FOR FORTY YEARS Tony Duke had preached the gospel of meaning through pleasure, converting a generation and scooping1 millions from the collection plate.
The easy life was his creed2. For forty years every issue of Duke had splayed that dogma above the masthead.
Over four decades Duke pictorials3 had grown a bit more daring, but the magazine's format4 hadn't changed much since its first issue: golden-toned, milk-fed female nudity personified by the Treat of the Month, combined with suggestive cartoons, big-brotherly advice on dress, drink, and the acquisition of toys, token ventures into political journalism5.
When Duke published his maiden6 issue, photographic essays of bare breasts, pouting7 lips, and willing thighs8 were nothing new. Pinup calendars had been gas station fixtures9 for years, and "nature pictorials" had occupied a stable market niche10 since the invention of the camera. But all that was under-the-counter stuff, supposedly for guys in raincoats and lowered fedoras—sex as dirty, in the finest American tradition. Marc Anthony Duke's revolutionary act had been to veneer11 the skin rag with respectability. Now Suburban12 Dad could purchase T & A at the corner newsstand and be regarded as classy rather than creepy.
With its winking13 scamp logo and gloriously uddered, fresh-faced models, Duke magazine had been a major force in the crumbling14 of sexual censorship barriers, and Tony Duke had fought his share of legal battles. But his victories in court proved, ultimately, to be market-share defeats as each landmark15 decision allowed successively raunchier publications to achieve legitimacy16. Now, in a world where hard-core porn rentals17 were the number-one video-store commodity, Duke's airbrushed sensibilities seemed almost quaint18. When Tony Duke hit the papers these days, it was usually because he'd thrown a fund-raiser for some worthy19 cause.
All this and whatever else I thought I knew about him had been gleaned20 from the papers: California farm boy morphed to starving bookkeeper to failed Hollywood scriptwriter to the author of a dozen forgettable science fiction paperbacks21, then finally to head of the gutsy publishing venture that had earned him twenty beachfront acres and the kinds of toys his readers could only dream about. But the papers printed what you gave them, and no doubt Duke employed a fleet of publicists.
He had to be what—seventy, by now?
Older man.
As far as I knew he'd never been implicated22 in anything violent. On the contrary, he had a reputation as someone who genuinely loved women. Years ago I'd caught the tail end of a televised interview with him—some biographical feature on a network that deluded23 itself as substantive24. Duke had come across still boyish, if a bit frail25. A small, narrow-shouldered, goateed, ludicrously tanned elf of a man with an easy-to-listen-to drawl and friendly brown eyes.
Small brown face under a steel-hued hairpiece. Your eccentric favorite uncle, on shore leave from his latest jaunt26 to locales exotiques, brimming with ribald anecdotes27, naughty jokes, and the unspoken promise that he might, one day, take you with him.
As I watched the steaks sizzle, I continued to wonder. About Marc Anthony Duke and Lauren Teague and Shawna Yeager.
A few years ago, when our house was being rebuilt, Robin28 and I had rented on the beach in western Malibu. During that year I must've zipped past the Duke estate hundreds of times, never thinking about what went on behind those foliage-shielded walls. I had only the faintest memory of a green expanse: palms and pines, banks of devil ivy29, geraniums, rubber plants. The gate that had admitted Gretchen Stengel.
Tony Duke had made a fortune knocking down barriers, but he hid be-hind high walls. Milo was right: If Duke was involved it was a whole new game.
I made a salad, mixed iced tea, set the table, tempted30 Spike31 outside with porterhouse, and bolted the dog door. Robin came home just as I had everything in place. She looked tired and pale, and her hair was half tied, half loose. A beautiful woman anyway, but I wondered if Tony Duke would've noticed.
"This is wonderful," she said, washing up and pecking my cheek.
I took her in my arms, kissed her face, rubbed her back, ran my fingers through her curls, gently, so as not to snag. The sounds she made and the way she melted against me said I was doing okay, even though most of my concentration was spent blocking out the faces of dead people.
She found a bottle of cabernet that I'd forgotten about, and as we ate and drank my appetite returned. We did the dishes together, took a walk without Spike, holding hands, not saying much. The night was cold enough for visible breath, and the smog had traveled somewhere else. Winter, California style, was finally arriving. I'd check the garden tomorrow, maybe cut back some roses, see what the pond needed. Basic stuff. Concrete stuff. Time to get away from being useless.
When we got back home I got another peck on the cheek and a tired smile. Robin got into bed with a stack of magazines, and I went to my office and switched on the computer.
