State’s Evidence Page 10

  “Somebody may think it’s time for the king to abdicate.”

  “Maybe,” Tolson agreed. “Well, you going to stay on it?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “But only because some guy with a haircut like a drill sergeant told me to get out of town. And because Teresa Blair sounds like a woman I’d like to meet.”

  “Good,” Tolson said. “Fluto makes life tougher than it needs to be for about half the people in this town, one way or another. You’ll be doing a real service to help us convict him.”

  “Service to whom?” I asked. Tolson didn’t answer. “There’s one last thing,” I went on.

  “What?”

  “Is there any chance Teresa Blair’s a plant?”

  “What?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Tolson. Mrs. Blair came onto the scene pretty late in the day. Without her, Fluto would walk, according to you and according to the papers. What if she was sent down here by one of Fluto’s competitors, so she could put him behind bars?”

  “What the fuck makes you think that’s even remotely possible?” Tolson asked wildly.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Mrs. Blair drops some tough names around town, according to a little man down in the Moran Building. Plus the Vegas thing. Plus a feeling I’ve got that something’s rotten in the city of El Gordo.”

  “You’re wrong, Tanner. You’ve got to be.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. I’ll go over her statement again. But I’m sure she’s genuine. She knew too much about what went on down there to be a plant. Things she couldn’t have known unless she saw it all go down. I’m sure of it.” His last words were firm enough to move reality.

  “I’ll check in later,” I said.

  “Good,” Tolson answered, then rubbed his face. “The trial starts Monday.” He made it sound like Doomsday.

  9

  You take your leads where and when you find them. I found mine on a billboard high above the Bayshore Freeway as I was driving north out of El Gordo, looking without enthusiasm for a motel to occupy for the night. The metallic gold letters on the royal blue background were lit from below, and in the gray of early evening their message seemed elegant and warm and boundlessly sincere:

  SILVER SEASON

  The Retirement Residence

  and Custodial Facility

  for the Young at Heart

  Located in the San Ramon Valley,

  in the Shadow of Mount Diablo

  Rock Valley Road Exit off I-680

  A Project of the Columbus Development Company

  Teresa Blair was paying some two thousand dollars every month to the Silver Season, and she didn’t need either a residence or a custodian. I abandoned my search for a motel and kept driving.

  The route took me across the Bay Bridge, through Oakland and the Caldecott Tunnel and Orinda to Walnut Creek, where I turned south for about ten miles, then took the Rock Valley Road exit just south of Danville. For about ten minutes I meandered among the rail fences and flagstone driveways, and carefully rustic outbuildings and adobe haciendas of Contra Costa County’s horsey set. Nothing that happened anywhere in the world—whether famine or pestilence, riot or revolution—could possibly penetrate this little valley, this decorator remnant of the Wild West. That was the way they wanted it, and that was the way it was.

  Some three miles east of the freeway the road began to climb toward the top of a grassy knoll that had somehow escaped the developer’s blade. At the summit was an arched gateway with the words “Silver Season” etched, in silver of course, along its top. A brass plate set into the stone gatepost announced that I had arrived at a Retirement Residence, Est. 1972.

  A cobbled driveway took me through a stand of live oaks and Scotch pines to a macadam parking area occupied by the kinds of cars that serve more as announcements than conveyances. I slipped in between two of them and tried to decide how to proceed in light of my rather pervasive ignorance of what was in there waiting for me.

  While I thought about it, a young nurse in a powder blue pants suit walked through the lot and passed me without noticing. She was lithe and unburdened and humming a tune old enough for me to recognize. The kid who’d sung it originally was dead. The Day the Music Died. I got out and followed the nurse under a canopy and through the heavy oaken door at the end of it.

  A sign on a chrome pedestal placed just inside the door welcomed me to the Silver Season, then ordered me to Proceed to the Administrator’s Office Before Attempting to Visit a Resident. I decided to obey, and yellow arrows taped to the smooth green floor showed me how.

