Body Copy - Michael Craven [75]
Tremaine finished the letters and turned to Vicky, who was standing there, still and quiet. Tremaine said, “Dean Latham. I’m on my way to see him.”
“Does this help you?” Vicky said.
“Yeah, it does,” Tremaine said.
He didn’t know quite how it helped, but he knew it did.
“Thank you, Vicky. Thank you for calling.”
“You’re welcome,” Vicky said, standing there, still, like a little statue.
Tremaine pulled the Cutlass into the Country Store right there on Laurel Canyon, right near the road that would take him up to Dean Latham’s. Tremaine went in—what a great little old-fashioned grocery store—bought himself a bottled water and replenished his smokes, thinking it might be nice to have a smoke on the way home and think things over. He got back in his car, and before he cranked her up, he put the love letters in his glove. He wasn’t going to take them in to Dean’s house with him. He wasn’t going to show Dean what he had. No, this visit was just to feel things out.
Tremaine pulled out of the Country Store and headed up Laurel Canyon for a stoplight, then hung the Cutlass left onto Lookout Mountain, then up, up, up into the Hollywood Hills. Way up on the left was 2512, plenty of parking, too.
There was a tall fence surrounding Latham’s yard, but 235
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the gate wasn’t locked, so Tremaine opened it and went in. Inside, there was a big yard with a garden. The house was a small, cottage-type house toward the back of the lot.
This wasn’t the home of a rich man. But it was a nice, well kept house tucked deep in the famous Hollywood Hills, a neighborhood many people loved and most people associ-ated with high-quality, hip living. Houses, bungalows, even mansions, all tucked away amid the trees and the hills. It was like living on a mini-mountain, right in L.A. Tremaine looked around the yard, nice, but, Tremaine thought, too land-locked for me, you’re looking at an hour minimum before you’re in the ocean . . .
There were three steps up to the front door, but before Tremaine got there, it swung open and there was Dean Latham. About five-ten, short dark hair, but a hip cut, glasses, and a little heavy, a little out of shape. Probably forty-five.
Tremaine studied Latham. Just standing there on his front stoop wearing a silk robe over his pants and shirt, holding in his right hand a drink, looked like booze.
Jesus, Tremaine thought, guy’s in his pajamas.
“Donald Tremaine,” Latham said.
Tremaine nodded.
“You’re the surfer.”
Tremaine nodded again.
“I’m a movie producer. My company, my former company, wanted to do a surfing movie years ago, so we all did a little research on surfers. I remember your name.”
Tremaine gave the obligatory polite smile. Then Latham said, “Come in.”
As they walked in, Latham said, “Sorry about the mess.”
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But it wasn’t too bad, Tremaine noticed. Vicky Fong might think it was a mess, but it was really just a little disheveled. The house was dark—dark walls, dark furniture. There was a lot of Japanese art on the walls, mixed with big sprawling movie posters all over the place. Mostly old movies—Bogart pictures. Cary Grant pictures. Billy Wilder films. It was an odd combination, Japanese art and Hollywood posters . . .
“Do you still produce movies?” Tremaine said.
“Are you implying that I’m washed up?” Latham said with a wry grin.
“You said your ‘former company.’ I think you implied it.”
Latham plopped down on a big couch, let out a big exaggerated breath and took a sip of his drink. “I really don’t produce anymore. It’s been years since I’ve had a deal with any studio. But in this business, you’re only one script away.”
Latham stared straight ahead for a minute, like he was thinking about his career, his former career, then said to Tremaine, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Tremaine said.
Latham looked at Tremaine and said, “So, what do you want to know?”
“Are you married?” Tremaine said, wondering if there might be a spouse around.
“Used to be. Divorced. Twice. No kids.” Then Latham said, “So, who got killed?