Marc Anthony Duke's name pulled up sixteen quick hits, mostly press pieces and the official Duke magazine website, decorated with grinning portraits of the man himself and thumbnails of pastied and G-stringed Treats Through the Years that could be enlarged with a click.
I scanned for a while, learned only one new fact: Two years ago Tony Duke had gone into "ultraleisure mode" and passed the day-to-day operations of Duke Enterprises to his daughter Anita. The accompanying PR photo showed an indigo-robed Duke posing proudly with a sternly attractive brunette in her thirties wearing a strapless black evening gown. Anita Duke was taller than her father by several inches, a shapely woman with smooth, bronze shoulders and nice teeth displayed by a tentative smile that appeared anything but happy. Described as "an investment banker with a Columbia University MBA and ten years experience on Wall Street." "These will be years of market growth and consumer-sensitivity for Duke Enterprises," she predicted. "Soon we'll be moving full-force into cyberspace32."
I searched for something less laudatory33, found a couple of Bible Belt organizations listing Duke Enterprises as "a tool of Satan." Then some paeans34 from fans—do-it-yourself stuff, with Tony Duke featured high on most-admired lists. From one of these I learned that Duke had been widowed two decades ago and remained single until four years ago, when he'd hooked up with a former Treat with the improbable name of Sylvana Spring ("the girl who tamed Tony!"), with whom he'd sired two children.
Any taming, though, had been short-lived. Duke and Sylvana had concluded an "amiable36 divorce" last year. The kids were proof, claimed the admiring webmaster, of "Tony Duke's Eternal Virility—eat your heart out, Viagra-chompers! Beautiful Sylvan35 and the rugrats still live in a guesthouse right their on T.D.'s palatiol Malibu spreadorama! The Man is ultra-gennerous and too-cool!"
Then pages of downloaded cartoons and centerfold photos, copyright infringements37 I supposed Duke tolerated. One unlined, doe-eyed, pouty-lipped face after another, sponge-rubber buttocks, geometrically barbered pubic triangles. And breasts. Peach-toned and pink-nippled, identically upswept, pneumatic in a way that Nature had never conceived.
I logged off, returned to the bedroom. Night chill had seeped38 in, and Robin was wearing a flannel39 nightgown, buttoned to the neck.
"I was just about to get you," she said. "Ready to go to sleep? I am."
Her hair was pinned, and she'd scrubbed her face clear of makeup40. Her eyes still looked tired, and her lips were chapped. A tiny pimple41 that I hadn't noticed before had sprouted42 on her forehead. I got into bed, rolled next to her, smelled toothpaste breath, the merest eau of perspiration43. As she began to stretch away from me, I kissed her, touched her.
She said, "I look horrid—wasn't planning to ..."
Then she sighed, hiked up her gown, drew me to her, held me tight. She was wet when I entered her, came quickly, chewed on my nipple, and rocked the pleasure out of me. When her body peeled away from mine, she was already asleep. I lay there on my back, feeling the thump44 of my heartbeat, feeling alone. She began snoring lightly, and her hand snaked across the bedsheet, touched my arm, found my index finger. Her pinkie curled around the digit45 and held on.
Deep in slumber46 but gripping my finger hard.
Not daring to move, I waited for sleep.
I awoke the next morning knowing I'd dreamed but struggling to retrieve47 the details. Something to do with a party . . . palm trees, blue water, naked flesh. Or was I imagining that?
I took a very hot shower, dressed, made coffee, and brought it to Robin's studio. She was goggled49 and gowned, about to enter the spray booth with a new mandolin, feigned50 patience when she saw me. After a few minutes of sipping51 and chat, I let her be and returned to the house. Thinking about parties again. Tony Duke's lifestyle. The kind of opulence52 that might attract a girl like Lauren. Would be even more of a lure53 for the Olive Queen of Santo Leon. Had Shawna Yeager covered for a bash at the Duke estate with a story about going to the library?
I drove to the U, hurried into the research library, checked out spools54 of L.A. Times microfiche, and searched the social calendar for mention of any parties thrown by Tony Duke over the last year.
Nothing.
Given Duke's reputation that seemed odd, and I retrieved55 the previous year's worth of spools, covered another six months with still no mention of bashes or fund-raisers at the Malibu estate.
Maybe there were certain parties Tony Duke kept out of the papers. Or maybe, finding himself a father again, the King of the Easy Life had changed his ways.
