TCOT Absurd Assumption C16
Perry took the high road in regard to Della's date with her former flame Bryce Hummel, and didn't fabricate an excuse to leave as the noon hour approached. Hunkered down in the office, memorizing facts and names and occasionally bouncing ideas or questions off of Della while she took notes or made telephone calls, getting up and pacing a couple times, he was Perry Mason, Attorney at Law again. His disappointment was genuine when she informed him she was meeting Bryce at the restaurant, as she hurriedly touched up her lipstick and scooted out the door.
He could understand Della not wanting her reunion with Hummel to take place in front of him. He had met Bryce Hummel once, and to say the meeting had been awkward would be underplaying it. His opinion of the man, formed by jealousy and preconceived notions, was low as a snake's belly, and it had taken great effort to be civil and not resort to nose-punching. Per the articles of the contract he was not allowed to ask Della what had gone wrong with Hummel, and conversely she was disallowed to tell him even if he did ask. If friends or family knew the reason Della wasn't with Hummel, they had aligned themselves with her and merely walked away if he had the impudence to bring up the man's name.
Still, it would be a big fat lie to say he wasn't anxious about Della's luncheon date with Bryce Hummel. This was the man, after all, he had feared in abstraction for years: the man who could take her away from him; the man Della might be able to marry.
But Della hadn't married Bryce Hummel. Perry continued to struggle with how he felt about that fact nearly three years later, especially in light of her refusal to marry Asher Langlois.
Perhaps the greatest tragedy of his life was finding out too late that Bryce Hummel was no longer part of Della's life, because not only had he dived into Robin Calhoun's bed, there were a couple other beds as well in quick succession before he realized that Robin's was the only bed in which he didn't hate himself completely. If wearing a damnable tie bar to test Della's reaction made him feel foolish today, what he had done after signing that equally damnable contract had only one word strong enough to describe it.
Humiliation.
It has been said that humility is the only defense against humiliation, and Perry Mason had never possessed much humility, so maybe he hadn't recognized it for what it was at the time, but from the distance of time there was a flashing neon sign.
Damn. Self-awareness was a bitch.
At twelve-thirty Perry walked down to the California Cuisine Deli, or CCD as the very perky blonde behind the counter called out in welcome as he entered the establishment. He ordered a California avocado salad because if he was indeed invited to dinner at Della's, the main course was to be a hearty meat and vegetable pie smothered in gravy (he had inquired of the Rochester's chef about what exactly a pasty was), so he didn't want anything heavy sitting in his stomach.
He sat alone at a table by a window, rethinking his views on total honestly for the umpteenth time; on what was proper behavior for an attorney in regard to his client – who also happened to be the love of said attorney's life – on what had been the final straw for Della; on how George Steinbrenner was single-handedly destroying baseball; on how he had lost himself eight years ago the moment he agreed to Harvey's dying plea.
Stepping down from the bench meant he could be who he really was again, and damn anyone who got in his way. He wasn't accustomed to being confused or unsure, so the past few days had been a humbling experience for an unhumble man. And if humiliation and confusion were unfamiliar to him, there was one emotion that was not: jealousy. He was jealous. Frighteningly, consumingly, intensely jealous of any man Della held affection for – including a dead man. He wondered if concentrating on the familiar pangs of jealousy would result in other, unfamiliar emotions losing their sting.
Perry lingered over a bottle of artesian spring water after polishing off a generous portion of salad, staring out the window and indulging in a bit of daydreaming after all the self-evaluation. A single verse of a song played continuously in his brain, one he and Della had often danced to, something about being drunk on dreams*, and he realized how closely the words described how he was feeling now.
Della had been a reality, the most real thing in his life, and then all reality was gone, leaving only memories and dreams, foreign objects to him; insidious, unsatisfying, and disquieting. He had been a successful attorney, he had been in love with a wondrous woman who touched his heart and his mind, and he had been happy. Then he was a judge, the wondrous woman was gone, he was with a different woman he wouldn't allow to touch him in any way but physically, and he was miserable. There was no longer reality for him, because he was no longer real himself, no longer the man he had been. Dreams, the very things he had always derided, became what sustained him, what gave him the tiniest hope of having Della in his life again.
Yes, self-awareness was definitely a bitch.
David Gordon did not show up for his usual workout until nearly two-forty-five, and despite witnessing a very interesting exchange between Arthur Gordon's only son and a man who could easily be called a 'goon', Perry walked away from the meeting of the mind that David couldn't be at the root of his father's murder because the kid didn't appear to have the guile to hatch a scheme to murder anyone. It would be reckless to rule him out completely, however.
Katherine Gordon's house at the beach was quite a drive from her brother's downtown gym and as Perry navigated the tangled traffic of the city he considered almost sentient, alive with its own distinct personality, the only city he had ever wanted to live in, he wondered if Della was back at the office or if she was still with Bryce Hummel, the man who had taken her away from him…and if he might want to do it again.
