Now Gropetti pushed back his plate, dabbing a napkin around his mouth and beard. The little film director, still wearing his black beret, had been eating Beef Stroganoff with noodles, washed down generously with Chianti. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.
"Yes," Brett said, "do you ever want to get involved - really involved - with subjects you do films about?"
The director looked surprised. "You mean do crusading crap? Chivvy people up?"
"Yes," Brett acknowledged, "that's the kind of crap I mean."
"A pox on that! Sure, I get interested; I have to be. But after that I take pictures, kiddo. That's all." Gropetti rubbed his beard, removing a fragment of noodle which the napkin had missed. He added, "A buttercup scene or a sewer - once I know it's there, all I want axe the right lens, camera angle, lighting, sound sync. Nuts to involvement! Involvement's a full-time job."
Brett nodded. He said thoughtfully, "That's what I think, too."
***
In his car, driving Barbara home, Brett said, "It's going well, isn't it? The film."
"So well!" She was near the middle of the front seat, curled close beside him. If he moved his face sideways he could touch her hair, as he had already, several times.
"I'm glad for you. You know that."
"Yes," she said. "I know."
"I wouldn't want any woman I lived with not to do something special, something exclusively her own."
"If I ever live with you, I'll remember that."
It was the first time either of them had mentioned the possibility of living together since the night they had talked about it several months ago.
"Have you thought any more?"
"I've thought," she said. "That's all."
Brett waited while he threaded traffic at the Jefferson entrance to the Chrysler Freeway, then asked, "Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head negatively.
"How much longer will the film take?"
"Probably another month."
"You'll be busy?"
"I expect so. Why?"
"I'm taking a trip," Brett said. "To California."
But when she pressed him, he declined to tell her why.
Chapter 19
The long, black limousine slowed, swung left, then glided smoothly, between weathered stone pillars, into the paved, winding driveway of Hank Kreisel's Grosse Pointe home.
Kreisel's uniformed chauffeur was at the wheel. Behind him, in the plush interior, were Kreisel and his guests, Erica and Adam Trenton. The car's interior contained - among other things - a bar, from which the parts manufacturer had served drinks as they drove.
It was late evening in the last week of July.
They had already dined - at the Detroit Athletic Club downtown. The Trentons had met Kreisel there, and a fourth at dinner had been a gorgeous girl, with flashing eyes and a French accent, whom Kreisel introduced merely as Zoe. He added that she was in charge of his recently opened export liaison office.
Zoe, who proved an engaging companion, excused herself after dinner and left. Then, at Hank Kreisel's suggestion, Adam and Erica accompanied him home, leaving their own car downtown.
This evening's arrangements had been an outcropping of Adam's weekend at Hank Kreisel's lakeside cottage. Following the cottage affair, the parts manufacturer telephoned Adam, as arranged, and they set a date. Inclusion of Erica in the invitation made Adam nervous at first, and he hoped Kreisel would make no references to the cottage weekend in detail, or Rowena in particular. Adam still remembered Rowena vividly, but she was in the past, and prudence and common sense dictated she remain there. He need not have worried. Hank Kreisel was discreet; they talked of other things - next season's prospects for the Detroit Lions, a recent scandal in city government, and later the Orion, some of whose parts Kreisel's company was now manufacturing in enormous quantities. After a while Adam relaxed, though he still wondered what, precisely, Hank Kreisel wanted of him.
That Kreisel wanted something he was sure, because Brett DeLosanto had told him so. Brett and Barbara had been invited tonight but couldn't make it - Barbara was busy at her job; Brett, who was leaving soon for the West Coast, had commitments to finish first. But Brett confided yesterday, "Hank told me what he's going to ask, and I hope you can do something because there's a lot more to it than just us." The air of mystery had irritated Adam, but Brett refused to say more.
Now, as the limousine stopped at Kreisel's sprawling, ivy-draped mansion, Adam supposed he would know soon.
The chauffeur came around to open the door and handed Erica out. With their host following, Erica and Adam moved onto the lawn nearby and stood together, the big house behind them, in the growing dusk.
The elegant garden, whose manicured lawn, well-trimmed trees and shrubs wore the patina of professional care, sloped downward to the uncluttered, boulevarded lanes of Lake Shore Road, the roadway offering no interruption - except for occasional traffic - to a panoramic view of Lake St. Clair.
