He believes a man named Valentine killed the girl. Valentine, played by Peter Fonda, is a legendary record producer who lives in an architectural showcase in the hills above L.A.--one of those places with a swimming pool cantilevered out over the valley. It is a nice irony that both Valentine and Wilson (the Stamp character) made their money from rock music: Valentine by selling the tickets, Wilson by stealing the receipts of a Pink Floyd concert.
Valentine's security problems are dealt with, we learn, by Avery (Barry Newman), also around 60, with the expensive suit and the tinted glasses. The men have recently been involved in a drug deal. Valentine is nervous; he doesn't want anything to "touch" him. Avery is paid well to reassure him: "The goods have been turned around, the money's been laundered, the guys are dead. This is a good thing." The two men have the kind of relationship you sometimes see between two business partners who have long since lost interest in their business or each other, but stay together because they need to drive a Mercedes.
Soderbergh's direction of the film takes the underlying story, which is basic Ross Macdonald, and uses the visuals to add an ironic amusement. Notice, for example, the scene where Wilson and his acting security guy (a big, tough Mexican-American played by Luis Guzman) arrive for a party at Valentine's house. We get a point-of-view shot through binoculars, which is standard, and shows guests arriving at the hilltop house. But then we focus on Wilson, who has never seen valet parkers before and thinks all those guys in uniforms are minders and bodyguards.
And watch a later scene, where Wilson has a run-in with one of Valentine's actual bodyguards, a tough guy dispatched by Avery to bounce him out of the party. Wilson throws him over the edge of the swimming deck and to his death on the hillside below. Standard. But the cinematographer, Ed Lachman, keeps it in a long shot, in the background; the foreground is filled with Valentine relaxing in what he thinks is safety. Neat.
Avery realizes he must have Wilson killed and goes to a pool hall to hire a hit man. The hired hand is one those wise guys who always has the verbal commentary going. "I embrace my lifestyle," he says. We realize he isn't a kid, either. Forty, maybe. In Southern California youth is eternal, and these guys, with their tans and haircuts and clothes and cars and young girlfriends, believe their own images and think they're still nimble and tough.
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