Hidden Palms Read online

  HIDDEN

  PALMS

  Harry Bryant

  ROTA Books

  This one is for

  Elmore Leonard

  John D. MacDonald

  Robert B. Parker

  CHAPTER 1

  "What do you think of the view?" Matesson asked.

  I was supposed to look at the waves rolling in, at the infinite distance to the horizon, and the fluffy white clouds towering up into the sky, but closer in, there was a blonde in the pool, wearing a tiny bikini. She was slumped on an inflatable dolphin; her head was back, and her eyes were covered by big sunglasses. Her hair trailed in the pool. The bikini top struggled to contain her, like trying to wrap your hand around an over-inflated balloon.

  "Expansive," I offered. "You can see just about everything."

  "Some days, when the wind comes in from the west, it's even more spectacular."

  I glanced down at the inflatable dolphin again, and gave some thought to what would happen when the wind did come in.

  "I appreciate you asking me to drop by," I said. "But it wasn't to see the view. Spectacular as it is."

  Matthew Matesson let loose with a loud bray of laughter. In the pool, the blonde jerked slightly at the sudden noise, and there was a precarious moment where she might fall off the dolphin. She wiggled her hips a few times, finding a safe spot on the slick surface. I preferred watching her instead of Matesson anyway.

  He had gotten fat in the last decade. His hair had thinned out too, and the greasy ponytail hanging down between his shoulders looked like something a cat might barf up. He wore a chain of gold links that hung farther down his chest than anyone needed to know, with a matching bracelet of the same around his right wrist. His swim trunks were a size too small and a season out of date, but that had always been Matesson's style. Never be the first, he had been fond of saying, but always be the last.

  Word was he was out of the adult film business these days. Producing indie films now. I suspected porn had paid for part—if not all—of this view, and I wasn't quite sure how the blonde fit in with earnest stories of heartbreak and emotional growth, but then, I had always been hired help. No one paid for my opinion. Then, or now.

  His laugh subsided into a loose chuckle that made his shoulders quiver. "Man," he said, looking down at the blonde, "those hips—"

  "Why am I here?" I asked, interrupting his train of thought. I didn't need more details. My imagination worked fine. It didn't need any help from him.

  "Why are any of us here?" he asked, and he laughed again at my expression. When I turned to go, he reached for my elbow. "Hang on, Bliss. Don't be such an uptight ass."

  Before I could say anything, the large glass door behind us slid open, and a blonde woman came out. She was a twin to the woman in the pool, though she wore a red bikini instead of a blue one. She was carrying a tall glass of murky liquid in either hand. "Here you go, Matty," she said, offering him one of the glasses. It had a straw wide enough for a small-caliber bullet.

  "Thanks, doll," he said. He nodded at me. "And thanks for bringing one out for Bliss, too."

  Her smooth and pretty face scrunched up for a second as she looked at me. "Bliss, huh," she said, and she made it sound like both a question and an expression of exasperation.

  "Yep," I said. Making it sound like both an answer and an apology.

  Without breaking eye contact, she lifted the glass in her hand and wrapped her lips around the straw. She sucked, dimpling her cheeks, and the level of goop in the glass dropped a finger's width. She released her hold with a loud pop—a sound I hadn't heard in awhile, not in any context like this one, for sure—and offered me the glass. She flashed Matesson a less-than-friendly glare, and then spun on her heel and marched back into the house. We both watched her go. The glass was cold in my hand, and I considered holding it against my forehead to cool me off.

  "It's got ginkgo and spirulina and other shit in it," Matesson said. He sucked heavily on his straw. "Supposed to make you live forever. I don't know about that, but I do know that you're going to have the best shit of your life in about three hours."

  I eyed the glass, not quite sure if I needed such an experience.

  "It also puts extra lead in your pencil, for when you've got some creative work to do. Know what I mean?"

  I took a cautious sip from the straw. The stuff was cold and tasted better than it smelled, which wasn't saying much. I coughed when a familiar burn hit the back of my throat.

  "That's your body telling you that you need to drink this stuff more often," Matesson said.

  "Is that what's going on?" I said. I took a healthier sip, and it went down easier this time.

  "I figured you'd be all into this New Age healthy greens shit," he said, waving a hand in my direction.

  The backhanded compliment was the best you could hope for from Matesson. Of course, I was in better shape than he was—always had been, in fact. That's what the talent does. Though, it wasn't that high of a bar to cross.

  Besides, LA was a town quick to judge. No one took you seriously unless you looked like you spent most of your day in the gym.

  "I stay away from refined sugar," I said. "And I get regular exercise."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all."

  "Not doing any . . . ?"

  I let the question hang there for a minute. Any what, Matty? Porn? Drugs? Both?

  "Doing porn in prison isn't the same thing as performing for some direct-to-video compilation," I said, figuring I'd pretend he wasn't talking about drugs.

  "No?" He sucked at his drink. "Too bad. I bet there's a market for that stuff. We could get there first. Totally own the space."

  "You didn't ask me to come up here to talk about doing a Prison Gangbang series."

