Hollywood Hills Read Online Free PDF Page A

boss's presence.
    The dinner party in the Hollywood Hills that night turned out to be disastrous because the lawyer homeowner had hired a Mexican caterer to serve what was supposed to be Asian fusion. As far as Raleigh was concerned, there was nothing more dangerous than a Mexican with a saltshaker, and everything tasted of sea salt. Raleigh played his role to the hilt, but Stephen Fry as Jeeves the butler couldn't have saved this one. His feet and knees were killing him when the night finally ended and he could get home to bed.
    The next morning Raleigh was up early and on his way to pick up Julius Hampton to take him to Cedars-Sinai for a checkup with his cardiologist. After that, they went back to the Hampton house, where the old man had his afternoon nap, and he was raring to go again when he woke up and remembered that it was the night for his weekly lobster dinner at the Palm. Raleigh had never been crazy about lobster but he could have a rib eye and a couple of Jack Daniel's to get him through the rest of the evening at one of the west Hollywood gay bars that the old man still liked to frequent at least one night a week.
    By the time they'd finished dining and arrived at the gay bar, it was filling up with other customers also arriving after dinner, and they were lucky to get a small table. The sweating waiters couldn't deliver drinks to the customers fast enough. Raleigh and his elderly boss were sipping martinis close enough to the three-deep bar patrons for the old letch to gawk at all the muscular buns in tight pants, some of which Raleigh figured were butt-pad inserts. Many of the younger hustlers wore tight Ralph Lauren jerseys with jeans or shorts, and the old boy gazed at them with melancholy. Raleigh was certain that their crotch mounds were from stuffing socks in their Calvins. He figured the youthful hustlers must buy socks by the gross at Costco.
    Julius Hampton recognized Nigel Wickland before the Beverly Hills art dealer recognized him. "Nigel!" he said as the art dealer was passing their table on his way back from the restroom.
    At first Raleigh thought that Nigel Wickland was about sixty years old, but up close, he looked more like sixty-five. He was tall and fashionably thin, with a prominent chin, heavy dark eyebrows, and a full head of hair so white that it looked mauve under the mood lighting. He wore a tailor-made, double-breasted navy blazer, a pale blue Oxford cotton shirt, and an honest-to-god blue ascot impeccably folded against his throat. Raleigh wondered if the blazer was Hugo Boss or maybe Valentino, or was it a Men's Wear-house copy? And how about the shoes? Were they O . J . Simpson Bruno Maglis or knockoffs? Nigel Wickland wore his clothes so well that you couldn't tell if they were the real things.
    Then Raleigh's attention was drawn to the man's exquisite hands. The fingers were long and tapered, the nails beautifully manicured, and there were no prominent veins to be seen, which there should have been on a man his age. Raleigh wondered if guys even had cosmetic surgeons do their hands around here, and if so, whether they called it a hand job.
    The art dealer stroked his chin and seemed nonplussed for a m oment, probably thinking that Julius was just another dotty old queen who frequented the west Hollywood clubs, until the octogenarian said, "It's me, Julius Hampton. Remember? We played bridge at the Bruegers' a couple of times before Sammy passed away."
    "Julius!" Nigel Wickland said. "Of course I remember. How are you ? "
    As they shook hands, Julius Hampton said, "Still upright, more or less, with the help of my man here. I'd like you to meet Raleigh Dibble. I don't know what I'd do without him. Sit down and join us."
    The art dealer extended his graceful hand to Raleigh and said, "Nigel Wickland. Pleased to meet you."
    "Same here, Mr. Wickland," Raleigh said.
    "Nigel, please," the art dealer said to him. "And may I call you Raleigh?"
    "Of course," Raleigh said.
    Raleigh wondered if