"Here, boy!" I tried to whistle but got a mouthful of salty water instead. It saw me but wasn't interested. Sasha called and it saw her too, but no thanks. The dog (it looked like a vizsla or golden retriever) paddled by both of us and kept right on going. We looked at each other and made the same face – What can you do?
Treading water where we were, we could only watch.
"I thought it was drowning!"
"It sure didn't want our help. The loneliness of the long-distance swimmer."
Reaching shore, it trotted right out of the surf, looking supremely successful. One good shake and it was on its way again down the beach.
Sasha laughed. "I love that! Where did it come from?"
"Neptune."
She beamed. "Yes, Neptune's dog. Right!"
I moved over and took her in my arms. She hugged me. "That's so mysterious! It just came out of nowhere and didn't want to have a thing to do with us."
"Mysteries of the deep."
"Sometimes they're nice. Let's swim some more. I want another piggyback."
When we got back, Wyatt had laid everything out and was on his back sunning, but with an expression on his face like something smelled bad.
"What's the matter, Finky Linky?"
"I always like the idea of suntanning, but when I do it I get itchy and impatient."
I sat down next to him. "Isn't the idea to relax and let the sun do the work?"
He sat up, saw how wet I was, and moved away. "The idea that people spend hundreds of dollars so they can sit in the sun and sweat is beyond me.
"Look at what our friend made for lunch."
While we ate, Sasha told him about the dog. I'd thought it was a funny, oddball thing that made for a five-minute story. But she was enraptured and couldn't get over what had happened. I think Wyatt saw it my way because he kept encouraging her to go on while looking at me with what-is-this? eyes. Hours later I realized she was so starved for something light and good and amusing in her life that a swimming dog was reason enough for wonder.
We spent the day at the beach trying as subtly as possible to keep Sasha happy. When she laughed we wanted her to laugh more, louder, longer. We told stories and jokes and moved around as if putting the show on right here. Maybe we were. Sasha was really one of the good ones, a person who deserved every bit of our energy and concern. We knew she appreciated whatever we did and, if necessary, would give it back in duplicate one day. That's why she and Phil had gone so well together. They were both inordinately generous people who, quite touchingly, never really realized why their friends liked them so much.
At dusk we took a long walk down the beach. People were walking their dogs; lovers held hands and looked even more romantic than usual; a surfer missed a wave, and his board, flying up in the air, caught the orange of the setting sun and threw it over us a moment. On our left side, the ocean was all pound and rush. On our right, cars hissed by on the Pacific Coast Highway. A distant helicopter arched across the horizon.
Wyatt was an exceptional mimic and had done most of the voices for the creatures on The Finky Linky Show. Walking down the beach, we kept asking him to do Fiti, Elbow, Pearl, and the others. The funniest part was, he did them deadpan. Hands in pockets, face expressionless, he kept mixing the high birdy wheek of Pearl with, say, the bass-drum clump of Elbow. They had conversations, they sang songs together. Passing a man fishing in the surf, Wyatt broke off long enough to make the sound of line whizzing crazily off a spool, as if the guy had just caught Moby Dick.
After one of the voices demanded and got a round of applause from us, Wyatt stopped and, taking Sasha's arm, pulled her to him. She looked at him but he only shook his head and put his hand behind her back.
"What's your name, dear?"
Sasha opened her mouth, but before anything came out a voice very much like her own said, "Mrs. Bubble."
"Where do you come from, Mrs. Bubble?"
"The sea. I am her sea self."
"Did you know you had a sea self?"
Grinning, Sasha shook her head. Such a great look on her face: a child at a magic show, a kid sitting on Santa's knee at the department store.
The next day Wyatt and I had two appointments. The first was with the man who had taken over as producer of Midnight Kills. Our meeting with him was short and to the point. We told him we'd be willing to edit M.K. and, if necessary (I wanted to leave that door open), rewrite and film a scene to replace the one that had disappeared since the deaths of Strayhorn and Portland.
When he got over his false astonishment (we knew Sasha had already told him our plan), he asked how much we'd want to do this. Nothing; we were doing it for Phil. Then what kind of line in the credits did we want? None.
The meeting took as long as it did because it ended up with the producer threatening that if we didn't let him put both of our names high on the credits, he wouldn't let us do it. "You know how many more ticket and video sales I can make with your two names up there on the screen? The triumphant return together of Finky Linky and Oscar-winner Weber Gregston, writing the latest installment of Midnight! Jesus Christ, are you kidding? The press'll go crazy with this!"
Neither Wyatt nor I cared about a "triumphant return" to Hollywood, but if using our names was the condition under which things would be done our way, all right. We tentatively agreed and made a date to sign papers and see what was left of the film at the end of the week.
Our other meeting that day was with Dominic Scanlan and a friend of his on the police force. I knew of this other man only through Dominic's stories. His name was Charles something, but no one ever called him that. They called him "Blow Dry." Apparently even his children called him that.
As we were getting out of the car in the garage of the Beverly Center, Finky Linky asked, "Why are we having lunch at this dump with a man named Blow Dry?"
"Because Dominic says he's the most terrifying man he knows."
"Why do we want to meet him?"
"Because I have an idea. Actually, I have two ideas and he's going to help us on both."
"Don't you know enough horrible people?"
"Listen, Scanlan was a SEAL in Vietnam. You know about them? They made Special Forces look like sissies. He's also gotten four commendations for bravery from the police. When he says this guy is something, I want to meet him."
"Why here?"
"Because Blow Dry likes to come here on his lunch hour and shop."
"Please register my dissenting vote."
"I will. Let's go."
We rode the escalators up the side of the building with what seemed like everyone else in Los Angeles. Coincidentally, the first store we saw on entering the place was the pet shop where Phil had bought Flea.
"Where are we meeting Mr. Dry and Company?"
"At a computer store on the second floor."
"Changing the subject, have you thought about how you want to film the scene?"
"Yes. That's why I want to meet this guy."
Wyatt looked at me with his head cocked to one side. "Are you telling me something?"
"Not yet. I want to meet him first. Then I'll let you know what I'm thinking."
Clothes, food, intelligent toys, cutlery . . . you could probably buy everything you needed for the rest of your life at a big shopping mall. All the things for the different stages you'd go through would be included too. Want to be a hippie at fifteen and wear bell-bottom pants, eat whole grains, and listen to Vanilla Fudge? Third floor. Cut your hair at twenty-two, wear only black with rolled-up sleeves, and carry a black aluminum briefcase from Germany, don't forget the Ray Ban glasses? Fourth floor. Et cetera.