“Better than Van de Kamps,” said Gus.
Sunset Strip on Friday night was Glitter Gulch without casinos. An unending stream of cars drove each way on the wide boulevard with lights flashing, horns braying, guys hanging out of windows to shout and whistle trying to attract girls. Some of the clubs were big and brightly lit, with marquees and floor shows and valet parking for gleaming expensive cars disgorging men in suits and women in gowns. Others were small and dim.
Pepe could be playing in any of them, alone or in a combo. No wonder he had been so cynical about Dunc finding him. By 1:30 in the morning they were bleary-eyed over draft beer in a little bar with nobody else there except a tough-looking bartender washing glasses and listening to Eddie Fisher’s throbbing overamped “I’m Walking Behind You” on the jukebox. Maybe if Dunc had been walking behind Artis that night, or beside Ned when he’d gone up against Carny Largo...
“Gimme the goddamn keys,” growled Gus in his ear, holding out his hand. “I’m driving home.”
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” agreed the bartender.
Dunc surrendered the keys, realizing with mild surprise that he was a little drunk. The night had been a busted flush. Maybe tomorrow at the beach everything would be different...
“I’m going to Mexico for my vacation.” Fayme had scraggly blond hair and a white blouse tied up to show her middle; faded loose blue shorts did nothing for her legs. “Look for a little talent.” She winked at Angela. “Why don’t you come along?”
Angela looked good in her tight swimsuit, but like Fayme was past thirty. In her lap was a little hairy dog named Muffy.
She gestured with her glass. “What about Muffy?”
“Leave him here with Birdie. Or at a kennel.”
“It would be no vacation without my Muffy,” said Angela.
The trailer court was on a low dusty hill where the rumble of Coast Highway I traffic from above merged with the mutter of the sea from below. They were sprawled in deck chairs under a canvas awning, drinking cold beer from beaded bottles.
Birdie leaned forward. “Joyce took her two Chihuahuas to Mexico last year and they both nearly died of the heat.”
Birdie was really old, over forty, with a pixie face full of wrinkles, and an amazing body under a clinging light blue one-piece dress. Gus had his deck chair hiked close to hers.
“Isn’t Joyce still down there?” asked Angela.
“Mexico City. But she lost her student permit.”
Birdie gave a throaty chuckle. “I didn’t know you needed a permit for what she’s been doing — not in Mexico anyway.”
A man came out of a trailer three doors down. He was tall, boxy, about fifty, wide in the body, a sack of stomach pushing out under his blue-and-white-striped sport shirt. Sandy hair straggled across his bulbous forehead.
“This is Hector,” said Birdie. She added, “My husband,” as if both surprised and distressed by the fact. “Gus you’ve met. This is Dunc Are you joining us?”
“Ahhh... no! I’m going to see my son.”
“Will you be back tonight?”
Without answering her, he ambled off along the sandy path that angled up toward the parking lot beside the highway.
Gus put his hand on Birdie’s thigh. “I didn’t know you had a son.” She removed the hand.
“His son — from wife number one. I’m wife number three. And he’s lying, he never goes to see the smart-ass little brat”
Gus wanted to get laid, but Dunc couldn’t listen to any more inanities for a while. “I’m going down to the beach.”
“Leave the car keys,” Gus called quickly, “and money.”
Dunc did. The narrow trail wound about, over, and down between dirt hummocks covered with low wiry vegetation.
He relieved himself against the side of a dune, writing the opening of Ulysses in the sand until he ran out of urine on the “g” of “Mulligan.” The beach, churned with footprints, was as deserted as if the bomb had fallen. He tried to imagine that searing whiteness against his eyeballs, and thought of Artis.
Two seagulls slipstreamed overhead, each with a tiny drop of red on its beak that looked like blood. A tern sliced the air with razor wings. The water shone like shook foil. When the sun touched the ocean would it hiss? But it sank without a sound.
When he returned, the light over Fayme’s trailer door cast a warm golden glow under the awning. Everyone was eating, they hadn’t bothered to send anyone down to get him. Gus handed him a can of beer and a church key, Angela gave him two burgers.
Her mouth full, she said, “We were too hungry to wait.”
Birdie laughed a slow laugh. “Some surfers wanted to pick us up but Gus defended us. He was sweet.”
“I flexed at ’em. Gravedigger muscles.”
Dunc drank beer and snapped at a hamburger like a hungry wolf. Fayme finished her second burger and lit a cigarette.
“God, I never eat this kind of crap! Vegetables and fruit and broiled fish — healthy food. This is awful for you. So much grease. You two think you’re big tough musclemen, but inside you’re in terrible shape. Your organs—”
“Hey, baby,” said Gus, “have I got an organ for you!”
“Men!” hissed Fayme. “You’re disgusting!”
Birdie looked up from her nails, said, “Oh, do get off it, Fayme dear. What will you be doing in Mexico for two weeks?”
Fayme jumped to her feet and stormed up the flimsy steps to her trailer and slammed the door. Dunc had finished his burgers. Gus had his hand on Birdie’s thigh again when Fayme came clattering back down the steps, a framed picture in one hand, her eyes flashing. She thrust it under Dunc’s nose.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” she yelled.
In the picture, she stood posed nude on the beach with her head back, eyes fixed on some distant goal. Her breasts were firm, the nipples erect, her pudenda had been shaved so the dark lips were visible. Dunc felt a stirring in his groin but said nothing.
She yelled, “Why were you looking at it while I was gone?”
“I’ve never been in your trailer, lady.”
Angela said almost lazily, “I was looking at it earlier.”
“Oh.” Deflated, she sat staring at her photo. The traffic had died, but waves thudded; the surf had risen since Dunc had watched the sunset. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.”
The door to her trailer slammed behind her. Birdie also stood. “Come on, you,” she said to Gus, “let’s go get sweaty.”
Angela looked warily at Dunc. “I’m not going to sleep with you, so don’t get your hopes up. We’re a bad lot, you can’t get mixed up with us. You aren’t Gus, you’ve still got your innocence. Believe me, once it’s gone, it’s gone.”
“How about I sleep on the floor with Muffy?”
“He sleeps on the bed with me.”
A half-moon was up, playing tag with clouds scudding in from the ocean. Dunc went up to Grey Ghost for his sweatshirt and Gus’s windbreaker; it would be chilly sleeping on the beach.
He was glad Angela had refused the pass he hadn’t really made. But going by Birdie’s trailer he heard the steady thump of her bed against the thin aluminum shell. Sexual images exploded inside his head. And then pale light from the long narrow open window above the head of Fayme’s bed brushed his face as he passed the back of her trailer. He stopped, stared down.
Fayme’s nude photo was wedged upright on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, flanked by lighted candles. Fayme herself was naked on the bed, her head propped up by her pillow so she could look at the photo, her legs splayed so her heels could be hooked over the edges of the bed. Her left hand was rolling her left nipple, her right hand was curved down around her crotch, the hidden fingers working diligently. Her body arched up and a soft cry escaped her lips.