Stardust(33)

“Like Liesl?” Ben said, confused.

“The accent. You know she was an actress. Small theaters only, but good, I think. Of course the father says that. But Salka says she had talent. And then we left and she lost her voice.”

“Couldn’t Danny get her work?”

“Here? Even Lorre, an actor like that, couldn’t play American.” He smiled. “Mr. Moto. A Japanese. A girl with a German accent? Not so many parts for her. And you know, I think Daniel liked her at home. So she gave it up. Became the Hausfrau.”

“And your translator.”

“Yes,” Ostermann said, looking up. “A help to me, too, I admit. And now? It’s a worry. When someone dies this way, you think, I never knew him. You turn it over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it.”

“Yes,” Ben said, an almost involuntary response.

“Everything becomes a lie. Your own life. I don’t want that for her.”

“But everything wasn’t.”

“No, not everything. But which?” He drew on the cigar. “How little we know about each other,” he said, brooding. “Even when we think we know.”





GOWER GULCH



AT THE POLICE station he was directed to a basement room that resembled a post office will-call window, with rows of files behind.

“Accident report? Kohler?”

“You’re with the insurance?”

“His brother.”

“Companies usually get it direct. Not through the family.”

“But I could see it?”

“You could ask,” the clerk said, then got tired of himself and went to get the folder.

In fact, there was little Ben didn’t already know. A more precise time. No eyewitnesses to the fall itself. Neighbors alerted by the sounds of garbage cans knocked over when the body hit, an unexpected detail. No scream. At least none reported. Police response time. Alcohol in the room (dizzy spells not even necessary here—already unsteady). Taken to Hollywood Presbyterian with head injuries and multiple lacerations. Several boxes with numbers and acronyms for internal use. Everything consistent.

“I was told there were pictures.”

“Told how?”

“They took pictures.”

The clerk stared at him, annoyed, then checked the report again, glancing at one of the numbered boxes.

“Give me a minute,” he said, going back to the file room, a martyr’s walk.

He returned opening a manila envelope. “We don’t usually show these to family.”

“What do I need? A court order?”

The clerk passed them over. “Just a good stomach.”

Danny in the hospital had been hard to look at, but still a patient, sanitized, wrapped in bandages, the lacerations stitched closed. Here his face was torn open and the gashes poured blood, his head lying in a pool of it. Ben flipped through the pictures—the body from several angles, limp, legs twisted, a shot of the balcony (for a trajectory?), the alley crowded with onlookers and ambulance workers. Crime scene photographs.

“Why weren’t these in the file?”

“You’re lucky they’re here at all. Should’ve been tossed. No reason to keep them in an accident file.”

“Can I have them?”

“Police property.”

“Which you were going to toss.”

“Still police property. What do you want them for?” Genuinely puzzled, looking at Ben more carefully now. A morbid souvenir.

“How about some paper then? I need to take some notes. For the insurance.”

The clerk reached below and brought up some paper.

“Next time bring your own. That’s taxpayer money.”

“I’m a taxpayer.”

“Don’t start.” He went over to his desk and lit a cigarette.

Ben held up one photo, then jotted down a note, waiting for the clerk to get bored and turn away. The one thing you learned in the Army: The answer was always no, unless you could get away with it. All bureaucracies were alike. The clerk, still smoking, looked up at the clock. Ben drew out the rest of the photos, negatives clipped to the last. He copied another note, then began feeding paper into the envelope. When the clerk answered the phone, he slid the pictures under his newspaper, added some more paper to the envelope and closed it, pushing it back along the counter.

“Thanks for your help,” he said, turning away with the newspaper.

The cop waved back.

The day clerk at the Cherokee could have been the policeman’s cousin, the same wary indifference.

“You here with the key?”

“I thought it was paid through the month.”

“You’re going to use it?” the man said, oddly squeamish.

“I might. I mean, it’s paid for.”