A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (popular books to read TXT) 📗

I need to be closer to Paramount. I direct television and we’re going to be filming a series there.”

“Excellent. Congratulations. So you’re a TV director. Wonderful. That’s a nice living…Did you get hurt on set or something? I hope you’re all right. That’s a very big bandage.”

“It looks worse than it is,” I said. “Just had a little something frozen off at the dermatologist.”

He shook his head sympathetically. “I understand completely,” he said. “Every time I go in there, they do that to me. Last time, I told them just freeze my whole face and be done with it. But I love the sun! Always have. I’m a decadent person.”

“It’s good to enjoy life,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, and he looked at me shrewdly. He still wasn’t buying that I had any money. “And how did you find me, Mr.…oh, my God. I knew it a second ago.”

“Mendes. But just call me George,” I said, and George, thinking he had been summoned, jumped in my lap.

“No, not you George, me George,” I said.

“Charming dog,” Maurais said.

“Yes. A real lover,” I said.

“Right,” he said. “And how did you find me…George?” George looked at Maurais when he said that, wondering what Maurais wanted, and so I put George on the floor to maintain some professionalism, and the realtor continued: “It was a referral? Julie said a client of mine was a friend of yours.”

“Well, not exactly,” I said. “The thing is, I’ve been staying in Beachwood Canyon, with a friend, while I house-hunt, and I was walking my dog and I saw your FOR SALE sign on a wonderful house.” I pointed to his signs in the corner. “And it doesn’t have a pool but it looks like it would have a fantastic view, and I’m very interested in it.”

This confused him and made him a little nervous. “Beachwood Canyon?”

“Yes—2803 Belden Drive.”

I saw fear flash across his eyes, like birds in sudden flight. “Oh, there’s been a mistake,” he said. “That house isn’t for sale.”

“But your sign was there.”

“Well, it’s been taken off the market,” he said coolly, regaining his composure. “We can look at other properties.”

“That’s too bad it’s off the market. Why?”

“Because the owners don’t want to sell. That’s why.” He was now quite rigid in his chair, and all chumminess was gone.

“So it’s empty. What a waste. Do you think if I wrote a letter to the owners, I could convince them otherwise? Tell them it’s my dream house?”

“No. They really don’t want to sell. There are plenty of other houses for you to consider—”

“But I really do like that house, the view, the neighborhood.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just really not possible.” He looked at his watch. “You know, I have a call at 12:15, so why don’t you give me your email, and I’ll send you some listings in your price range, and we’ll go from there?”

“But I really like that house. So what’s the owners’ name? It doesn’t hurt to write a personal note—”

“Mr. Mendes—” he said, cutting me off, and I said, cutting him off, “You remembered!”

I was hoping to get things back on friendlier ground, but he ignored my remark and said, “You can send a note to me and I will pass it on.”

Then he looked at me, trying to put it all together: I didn’t have money, of that he was sure now, and why was I so hell-bent on that house? A house where two dead bodies had been at two o’clock in the morning but were now gone because somebody had them taken away. Maurais? He said he’d been busy that morning. Needed a nitro to get over it. And so he had to be wondering if I knew something. Then he looked at his watch again—signaling to me that his phony 12:15 call was imminent—and the whites of his eyes were yellow, the color of butter.

I said, all innocence: “So who do I address my note to?”

“Just address it to whom it may concern,” he said sharply, and stood up. “I really need to get ready for my call.” He walked over to his door and opened it. George and I made for the door and then I said: “Don’t you want my email for the listings?”

“Just give it to Julie on the way out, thank you,” and he herded George and me through the door and promptly closed it. Julie had looked up when she heard her name, and I said: “Mr. Maurais would like my email: it’s George Mendes five at AOL dot com. And it’s Mendes with an s.”

I’m still on AOL—I struggle with modernity—and that was the first thing that came to mind. Also, I emphasized the s again, like Rafi did, to stay in character, though it was futile, really, at this point, and I added the number 5 to make the email seem authentic, which was also futile, because Maurais knew I was wrong, very wrong, and Julie scribbled this nonsense email address onto a pad, and then George and I left, and Julie went back to studying her phone.

We hit the sidewalk outside of Maurais’s building and next door was a small Italian deli attached to a restaurant, Little Dom’s. I got a coffee to go to keep the Adderall company, and George lapped at a bowl of water they had for dogs.

Then we got in the car and I chastised myself for not handling things better with Maurais; I hadn’t extracted any information from him, except what was unspoken: the mention of the house had spooked him plenty and so he knew something. At least I had gotten that much.

My thought then was to plant myself there, follow Maurais when he left, and see if I could get him alone. In a more private setting, I might be able to squeeze something out of him, and I wondered how long I might have to wait before he made a move. Could be hours, and I thought of taking another Dilaudid or at least