The lake was still visible, though barely; a line of white wavelets marked its edge, and far out from shore, lights of lake freighters flickered. Closer at hand a tardy sailboat, using its outboard as a hurry-home, headed for a Grosse Pointe Yacht Club mooring.
"It's beautiful," Erica said, "though I always think, when I come to Grosse Pointe, it isn't really part of Detroit."
"If you lived here," Hank Kreisel answered,"you'd know it was. Plenty of us still smell of gasoline. Or had grease under our fingernails once."
Adam said dryly, "Most Grosse Pointe fingernails have been clean for a long time." But he knew what Kreisel meant. The Grosse Pointes, of which there were five - all separate fiefdoms and traditional enclaves of great wealth - were as much a part of the auto world as any other segment of Greater Detroit. Henry Ford II lived down the street in Grosse Pointe Farms, with other Fords sprinkled nearby like rich spices. Other auto company wealth was here too - Chrysler and General Motors fortunes, as well as those of industry suppliers: big, older names like Fisher, Anderson, Olson, Mullen, and newer ones like Kreisel. The money's current custodians hobnobbed in socially exclusive clubs - at the apex the creaking, overheated Country Club, with a waiting list so long that a new, young applicant without family ties could expect to be admitted at senility. Yet for all its exclusiveness, Grosse Pointe was a friendly place - a reason why a squadron of salaried auto executives made it their home, preferring its "family" scene to the more management-oriented Bloomfield Hills.
Once, older Grosse Pointers looked down patrician noses at automotive money. Now it dominated them, as it dominated all Detroit.
A sudden, night breeze from the lake stirred the air and set leaves rustling overhead. Erica shivered.
Hank Kreisel suggested, "let's go in."
The chauffeur, who appeared to double in butlerage, swung heavy front doors open as they approached the house.
A few yards inside, Adam stopped. He said incredulously, "I'll be damned!"
Beside him, Erica, equally surprised, stood staring. Then she giggled.
The main floor living room into which they had stepped had all the accouterments of elegance - deep broadloom, comfortable chairs, sofas, sideboards, bookshelves, paintings, a hi-fi playing softly, and harmonious lighting. It also had a fullsize swimming pool.
The pool, some thirty feet long, was attractively blue tiled, with a deep end, shallow end, and a three-tiered diving board.
Erica said, "Hank, I shouldn't have laughed. I'm sorry. But it's . . .
surprising."
"No reason not to laugh," their host said amiably. "Most people do. Good many think I'm nuts. Fact is, I like to swim. Like to be comfortable, too."
Adam was looking around him with an amazed expression. "Its an old house. You must have ripped the inside out."
"Sure did."
Erica told Adam, "Quit making like an engineer and let's go swimming."
Obviously pleased, Kreisel said, "You want to?"
"You're looking at an Island girl. I could swim before I could talk."
He showed her to a corridor. "Second door down there. Lots of swimsuits, towels."
Adam followed Kreisel to another changing room.
Minutes later, Erica executed a dazzling swallow dive from the highest board. She surf aced, laughing. "This is the best living room I was ever in."
Hank Kreisel, grinning, dived from a lower board. Adam plunged in from the side.
When they had all swum, Kreisel led the way - the three of them dripping - across the broadloom to deep armchairs over which the butler-chauffeur had spread thick towels.
In a fourth chair was a gray-haired, frail-appearing woman, beside her a tray of coffee cups and liqueurs. Hank Kreisel leaned over, kissing her cheek. He asked, "How was the day?"
"Peaceful."
"This is my wife, Dorothy," Kreisel said. He introduced Erica and Adam.
Adam could understand why Zoe had been left downtown.
Yet, as Mrs. Kreisel poured coffee and they chatted, she seemed to find nothing strange in the fact that the others had had a dinner engagement in which - for whatever reason - she was not included. She even inquired how the food had been at the Detroit Athletic Club.
Perhaps, Adam thought, Dorothy Kreisel had come to terms with her husband's other life away from home - his various mistresses in "liaison offices," which Adam had heard of. In fact, Hank Kreisel seemed to make no secret of his arrangements, as witness Zoe tonight.