15

FARRELL KNEW, WHEN HE GAVE Braumberg bad news, when he dropped the bomb on him, that the most important thing would be to stop Braumberg from doing something stupid. As far as Farrell was concerned, stupidity was applied panic, and that meant getting drunk and talking about things that should be kept quiet. The smart thing, Farrell knew, was to say nothing and be patient. The essence of panic was not knowing there were times when you should do nothing.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” said Farrell.

Braumberg turned to him with angry despair and said, “No jokes, huh?”

“Maybe we should meet at Pink’s,” said Farrell. “In the back.”

“What? With all the grease hounds? I’ve got cholesterol problems. It’s like getting a contact heart attack. No, right here is fine.”

He touched the concrete bench at the fountain of the Hollywood Bowl.

All right, thought Farrell. Here it comes. Farrell had a fleeting recognition of the hangman at the trap. Was there a little thrill just before the drop? Is that what lingered now as he began to speak?

“There was another girl at Peregrine’s,” Farrell said. “A runaway.”

“And?” said Braumberg.

“No one seems to know where she is,” he said. “All I know is that she was from England.”

“Maybe she caught the red-eye to England. Maybe she went home.”

Farrell glanced from the greenish water in the fountain to Braumberg.

“Don’t look at me that way,” said Braumberg.

“She’s not in England,” Farrell said. “So what now?”

“They’re in a bad spot,” Farrell said. “Peregrine and the girls.”

“Tell me about that bad spot,” Braumberg said.

“Well, they don’t want to go to the cops, since this other girl is making them worry.”

“Why do you suppose that is?” said Braumberg. “Oh, shit, stop looking at me that way.”

“There are some possibilities,” Farrell said.

“Great,” said Braumberg. “You know, I think I should see a lawyer. What are we up to now? Conspiracy to obstruct justice? Accessories to some crime. . . ?”

Braumberg’s sweat, the color of baby oil, ran along the side of his face.

“You know what the problem with panic is,” said Farrell. “It’s doing something stupid.”

“Is that right?” said Braumberg.

“Yes, it is,” said Farrell.

“So, where is this girl from England?” said Braumberg.

Farrell thought of the dirt of the shoulder on Mulholland, the clutter of cigarette packages, foil, bindles, and the rest.

“I wish I knew,” said Farrell.

“Well, she’s a fucking runaway, the girl from England,” said Braumberg. “Isn’t that what you said? Isn’t that what they do?”

“Yes, that’s what they do,” said Farrell.

“England. What a fucked-up place. You know what they eat there? Pickled walnuts. What can you expect?”

“I don’t think we are talking about pickled walnuts,” said Farrell.

“Maybe the whole thing will blow over. If they don’t want to go to the cops, and Terry is making his morning calls, maybe we can just sit tight. You can give them some money . . .”

“You are beginning to sound like a teenaged girl,” Farrell said. “It’s the lines. You have to understand that. Get the lines.”

“All right. All right,” said Braumberg. “I’ll cut Profonde a deal for an extra point, but that is going to make him suspicious.”

“This is a town of suspicion,” Farrell said. “And if you can’t get the lines with Profonde, then get them for some other production in town. Right?”

Braumberg shrugged.

“Right?” said Farrell.

“All right, all right. Don’t get shirty.”

“Just get the lines,” said Farrell.

“And what are you going to do?” said Braumberg.

“Look around for the girl,” Farrell said.

“And if you find her?” said Braumberg.

“That’s really the question,” Farrell said. “Isn’t it?”

“Shit,” said Braumberg. “I’ve got a meeting. How do I look?”

“Great,” Farrell said. “Calm, cool, collected. No one would try to pull a fast one on you. Those snakeskin boots are the best part.”

“Have you got any Klonopin?” said Braumberg.

He took out the pillbox with Botticelli’s Venus and opened it in the gurgling of the fountain so Braumberg could take a pill. Then the pillbox clicked shut, like finality itself.

Braumberg swallowed the pill dry. He sat on the edge of the fountain and stared at the line of cars that came up Highland, as though they would never end.

“Jesus, I don’t know how Terry does it. You know what the makeup people are doing to make him look like he isn’t all fucked out?”

“He’s got great skin,” Farrell said.

“Yeah, great skin,” said Braumberg.

“You don’t want to do something stupid,” said Farrell. “In fact, you want to do something smart.”

“What’s that?” said Braumberg.

“Give more to institutions. The Children’s Hospital at UCLA. It will do you a lot of good if this comes unglued.”

“Don’t say that,” said Braumberg. “The unglued thing.” He bit his lip, then glanced at Farrell. “You look tired.”

“That’s right,” said Farrell. “The girls are lying. The mother is lying. Terry is lying. There’s something wrong. I’m about ready to walk away . . .”

“Don’t, don’t,” said Braumberg. “Don’t even think about walking away. If you have to find out, all right.”

“Then what?” Farrell said.

“Take care of it. Are you confused?”

“Not anymore,” Farrell said.

“All right,” Braumberg said. “Think about this. That hospital for kids seems important to you for some reason. Why is that?”

Farrell shrugged.

“Are you getting soft?”

“No,” said Farrell.

“All right. You take care of this for me, and I will donate a substantial amount. Not for a building. But for research.”

“How much?”

“A substantial amount. You want the fund in your name?”

“Are you kidding?” Farrell said. “No. How much?”

“Plenty. For tumor research. I got a fundraising pitch from them the other day and they are doing some good things with genetic sequencing, designer drugs for kids, you know, that work for each kid . . .”

“It will do you good,” said Farrell.

“On the condition that you take care of this. Think about it.”