Parallelities (3 page)

“A most impressive demonstration, Mrs. Collins. It certainly gives one something to think about. Why, if I were in your position I would take every opportunity to utilize the extraordinary talents of Ms. Tarashikov to the fullest. Cabalistic perception like hers doesn’t come along very often. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything quite like it before.” On the other side of the table, the comely medium smiled softly as she expertly snuffed the candle.

“You can be assured that I will. Skeptics!” Haughty, dignified, and flush with success, their hostess escorted both of them to the door.

“Same time next week then, Mrs. Collins?” Tarashikov’s faux empathetic smile bordered on the artlessly predatory.

“Of course, Madame.” Her face was shining, her enthusiasm unbounded. “To be able to hear my dear Eric again, after the accident…” Choked, she took the medium’s free hand in both of hers and squeezed thankfully.

Tarashikov gently but firmly disengaged her fingers. “Rest assured that I am at your service, Mrs. Collins. And if I am not available because I am helping another poor soul in distress, please do not forget to fax me, or leave a message with my answering service.”

A last parting handshake and they fled the house and its tearful but satisfied owner. Max escorted the medium to her parked car, enjoying the sway of her hips as they walked the short distance together.

“You need an answering service? I thought the spirits would take messages for you.”

She snorted derisively. “Sometimes even the spirits refuse to work overtime. On such occasions a little technological supplementation may be called for.” Grabbing his shoulder, she squeezed hard, the nails digging slightly into his flesh. “Thanks for backing me up in there.”

He shrugged. “Hey, if it works out I might get a small continuing series out of this.”

She leaned close and whispered. “You might also, as you said, get ‘the opportunity to utilize the extraordinary talents of Ms. Tarashikov to the fullest.’”

He eyed her in surprise, then smiled broadly. “I’ve got a candlestick of my own you can manipulate. Speaking of which”—he indicated the one that was poking out of the oversized handbag she was carrying—“how’d you manage the levitation? That was well done. I didn’t see any wires.”

“There aren’t any wires. I told you, there are times when a little technology is in order. Even a professional medium needs to keep abreast of the latest developments.” Pulling out the candlestick, she upended it to show him where the base was screwed tight to the shaft.

“There’s a small but powerful magnet inside and a bigger battery-powered electromagnet in my purse.”

“Which was under the table,” he filled in.

“Right. This ring,” and she indicated one of the many bulky rings that decorated her long fingers, “holds the on-off switch. Makes it easy to raise and lower the candlestick. These new magnets are very precise. You can really keep control.”

“That’s fresh. How about the dead kid’s voice?”

“Tiny speaker inside the top of the candlestick.” They were approaching her fittingly sepulchral Mercedes and she nodded in its direction. “George, my assistant, is in the trunk. Don’t worry—he’s in there with air-conditioning and a cooler of cold drinks in addition to the base unit for the candlestick.
Staying in the trunk keeps him out of sight and forestalls any awkward questions from the mark … from the customer. We found out by accident that it also adds a nice reverb to the voice. George is very versatile. If the spirit I’m contacting is female, he does a nice falsetto.” Her smile widened. “There are a lot of unemployed actors in this town. If George moves on to bigger and better things, I can always find a replacement.”

“And the questions and answers are kept general enough to satisfy the suckers,” he said.

“Please.” She eyed him distastefully. “The bereaved supplicants. That’s been standard operating procedure in the business for hundreds of years.” She disengaged the Mercedes’ alarm and opened the driver’s-side door. The thick, heady aroma of new-car leather drifted out.

“And it doesn’t bother you that you’re preying on the susceptibilities of ordinary people who are drowning in their own misery?”

She all but laughed out loud. “That’s pretty funny, coming from someone who works for the vampire rag you do. I’ve always felt that if they’re stupid enough to fall for this old-fashioned traditional hokum, then if I don’t take their money someone else will. Besides, I give great séance and my clients always feel better afterward. That’s more than you can say for anyone unfortunate enough to be the subject of one of your scabrous stories. I like to think of what I do as therapy.” She squeezed his hand. “Give me a call, Max. I owe you a session.”
Favoring him with a last, appreciative smile, she turned and slipped behind the wheel.

He nodded agreeably. “You bet I will. I’ve got one hell of a spirit you can call up.”

