Beverly Hills is a city of 35,000 halfway between downtown L.A. and the Santa Monica pier. But it’s not your ordinary town. It’s not even your ordinary rich people’s town. From its beginnings as a Native American spiritual site called “The Gathering of the Waters” through its cattle ranching days and finally as home to some of the wealthiest people on the planet, it’s a place of boom, bust and mythmaking.
It’s also as Balkanized as any city in America, but not by race, ethnicity or bloodlines. All that matters here is money and celebrity. Pick the first, and regardless of how many banks your family robbed back in Dubuque, presto, you’re a leading citizen. Pick the second, and your white-trash in-laws can hang their tattooed asses out the window of your twenty-million-dollar mansion and get applause from appreciative tourists.
I’ve got a friend, Richie Catcavage, who’s a brilliant screenwriter and a brilliant drunk—and not necessarily in that order, which is why he keeps turning up on my doorstep. In one of his many unproduced scripts, he wrote a piece of dialog.
“Beverly Hills is a place where nobody runs for president because they don’t want to move to a smaller house.”
A drunk or not, he’s probably right.
I turned north off Sunset and wound my way up the hill to Dove Way. A fire engine sat at the corner, but its emergency lights were off, and the crew was busy rolling up hoses. About a dozen people were standing outside my neighbor’s house, which had its gate open and lights on. I recognized one of the men as the owner, and when he saw me, he smiled and waved. A television truck sat nearby, its crew taking shots of mostly nothing. But that’s Beverly Hills. A movie star burns his toast, stop the presses.
My place sits on two landscaped acres hugging a hillside, but the ten-foot ivied walls, thick privacy foliage and screened gate keep it from being seen from the street. It’s a 17,000-square-foot Spanish hacienda with a little Hollywood eccentricity thrown in.
Elevators in private homes were pretty rare in 1922, especially ones between the master suite and an underground sixteen-car garage—with both entrances hidden. But whoever had needed this kind of egress had also been particular about lift aesthetics. On the ceiling, there’s a painting of a bare-chested, gold-helmeted conquistador astride a rearing, fire-snorting stallion. And clutching him from behind is a Vargas-inspired, exceptionally buxom, mostly unclad young lady, head thrown back in ecstasy, a rose clenched between her teeth. Add in the extra-thick tapestries on the walls, and the effect is apparently to render the conveyance both erotic and soundproof—a design nuance I have yet to see fully explored on HGTV.
1001 Dove Way is one of the original “North of Sunset” properties, and over the years, it’s had a litany of owners, including some fairly famous ones. But to me, none of the prior inhabitants is as intriguing as J. C. Stinson, Howard Hughes’s personal attorney.
Legend has it that during Howard’s early paranoid stage, to avoid subpoenas, he lived in Stinson’s pool house. And since it doubled as a screening room, he spent months lying naked on one of the couches, watching Citizen Kane over and over.
Personally, I think if he was watching anything, it was a picture of his own, like The Outlaw, instead of one done by a guy he hated—but Kane makes a better metaphor. That’s what I mean about Beverly Hills mythmaking. When was the last time anybody cared what John D. Rockefeller watched and what he wasn’t wearing while he watched it? And even if they did care, where else would it be bold-printed in the real estate listing?
I bought the house—furnishings and all—six years ago. The previous owner had had a little problem with the tax man and was going to be spending the next decade as a federal guest if he didn’t get out of town—fast. He’d kept the house in his secretary’s name, and I was a cash buyer, so there wasn’t much haggling. The last I heard, he was living in Belize with a Norwegian underwear model.
Little by little I’ve brought the place back to its past glory. I say little by little, because it’s nearly impossible to find craftsmen who can duplicate the original work. If I were counseling young people, I’d tell the ones who weren’t headed for college to forget everything they’ve been told about technology and learn the old trades. The supply of talent that can work with hardwoods, stained glass, hand-made fabric and countless other one-of-a-kinds you can’t buy at Home Depot is practically nonexistent.
Anyone with any skill at all has a backlog of projects that runs into years. And because clients almost always have heavy money, you can charge whatever you like, and people will line up to pay it. Not a bad way to earn a living and get some creative satisfaction in the process. And woe be it unto the billionaire who gives his craftsmen a hard time. They simply walk out and leave him with a half-restored terra-cotta fresco or a marble staircase to nowhere. The rich generally aren’t very careful about the way they treat people, but believe me, they kiss artisan ass.
As I passed through my gate and wheeled up the tree-lined drive, I saw Mallory coming out the front door. He’s my houseman, valet, confidant and friend. He’s been with me almost from the day I was born, and his power to anticipate my needs is uncanny. I have no idea how I’d get along without him, and I try never to think about it.
As soon as I stopped, he was already unloading my weekend gear from the Rolls, and in typical British fashion, he didn’t register so much as an arched eyebrow at the young lady who climbed out of the car wearing my shirt and nothing else.
“Kim York, this is Mallory,” I said.
Kim stuck out her hand, and Mallory took it as if he were greeting a marquesa—not a half-dressed young lady with mud on her feet.
His clipped accent is as impeccable as his manners. “Welcome to the Black home, Ms. York. I knew some Yorks once. Sir Elliot and his lovely wife, Margaret.”
“I don’t believe I know El and M,” Kim answered, “but we Yorks are a reserved lot, so it’s possible we were just never properly introduced.”
