"I've got nothing against blacks," Dave is saying, "but, Jack, look around. They've already got basketball, they've got football, they've got track. Can't they leave us something?Just one damn sport we can win at? Don't read me wrong—"
"Never," I say. Arguing would be futile; Dave is old and dim and stubborn.
"—don't read me wrong, Jack, but what can they possibly enjoy about golf? For Christ's sake, you don't even get to runanywhere. It's all walking or riding around in electric carts in the hot sun—can that be fun for them?"
"Is Mom home?" I ask.
"Jack, you know I'm not prejudiced—"
Perish the thought.
"—and, as you're aware, me and your mother give generously to their college fund, that Negro College Fund. We never miss the Lou Rawls telethon."
"Dave?"
"But what concerns me about this Tiger Woods—and God knows he's a gifted athlete—but what troubles me, Jack, is the message that's being sent out to the young people, that golf is all of sudden a game for, you know ... the masses."
"Dave, is my mother home?"
"She went to the grocery."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, Jack."
"Not to change the subject."
"That's quite okay."
"She ever talk about my old man?"
"Hmmm."
"Because she told me he died," I say. "She said she read about it in some newspaper a long time ago. You wouldn't happen to remember when that was?"
Silence on the other end; rare silence, in Dave's case.
"Even a ballpark guess would be helpful," I say. "I'm just curious, Dave. You can understand."
"Certainly. Him being your natural father and all. It's just ... "
"What?"
He manufactures a cough. I wish I could say I felt lousy for putting him on the spot, but I don't. Dave sold Amway for a living so it's just about impossible to throw him off stride.
"When your mother and me got married," he says, "we made a pact between ourselves. An unwritten contract, if you will."
"Go on."
"We agreed not to talk about our past ... what's the word—involvements. Not ever. That includes ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives ... ex-anybodys. We felt it was water under the bridge that ought to stay over the darn."
"I see."
"We weren't exactly kids when we met, your mom and me. We'd both been around the block a few times. Chased a few rainbows."
"Of course, Dave."
"No good ever comes from dredging up the past," he adds sagely.
"Then the answer would be no, is that right? She never mentioned my father's death. Never once."
"Not to me, Jack. A pact is a pact," he says. "Shall I tell her you called?"
Carla Candilla gets a regular five o'clock break from the photo counter at the drugstore. We meet at a yogurt shop in the same strip mall. Heads turn at the sight of her Vesuvius-inspired dye job, or perhaps it's my fat purple nose. In a low voice I describe the scene on Cleo Rio's balcony. Carla begs in vain for more details, and is slightly disappointed that the object of the widow's affections wasn't Russell Crowe, Leonardo DiCaprio or one of the Backstreet Boys, none of whom matches my description of the coppery-haired felatee. Carla promises to snoop around the circuit and report all rumors. She says Cleo's favorite local hangout is a club called Jizz; down on South Beach, it's Tetra.
"It's very important," I tell Carla, "for me to get the boy toy's name."
"Give me the weekend," she says confidently. Then, fishing into her handbag: "Wanna see something wild?"
"Don't tell me." Previous lectures on the subject of privacy obviously have made no impression.
"Oh, come on, Jack." Carla mischievously fans out the photographs like a deck of cards. One glance is more than enough.
"You can get fired for this," I point out, halfheartedly.
Carla and her minimum-wage cohorts at the drugstore keep watch for raunchy amateur snapshots coming out of the automated developing machine. If the photographs are exceptional, duplicates are surreptitiously made and passed around. Today's glossy sequence features a nude, well-fed couple, a tenor saxophone and a Jack Russell terrier in a porkpie hat. My disapproving grimace impels Carla to say: "Look, if they didn't want anyone to see 'em, why'd they bring the film to the store? Whoever they are, I think they're really diggin' it. I think they're counting on us to peek."
Pushing away the stack of pictures, I promise not to tell Carla's mother.
"Oh come off it, Blackjack. This stuff is real life. Doesn't it make you wonder about the human race?"
"Actually, it makes me depressed. These freaks are having lots more fun than I am."
"Even the dog looks happy," Carla remarks, thumbing through the photos. "By the way, who punched you in the snoot? I'm guessing it was a chick."
"Yup. My boss."
She tosses her head and laughs. "You're the best, Jack."
"Tell me who your mom went to England with."
She says, not too brutally, "You know better than to stagger down that road."
"I'm afraid I don't. That's a gruesome fact."
"Fine, then." Carla returns the purloined terrier portfolio to her purse. "You want the truth or a lie? First, tell me what you can stand."
"A doctor, lawyer, college professor—as long as it's an unpublished college professor."
"Meaning anybody except a writer."
"Basically, yeah," I say.
Carla looks at me compassionately; Anne's eyes again.
She says, "Then I'll have to lie, Jack."
"You're kidding. She went to London with a goddamned writer?"
Carla nods.
"Newspaper guy?" I ask, with a shudder.
"Nope."
"Poet? Novelist? Playwright?"
"Novelist," says Carla.
"No shit. Have I heard of him?"
"It's possible."
"Don't tell me his name!"
"Don't worry," Carla says.
"And, for God's sake, don't tell your mother I asked."
"Jack, they're getting married."
Me, I don't flinch. "Can I see those pictures again?"
Carla says, "I've gotta get back to work."
I buy her a mocha-flavored shake and walk her to the drugstore. At the door she pats me on the cheek and says she's sorry about breaking the news. She thought it was something I ought to know, lest I call up Anne and make a fool of myself again.
"How old is this writer guy?" I ask innocently.
"Forty-four."
"Ha!"
"'Ha!' what?" Carla asks. "What's so bad about forty-four?"
"Never you mind," I say, thinking: Robert Louis Stevenson.
14
I call home and check the machine: one message from Emma and three from Janet Thrush. As usual, Janet's line rings busy so I drive straight to Beckerville. She answers the door wearing a knit hood with eye slits and a tight-fitting black jumpsuit. A gas mask hangs loosely at her neck, and she's carrying a toy M-16.
"So now it's SWAT-Cam," I say.
"Yeah, my pervs got bored with Rita Meter. Come on in, Jack." Janet peels off the headcloth. "Happened to your nose?"
"Logging mishap," I say. "What's up?"
"You will notbelieve it."
Sitting under the light racks, she tells me she was summoned by a man called Charles Chickle, whose name I know. He's a big-shot lawyer in Silver Beach; not a shyster or a barracuda, either, but legitimate weight. It seems Jimmy Stoma left a clause in his will retaining Mr. Chickle to represent Janet's interests in probate court in the event Jimmy died. Most beneficiaries don't need an attorney, but Jimmy obviously anticipated legal hurdles for his sister.