  A string of offices opened onto the hallway. If I deciphered the abbreviations on the doorplates correctly they contained a medical doctor, an osteopath, a chiropractor, a dentist, two nurses, and another individual who could have been anything from a dietician to an acupuncturist. The Silver Season was not exactly the county home.

  On the walls between the office doors were a series of cork bulletin boards. On one were Polaroid snapshots of the residents who had birthdays that month; on another announcements of various entertainments and other diversions: glee clubs and church choirs, magicians and polka bands, organists and tap dancers, exhibits by artists, readings by poets. One particular board caught my eye. The sign at the top read Life and Afterlife, and below it were listed a gaggle of speakers and their specialties:

  Oscar Hambleton, Attorney-at-law: The Execution of Holographic Wills and Codicils

  O. Renfrew Jones, C.L.U.: Variable Annuities—Pathway to Survivor’s Security

  Rex Butler: Cancer Insurance—Best Buy for the Buck

  Robert Alliance, Alliance & Alliance: Medicare Is Not Enough

  Albert X. White, Bay Area University: The Inter Vivos Gift and the Charitable Unitrust

  Conrad Jansson, Jansson Associates: Burial Insurance and the Perpetual Maintenance Contract

  Major Ulysses Stanton, Salvation Army: The Gift of Hope

  An entire parade lined up to profit from death or the anticipation of it. Since I still didn’t know precisely why I was in the place, I was probably marching in the parade as well. By the time I got to the door marked “Administrator—Mrs. Ball” I felt outsized and bound, like Gulliver.

  The administrator’s secretary had a silver guest register for me to sign, and a silver pen for me to sign it with. When I asked to see the administrator herself, the secretary didn’t like it much, but since she had never seen me before, and since I didn’t have the preternaturally thankful expression of the relative of a resident, she let me proceed to the inner sanctum. Mrs. Ball didn’t seem to mind my intrusion. She wore a smile that couldn’t be dislodged by anything short of sciatica.

  “How may we help you?” Mrs. Ball asked. Her silvery bouffant floated atop her head like a helium-filled advertisement for the establishment itself. A pair of silver-framed eyeglasses dangled from a silver chain around her neck and came to rest atop her ample bosom, where they half disappeared in a swirl of silver taffeta. The Hunt brothers would have loved Mrs. Ball, but not as much as Mrs. Ball loved herself.

  “I’m not certain how to begin,” I began, clasping my hands before me and bowing my head over them. “That is, I want to be certain my mission is not misinterpreted.”

  “Yes?” Her voice was still syrupy, but it had begun to crystallize.

  “Mrs. Blair sent me, you see, Teresa Blair. That is, she asked me to come.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a family friend, you see. A psychologist, actually. Behavioral, of course, and I believe she just wanted me to assure her that her funds are being, how shall I put it …”

  “Don’t be shy, Mr.…?”

  “Blaisdal. Professor Blaisdal, actually.”

  Mrs. Ball oozed pure cane sugar. “Mrs. Blair wants to be certain she’s getting her money’s worth, Professor Blaisdal? Well, why on earth shouldn’t she? We applaud her. Really, we do. She has every right to inspect Silver Season in any manner she chooses. Frankly, we welcome the opportunity t
o show off. We’re very proud of our facility, Professor. Very proud.”

  “I can see that,” I said, nodding until my neck ached. “And I must say, and I don’t mean to be premature, that so far I am favorably impressed. Exceedingly so. Yes, indeed.” I nodded some more.

  Mrs. Ball smiled even more sweetly, a feat I would have deemed impossible before she managed it. “We’re entirely at your disposal, Professor. Shall I give you the guided tour? Or would you rather begin by visiting the resident and going on from there?” The words had become musical, an aria of goodwill.

  I looked at my watch. “I think the resident. Yes.”

  “I believe that’s wise. They will be preparing to retire shortly, you know. Lights out at eight; breakfast at five thirty. No exceptions. Now, I want you to feel absolutely free to inquire in whatever manner you choose, so I’ll just point you in the right direction. All right?”

  “Wonderful. Yes, indeed.”

