And there, among the moldering tombstones and iron fence posts encrusted with verdigris, he waits — a towering figure with arms outspread from the billowing sleeves of his cloak and massive horns coiled atop its shaggy head. She draws nearer to him, her bare legs swept with lazy mist, and the moonlight reveals the beast’s awful face, the face of a goat with grinning teeth and soulless black slits for pupils.
Intertitle: “Two more!”
The goatman beckons to the sepulchral bed, to consummate their unholy union, and Clara, sneering, slips free from her burial gown and complies…
Much of the cast and crew — Rob Scaife, the goatman, included — planned to descend en masse upon Saul in his hospital room after the day’s filming. Grace needed no time to decide upon a round of drinks at the nearest blind pig instead. She waved off her driver in the lot, hitched the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and walked the quarter mile to Anthony’s, which was reputed to be run by a Chicago syndicate man snaking his fingers into Los Angeles. But the booze was no bathtub moonshine to give anyone seizures and the place never got raided, so who was Grace to complain?
She found a nice dark table in the back and ordered a waitress to set them up — a glass of beer, a shot of whiskey, and a cup of hot black coffee to keep the motor running. The round came back in good time, and Grace dumped the whiskey down with the sharp image of Jack Parson’s leering look as she writhed beneath the Satanic figure of his goatman.
“Hold on a minute,” she gasped at the waitress with her first post-hooch breath. “Another one of those.”
The girl nodded and went back for the bar. Grace started in on her beer and closed her eyes, trying in vain to think of anything apart from the awkward humiliation of that dreadful scene. She’d known it was coming, she’d read the pages weeks ago. But she’d also dreaded it all those weeks, and now that it was done she wondered how Jack would ever get it past the censors, what theaters would dare book a picture like that. And worse still, what studio would stoop to hire the girl who fucked the devil in Angel of the Abyss.
“Thanks,” she said to the waitress upon delivery of another whiskey. It went down as quickly as the first one and the girl vanished before Grace could request yet a third. It didn’t matter. She was feeling it, the burn in her breast and the slowly approaching fog in her brain. She nursed the beer and the coffee in equal measure, bought a package of Chesterfields from the cigarette girl, and watched a mixed-race band starting to set up on a stage barely big enough to hold them and their instruments. By the time the waitress finally returned, she pointed to each empty vessel and said, “And how about a pencil and something to write on, huh?”
27
“An individual’s chances of surviving a thing like this depends upon a number of variables,” the doctor said, his voice even and without much inflection. “It depends on where in the brain the point of impact is, which part of the brain is affected. Also the velocity of the bullet is key, as is whether or not the bullet then exits the brain or stays inside, even in fragments. You lucked out on all counts, Mr. Woodard.”
“Except for the part where he got shot in the head,” Jake said. He was sitting on an unoccupied hospital bed beside me, listening intently. I was surprised he was still in Los Angeles, much less there in the hospital. But I didn’t yet know how long I’d been out.
It was only a couple of days. I’d been awake for most of a third.
One of my eyes was still swollen and my vision was hazy, like I was drunk. Equally impaired were my motor skills and speech. Inside my brain everything seemed fine, but my body and mouth were slow to get the message.
“In your case,” the doctor continued, “your recovery is going to rely much more on physical therapy than the surgery. Your speech is slurred, and your right side appears mildly impaired.”
Almost instinctively I tried to make a fist with my right hand. All I managed to do was smash my fingers together in a weak lobster claw imitation.
“Now whether you feel up to speaking with the police is your decision, Mr. Woodard. I’ve given it my okay, provided that it’s brief and not too stressful. But if you feel the need for more time — more rest, really — then that is what I’ll tell him.”
“Shea?” I asked. It sounded like Thay.
“That’s the detective, yes.”
Jake leaned forward. “He wants to see if the guys who shot you are the same ones who came after us.”
“Us?” I wondered aloud.
“Long story, but I’ll fill you in.”
I blinked my good eye and swallowed, or tried to. My throat felt like it was coated with wax paper.
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. The doctor left and Jake stood up, patted me gently on the shoulder. He said, “This is going to be the best drinking story you ever had.”
“I get all the best breaks,” I said.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m just glad you’re going to be all right.”
Shea came in then, tugging at his lower lip. His shirt was untucked and he hadn’t shaved in a day or two. All things considered, I didn’t feel too sorry for him.
“How are you feeling, Graham?”
I gave a thumbs-up. I was being sarcastic, but he didn’t seem to catch on.
“Mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?”
“No,” I said.
He sat down where Jake had been. Jake remained standing beside me as though he was my defense attorney or something. His protectiveness was more than a little baffling to me, but I tried to keep my focus on the cop.
“I’ll try to make this as quick as I can,” he began. “How many individuals attacked you?”
“Three.”
“All men? Were any of them women?”
“Men,” I said.
“No Mrs. Parson,” Jake cut in. Shea shot him a look.
“Mr. Maitland…”
“Sorry.”
To me, Shea asked, “Can you describe these men?”
I took in a slow breath, thinking it over. “Ordinary,” I said. “White guys. Thirties, maybe early forties. Dressed sort of casual preppy. Polo shirts, suit jackets.”
“Any names?”
“No.”
“David doesn’t ring a bell?”
“No.”
“Ever heard of Cora Parson?”
“No, who’s that?”
“I’ll get to it. What else about these guys? Identifying marks — scars or tattoos?”
“Don’t think so. One of them cut Florence Sommer’s throat.” I groaned, remembering it. All that blood. “Right in front of me.”
“What did they say to you?”
“Not much. They were ready to do it. Just kill us, her and me both.”
“Well, they can’t get to you in here. You’re perfectly safe now, don’t worry about that.”
I said, “Thank you.”
A nurse floated in silent as a ghost and got to futzing with the wires stuck to me and the machine they led to. I mostly ignored her. She did us the same favor.
“Now Mr. Maitland describes his assailant as a man named David, about five foot ten, with a stocky build and short, salt-and-pepper hair.”
Jake nodded, said, “Also a big fucking hole in his skull, but he wouldn’t have had that if you saw him.”
I tried to make a face, but all I really did was drool a little. The nurse wiped my chin.