Waving a final farewell, he followed the Mercedes with his eyes as it backed out of the driveway and turned south. A glance at the sky showed that it was getting late. Time to head back home. As for the story itself, there was plenty of time to do that. He could type it up after dinner. It wouldn’t take long, and he could add suitable embellishments in the morning, before heading out to follow up on Kryzewski’s tip.

On the other hand, he mused as he walked back to his own car, if he could do the follow-up tonight it would save him a drive tomorrow. That would allow him to do both stories in the morning and then take the afternoon off. Not far beyond the front window of his apartment, the beach beckoned. The cool Pacific and the first scantily clad sand bunnies of the season were calling to him.

The true nutcases were often the most accessible, the most eager to discuss their obsessions. From the notes Kryzewski had supplied, this Barrington Boles character certainly sounded as if he qualified. If he could get in to see him tonight, Max thought, and get enough notes to put together a story, then he would not have to deal with him tomorrow.

He was already out in the Valley. If he could find a halfway quiet coffee shop he could rough out the Boy-Killed-in-Car-Crash-Speaks-to-Bereaved-Mom story while he was having
dinner. Then shoot out to Malibu after rush hour and do the Boles interview, polish both in the morning, and take the rest of the day off. Maybe two, if the Boles lead turned out to be really worthwhile.

Feeling very good about himself, he slid into the Aurora, started the engine, and headed off in search of sustenance and silence.

H
aving previously written several dozen stories of the medium-contacts-dead-loved-one variety, he had no difficulty embroidering the encounter he had just witnessed to the point where it was sufficiently florid and outrageous to fit the needs of the
Investigator.
The plebeians who purchased the paper as they waited in line for their groceries to be scanned and totaled lapped up this sort of saccharine pabulum like mother’s milk. It fed their need to believe in everything from maternal love to a kind and beneficent afterlife.

Disdaining fast food, he settled on a neighborhood coffee shop where the fries arrived cold but the hamburger wasn’t half bad. He wolfed them down in between bites of the sprout-addled salad. Not everyone in Southern California, he reflected as he idly scanned the rest of the menu, was happy to subsist on tofu and sushi.

Satisfied with the preliminary draft of the story, he made sure it was saved to the laptop’s hard drive before packing up, paying, leaving the absolute minimal tip that would not have the waitress chasing after him with a butcher knife, and returning to his car. It had been quite a while since he’d driven to Malibu the back way. Since he might be arriving at Boles’s address in the dark, he wanted to be sure not to miss any of the right turnoffs.

Malibu Canyon Road wound its way through dry mountains spotted with pockets of chaparral forest and million-dollar homes, the latter expensive retreats from the insanity of the city. The venerable road connected the San Fernando Valley with the Pacific Coast Highway. Once there, he turned north, grateful for the lack of traffic, the Pacific on his left and an unblinking diadem of lights pointing the way to points north.

Boles’s place lay atop a ridge well back of Trancas Beach, at the very end of a convoluted, unhappy stretch of one-lane road. Max had no trouble with the guard at the gatehouse where the road met the highway. He’d been dealing with such people for several years and had learned that where bullshit failed, folding currency usually succeeded. Besides, he carried legitimate press credentials that were easily checked and his demeanor was clearly different from that of the average Southern California maniacal fan or mad bomber.

The house was big (there were no small houses in this part of Southern California, unless one made allowance for separate
servants’ quarters) but by no means overbearing. A two-story contemporary Mediterranean, it faced the Pacific and looked down upon the more extravagant homes below. Its stuccoed turrets and red tile roof were subdued compared with the grandiose architectural fantasies that marched in million-dollar rows down the hillside toward the coastline. Soft light from within illuminated several windows. He pulled into the circular drive that fronted the main entrance and, without any directives to the contrary, parked.

A small, clean Toyota stood between him and the main house. Its engine idled uncertainly, stressed by the burden of the air-conditioner. The short, stout woman loading something into the trunk looked up as he walked over. She was Hispanic but not Mexican, he saw. Probably an economic refugee from Nicaragua or Honduras. L.A. had seen a jump in the number of immigrating Hondurans recently. Her English was surprisingly lightly accented.

“May I help you, sir? I am Azulita, Señor Boles’s housekeeper. I was just leaving for the night.” Wary and protective, dark black eyes sized him up.