  “And if you have any question, any at all, I’ll be right here. Charlene—Mrs. Goodrum—is having an especially good day, by the way, although of course that could change at any moment.” Mrs. Ball shook her head. “She’s so young; still so lovely. She’ll be thrilled to see you, I’m sure.”

  “What exactly is the nature of her treatment?”

  “Well, of course with a stroke victim the primary component of the program is physical therapy. She alternates heavy and light sessions in our Fitness Center.”

  “Is she on medication?”

  “Why, I believe so. Tranquilizers, I believe. Vitamins. Perhaps a diuretic, I’m not certain. She does have a problem with incontinence from time to time. Dr. Wilton has gone for the evening, but perhaps I can reach him by phone.”

  I held up a hand and fluttered it. “That won’t be necessary. Not at all. Just a general idea, you understand. And now perhaps you can tell me what the basic fee for the residence is.”

  Mrs. Ball frowned for the first time. “Didn’t Mrs. Blair tell you?”

  “Well, she mentioned a figure, but I wasn’t clear whether it was all-encompassing, to include the medical component, you see, or not.”

  “Of course. Let me check.”

  Mrs. Ball walked briskly to a file cabinet and rummaged through some papers and returned. “The fee to Mrs. Blair is two thousand a month,” she said slowly. Something in the file had disturbed her.

  “It seems low,” I said truthfully.

  “Well, of course, the arrangement in this case is special. Our normal rate is twice that.”

  “I see,” I said, even though I didn’t.

  “Yes. Perhaps, Professor, given the hour, we should do this another time.” She fidgeted with her glasses chain, winding it around her fingers like a rosary. Her eyelids flapped. Mrs. Ball was nervous and not used to it.

  “Mrs. Blair is very concerned about Mrs. Goodrum,” I said sternly. “I have adjusted my schedule to make this visit on her behalf. I may not be able to return for many months. I would not like to tell her that I was refused admittance. But I will if I must.”

  “If you had called ahead …”

  “Very well.” I turned to go.

  “Just a moment, Professor. Please. You are welcome to do whatever you like. Please.” Her voice burbled like a clogged drain.

  “Thank you,” I said gravely.

  “Mrs. Goodrum speaks of Mrs. Blair constantly, you know, almost as often as she speaks of her father.”

  “It’ll be a great pleasure to see her again.”

  “Oh, and be sure to tell Mrs. Blair that she herself is most welcome at Silver Season at any time. Any time at all.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Mrs. Ball patted her hair and freed her glasses from the taffeta and clutched my arm to her bosom and pulled me toward the door. “Mrs. Goodrum is in Sunrise Wing. She has a thrilling view of the mountain from her window. Room one-twenty-four. The first corridor on the right, just off the Togetherness Room. You can’t miss it. But if you do get lost, any of staff can show you the way. We have a one-to-three staff-patient ratio, by the way. We’re very proud of that. Very proud.”

  “Wonderful. Yes, indeed.”

  Mrs. Ball returned my arm to me and I backed out of her domain and took the first right turn I came to and found myself in the Togetherness Room, the hub of the four wings that radiated from it.

  As I moved into the room, I was greeted from all sides, in all ways—voices, giggles, smiles, gestures. A tiny lady suddenly materialized squarely in my path. She was lovely, as immaculate and as crisp as a laundered shirt. I asked her how she was. She told me she was confused, but she would be better soon. I told her I was glad. She asked me why. I couldn’t manage to tell her before she left.

  There were fifty people in the Togetherness Room, at least five women for every man. Most were clustered in front of one or the other of the four television sets that occupied the corners, strapped into wheel chairs, slumped and motionless, silver hair atop silver garments atop silver flesh. The volume knobs on the TV sets were turned as high as they would go, and from where I stood the programs blended into a single cacophony of canned laughter, gunshots, and the shrieks of prize winners.

  In the center of the room one man stood alone, a giant, snapping his belt up and down and around like a bullwhip. A smile of wonder displaced his face after each pop, evidence of his pleasure that something on the earth still responded to his will. He was given a wide berth. A second man, gaunt and stooped, shuffled over to me and asked what kind of car I drove. When I told him, he seemed inordinately pleased, for both of us.

