plate that said PPK PHD.
Red-jacketed valets hopped around newly arrived vehicles like fleas on a summer pelt, throwing open car doors and pocketing keys. I made my way to the gate and found it locked. Off to one side was a speaker box on a post. Next
to the speaker were a punch-pad, keyslot, and phone.
One of the red-jackets saw me, held out his palm, and said, "Keys."
"No keys. I walked."
His eyes narrowed. In his hand was an oversized iron key chained to a rectangle of varnished wood. On the wood was burnt lettering: FR. GATE.
" We park," he insisted. He was dark, thick, round-faced, fuzzy-bearded, and spoke in a Mediterranean accent. His palm wavered.
"No car," I said. "I walked." When his face stayed blank, I pantomimed walked with my fingers.
He turned to another valet, a short, skinny black kid, and whispered something. Both of them stared at me.
I looked up at the top of the gate, and saw gold letters: SKYLARK.
"This is Mrs. Blalock's home, right?"
No response.
Page 19
"The University party? Dr. Kruse?"
The bearded one shrugged and trotted over to a pearl-gray Cadillac. The black kid stepped forward. "Got an invitation, sir?"
"No. Is one necessary?"
"We-ell." He smiled, seemed to be thinking hard. "You'all got no car, you'all got no invitation."
"I didn't know it was necessary to bring either."
He clucked his tongue.
"Is a car necessary for collateral?" I asked.
The smile disappeared. "You'all walked?"
"That's right."
"Where d'you'all live?"
"Not far from here."
"Neighbor?"
"Invited guest. My name is Alex Delaware. Dr. Delaware."
"One minute." He walked to the box, picked up the telephone, and spoke. Replacing the receiver, he said "One minute" again, and ran to open the doors of a white stretch Lincoln.
I waited, looked around. Something brown and familiar caught my eye: a truly pathetic vehicle pushed to the side of the road, away from the others. Quarantined.
Easy to see why: a scabrous Chevy station wagon of senile vintage, rust-pocked and clotted with lumpy patches of primer. Its tires needed air; its rear compartment was crammed with rolled clothing, shoes, cardboard cartons, fast-food containers, and crumpled paper cups. On the tailgate window was a yellow, diamond-shaped sticker: MUTANTS ON BOARD.
I smiled, then noticed that the clunker had been positioned in a way that prevented exit. A score of cars would have to be moved in order to free it.
A fashionably thin middle-aged couple climbed out of the white Lincoln and were escorted to the gate by the bearded valet. He put the oversized key in the slot, punched a code, and one iron door swung open. Slipping through, I followed the couple onto a sloping drive paved with black bricks shaped like fish scales. As I walked past him, the valet said, "Hey," but without enthusiasm, and made no effort to stop me.
When the gate had closed after him, I pointed to the Chevy and said, "That brown station wagon—let me tell you something about it."
Page 20
He came up next to the wrought iron. "Yes? What?" "That car is owned by the richest guy at this party. Treat it well—he's been known to give huge tips."
He swiveled his head and stared at the station wagon. I began walking. When I looked back he was playing musical cars, creating a clearing around the Chevy.
A hundred yards past the gate the eucalyptus gave way to open skies above a golf course quality lawn trimmed to stubble. The grass was flanked by ramrod columns of barbered Italian cypress and beds of perennials. The outer reaches of the grounds had been bulldozed into hillocks and valleys. The highest of the mounds were at the farthest reaches of the property, capped by solitary black pines and California junipers pruned to look windswept. The fish-scale drive humped. From over the crest came
the sound of music—a string section playing something baroque. As I neared the top I saw a tall old man dressed in butler's livery walking toward me.
"Dr. Delaware, sir?" His accent fell
Red-jacketed valets hopped around newly arrived vehicles like fleas on a summer pelt, throwing open car doors and pocketing keys. I made my way to the gate and found it locked. Off to one side was a speaker box on a post. Next
to the speaker were a punch-pad, keyslot, and phone.
One of the red-jackets saw me, held out his palm, and said, "Keys."
"No keys. I walked."
His eyes narrowed. In his hand was an oversized iron key chained to a rectangle of varnished wood. On the wood was burnt lettering: FR. GATE.
" We park," he insisted. He was dark, thick, round-faced, fuzzy-bearded, and spoke in a Mediterranean accent. His palm wavered.
"No car," I said. "I walked." When his face stayed blank, I pantomimed walked with my fingers.
He turned to another valet, a short, skinny black kid, and whispered something. Both of them stared at me.
I looked up at the top of the gate, and saw gold letters: SKYLARK.
"This is Mrs. Blalock's home, right?"
No response.
Page 19
"The University party? Dr. Kruse?"
The bearded one shrugged and trotted over to a pearl-gray Cadillac. The black kid stepped forward. "Got an invitation, sir?"
"No. Is one necessary?"
"We-ell." He smiled, seemed to be thinking hard. "You'all got no car, you'all got no invitation."
"I didn't know it was necessary to bring either."
He clucked his tongue.
"Is a car necessary for collateral?" I asked.
The smile disappeared. "You'all walked?"
"That's right."
"Where d'you'all live?"
"Not far from here."
"Neighbor?"
"Invited guest. My name is Alex Delaware. Dr. Delaware."
"One minute." He walked to the box, picked up the telephone, and spoke. Replacing the receiver, he said "One minute" again, and ran to open the doors of a white stretch Lincoln.
I waited, looked around. Something brown and familiar caught my eye: a truly pathetic vehicle pushed to the side of the road, away from the others. Quarantined.
Easy to see why: a scabrous Chevy station wagon of senile vintage, rust-pocked and clotted with lumpy patches of primer. Its tires needed air; its rear compartment was crammed with rolled clothing, shoes, cardboard cartons, fast-food containers, and crumpled paper cups. On the tailgate window was a yellow, diamond-shaped sticker: MUTANTS ON BOARD.
I smiled, then noticed that the clunker had been positioned in a way that prevented exit. A score of cars would have to be moved in order to free it.
A fashionably thin middle-aged couple climbed out of the white Lincoln and were escorted to the gate by the bearded valet. He put the oversized key in the slot, punched a code, and one iron door swung open. Slipping through, I followed the couple onto a sloping drive paved with black bricks shaped like fish scales. As I walked past him, the valet said, "Hey," but without enthusiasm, and made no effort to stop me.
When the gate had closed after him, I pointed to the Chevy and said, "That brown station wagon—let me tell you something about it."
Page 20
He came up next to the wrought iron. "Yes? What?" "That car is owned by the richest guy at this party. Treat it well—he's been known to give huge tips."
He swiveled his head and stared at the station wagon. I began walking. When I looked back he was playing musical cars, creating a clearing around the Chevy.
A hundred yards past the gate the eucalyptus gave way to open skies above a golf course quality lawn trimmed to stubble. The grass was flanked by ramrod columns of barbered Italian cypress and beds of perennials. The outer reaches of the grounds had been bulldozed into hillocks and valleys. The highest of the mounds were at the farthest reaches of the property, capped by solitary black pines and California junipers pruned to look windswept. The fish-scale drive humped. From over the crest came
the sound of music—a string section playing something baroque. As I neared the top I saw a tall old man dressed in butler's livery walking toward me.
"Dr. Delaware, sir?" His accent fell
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