  "You always have to think about the opportunities, Bliss," he said. "You never know when you're going to hit gold. You always have to keep an open mind."

  I looked down at the blonde in the pool, and tried to leave my mind open, which was pretty easy when I was looking at her. "I'm going to finish this drink, and then I'm going to go," I said. I lifted the straw out of the glass, and held it over the edge of the balcony. Green goop dropped from the end and spattered on the white stone running around the edge of the pool. I let go of the straw, and watched it bounce on the stone.

  I put my back to the balcony, and chugged half of the remaining contents of my glass. My throat burned, and my eyes watered, but I swallowed all the ginkgo and other shit. "You'd better start talking," I said, showing Matesson how much was left.

  Matesson held up a hand. "Okay, okay. Jesus, Bliss. Don't be such a hardass."

  I thought about the possible responses to that statement, and figured I should just keep my mouth shut instead. I gulped another mouthful of the green drink, and waited for him to say something interesting.

  "Okay, okay," he said again. "Look. I have a little problem. One that requires a bit of delicate handling. Know what I mean?"

  I shook my head.

  He blew out his cheeks, and looked out over the pool. Like he was actually staring at the ocean and not the stacked blonde in the pool. "Word is you're a guy who can help a guy. You know. A little side work. For cash. No questions asked. That sort of thing."

  "You want me to kill someone for you?"

  "Fuck! No. Jesus Christ, Bliss. Nothing like that."

  "Good," I said. "Because that's really expensive."

  He blinked at me, and actually got a little pale. He sucked on his drink for a minute. "Seriously . . . ?" he started, and then stopped. As if he was embarrassed to have been caught asking.

  "Let's not go the
re," I said. Even though there was no there to go.

  "Yeah, yeah, okay." He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, that's not what I . . . I just—Jesus, man, really?"

  I gulped a quarter of the remaining drink in my glass. "Prison changes a man," I said, keeping a deadpan expression on my face. "Makes him think about what's really important. Life. Death. All that shit. Makes him wonder what he's capable of."

  "Goddamn," Matesson whispered.

  Jerking his chain would have been more entertaining if he hadn't been one of the assholes who had pushed me to make one of the dumber decisions during my young, dumb, and full of—well, those days. I didn't blame him directly. That would be failing to take responsibility for my own actions, and it's important for a self-made man to acknowledge the choices that make him who he is. But still, Matesson had been part of a chorus that had convinced a young and gullible mind to do some stupid shit. Messing with him now—thirteen years on—wasn't payback. That would be petty, and who has time for that shit?

  Which made me ask myself why I had even bothered coming up to his house. I had put all that behind me already—shortly after I got out.

  I finished the drink and put the glass on the edge of the balcony. "Thanks for the cleansing tonic," I said. "I'll be sure to thank you again in a couple of hours."

  "Hang on, Bliss." He started to reach for my arm, and then caught himself. "It's not like that. It's not. Really."

  "What isn't?"

  "Look, I have a problem. I need someone who can take care of these sorts of things. Discreetly, you know?"

  "I'm not sure I do."

  "I need you to find someone for me."

  "Who?"

  "A friend."

  "What sort of friend?" I nodded toward the pool. "Like her?"

  "Nah." He inclined his head. "Well . . . you remember Gloria Gusto?"

  It took me a minute to put a face to the name. "Yeah," I said. "I do."

  Gloryhole Gloria. Nicknames were a double-edged sword. They made you recognizable in a field that was constantly crowded with new faces, but they also became the only way you could be remembered. Some managed to rise above the names they got saddled with. Some owned them for all they were worth, knowing such celebrity was fleeting. Bobby had been like that. Once he had claimed his name, he had lived like a king for as long as he'd been able.

  I hadn't been one of the smart ones, and it took a couple of years of incarceration before that really sank in.

  Two things prison offered in abundance: time to think, and time to read. I had taken advantage of both.

  "She could act, and she had a healthy set of lungs. Not surprising, really. Given the rack she had." Matesson nodded at some memory, a smile greasing his lips.

  "She came with me," he continued. "When I got that deal with Showtime. It was late-night stuff. Low budget. Rubber suits. Knockoff effects burned in during post. But viewers knew she was going to lose her shirt. And man, not only could she scream like a banshee, but she had this way of wiggling her tits when she let loose. Suits loved it. Had me shooting a picture a month for them. We could have ridden that gravy train for years. But . . ."

  He shook his head.

  I remembered Gloria. The studio had rented this big house up in the Canyon for a month, and had been shooting there nonstop to save money. There were always at least two crews working in the house. I couldn't recall the name of the film I had been working on that day. Nor the plot. Not that either of those mattered. Who knew what the film would be called by the time it hit the shelves? Anyway, the AD from the other film begged me to come fill a hole. They needed a fifth. I had been tired. Strung out. And I hadn't been at my best.

  But Gloria? She was kind and patient and a tireless performer. She made me look a lot better than I deserved that day.

  "But what?" I asked Matesson.

