A Graveyard for Lunatics

We advanced along the path.

“Watch it. We don’t want to be seen playing this stupid game.”

We arrived at the wall. There was nothing there, of course.

“Like I said, if the body was ever here, we’re too late.” Roy exhaled and glanced.

“No, look. There.”

I pointed at the top of the wall.

There were the marks, two of them, of some object that had leaned against the upper rim.

“The ladder?”

“And down here.”

The grass at the base of the wall, about five feet out, a proper angle, had two half-inch ladder indentations in it.

“And here. See?”

I showed him a long depression where the grass had been crushed by something falling.

“Well, well,” murmured Roy. “Looks like Halloween’s starting over.”

Roy knelt on the grass and put his long bony fingers out to trace the print of the heavy flesh that had lain there in the cold rain only twelve hours ago.

I knelt with Roy staring down at the long indentation, and shivered.

“I—” I said, and stopped.

For a shadow moved between us.

“Morning!”

The graveyard day watchman stood over us.

I glanced at Roy, quickly. “Is this the right gravestone? It’s been years. Is—”

The next flat tombstone was covered with leaves. I scrabbled the dust away. There was a half-seen name beneath. SMYTHE. BORN 1875-DIED 1928.

“Sure! Old grandpa!” cried Roy. “Poor guy. Died of pneumonia.” Roy helped me brush away the dust. “I sure loved him. He—”

“Where’re your flowers?” said the heavy voice, above us.

Roy and I stiffened.

“Ma’s bringing ’em,” said Roy. “We came ahead, to find the stone.” Roy glanced over his shoulder. “She’s out there now.”

The graveyard day watchman, a man long in years and deep in suspicion, with a face not unlike a weathered tombstone, glanced toward the gate.

A woman, bearing flowers, was coming up the road, far out, near Santa Monica Boulevard.

Thank God, I thought.

The watchman snorted, chewed his gums, wheeled about, and strode off among the graves. Just in time, for the woman had stopped and headed off, away from us.

We jumped up. Roy grabbed some flowers off a nearby mound.

“Don’t!”

“Like hell!” Roy stashed the flowers on Grandpa Smythe’s stone. “Just in case that guy comes back and wonders why there’re no flowers after all our gab. Come on!”

We moved out about fifty yards and waited, pretending to talk, but saying little. Finally, Roy touched my elbow. “Careful,” he whispered. “Side glances. Don’t look straight on. He’s back.”

And indeed the old watchman had arrived at the place near the wall where the long impressions of the fallen body still remained.

He looked up and saw us. Quickly, I put my arm around Roy’s shoulder to ease his sadness.

Now the old man bent. With raking fingers, he combed the grass. Soon there was no trace of anything heavy that might have fallen from the sky last night, in a terrible rain.

“You believe now?” I said.

“I wonder,” said Roy, “where that hearse went to.”

9

As we were driving back in through the main gate of the studio, the hearse whispered out. Empty. Like a long autumn wind it drifted off, around, and back to Death’s country.

“Jesus Christ! Just like I guessed!” Roy steered but stared back at the empty street. “I’m beginning to enjoy this!”

We moved along the street in the direction from which the hearse had been coming.

Fritz Wong marched across the alley in front of us, driving or leading an invisible military squad, muttering and swearing to himself, his sharp profile cutting the air in two halves, wearing a dark beret, the only man in Hollywood who wore a beret and dared anyone to notice!

“Fritz!” I called. “Stop, Roy!”

Fritz ambled over to lean against the car and give us his by now familiar greeting.

“Hello, you stupid bike-riding Martian! Who’s that strange-looking ape driving?”

“Hello, Fritz, you stupid…”I faltered and then said sheepishly, “Roy Holdstrom, world’s greatest inventor, builder, and flier of dinosaurs!”

Fritz Wong’s monocle flashed fire. He fixed Roy with his Oriental-Germanic glare, then nodded crisply.

“Any friend of Pithecanthropus erectus is a friend of mine!”

Roy grabbed his handshake. “I liked your last film.”

“Liked!” cried Fritz Wong.

“Loved!”

“Good.” Fritz looked at me. “What’s new since breakfast!”

“Anything funny happening around here just now?”

“A roman phalanx of forty men just marched that way. A gorilla, carrying his head, ran in Stage 10. A homosexual art director got thrown out of the Men’s. Judas is on strike for more silver over in Galilee. No, no. I wouldn’t say anything funny or I’d notice.”

“How about passing through?” offered Roy. “Any funerals?”

“Funerals! You think I wouldn’t notice? Wait!” He flashed his monocle toward the gate and then toward the backlot. “Dummy. Yes. I was hoping it was deMille’s hearse and we could celebrate. It went that way!”

“Are they filming a burial here today?”

“On every sound stage: turkeys, catatonic actors, English funeral directors whose heavy paws would stillbirth a whale! Halloween, yesterday, yes? And today the true Mexican Day of Death, November 1st, so why should it be different at Maximus Films? Where did you find this terrible wreck of a car, Mr. Holdstrom?”

“This,” Roy said, like Edgar Kennedy doing a slow burn in an old Hal Roach comedy, “is the car in which Laurel and Hardy sold fish in that two reeler in 1930. Cost me fifty bucks, plus seventy to repaint. Stand back, sir!”

Fritz Wong, delighted with Roy, jumped back. “In one hour, Martian. The commissary! Be there!”

We steamed on amidst the noon crowd. Roy wheeled us around a corner toward Springfield, Illinois, lower Manhattan, and Piccadilly.

“You know where you’re going?” I asked.

“Hell, a studio’s a great place to hide a body. Who would notice? On a backlot filled with Abyssinians, Greeks, Chicago mobsters, you could march in six dozen gang wars with forty Sousa bands and nobody’d sneeze! That body, chum, should be right about here!”

And we dusted around the last corner into Tombstone, Arizona.

“Nice name for a town,” said Roy.

10

There was a warm stillness. It was High Noon. We were surrounded by a thousand footprints in backlot dust. Some of the prints belonged to Tom Mix, Hoot Gibson, and Ken Maynard, long ago. I let the wind blow memory, lifting the hot dust. Of course the prints hadn’t stayed, dust doesn’t keep, and even John Wayne’s big strides were long since sifted off, even as Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John’s sandal marks had vanished from the shore of the Sea of Galilee just one hundred yards over on Lot 12. Nevertheless, the smell of horses remained, the stagecoach would pull in soon with a new load of scripts, and a fresh batch of riflemen cow pokes. I was not about to refuse the quiet joy of just sitting here in the old Laurel and Hardy flivver, looking over at the Civil War locomotive, which got stoked up twice a year and became the 9:10 from Galveston, or Lincoln’s death train taking him home, Lord, taking him home.

But at last I said, “What makes you so sure the body’s here?”

“Hell.” Roy kicked the floorboards like Gary Cooper once kicked cow chips. “Look close at those buildings.”

I looked.

Behind the false fronts here in Western territory were metal welding shops, old car museums, false-front storage bins and—

“The carpenters’ shop?” I said.

Roy nodded and flivvered us over to let the dog die around the corner, out of sight.

“They build coffins here, so the body’s here.” Roy climbed out of the flivver one long piece of lumber at a time. “The coffin was returned here because it was made here. Come on, before the Indians arrive!”