  I turned to look for the Sunrise Wing, but before I found it, I felt a hand in the center of my back. When I turned back around, I saw a woman with no teeth. She was trying to shove me out of her way. After she got the job done, she continued circling the room, counterclockwise, her eyes locked on a path visible only to her. She was carrying a doll in her left arm. The doll wore lipstick and a string of pearls that looked real and had a daisy in its hair. I think the woman was singing to it.

  I was suddenly conscious of my heart—of its size, its rhythm, its frailty. Sweat poured forth, released by valves activated first by fear and apprehension and then by shame and guilt. I hadn’t wanted as badly to be elsewhere since the last time I was in jail. As I watched the woman with the doll, another woman came up to me and poked me with her finger. “We are all nice people here,” she proclaimed, then turned and walked away. Somewhere, someone clapped.

  My eyes shorted out. Nothing registered that was external to my discomfort. A magic, psychic mist descended over the room, and I was suddenly, gratefully, alone. I took a deep breath and walked toward the door with Sunrise written above it, looking straight ahead, moving as rapidly as I could without running.

  Number 124 was halfway down the wing. As I strolled along, my sight returned and in spite of myself I glanced into the rooms, glimpsing only beds and, less frequently, shrouded bodies, cadaverous souls whose vista, if anything, included only the dappled ceiling above their heads. From somewhere behind me a voice called: “Help me. Please. Let me go. Help me.” I looked at the nearest nurse. She didn’t pay any attention to me or to it. No one paid any attention. I walked faster.

  There were two beds in room 124, but neither was occupied. The dusk, which entered like a burglar through the narrow window on the far wall, provided the only light. For a moment I thought the room was empty, and then I saw her.

  She was sitting in a wheelchair, her back to me, leaning forward at the waist in order to study the row of potted violets and succulents arrayed on the shelf just next to the window. In the few seconds I watched her she raised her hand several times as if to stroke the plants, but each time the hand dropped back to her lap without touching anything but air.

  I knocked on the door but she didn’t hear me. From behind the other door in the room came the sound of a flushing toilet. I made more noises, with voice and feet and everyt
hing else I could think of, and I was about to risk touching and therefore frightening her when she wheeled her chair around to face me.

  Her eyes were blue and clear, her hair sparse and white, her body twisted slightly in the chair, one shoulder higher than the other. A multicolored afghan draped her lap and legs. Someone had pinned a yellow Happy Face to her pink sweater. “Is that you, Anthony?” Her voice, was small and tremulous, but fortified with hope.

  “No,” I said. “I’m …”

  “Papa?”

  “No. My name is Tanner. I’m …”

  “You must be the new doctor,” she concluded, her voice suddenly round and monarchical, entirely different from before. “Is it true they fired Dr. Slavin? For stealing pills? That’s what they say, you know. I always liked Dr. Slavin. He reminded me of Papa. Do you know Papa?”

  “No.”

  “He was a wonderful man. I cared for him all by myself after mother died, you know. I was his favorite. He never said so, but I could tell. And why wouldn’t I be? Would any of the others take him in? They would not,” she announced sharply, responding to her own rhetoric.

  I wasn’t even sure whom I was talking to, and as I was about to ask, the woman began looking anxiously around the room. “My Salems. Where are they? You didn’t take them, did you, Doctor? The other one, Slavin, said at my age I didn’t need to worry about smoking. I hope you’re not going to tell me different. I won’t listen if you do. I might even throw a fit,” she added. It was a youthful dare.

  I smiled and shook my head, spotting the Salems on the little night table. I walked over and picked them up. Next to the pack, in small silver frames, were three snapshots. One was unmistakably Teresa Blair, young, vibrant, as stunning as a blooming gardenia but without the glint of calculation that marred the photos in her modeling portfolio. In the second frame was another young girl, plain and sloe-eyed, wearing black robe and mortarboard, squinting into the sun. She seemed uncertain and confused, auditioning for a role she didn’t want. The third picture was a baby; sex indeterminable, at least by me. I took the cigarettes around the bed and held them out to the woman.