I drove right over and we sat on the lawn chairs in back. My brother recounted an episode that for years was buried in the most remote corner of my mind because I had never given it the slightest significance.
I was around fourteen, visiting my father in L.A. He had moved out there after selling his first business and had bought a sprawling ranch home high in the Hollywood Hills.
He wasn’t working at that time and his girlfriend then was a waitress at the Playboy Club. She and a couple of her equally mind-boggling friends were hanging out in the pool, which I remember had most of my attention. A buddy of my dad’s was there as well, a goateed so-called real estate entrepreneur named Phil Stella, who I later found out was an ex-con and whose main role then was pretty much as a supplier of hot chicks whom he referred to as his “wards,” but who I eventually realized were actually working for him.
That afternoon, Charlie and a couple of his friends dropped in. One was a blond surfer type in a Hawaiian shirt, whom Charlie introduced as a record producer or something, and the other a thin, dark-featured guy in an embroidered blue caftan with long black hair and these intense, deep-set eyes.
All I remembered was the three of them animatedly trying to pitch my dad—who clearly wanted nothing to do with it—on the idea of anteing up several thousand dollars to help Charlie produce a record.
After the thousands he had spent on hospitals and lawyers bailing Charlie out of jails, Lenny wasn’t biting.
“You remember what he did?” Charlie asked me, as if the scene had happened yesterday and was still vivid in his mind.
“You mean the guy you were with?” I asked, to get him to clarify.
“No. Dad,” Charlie said with an edge. “You remember the rest of the story?”
What I did remember was my dad and Phil looking at each other amusedly and Phil shrugging. “I don’t know, I’m a little intrigued. Why don’t you go out to my Jag in the driveway?” Phil said. “There’s an envelope in the glove compartment with a bunch of cash in it. Bring it in.”
Charlie and his Hawaiian-shirt pal got all excited, their legs spinning like in the cartoons as they dashed out to the driveway. A minute later they returned, empty-handed and humiliated, faces flush with anger. Phil was cackling like a bully who’d just tripped a naïve freshman in front of a group of girls. My father told Charlie and his loser friends to get the hell out. “What are you, fucking crazy?” he exclaimed. The surfer dude was seething. Charlie, veins popping, jabbed his finger at my dad—“You’ve fucking shat on me for the last time!”
The longhair in the blue caftan just stood up with this cryptic half smile. He told Charlie to let it go, that they’d find the money somewhere else. That it wasn’t right to treat your father with disrespect. He thanked Lenny for his time, casting a thin smile toward Phil, who sat there shaking his head as if they were the biggest rubes on the planet. The guy in the caftan said he was very sorry to bother them all. Then they all left. Afterward, my father and Phil just sat there laughing.
“That was Russell Houvnanian?” I said to Charlie in shock. I looked at him and conjured the scene I’d buried in my mind for more than thirty years. I don’t think I even saw Charlie again for years after that. It was one of a thousand such moments. I’d never had another reason to bring it to mind.
“Yes.” Charlie nodded dully. “That was him.”
“And when did all the bad stuff happen?”
“The bad stuff . . . ?” Charlie said with a smile. “The bad stuff always happened, Jay. But if it’s the Riorden murders you mean—six months, maybe a year later.
“Anyway,” Charlie said, “it’s all a little foggy to me too. It’s been thirty-five years, not to mention a couple of hundred hits of LSD . . .” He looked at me. “Why is all this so important now?”
I told him the murdered detective, Zorn, was one of the original detectives on the Houvnanian case.
“Oh.” I heard Charlie draw a breath and was expecting him to come back with, So what does this have to do with Evan and me?
Instead he said, “Listen, Jay, you’ve done what you can, maybe you oughta just head back home tomorrow . . .”
I already planned to pick up with Sherwood again in the morning. Maybe Zorn knew about Charlie’s past and wanted to contact him through Evan. Not that I had any idea why.
“Charlie, there’s a possibility this is somehow tied into Evan.”
His eyes lit softly and he grinned, his ground-down teeth showing through his beard. “Now you’re sounding a little crazy, Jay. Really, you’ve done all that you can, guy. Just go on home . . .”
“I will. Maybe in another day. But there could be something here, Charlie.”
He was about to say something else, then simply nodded, his eyes kind of runny and sullen and his energy trailing off.
I said I’d talk to him tomorrow. His urgency to find the truth about his son suddenly seemed to have dimmed. I thought it could be just another swing of his mood—the finality of what had taken place sinking in.
I went back and called room service and ordered an onion soup and a burger. I thought maybe I should call Kathy, but this Houvnanian thing was suddenly gnawing at me.
I was intrigued. I was pretty much just a kid back then, and I didn’t know much more about him than I’d read.
I took out my computer and went online.