SEVEN
TORRANCE
Kendall cringed, recalling a lawsuit that alleged Gearhead’s songs had caused a young man to commit suicide. Torrance laughed and slapped him on the arm.
“Relax. I’m not going to ask you to pray with me.”
“This is only the third time I’ve been here,” Kendall said walking up to the pool. He stooped and put his hand in the cool, clear water. “Don’t even know how to work this pool.”
“I’ve got a pool,” Torrance said. “I’ll show you. It’s pretty simple. Basically, you just add chemicals and skim the leaves.”
Kendall stood. “Would you like some coffee? A doughnut?”
“Sure.”
Kendall led the way into the kitchen. Torrance chose a cruller.
“Moved next door in ’99,” Torrance said, chewing. “The year I got out of rehab. You know Ziggy died in ’94 from a drug overdose.”
Ziggy had been the drummer.
“No,” Kendall said. “I’m sorry to hear it. I just lost a wife to drugs.”
Torrance’s eyes widened. “Seriously? I’m sorry to hear that, brother. I’ll pray with you if you like.”
“What the hell,” Kendall said. “Never hurts.”
Torrance took his hand. “It never hurts.” He lowered his head and gripped Kendall like a batter. “Dear Lord, please watch over this good man Kendall Coffin and help him in his time of need. Amen.”
“Amen,” Kendall said.
Torrance let go.
“What do you do, Kendall?”
“I’m a comic book artist. I’m doing some storyboarding for Wyrick.”
Torrance raised his eyebrows. “I loved Wyrick when I was a kid.”
“Let me give you the grand tour,” Kendall said. They went into the dining room. Torrance ran his hands over the back of the Art Deco meets Maya chairs.
“He designed all the furniture too,” Torrance said. “Roark Dexter Smith was one crazy motherfucker.”
“Yeah,” Kendall said. “I got to visit a lot of his houses when I lived in Omaha. We’d go to Wisconsin during the summers, and I’d look at Smith houses.”
“You know he was a Satanist.”
“I knew he was weird. I never heard that.” They walked down the corridor into a commodious bedroom.
“Back in the day, the press was a little more discreet. Everybody loved Smith; America’s greatest architect, master of the organic theory, blah blah blah. He treated women like dirt, shafted every creditor, fathered children out of wedlock, he didn’t even have an architectural license.”
“Really?” Kendall said leading the way into the den with its massive fireplace and Steinway baby grand.
Torrance sat on the polished rosewood stool, flipped up the cover and hit a few keys. He began to play “Rhapsody in Blue.” Kendall sat in an overstuffed leather chair, stunned. The piano was in tune and Torrance was masterful. Kendall regretted never having seen the band.
Torrance gave it five minutes before abruptly removing his hands from the keys. “Sorry! I can’t resist a set of keys.”
They stood. “Don’t apologize. I’d love to hear you play the whole thing, or anything you want to play.”
“Later. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“I’m a freelancer,” Kendall said. “I make my own schedule.”
“What are you working on?”
“Well, I was drawing comics. Now I’m storyboarding for Wyrick.”
They stepped back out into the courtyard from the other end. Torrance spread his arms and inhaled deeply. “Ahhh, the smog has lifted.”
They approached the rear of the courtyard where a stepped arch in the living room framed the Los Angeles basin. There was a sharp ten-foot drop-off twenty feet from the rear of the house, a ravine filled with gorse and thorns, the roofs and backyards of houses.
“My view’s pretty much the same,” Torrance said. “We’ll have you over soon, and I’ll show you what the pool needs. Really isn’t much. You’ve got to clean it and throw in a few chemicals. Every now and then you’ll find some dead squirrels or skunks caught in the filter. Hate that shit. I’ve tried everything to keep ’em out.”
Torrance faced Kendall’s pool. “Course you won’t have that problem because the courtyard is entirely surrounded with house.”
“Not entirely,” Kendall said indicating the banyan trees. “They can drop from the trees.” He looked around. Where was the pump? He spotted a wood block, like a tiny shack, set just off the flagstone on the bluegrass lawn. The grass looked and felt old but was healthy like the lawn you might see outside a stately English country estate. He went over to the box and saw that the top was hinged with a metal handle. He opened it up revealing the pool pump humming away, water moving through plastic tubes, a couple sealed plastic canisters of water purifier.
Torrance found nets and scoops mounted on brackets to the wall. “Here’s your nets and stuff. Well, I should be getting back. We’ll have you over so you can meet Marge and Tommy. Met Marge in rehab. Best thing ever happened to me. Tommy’s a huge comic book fan.”
“I’ll walk you out.” They returned to the foyer. Kendall offered his hand.
“Say, you know about the security system, don’t you?” Torrance said.
“The realtor mentioned it, but I haven’t had a chance to check it out.”
Torrance looked around, spotted a closet off the foyer. Opened it. Inside was a metal box fastened to the wall. He opened it revealing a series of switches. It was old, something out of the sixties with a Bakelite surface.
“Wallanda designed a system that traps and holds intruders like a possum.”
“You’re kidding. How do you know?”
“Tommy told me. Said he saw Wallanda letting some scamp out when he was seven. Dude’d been in there all night afraid to cry out because he was breaking and entering. Wallanda and Smith figured burglars would most likely try to enter through the big window wells for the basement, so they rigged them all with a cage-like apparatus that slams down when it’s triggered.”
Visions of lawsuits danced in Kendall’s brain. “Wow. Thanks for telling me. I’ll have to have that taken out.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Probably hasn’t worked in years. Just thought you should know about it.”
“Are there many robberies in this neighborhood?”
“A few. Kids. Junkies. Plus, there’s that nut going around murdering young women.”
“What nut?”
“The Kardashian Killer. At least three that they know of.”
Kendall thanked Torrance and watched the bearded man mosey down the stairs.