Violent Ward. Len Deighton

to make the takeover legal, I had only one partner, Billy Kim, a thirty-year-old go-getter who was attending his brother’s wedding in Phoenix. He’d been due back this morning, but there was no sign of him so far and no message either. Either his brother had chickened out or it was one hell of a party.

      On all sides of this block were single-story buildings that in any other city would have been temporary accommodation. From ground level LA may be a paradise, but from this height it’s hell. The paved backyards of these cheap boxlike buildings were littered with dented cars and pickups, and their rooftops were a writhing snakepit of air-conditioning pipes. Directly across the street was a parking lot surrounded with a chain-link fence; parked up tight against the entrance, a converted panel truck was selling soft drinks, tacos, and chili dogs. Now that we were to become a part of the Petrovitch organization I was going to press them to finance for us a proper office with Muzak, up-to-date magazines in the waiting room, distressed-oak paneling, and yards of antiqued leather books behind glass doors on stained wood shelving.

      I tidied my desk and reminded Miss Huth that I was going to see my son. I didn’t give too much thought to the task of getting a gun for Budd. I figured by next week the desire for a gun would have worn off. Budd was like that.

      I went down to the garage. That was the best facility of this ancient building: it had a lockup garage so I could come back to my car and find it complete with radio antenna and hubcaps. Since I drive a beautiful 1959 Cadillac, that means a lot to me. It was one of the reasons I came here. I wouldn’t move to another building unless it had an equally dry, airy garage with someone guarding it. This one was not really subterranean, it was a semi-basement with ventilation slots that let air and daylight in. Ventilation is important for a car: condensation can do more damage than the weather, especially in California. The story was that the landlord had wanted to make this lowest floor into accommodations but the city ordinances forbade it.

      When I got down there I saw Ratface talking to the janitor. They both stopped talking as I went past them. I had a strong suspicion that they were comparing my shortcomings. They watched me without speaking.

      ‘You’re still dripping oil, Mr Murphy,’ the janitor called as I was getting into my car. I pretended I hadn’t heard him, but as I pulled away I glanced in the mirror and could see the dark patch shining on the garage floor. Okay, so it’s an old car.

      My son, Daniel, is studying philosophy at USC – the University of Spoiled Children – and living with a girl named Robyna Johnson. They share an apartment in a rooming house off Melrose near Paramount Studios. Melrose is a circus, but the kids think it’s smart to be near where the movies are cranked. When you reach the studios, the first thing you see is that vast rectangular slab of blue sky that is the backdrop for the Paramount water tank. And if you know where to look inside the back lot you can spot the old Paramount Gate, the most evocative landmark still left of real Hollywood. That gate is the same way it was in the old days. I never see it without remembering when Gloria Swanson’s Rolls-Royce purred through it in Sunset Boulevard.

      My son doesn’t live on the posh side of Melrose. Where he lives is as bad as where I work. They have steel gratings on the liquor stores and fierce guard dogs in the hallways. When I was a kid it was an Irish area and there was a great neighborhood atmosphere, but when Grace Kelly married into Monaco, the Irish here got big ideas and bank mortgages and bought homes with pools in the Valley, and the area filled up with weeds, rust, and sprayed graffiti. I waved to Danny’s landlady, Mrs Gonzales, as she dragged the curtain aside to see who it was. She was a whiskery old crone: she scowled and ducked out of sight.

      Danny shared a two-room apartment on the second floor. The buzzer didn’t work, so I rapped on the door with my knuckles. They were watching a game show on TV, The Price Is Right: I could hear it through the door. The Price Is Right! After all that griping these kids are always giving me about materialism.

      ‘It’s your father,’ said Robyna, after she’d undone the mortise lock, slipped the bolts, and opened the door as far as the chain would allow. She stared at me for a long time before unhooking the chain to let me in. She never says, How nice to see you, or anything. I always get the same treatment: she snaps her head around, so her long, straight blonde hair swings in my face, and calls over her shoulder, ‘It’s your father,’ in a voice marine color sergeants use to announce the arrival of incoming artillery fire.

      ‘Hello, Robyna,’ I said affably. ‘Do you mind if I talk to Danny in private?’ She shook out her skirt – a long cotton one with African tie-dye designs – slipped her feet into jewel-encrusted sandals, picked up her makeup box, tossed her head to make her hair shake, and strode past without looking at me. She didn’t even say goodbye. ‘Come back, Jane Fonda, you forgot your muesli!’ I called.

      ‘Drop dead!’ she snapped over her shoulder as she flounced out and slammed the door.

      ‘Is your girlfriend always so charming?’ I asked Danny.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Danny. ‘I don’t tell her to get lost the way you do every time you arrive. She pays half the rent, you know.’

      The TV was still going, and Danny was searching to find the remote control to turn it off. Eventually he grabbed a pair of jeans from somewhere and draped them over the screen. He just couldn’t bear to switch the damned thing off: he’d always been like that about TV; he just had to have it going all the time.

      ‘Robyna must have the remote in her pocket,’ he said apologetically.

      There was a smell of burning incense in the room. It had a sweet flowery smell. I sniffed here and there. Although I looked all around, I couldn’t see where the smoke was coming from. ‘She’s not on drugs, is she?’

      ‘You always ask me if she’s doing drugs,’ said Danny wearily. ‘We’re vegetarians.’

      ‘So maybe she passes on red meaty drugs.’

      ‘She won’t even drink tea or coffee because of the caffeine. No, she’s not on drugs.’ His search for the remote finally forced him to get up on his feet. Under some schoolbooks he discovered two paper plates containing a half-eaten burrito and a squashed package of tofu. He gave up trying to find the TV control and sank back, dropping his weight into the sofa with spring-shattering force. He’d wrecked all the best chairs at home doing that, but I tried not to remark on it this time. I hate to fight with him.

      ‘Is your mother here?’

      ‘Betty?’ He always called her Betty. He never said Mom or Mother even when he was small. I blamed Betty for that. She never disciplined him. That’s why he was slouching here with a stubbly face, long unwashed hair, and a dirty T-shirt printed with the slogan Go away, I’m trying to think. ‘You can see Betty’s not here; I don’t know where she is.’

      ‘How would it grab you if I told you she just now forced her way into my office and climbed out onto the window ledge?’

      Danny took the news very calmly. I mean, this was his mother. He nodded. ‘She did that with Uncle Sean in Seattle. He called the Fire Department.’

      ‘So did I. I called the Fire Department, but she made herself scarce before they arrived. So of course they prowled through the office trying to find ways to give me a bad time.’

      ‘Why?’ He was always unnaturally calm with me. Calm in a studied and exaggerated way so I sometimes wondered if it was an effect I had on him. With other people he always seemed more animated. Did I make him ill at ease or something?

      ‘Why did I call the Fire Department?’ I said to clarify the question.

      ‘Why did they want to give you a bad time?’

      ‘It’s a long story. The sprinklers never did work.’ The more I thought about it the more angry I became. ‘Soon after we first moved in, Denise – remember Denise, my old secretary, who used to send you those religious cards with St Daniel and lions on your birthday? – when Denise felt like celebrating, she used to buy those throw-away barbecue packs and grill some steaks for our lunch. It’s a wonder she never set the office ablaze. A couple of times she threw out the charcoal