Of course, Perry didn't really have Della again, but as in the song, he could dream, couldn't he? Much like him, she wasn't one who would adapt well to retirement, and at her age wouldn't consider retiring, although she had enough hobbies and interests to keep her occupied when she did decide to stop working, as well as an enormous cobbled-together family of 'children' who adored her, and vice-versa.
All of those 'children' – Peggy, Nicky, Abby and Travis, Ronnie, Anne, Scott, Kay-Kay of course, Button, Robert, and the others he couldn't remember at the moment despite the fact Della to this day tried to include him in this unconventional collection of youngsters who had touched her heart. And it didn't surprise him in the least how many former clients and members of the legal community sent telegrams, cards, and letters, left messages, or sent flowers. Henny and Valerie volunteered the previous evening to organize everything for Della, to catalog phone messages in notebooks and file the written messages and all the little tokens of luck in letter boxes for when she had time to respond to them. The tokens of luck were mostly four leaf clover and horseshoe charms and medallions in silver and gold; some clovers real and preserved in Lucite; some fashioned from colored gems or rhinestones or enamel. Perry's favorite was the one that arrived first, a white-gold clover with a center diamond set on a swivel between the curved sides of a horseshoe sent by His Honor Craig Atherton, an old friend who recently celebrated his eightieth birthday by marrying the thirty-seven year old ghost-writer assisting him in documenting his years on the bench. Della adored the former judge's educated, articulate new wife, and completely understood the attraction she had for the much older man. Perry had been unable to attend the wedding three months ago due to a prior commitment with Robin Calhoun, but Della had attended with Asher Langlois, and had made a special effort to call and tell him all about the low-key event.
Perry preferred not to think about what might have happened if he had been able to attend Craig Atherton's wedding after having met the genteel Mr. Langlois. If his opinion of Bryce Hummel was low, his opinion of Asher Langlois resided somewhere south of that snake's belly.
The snarled traffic cleared sufficiently to force Perry to concentrate on driving more than on his thoughts until arriving at the Spanish-Grecian fusion home of Katherine Gordon perched over one of the less-populated rocky beaches of Malibu. That was good, because daydreaming wasn't going to solve Della's problems.
Katherine Gordon's beautifully made-up eyes appraised Perry Mason with the fixed amusement with which she regarded the entire world. "Well, well, well," she drawled, "this is an honor, Mr. Mason." By stepping aside she invited the attorney into the lavish marble floored entryway. He followed youthful swaying hips beneath a flowing silk caftan into a large, ornate living room.
Perry swiftly ran his eyes around the living room, taking in the panoramic ocean views, expensive furnishings and objects de art chosen by a designer more for appearance than for the occupant's particular tastes. He liked clean, modern lines, and while the room contained some modern pieces, they were overshadowed by regal columns and archways, heavy rugs juxtaposed against the simplicity of metal and glass. His eyes lingered for a moment on one such piece, the glass coffee table, before returning to the wall of windows.
"You have a beautiful home, Miss Gordon." Property wasn't as sought after on this particular Malibu beach due to the rocky terrain, but it was still mighty pricey.
Katherine folded herself onto a pristine white couch more suited for a simple beach cottage than this ornate, overly decorated house. "It should be for what I paid for it." There was no pride in her reply, only bored disinterest. She shifted her eyes from Perry Mason to the couch and back, but he pretended not to recognize the invitation as he seated himself in a brocade wing chair.
She may have spent the entirety of her mother's trust fund, but at least Katherine had invested more wisely than her brother and sister. "You get what you pay for."
Katherine tilted her head, picking up hidden nuances in the attorney's words. "You certainly do. To what do I owe this honor, Mr. Mason?"
"How did you get along with your father?"
"Please, come right to the point." She laughed disarmingly and toyed with the heavy necklace at her throat. "My father was a cold, remote, tyrant who drove my mother to suicide. He thought I was a tramp. I guess you could say we understood one another."
"Are you always so candid?"
She laughed again. "Thirteen years of analysis helped me admit the true feelings I had for my father without wanting to hang myself as well. I assume you asked that question because you think I had something to do with his murder."
Instead of answering, he asked another question. "Where were you two days ago?"
Katherine Gordon regarded him with coquettish innocence. "I can't recall that far back…"
Perry leveled his gaze at the attractive young woman. "Can you recall who's in the next room?"
Her face remained placid, but a slight shifting of her elegant body beneath the thin silk betrayed her. "The next room? Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Mason?"
Perry nodded toward the glass coffee table and a single cocktail glass. "There were two glasses on that table. There is a wet mark where it sat. Why don't I guess and say that Ken Braddock is in the next room."
"Lucky guess, Perry?"
