“Jes yo’ ass,” said Joshua, and all three of them laughed.
Driving away from the hod carriers’ office for the last time, in the rearview mirror Dunc could see Samuel’s ancient Plymouth bouncing along the dirt track in his dust.
At Sepulveda they went their separate ways.
Chapter Twenty-five
That evening Dunc regaled the family with the story of how his plan to again hide the Mexican laborers in the cornfield, which had gone so perfectly the first time, had gone awry.
Uncle Ben said, “You look pretty beat-up, Dunc. Something ought to be done about that assault at the union office.”
“I learned my lesson. I’m just going to let it lie.”
He called Penny for some loving commiseration and invited her to see Duke Ellington the next night. After another long hot shower he went to bed; there had been only the faintest pink tinge to his urine, so he knew his kidneys were all right.
Next morning the whole family trooped down to see Gus off on the Phoenix-bound Greyhound. Gus and Dunc shook hands.
“Christ, I wish I’d been there yesterday.”
“Then we both would’ve gotten the shit kicked out of us.”
Suddenly they knew it had been a good summer. One that could never be repeated. The women were fussing over Gus, tears on everyone’s cheeks; Dunc was suddenly homesick for his folks. Gus got a window seat, he and the family mouthed silent sentences at each other until the driver climbed in and the door hissed shut. The big vehicle was moving, and Gus was gone.
Dunc found a place to park on a side street a block from the Strip, in front of a small dark bungalow with a dried-out lawn but hot-purple bougainvillea rioting up the front porch posts to give the place a spurious festive air. A ’36 Chevy pickup was parked halfway up the drive. Dim light glowed against the drawn front room shades; they could hear radio music from inside.
“Good place for Philip Marlowe to discover a murder,” said Penny in almost a whisper.
They walked up the inclined street to Sunset holding hands. The air was warm, flower-scented; palm fronds clacked overhead. Dunc was very aware of the swing of Penny’s thighs beneath the clinging red dress.
As they strolled past an Art Deco cocktail lounge called the Purple Cockatoo, a posterboard beside the doorway caught Dunc’s eye. He stopped dead to stare at the photograph of a dapper black-haired man in a tux framed beneath the lettering:
Pepe, who had conned Nicky into letting Dunc go back to the Gladiator Club’s poker room for the fateful meeting with Nitro Ned and Artis in the first place! Pepe, who had sung to his piano riffs as he told Dunc stories as Dunc perched at the piano bar next to the tip glass on its felt coaster.
“That’s him!” he exclaimed. “It’s his photograph.” Penny already knew most of Dunc’s Las Vegas adventures, all except watching Artis die. Penny took his hand and drew him toward the door. “You need to talk to him,” she said. “You’re the only ones still alive.”
The Purple Cockatoo was a narrow room full of smoke and a lot of potted plants with spearlike palmetto leaves, but no cockatoos, purple or otherwise. Two barmen sweated behind a stick alive with the din of the alcohol voices of sharp-dressing men and blondes in revealing dresses and too much makeup.
Dunc shouldered a path for Penny toward a piano bar bathed in a purple spotlight. Pepe was singing the Tony Bennett version of “Cold, Cold Heart.” He looked up, did a double take, and schmaltzed up a dozen bars of the “Notre Dame Victory March.”
“Dunc! And the loveliest lady in the place!”
Penny gave a mock curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”
Dunc introduced them, then asked Pepe, “Are you the purple cockatoo they named the place after?”
“The purple spot?” Pepe chuckled. “Management insists.”
He looked just the same as he had at the Gladiator Club, impeccably groomed, slim and elegant, with the white wine, the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray, the glass bowl of greenback tips. Dunc realized all over again how much he liked this man. Pepe gestured them to stools at the almost empty piano bar.
“Same old story. People come to a place like this to pick up women, not listen to the music.” He grinned. “Not like Dunc. Always my biggest fan.”
When a harried waitress in a tight black uniform that showed a lot of breast and leg came by to take their orders, Pepe launched into Frankie Laine’s “Jezebel.”
“Pepper?” asked Dunc at the end of the piece.
“My producer’s idea. ‘Pepe’ sounded too Mexican. Pepper Paglia — possibly Italian, possibly a recording star.”
“You got your record deal!” exclaimed Penny.
He raised sad elegant shoulders. “Not quite yet, Penny.”
Between numbers they drank and talked about Penny going back to college, about Dunc maybe trying San Francisco, about Pepe playing his piano... And finally about Vegas.
Dunc asked, “Did they ever catch Raffetto?”
Pepe’s hands momentarily forgot to play. He shook his head.
“Dunc, I don’t even know! I got a call about my record deal and had to leave before the fight. A bad business.” He raised his glass. “To life!” he said.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Dunc.
There was an explosion of white light that momentarily blinded them all. Pepe was on his feet, face white and drawn, glaring at the photo girl.
“Hey, this is great! A picture of the three of us together!” Dunc told her, “Three prints, miss.”
Pepe said sheepishly to Penny, “I thought it was a bomb. Mickey Cohen used to have his bookie joint in the basement of the haberdashery right next door at 8800 Sunset. Sell you a suit upstairs, take you to the cleaners downstairs. Somebody who wanted to take over his vice empire set off two bombs under his house.”
“Did they ever succeed?” asked Penny, wide-eyed.
“The mob, no, but he got five years for tax evasion.”
“And his vice empire?” asked Dunc.
Pepe chuckled. “Now everybody wants to take it over.”
The photo girl in her brief costume came back. It was a good shot, not as somber as the moment had felt to Dunc.
“Ah, we were young then,” said Pepe.
“Monday we’re going to the American Legion Labor Day picnic at Griffith Park,” said Penny. “Could you—”
“I’d love to! How kind of you to ask.”
“I’ll drop by midweek with directions,” volunteered Dunc.
There were still a lot of things he needed to talk to Pepe about that he couldn’t say in front of Penny. Arriving just too late to save Artis from Rafe Raffetto, Ned giving him the car, maybe even the priest’s weird penance...
“I’ll be here,” said Pepe with mock resignation.
It was too late to catch the Duke, but the Strip was still alive with moving people, honking cars, cruising police vehicles. They walked with their arms around one another; once off Sunset, they stopped every few paces to kiss. The house where Philip Marlowe might have uncovered a corpse was dark. Their eyes met.
Dunc said, “Let’s go... some where.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Out beyond the Strip, Sunset Boulevard was wide and dark, traffic light. At Westwood Village Dunc chose a glowing red neon MOTEL–Vacancy sign, turned in. His heart was pounding.
He parked, trying to remember warnings from college studs about checking into a motel with a girl. After rehearsing his story in his mind, he rang the night bell.
A yawning woman with a round pleasant sleep-filled face came into the little office to buzz him in. Before Dunc could even fumble out his wallet, she put down a registration card.