Against my better judgment, I let Des talk me into staying with him at the Malibu beach mini-mansion he was leasing with an option to buy. “My business manager said leasin’ was the way to go with the hut,” he told me on the drive from LAX. “Dekko the grounds before I lay down my nicker.”
We were traveling by chauffeur, of course. Two limousines, he and I in the lead, Fitzpatrick bringing up the rear with the luggage and a pretty brunette flight attendant who’d caught Des’s eye on the plane.
“ ‘Dekko the grounds’?” I asked.
“Look the place over,” he translated. “Like I said, I’m a stranger here, mate. Max’s gofer sent me photos of this Eye-talian viller. They look pretty good, but I wanna see fah m’self.”
“What are the criteria?”
He smiled. “Simple. It’s gotta be the feckin’ biggest and the dearest.”
I didn’t know how dear it was, but the Villa Delfina was definitely feckin’ big, a stunning re-creation of an elegant, Old World Italian villa resting on a large section of a gated and secluded beachfront strip of high-ticket residences known as Malibu Sands Estates.
Two Angelenos awaited us. One, a thin, pale young man who’d been leaning against a silver Prius, hopped to attention as our limo convoy drove past the wrought-iron gate into a flagstone circular drive. The other greeter, a leather-tanned woman of a certain age, emerged from a silver Mercedes-Benz sedan and strolled to the villa’s heavy wooden door, which she unlocked with a key.
When we got out of the car, the pale young man was right there, extending a hand to Des. “I’m Trey Halstead,” he said. “Assistant producer of the show.”
Des gave him an airy look, hesitated, then shook the hand.
“We’ve talked on the phone,” Halstead said.
“Right. When Max was too busy. Guess he was also too busy to do the welcome thing, eh?”
“He’s hoping to see you tonight. He’s got quite a few events lined …” Halstead stopped talking when he saw he’d lost Des’s attention.
The comedian was watching Fitz emerge from the second limo with the airline hostess, who was sniffing a little and whose demeanor had taken on a vibrant quality I hadn’t noticed on the flight.
Our assistant producer turned to me and frowned. “Hi, Mr. Blessing. Trey—”
“Halstead. Right.” I shook his hand.
“Uh, I wasn’t expecting … I thought you’d be heading toward your hotel.”
“Des has graciously invited me to stay out here for the week.”
“Oh.”
This news seemed to perplex him. I got the impression young Mr. Halstead was not a fan of improvisation.
The tanned woman had been watching us with a frown that she replaced with a professional smile when she approached.
She was dressed in a too-tight midnight-blue business suit and a white silk shirt unbuttoned to show maximum cleavage. To my jaded eyes she seemed to have had work done on every section of her body, from her dyed fluffy blond hair to her tiny nose, and from her bulging breasts and tucked tummy to the sparkled silver polish on the toes of her sandaled feet.
Trey Halstead opened his mouth to say something, but the woman rolled right past him and presented Des with the door key to the villa and a leather box the size of a trade paperback book. Parting her plumped lips, she said, “Welcome to Malibu Sands and your new home, Mr. O’Day. I’m Amelia St. Laurent from Crockaby Realty.”
“Of course you are,” Des said.
Unblinking, Amelia St. Laurent turned to me and in lieu of a leather box proffered a hand with long silver nails. It was cool and very strong. “And I know you. You’re … the man from the morning show, which I watch every single day of the week.”
“Billy Blessing,” I said, making it easy for her. “Nice meeting you, Amelia.”
She turned back to Des. “In the box, Mr. O’Day, you’ll find three additional sets of keys that fit the doors in the villa, and three wireless wands for the front gate. If you need anything more”—she batted her extended eyelashes—“anything, just call. My business card is in the box with the keys.”
“Lovely,” Des said.
“I’d be happy to give you a little tour of this marvelous property,” she said.
“Tell you what, darlin’,” Des said, nodding toward Fitz. “Why don’t you show my associate, Mr. Fitzpatrick, the grounds?” He reached out and grabbed the arm of the seemingly befuddled stewardess. “I’ll be taking my own tour of this young damsel.”