Perry acknowledged Ken Braddock's voice with a brief sideways glance and satisfied smile. His legal colleague stood in the doorway to the raised dining room, casually attired in slacks and a lightweight sweater, holding the incriminatingly sweaty cocktail glass in his hand. "Not altogether lucky. I noticed at the will reading that you handed your lighter to Katherine instead of merely lighting her cigarette. And that she put your lighter in her purse. That's a fairly intimate thing to do. Both of you."
Ken smiled as he entered the living room. "You're good."
Katherine Gordon's eyes swept over Perry Mason with conspicuous admiration. "He's cute," she said to Ken Braddock while giving Perry Mason a slow, lingering smile. Katherine liked older men. They knew more about how to treat a woman than men her age and were far more satisfying in bed. She especially liked handsome, successful, older men, and Perry Mason was undeniably the epitome of a handsome, successful, older man.
Ken Braddock frowned and Katherine's smile quickly disappeared. Ken lowered himself to the couch next to her and slid his arm along the back cushion. "I'll be honest with you, Perry. As soon as all of this quiets down, I'm filing for divorce." He took a sip of his drink and met Perry's eyes with snarky frankness. "I hope my relationship with Kate will remain confidential." Perry Mason had handed his cigarette lighter to Della Street many, many times over the years, and Ken knew the older attorney would recognize the meaning behind his words.
Perry regarded Ken Braddock soberly. He could understand that. "I can understand that." Now he knew why the letter addressed to him had been delivered to Della's house. Cunning bastard.
Ken Braddock took another sip of his drink to hide the satisfied smirk on his lips, knowing he had pinched a nerve of the great Perry Mason, who had spent the past thirty years keeping his 'confidential' relationship just that, and everyone had humored him primarily out of respect for the charming Miss Street. "And for the record, Perry, Kate was with me two days ago. We were right here as usual. My wife thinks I was with a client in San Diego. She'll tell you that if you ask."
Della and I may have attempted to keep our relationship confidential, but we never lied, and no one else got hurt, Perry thought, his professional esteem for Ken Braddock surmounted by personal contempt. Margaret Braddock was twice the woman Katherine Gordon would ever be. Her only faults were being twenty-five years older and not having just inherited four million dollars. Sometimes the foolishness of his gender sickened him.
Ken Braddock stood suddenly, and Perry relaxed his stance. One thing he knew about Ken Braddock was his complete aversion to confrontation. His modus operandi was to act as the cool-headed negotiator, conciliatory yet calculating, and his smooth, unruffled demeanor had carried him far in his legal career. Landing Arthur Gordon as a client had been a coup – in more ways than one, apparently.
Perry bowed slightly, acknowledging the end to his surprise and interestingly productive visit. "I'll show myself out. See you both in court."
Maybe he should have asked for a rental car with a telephone.
After leaving Katherine Gordon's house, Perry drove back along the narrow strip of winding road that was Malibu looking for a public telephone, but found none. He parked the car and entered a restaurant, which did not have a telephone for public use, a bar that had a telephone but was too noisy, and finally another restaurant that still had an old-fashioned wooden booth. He sat on the scarred bench as nostalgia swept over him. How many such booths had he and Della called Paul Drake from, sliding in and out, their bodies titillatingly close? And how many such booths, if they could talk, would tell tales about a certain attorney and his beautiful secretary groping one another in uncontrollable lust brought about by sliding in and out of said booth? His hand shook as he dialed the number of Paul Drake's office.
Della's crisply efficient "Good afternoon, Drake Detective Agency" hit below the belt and he was glad to be sitting down in an enclosed space. "Della – it's me."
"Me who?"
He chuckled. "It hasn't been that long."
"Oh, it's you. Forgive me, but you're the last person I expected to hear from this afternoon. Are you demonstrating the element of surprise?"
"Okay, okay, point taken. Did you have a nice lunch?"
"Yes."
He had hoped for a bit of elaboration, but apparently she was going to be evasive, on top of being a brat. "I just left Katherine Gordon's beach house and I'm on my way back to the city. It will take an hour or more. I'll hit rush hour traffic at its peak."
"Can you make it to the house by six?"
He grinned into the receiver, knowing full well she knew he was grinning. "Easily."
"Good. Bring beer. See you."
She hung up.
Perry had to stay in the booth for several minutes before venturing out, lest he embarrass himself.
*I Can Dream, Can't I
As we eye the blue horizon's bend
Earth and sky appear to meet and end
But it's merely an illusion
Like your heart and mine
There is no sweet conclusion
I can see no matter how near you'll be
You'll never belong to me
But I can dream, can't I
Can't I pretend that I'm locked in the bend
Of your embrace
For dreams are just like wine
And I am drunk with mine
I'm aware my heart is a sad affair
There's much disillusion there
But I can dream, can't I
Can't I adore you although we are oceans apart
I can't make you open your heart
But I can dream, can't I
Songwriters
IRVING KAHAL, SAMMY FAIN