I kept searching, finally found something nearly two years ago. A "star-studded" benefit for a free speech organization that had earned Duke two paragraphs in the social pages and was accompanied by photos of The Man, gaggles of Treats, and various screen-famous faces—a plastic surgeon's bragging56 session. Anita Duke, too, standing57 behind her father wearing a conservative dark pantsuit and that same edgy58 smile as she looked down at her father.
His attention was elsewhere. He held two children in his lap— a plump-looking baby not more than a few months old and a two-year-old boy with a chubby59 face surrounded by cloud puffs60 of vanilla61 ringlets. No lounging duds for Dad—he wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. The toupee62 was gone, and his bald head was exposed in full, iridescent63 glory. Older and smaller than in the official Duke shots—as captured by the paper, The Man resembled nothing but a model grandfather.
"Paternal64 pride" read the caption65. "Magazine mogul Marc Anthony Duke relaxes with daughter Anita and her half-sibs, tykes Baxter and Sage66. Only the absence of son Ben prevented the evening from being a complete family reunion."
Son Ben.
I hurried out of the microfilm room, raced to the reference stacks, found Who's Who, pulled out the most recent copy, and paged furiously to the D's.
Duke, Marc Anthony (Dugger, Marvin George) b. Apr. 15,1929.
par48. George T. and Margaret L. (Baxter). m. Lenore Mancher, June 2, 1953 (dec. 1979) children:
Benjamin J., Anita C.
m. Sylvana Spring (Cheryl Soames) June 2, 1995 (div.) children: Baxter M., Sage A. ...
The rest didn't concern me.
Son Ben.
Professor Monique Lindquist's laughter rang in my ears.
The sex angle—if that's what you want from Ben Dugger . . .
Dugger dressed and drove below his means, used his father's real surname, eschewed67 the camera. Casting off notoriety? Rejecting what his father stood for? Both?
Now his research made sense.
The mathematics of intimacy68.
Reducing sweat and libido69 to grids70 and statistics.
The anti-Duke. Sins of the fathers . . . bearing some kind of guilt—had his church visit been part of a chronic71 quest for absolution?
An older man. Filling the Daddy void.
When I'd learned about Gretchen's visit to his father's estate, I'd veered72 away from Dugger, but now I was right back where I'd started.
Maybe it hadn't been Tony Gretchen had come to see.
Shawna Yeager posing for Duke magazine. Lauren, reminding herself to call "Dr. D." to talk about intimacy. Getting a job with Dugger, spending time with him in Newport Beach coffee shops—meals Dugger claimed were no more than vocational guidance. Dugger blushing and sweating as he insisted intimacy hadn't crept into his time with Lauren. But pseudointimacy was exactly what Lauren had sold, and a man could be forgiven for failing to see the truth.
Self-delusion . . . Lauren, shot to death. Michelle, shot to death, maybe because Lauren had confided73 in her. Shawna, posing for someone who claimed to be working for Duke.
There had to be a syllogism74 floating somewhere in that tangle75.
I had bad news for Milo.
收听单词发音 |
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scooping
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| n.捞球v.抢先报道( scoop的现在分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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pictorials
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| 以图画表示的，有画面的( pictorial的名词复数 ) | |
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format
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| n.设计，版式；[计算机]格式，DOS命令:格式化(磁盘)，用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据；v.使格式化，设计，安排 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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fixtures
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| （房屋等的）固定装置( fixture的名词复数 )； 如（浴盆、抽水马桶）； 固定在某位置的人或物； （定期定点举行的）体育活动 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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legitimacy
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| n.合法，正当 | |
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rentals
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| n.租费，租金额( rental的名词复数 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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paperbacks
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| n.平装本，平装书( paperback的名词复数 ) | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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cyberspace
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| n.虚拟信息空间，网络空间，计算机化世界 | |
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laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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paeans
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| n.赞歌，凯歌( paean的名词复数 ) | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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infringements
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| n.违反( infringement的名词复数 )；侵犯，伤害 | |
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seeped
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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pimple
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| n.丘疹，面泡，青春豆 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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digit
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| n.零到九的阿拉伯数字，手指，脚趾 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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49
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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51
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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52
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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53
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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54
spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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55
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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56
bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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edgy
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| adj.不安的；易怒的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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60
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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61
vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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62
toupee
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| n.假发 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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67
eschewed
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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libido
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| n.本能的冲动 | |
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grids
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| n.格子( grid的名词复数 )；地图上的坐标方格；（输电线路、天然气管道等的）系统网络；（汽车比赛）赛车起跑线 | |
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71
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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75
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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