City of War Read Free Page A

in Stinson’s pool house. And since it doubled as a screening room, he spent months lying naked on one of the couches, watching Citizen Kane over and over.
    Personally, I think if he was watching anything, it was a picture of his own, like The Outlaw , instead of one done by a guy he hated—but Kane makes a better metaphor. That’s what I mean about Beverly Hills mythmaking. When was the last time anybody cared what John D. Rockefeller watched and what he wasn’t wearing while he watched it? And even if they did care, where else would it be bold-printed in the real estate listing?
    I bought the house—furnishings and all—six years ago. The previous owner had had a little problem with the tax man and was going to be spending the next decade as a federal guest if he didn’t get out of town—fast. He’d kept the house in his secretary’s name, and I was a cash buyer, so there wasn’t much haggling. The last I heard, he was living in Belize with a Norwegian underwear model.
    Little by little I’ve brought the place back to its past glory. I say little by little, because it’s nearly impossible to find craftsmen who can duplicate the original work. If I were counseling young people, I’d tell the ones who weren’t headed for college to forget everything they’ve been told about technology and learn the old trades. The supply of talent that can work with hardwoods, stained glass, hand-made fabric and countless other one-of-a-kinds you can’t buy at Home Depot is practically nonexistent.
    Anyone with any skill at all has a backlog of projects that runs into years. And because clients almost always have heavy money, you can charge whatever you like, and people will line up to pay it. Not a bad way to earn a living and get some creative satisfaction in the process. And woe be it unto the billionaire who gives his craftsmen a hard time. They simply walk out and leave him with a half-restoredterra-cotta fresco or a marble staircase to nowhere. The rich generally aren’t very careful about the way they treat people, but believe me, they kiss artisan ass.
    As I passed through my gate and wheeled up the tree-lined drive, I saw Mallory coming out the front door. He’s my houseman, valet, confidant and friend. He’s been with me almost from the day I was born, and his power to anticipate my needs is uncanny. I have no idea how I’d get along without him, and I try never to think about it.
    As soon as I stopped, he was already unloading my weekend gear from the Rolls, and in typical British fashion, he didn’t register so much as an arched eyebrow at the young lady who climbed out of the car wearing my shirt and nothing else.
    “Kim York, this is Mallory,” I said.
    Kim stuck out her hand, and Mallory took it as if he were greeting a marquesa —not a half-dressed young lady with mud on her feet.
    His clipped accent is as impeccable as his manners. “Welcome to the Black home, Ms. York. I knew some Yorks once. Sir Elliot and his lovely wife, Margaret.”
    “I don’t believe I know El and M,” Kim answered, “but we Yorks are a reserved lot, so it’s possible we were just never properly introduced.”
    I think Mallory was amused, because as he turned to go inside, he winked at me.
    Kim had gaped at the house when we’d arrived, but once inside, she stopped dead in her tracks. She took in the oval foyer’s marble and murals, then looked up the thirty feet or so at the massive crystal and wrought iron chandelier suspended from a long, thick chain. After a moment, she said, “There’s dust on the bulbs.”
    I laughed and said to Mallory, “Put Ms. York in the Toledo Room and see if you can scare up something for her to wear. Then let’s attend to that dust.”
    “Toledo Room? Pray tell?” Kim asked.
    “The previous owner had a real thing for Spanish steel.You’ll understand when you see it. Why don’t you grab a shower and come down for a snack and a nightcap.”
    As the two of them mounted the stairs, I