Free Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon Page A

free catering before their federal overlords showed up. Sounds of distant splashing, rock ‘ n ’ roll radio, eating between meals. Some kidnapping.
    As if auditioning for widowhood, Sloane Wolfmann strolled in from poolside wearing black spike-heeled sandals, a headband with a sheer black veil, and a black bikini of negligible size made of the same material as the veil. She wasn ’ t exactly an English rose, maybe more like an English daffodil, very pale, blond, reedy, probably bruised easily, overdid her eye makeup like everybody else. Miniskirts were invented for young women like her.
    In the time it took her to lead him through a dim sunken interior full of taupe carpeting, suede upholstery, and teak, which seemed to extend indefinitely in the direction of Pasadena, Doc learned that she had a degree from the London School of Economics, had recently begun studying tantric yoga, and had met Mickey Wolfmann originally in Las Vegas. She waved at a picture on the wall, which looked like a blowup of an eight-by-ten glossy from the lobby area of some nightclub. “ Why, goodness, ” said Doc, “ it ’ s you, isn ’ t it? ”
    Sloane made with the half-frown, half-smirk Doc had noticed among minor- and ex-showbiz people trying to be modest. “ My lurid youth. I was one of those notorious Vegas showgirls, working at one of the casinos. Up onstage in those days, with the lights, the eyelashes, all the makeup, we did look fairly much alike, but Michael, something of a connoisseur in these matters as I was later to learn, said that he picked me out the minute I walked on, and after that I was really the only one he could see. Romantic isn ’ t it, yes, c ertainly unexpected—next thing either of us knew, we were down at the Little Church of the West, and I had this on my finger, ” flashing a gigantic marquise-cut diamond up in the double digits someplace with respect to carats.
    She had told the story hundreds of times, but that was all right. “ Handsome stone, ” Doc said.
    Like an actress hitting her mark, she had come to a pause beneath a looming portrait of Mickey Wolfmann, shown with a distant stare, as if scanning the L.A. Basin to it’s farthest horizons for buildable lots. She whirled to face Doc and smiled sociably. “ Here we are, then. ”
    Doc noticed a sort of fake chiseled stone frieze above the portrait, which read, Once you get that first stake driven, nobody can stop you. — Robert Moses.
    “ A great American, and Michaels inspiration, ” said Sloane. “ That ’ s always been his motto. ”
    “ I thought Dr. Van Helsing said that. ”
    She ’ d found and stopped exactly inside a flattering convergence of lights that made her look like some contract star of the grand studio era, about to let loose with an emotional speech at some less expensive actor. Doc tried not to glance around too obviously to see where the light was coming from, but she noticed the flicker off his eyeballs.
    “ Do you like the lighting? Jimmy Wong Howe did it for us years ago.
    “ The D.P. on Body and Soul wasn ’ t he? Not to mention They Made Me a Criminal, Dust Be My Destiny, Saturdays Children — ”
    “ Those, ” quizzically, “ are all... John Garfield movies. ”
    “ Well. .. yes? ”
    “ Jimmy did film other actors. ”
    “ I ’ m sure he did ... oh, and Out of the Fog, too, where John Garfield is this evil gangster— ”
    “ Actually, what I find memorable about that picture is the way Jimmy lit Ida Lupino, which, now I think of it, had a lot to do with selling me on this house. Jimmy was certainly fond enough of specular highlights, all that prize-fighter sweat and chrome and jewelry and sequins and so forth ... but his work also had such a spiritual quality—you look at Ida Lupino in her closeups—those eyes!—and instead of hard-edged lamp reflections there ’ s this glow, this purity, almost as if it ’ s coming from inside—.. .. Excuse me, is that what I think it is? ”
    “ Darn! It ’