With that he whisked the young damsel into the villa.
Trey Halstead introduced himself to Fitz and began edging toward the Prius. “I, ah, better get back to the production company. I’ll call you about tonight, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Sure,” Fitz said. “Whatever.”
He then told Amelia St. Laurent that though he was very much up for the tour, he had to supervise the removal of the luggage from the limos. “I’m bettin’ Billy would enjoy the tour,” he added with an evil Irish grin.
That’s how I discovered that we were on “the sandiest section of the Sands, with a fifty-six-foot frontage.” The main house, the villa, had “beautiful new hardwood floors” and “a gourmet kitchen,” where I would have been happy to spend a little more time. But Amanda St. Laurent, probably thinking about all the prospective house hunters awaiting her back at Crockaby, rushed me to, and past, “the spectacular pool area,” “the lovely, tranquil koi pond,” and “the flowering gardens.”
At “the attractive detached two-story, two-bedroom guesthouse,” where one of the limo drivers had deposited my luggage, she asked, “Will you be moving to this coast, too, Mr. Blessing?”
“Doubtful,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I’m a New Yorker.”
She gave me a look that is usually accompanied by the words “trailer trash,” then regained control of herself, flashed me her puffy-lipped, ivory-white, bonded-tooth smile, and bid me adieu.
I spent the next half-hour unpacking and puttering, after which I phoned Harry Paynter, my collaborator on the book, to say hello and settle a time when we might meet. Since I wasn’t sure about the availability of the limousines, I suggested he drive out.
He clearly did not warm to that idea. “Uh … I guess I can. But I’ll need a couple hours to clear up a few things.”
I looked at my watch, subtracted the three-hour difference, and told him that I’d expect him around four-thirty his time. Now my time, too.
With Des and his flight attendant amusing themselves and Fitz off who knows where, I decided to take a stroll along the beach. I got out walking shorts and the T-shirt that read “I’d rather be watching Wake Up, America!” and began bare-footing across the sand past homes that, if sold collectively, would reduce the heart-sickening national debt to a few pennies.
I’d barely moved beyond Des’s villa when my phone rang. It didn’t actually ring. It played the opening bars of “The Frim-Fram Sauce,” an old bebop tune made famous by Nat King Cole. There aren’t a lot of songs appropriate for a chef-restaurateur’s ringtones. Maybe “Food, Glorious Food,” from the score of Oliver! Or “Gimme a Pig Foot and a Bottle of Beer.” Or “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” …
But I digress.
The call was from my agent, Wally Wing, finding time for me in his busy day. “Billy, I’m stuck in traffic on my way to Le Bernardin and thought I’d check in, see how the trip went.”
In other words, “I have nothing else to do, so I may as well rack up some billable minutes.”
“Trip went fine. Very uneventful.”
“Hotel accommodation okay?”
“I canceled the hotel. I’m staying at Des’s place in Malibu.”
“Wrong move, my brown brother,” he said. “As the great Herman Mankiewicz once said, they don’t even allow brunettes in Malibu.”
“Herman hasn’t been out here for a while.” In point of fact, the cowriter of Citizen Kane, whom critic Alexander Woollcott once called “the funniest man in New York,” died in the mid-1950s. “Attitudes change in sixty years.”
“In any case, it’s not smart to bunk in with someone you’re working with. Things go wrong on the job, you take the problems home with you.”
Wally married one of his assistants. It didn’t last.
“We’re not bunking,” I said. “I’m in an ‘attractive detached guest-house.’ ”
“Yeah, but there’s all that sun at the beach. You’re courting melanoma.”
“The thing that elevates you above all other agents, Wally, is your positive outlook. Don’t forget about the earthquakes, mud slides, and wildfires.”
“It’s that kind of world, Billy,” he said, and began rambling on about his dinner guest at Le Bernardin. Either a new flame or an old client. I wasn’t sure, because my attention had drifted to a vision limping toward me from the ocean.
She had to be six feet tall, a sun-bronzed beauty wearing a bright white bikini. Early twenties. Her short black hair was in wet ringlets around a face twisted in pain. “Could you help me?” she begged.