Max looked past her, at the house. “Mr. Boles doesn’t have a live-in?”

“No, sir.” She walked around from the back of the car and opened the driver’s-side door. “I asked him that myself, when I started to work for him. He says he likes to be alone at night.” She glanced up at the house. “Myself, I am glad. I would not want to stay here at night.”

“Really? Why not?” Max’s mental recorder was already humming.

“Too many funny noises.” She crossed herself.

“You don’t say? What kind of funny noises?”

She slipped behind the wheel. “If you stay, maybe you will hear them for yourself. I have to go.” She closed the door and reached for the key.

“Wait a minute!” He leaned close. “Do you think Mr. Boles will see me? I don’t have an appointment.”

She studied him silently for a moment, then smiled. “I don’t see why not. He is a very friendly man, Señor Boles. He likes people. But people treat him badly, I think. I have heard him talking, and sometimes his visitors laugh at him.” Her expression turned earnest. “You are not here to laugh at him, are you?”

“Hey, not me. I promise.”
At least, I won’t laugh at him in person
, he added silently.
Print’s another matter.

The old compact coughed a couple of times before settling into gear. He followed its progress as it hummed down the driveway and out onto the main access road, a small metallic blue beetle disappearing into the gathering night. Then he turned and walked over the interlocking red paving bricks and up the concrete stoop to the front door. It was a plain, ordinary house door, not one of the garish amalgams of rare wood and stained glass—designed to intimidate visitors—that were so commonly encountered in the Brahman environs of power-conscious Los Angeles, where even the styling and construction of a front door were often construed as a sign of status.

Similarly, the doorbell did not play Beethoven, tell jokes, or attempt an imitation of Big Ben on New Year’s Eve. Its chime was ingenuously normal.

The man who opened the door was in his late fifties but remarkably fit. He wore Nikes, bright baggy multicolored weight lifter’s sweatpants, and a wrinkled T-shirt two sizes too big with the legend Keetmanshoop Hotel on it above a black-and-white drawing of a gemsbok at rest. Cut fashionably short, his gray-blond hair gave him the look of a retired Marine. From a slim gold chain around his neck dangled a gold charm in the shape of a bar code. The watch on his right wrist was a hard plastic multifunction Casio; nice, but hardly a Rolex or Patek Phillipe. Thick gray chest hair shoved its way out of the V neck of the tee, and more hair bristled on his exposed arms. He was six feet or so, muscular from years of chucking iron in the gym. Probably Boles’s bodyguard or senior manservant, Max decided.

“Good evening. I’m looking for Barrington Boles.” Straining to see past the doorman, Max made out a normal-looking hallway. No skeletons hanging from the rafters, no cross-reflecting mirrors, no probing laser beams; just a few shelves lined with expensive but unpretentious objets d’art. Too bad. He’d been hoping for an immediate dose of weirdness.

The man promptly extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, young man.”

While his brain struggled to catch up, Max’s hand reacted instinctively and took the older man’s. In keeping with the
rest of the tanned physique, the grip was powerful, but restrained. “You’re Barrington Boles? I expected …”

The older man grinned as he cut him off. “Someone much older? Or a clone of Christopher Lloyd’s Doc character from the
Back to the Future
movies? Somebody with wild eyes, frizzing hair, and a colorfully stained white lab coat?”

“Yeah, that would be about right,” Max replied, deciding to take a chance. “Your standard clichéd garden-variety-issue mad scientist.”

The welcoming hand withdrew. The skin on the back was wrinkled from long hours spent immersed in seawater. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m neither mad, nor a scientist. And my taste in lab clothing runs more to shorts and tank tops.” He beckoned as he stepped aside. “Won’t you come in, Mr. …?”

“Parker. Maxwell.” As he entered, Boles shut the door behind them. Though it smelled of money, the house felt far more normal than Max had anticipated, based on what he’d been told. The initial edginess he tended to feel when entering the lair of the presumably deranged was rapidly slipping away.