  "Breast cancer," he said. He grimaced, and sucked heavily at his drink. "They caught it early, but it wasn't the same after that. Not because"—he gestured at his chest—"nothing like that. She just didn't . . . Anyway, the gravy train ran out of gravy. Cable took off, and they wanted smut without anyone taking their clothes off. They wanted viewers to think about people fucking, but they wouldn't hire any of us because we had reputations for actually showing people fucking, and that wasn't what they could show on cable. Dirk got a series—shot a pilot and a few episodes—and then the suits got feedback from focus groups, and word was that the viewers felt ripped off. Those who knew Dirk from Pearlescent were expecting tits and asses, and all they got was push-up bras and lacy panties."

  "Uh-huh," I said. The drink was starting to make itself felt in the base of my skull, and not for either of the reasons that Matesson had mentioned earlier. I wondered about the ratio of the ingredients in my glass. My mouth tingled, and I considered leaving Matesson on the balcony—he would probably continue his bitch session just fine without me—and asking the other blonde if she could make me another one of those drinks. I have got to know your recipe. What's the ratio of rum to spirulina?

  "Anyway, Gloria's been kidnapped," Matesson said, snapping my attention back to him.

  "Kidnapped," I said, somewhat thickly.

  "Well, not exactly," he said.

  "How inexact are we talking about here?" I asked.

  "It's this place. Up north," he said. "Some kind of retreat center."

  "An asylum?"

  He shook his head. "Not like that. It's some sort of spiritual retreat. But the guy running it is some kind of guru. He encourages his devotees to remain close during their studies."

  "But they can leave any time they want to, right?"

  "Sure, but they don't want to."

  "Ah," I said. "How long?"

  "Eight, nine months now, I think."

  "And staying at this retreat isn't free, is it?"

  Matesson wandered up to the edge of the balcony. He looked down, drumming his fingers on the rail. "I'm not sure it's the best thing for her," he said. "These sorts of crackpots prey on the desperate and lonely. They offer hope. A promise of a better life than what you've got. Freedom from pain and hurt and all that shit. You know what I mean?"

  "Sounds like something I heard once upon a time," I said.

  His fingers stopped moving. "We were all young and gullible once upon a time," he said.

  "And look at us now," I said.

  He turned his head and squinted at me. "Go check on her for me, would you?" he asked. "She's at some place called the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center. Up north, somewhere in the San Rafael Mountains. Not far from some speck of a town called Sisquoc. Off the 101, near Santa Maria. Go, and make sure she's okay."

  "And if she's not okay?"

  His face tightened. "Bring her home."

  "Home?"

  "Back to LA," he said. "Where she belongs. Not up there, in the woods. With that quack."

  "This guy's a duck?"

  "You know what I mean."

  I digested his request for a moment. "You going to cover my expenses?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  "What about incidentals?"

  "You going to type up an invoice?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll take your word for it," he said.

  I considered that. "I'll need some to start."

  His face continued to screw in on itself, making him ugly, and then something inside him unwound, and his features relaxed. "Barbara will get you what you need," he said, nodding toward the house. "Just take care of this for me, would you?" He hesitated, waiting to see if I would say anything, and when I didn't, he pressed on. "You owe me, remember?"

  I nodded. I had been wondering if that was going to come up, and now that it had, well, I guess I was going to take the job.

  "I'll go talk with her," I said. I nodded toward the pool and the sea and the sky. "Thanks for letting me take a peek at t
he view," I said.

  He tried for a smile, but failed to get it arranged properly on his face.

  I left him there, brooding on the balcony above the pool with the blonde and the inflatable dolphin. I was struck by the idea that he hadn't liked recalling the debt between us any more than I had, which made me wonder what I was going to find up north. In the woods. With the quack.

  Barbara was in the kitchen, watching a cooking show on a small television. I put the empty glass on the counter, and she looked up from the tiny screen.

  "Not quite enough rum," I said.

  She smiled at me, the tip of her tongue caught in the corner of her mouth. "There might be some left in the bottle," she said.

  "Matesson said you were going to give me some cash," I said.

  "And . . . ?"

  "I suppose we could check the bottle after that."

  Her smile widened, and she crooked a finger at me to follow her.

  CHAPTER 2

  She was "Barbara" to my "Robert," and she got the order of things mixed up a bit. We found the bottle of rum, and there were a couple of fingers left. We shared it back and forth for a minute, staring into each other's eyes and thinking about different things. I was thinking about what I should pack in my bag for a couple days on the road, and if I should shower before taking the drive. She was thinking about what it would take to get me to put my hands on her hips.

  She came up with a plan finally, and lured me into the study where she stretched out on one of the yellow leather couches. The room had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the impressive view, two yellow leather couches that were soft and warm to the touch, a ceiling-mounted projector meant for watching movies on the 4:3 screen mounted on the wall, and a wall of bookcases that were filled with videos. VHS. Laserdisc. DVD.

  Babs put her hands over her head and squirmed slightly on the couch, making enough noise to remind me she was there. I watched her for a few moments, rum bottle in hand, and then I wandered over to the bookcases.

  "It's quite the collection," I said.

  "Uh-huh," she said.

  "He make all of these movies?" I asked, even though I knew the answer.