetites.
“You have always been a man of large appetites,” Typhon notes, and smiles impishly.
“There’ll be an end to that soon enough,” Dunny says. “While there’s still a banquet in front of me, I intend to gorge.”
“That’s the spirit!” Typhon declares. “You’re a man after my own heart, Dunny. By the way, that’s a handsome suit.”
“You’ve got an excellent tailor yourself.”
“It’s a bother having to do business,” says Typhon, “so let’s get it out of the way first thing.”
Dunny says nothing, but steels himself for a reprimand.
Typhon sips his wine, sighs with pleasure. “Am I to understand that you hired a hit man to remove Mr. Reynerd?”
“Yes. I did. A guy called himself Hector X.”
“A hit man,” Typhon repeats with audible astonishment.
“He was a gangbanger I knew in the old days, a ranking cuzz with the Crips. We manufactured and distributed sherm together back then.”
“Sherm?”
“PCP, an animal tranquilizer. Had a Jim Jones production line going. Marijuana joints laced with cocaine and dipped in PCP.”
“Do all your associates have such charming resumes?”
Dunny shrugs. “He was who he was.”
[215] “Yes, was. Both men are dead now.”
“Here’s the way I see it. Hector had killed before, and Reynerd conspired to have his own mother murdered. I wasn’t corrupting an innocent or targeting one, either.”
“I’m not concerned about corruption, Dunny. I’m concerned that you seem not to understand the limits of your authority.”
“I know ringing in one killer to take out another is somewhat unconventional—”
“Unconventional!” Typhon shakes his head. “No, lad, it’s utterly unacceptable.”
Dunny’s oysters and wine arrive. The waiter uncorks the Pinot Grigio, pours a taste, and Dunny approves.
Relying on the pleasant boozy rumble of the glamorous crowd to screen their sensitive conversation, Typhon returns to business. “Dunny, you must conduct yourself with discretion. All right, you’ve been a rogue much of your life, that’s true, but you gave that up in recent years, didn’t you?”
“Tried. Mostly succeeded. Listen, Mr. Typhon, I didn’t pull the trigger on Reynerd myself. I worked by indirection, like we agreed.”
“Hiring a hit man is not indirection.”
Dunny swallows an oyster. “Then I misunderstood.”
“I doubt that,” Typhon says. “I believe you knowingly stretched your authority to see if it would snap.”
Pretending gluttonous fascination with the oysters, Dunny dares not ask the obvious question.
The most powerful studio chief in the film industry enters the farther end of the room with all the poise and self-assurance of a Caesar. He travels in the company of an entourage of young male and female employees who are as sleek and cool as vampires yet, on closer inspection, appear simultaneously as nervous as Chihuahuas.
At once spotting Typhon, this king of Hollywood waves with a measured but revealing eagerness.
Typhon returns the greeting with a markedly more restrained w............