“Nice to meet you, Max.” Boles guided his visitor into a spacious den dominated by redwood burl furniture, the kind that tended to swallow you when you sat down in a couch or chair fashioned from the stuff. An entertainment center with large-screen TV was built into the wall off to the left, while cathedral-sized picture windows directly opposite provided a view of the now dark coast and the immeasurable blackness of
ocean beyond. The other walls were lined with built-in book-shelves. All of these were filled, in some cases to overflowing. Dominating the Mexican tile floor were several large, elaborate Persian rugs of estimable vintage and, even to Max’s untrained eye, considerable value, and a startling coffee table that consisted of a thick slab of glass mounted atop the shiny brown skull of an allosaurus. Max gestured as he sat down across from it.

“That’s one of those cast-resin reproductions, isn’t it?”

Displaying an utter lack of pretension, his host flopped into the chair opposite and shook his head, grinning proudly. “Nope. It’s an original. From Colorado. Nice, isn’t it?”

“An original, huh? Okay, I’m impressed.” So that Boles could see what he was doing, he made a show of removing his recorder from his shirt pocket, but did not turn it on. “It’s pretty late in the day for this sort of thing, and I’m sure your time is as precious to you as mine is to me, so I won’t mince words with you, Mr. Boles.”

“Please. Just call me Barry.” His host’s smile was as ingratiating as that of a head waiter at a trendy Japanese restaurant.

“Okay—Barry.” Max refused to be drawn in or disarmed by his host’s evident charm. It was much too soon in their relationship to take a liking to the man. “I’m a junior science reporter for the
L.A. Times
and I …”

“No you’re not,” Boles declared with his irrepressible good humor intact. It was the second time his host had interrupted
him. “The
Times
would have called before sending somebody out. Besides, I’ve already had a couple of their people here. A writer and a photographer.” The smile diminished slightly. “We didn’t get along.”

Max was not in the least nonplussed, switching conversational gears as easily as his Aurora. “I thought you might see through that. It’s just that it sounds more impressive if you say you’re from the
Times
instead of from the
Orange County Register.
Or the
Free Press.”
His follow-up grin was only half forced. “Saying that you’re the science columnist for the
Free Press
doesn’t carry much weight at, say, JPL.”

Boles crossed one leg over the other, cocked his head sideways, and rested chin and cheek against one hand as he studied his guest. “You’re not from the
Register
, either. Or the
Free Press
, or the
Valley Times
, or the
San Bernadino Sun
, or any standard Southern California paper. I like you, Max, but don’t try my patience or insult my intelligence or this meeting will be a short one. Now, who do you represent? Really?”

Max debated whether to confess he was a freelancer in search of a good story or a stringer for Reuters. The latter claim was sufficiently impressive and obscure enough to deceive most potential interviewees. But the longer he considered his subject the more he found himself thinking that there was more to Boles than there was to the usual fruitcake with a wild idea. The man had let him into his house without an appointment and had so far treated him in a fair and courteous
manner. Why not try something different from the usual endless loop of subterfuges for a change and respond in kind? He took a deep breath.

“Barry, I’m a reporter for the
International Investigator.”

Boles nodded and looked satisfied. “There now, doesn’t that feel better? You want to interview me, do you?”

“Very much so. Are you familiar with the
Investigator?”

His host nodded once. “I’ve seen it around.”

Max kept his tone casual. “And the thought of being reported in it doesn’t bother you?”

Boles squirmed slightly, straightening in his chair. “Max, I’ve dealt with reporters from every legitimate newspaper and magazine in the country as well as a number from overseas. Not to mention writers for various documentary series, assorted sensationalist television shows, and a goodly number of respected and not-so-respected scientific journals. I doubt that you can treat me any worse than they have.

“Besides, your paper deals in exposure as opposed to truth, and exposure is what I need now. Given sufficient exposure, the truth will follow of its own accord. What I don’t wish to be is ignored. It just so happens you have arrived at a propitious time. I’ll see to it that you get your story, and you will reciprocate by providing me with national exposure. Handed that, people can make up their own minds.” He nodded at the recorder. “By the way, I don’t mind that you’re recording this.”

Max looked down at the compact device in mock surprise. “Oh, sorry. I guess I must have turned this on while we were
talking.” He smiled wanly. “Reflex action. I meant to ask you if it was all right.”

Boles’s grin returned. “No you didn’t, but it’s okay. I
want
our meeting recorded. Like everyone else on the planet I am at least passingly familiar with the tabloid style. I know that you probably intended from the start to embellish the consequences of this interview, but that doesn’t bother me either. After what I have to show you, you’ll find it won’t be necessary.”