I think Mallory was amused, because as he turned to go inside, he winked at me.
Kim had gaped at the house when we’d arrived, but once inside, she stopped dead in her tracks. She took in the oval foyer’s marble and murals, then looked up the thirty feet or so at the massive crystal and wrought iron chandelier suspended from a long, thick chain. After a moment, she said, “There’s dust on the bulbs.”
I laughed and said to Mallory, “Put Ms. York in the Toledo Room and see if you can scare up something for her to wear. Then let’s attend to that dust.”
“Toledo Room? Pray tell?” Kim asked.
“The previous owner had a real thing for Spanish steel. You’ll understand when you see it. Why don’t you grab a shower and come down for a snack and a nightcap.”
As the two of them mounted the stairs, I stole another look at Kim’s long, tanned legs, and for the second time that night, I was impressed. When Mallory returned, I asked him if there was anything to eat.
“I’ll set something up in the kitchen. If I may say so, it’s good to have you back, sir. It’s never quite the same when you’re gone.”
“I take it the quake didn’t cause any damage.”
“Not unless you count the jar of pickles I dropped when I grabbed onto the counter. Other than the food, will you be needing me for anything else?”
“No, Mallory, I don’t believe so. Thank you.”
“Then good night, sir.”
I went upstairs and grabbed a quick shower and a change of clothes, then slipped some Wynton Marsalis onto the house sound system. The best jazz artist of today was just easing into something low and slow when Kim reappeared. She was wearing a long, teal silk robe with a pair of matching slippers. I hadn’t seen those clothes in a long time, and I felt the sadness well up. It always came when I least expected it. Turning a corner and catching a glimpse of copper hair. Seeing a profile in a passing car.
Kim turned to model her outfit. “You must have quite a budget for drop-ins. It only took Mallory about five minutes to come up with an entire wardrobe.”
I tried to keep my voice light. “He’s resourceful.”
Kim had pulled her still-damp hair back and gathered it with a strand of white lace. There was a matching strand tied around her neck, its trailing ends hanging down her back. I recognized the lace as the tiebacks from the draperies in the Toledo Room.
“Nice touch, the lace,” I commented.
She fingered the strand at her neck. “I couldn’t resist. It’s Alençon.”
The blank I drew must have shown, and she shook her head again. “Made by French nuns and almost priceless. I thought the robe needed a little something.”
Looking at the way the silk clung to her, I said, “Groucho wouldn’t have been able to resist that line—especially when you threw in nuns. But I’d probably get my face slapped.” Shifting gears, I said, “The accommodations up to your standards?”
“That room is just flat-out magnificent. All those swords hanging on the walls. Very Ali Baba.” She paused. “I think everyone should have a completely unexpected place in their home, don’t you?”
“What’s yours?”
“I don’t know you well enough yet.”
It didn’t sound like she was being coy, so I dropped it. “Well, if the Mongol hordes try to take Rodeo Drive, we’ll mount our Ferraris and drive them back to Malibu.”
She laughed and saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain. By the way, I was impressed with the Vettriano over the fireplace, too. The Letter, isn’t it? I’m sure you know that the last time one of his originals was offered, it brought well over a million.”
“I bought it for a friend. It was her favorite.”
“Not Rhonda.” It wasn’t a question.
“No, not Rhonda.”
“Then it must have been the one in the photograph Mallory was hustling out of the room when I wasn’t supposed to be looking.”
“I’ll have to tell him he’s slipping,” I said with as much lightness as I could muster. I knew which picture it was.
We’d gone riding along the beach that morning. Mallory had packed a picnic lunch, and we stopped under a copse of trees. But each time we began a conversation, a large blue macaw above us would interrupt with loud, maniacal chatter. Eventually, we got to laughing so hard we couldn’t eat.
Figuring it was looking for a handout, she kicked off her shoes and stood on her saddle to offer it a banana chip. Our antagonist wolfed it down and squawked for more. I snapped the picture just as she looked back at me. The copper-haired girl and the blue macaw. Two hours later, she would be dead.
“French lace and Scottish artists. You’re full of surprises,” I said to change the subject.
“I just read a lot, that’s all. Is that it? Just plain Mallory?”
“No, but I’ve never heard anyone call him anything else.”
“It’s appropriate somehow. Subject change. If you don’t mind my asking, just how the hell tall are you?”
“You have any questions you get tired of?”
She grinned, “Like, Can I borrow twenty till payday? That bad, huh?”
“Worse.”
“Let me guess, hoops.”
“You only say that because I have a good jump shot.”
That made her laugh again, and I decided it was a sound I could get used to.
“Actually, I swim.”
“Ah, a contrarian.”
“I was just better at it, that’s all. But you can’t be my size and not have had someone stick a basketball in your hands, so once upon a time, I did play. It’s a terrific sport played by some of the best athletes in the world, but the shoe jackals have seduced an entire generation of gullible kids into believing that the ticket out of desperation is through a playground instead of a library.”
“And what do you really think?”
I smiled. “You asked, you got.”
“Remind me not to ask if I look fat in this robe. Hey, what have you got to eat in this palace? I’m ravenous again. And I could use another glass of that Plump stuff. It was almost as good as sex.”
“Mallory said there’d be something in the kitchen. Take a left through the dining room, and I’ll fetch another bottle of orgasms.”