“Yeah,” Walker said.
“Funny her getting an Oscar nomination for playing spacey,” Quinn said.
“Yes,” Walker agreed. “We all used to kid about that.”
“But she’s good,” Quinn said. “That’s the thing. There’s no one better than Lu Anne. Not out here. Not in New York.”
“What about you, Sam? Working any?”
Quinn smiled, flashing his Jolly Roger.
“Too old and fat,” he said. He was leaning back in the rocker looking at the sky. Walker turned to follow his gaze and saw two people hang-gliding high above the next ridge. They were beautiful to watch and, Walker thought, incredibly high. They seemed to command the wind that bore them.
“Shit,” Quinn said, “look at that.”
“Does it make you paranoid?” Walker asked.
“Nah,” Quinn said. “Makes me fucking cry, is what. Think that isn’t kicks, man? That’s the way to do your life, Gordo. Look the gray rat in the eye.”
“I think we all do that anyway.”
“We’re little worms,” Quinn said. “We piss and moan.”
“So,” Walker said, “I wonder if you can help me out.”
Quinn crooned in a black-toned bass. “Got yo’ weed, got yo’ speed, got yo’ everythin’.”
“I’m on this fucking thing,” Walker explained. “I’m doing a lot of blow and then I’m drinking. I have to dry out. I need downers.”
Quinn screwed up his face and sounded a high-pitched comic cry.
“Ai, Gordo. I don’t got them. I got blow. Speed. Sinsemilla. No downers. Except, you know, I could get horse but that’s not for you in your frame of mind.”
“Christ,” Walker said. “I was hoping to break the cycle.”
“Sorry, man.”
“I’ll have to wait until I get down there, then. I hope Siriwai’s the doctor on this picture.”
“Siriwai’s got a Laetrile clinic now. I doubt he even works flicks anymore.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. He’s got this enormous spread in San Carlos Borromeo. He cures cancer.”
Walker sat in silence, looking at the dun boards of the back porch.
“If you’re gonna drive,” Sam Quinn said, “it’s not that much out of your way. I’m sure old man Siriwai could fix you up if he felt like it.”
“I suppose,” Walker said.
“Hate to send you away disappointed, Gord. Can I offer a drink? A fine line?”
“Oh sure,” Walker said.
Quinn got up and went into the kitchen. Walker sat rocking, watching the hang gliders. When he looked down again, he saw a young red-haired woman coming from the barn, leading a little boy of about three by the hand. The young woman’s eyes were fixed on Walker as though in recognition. As far as he knew, he had never seen her before. He rocked and watched the two of them approach.
“Hello,” he said, when they had reached the porch, and directed a cordial smile at the child.
“You’re Gordon Walker,” the woman said.
Walker was not used to being recognized by name. The woman before him looked like a great many other women one saw in Los Angeles; she was attractive, youthful a bit beyond her years. She seemed like someone imperfectly recovered from a bad illness.
Her face broke into a sudden, quite marvelous smile.
“You don’t remember me,” she said. “I’m Lucy Brewer. I played the radical chick in Stover.” The child, who had Lucy’s auburn hair, shouted and pulled against her grip. “Woman, I should say. Of course, they cut a lot of me.”
“Sure,” Walker said. “Certainly I remember you.” He had absolutely no recollection of Lucy Brewer and very little of the character. Stover had been the next thing to a doctoring job, done years before. “I have trouble with names,” he assured her. “But I don’t forget people.”
“You had a cute little boy, I remember. You brought him out to the set.”
“I have two,” Walker said. “They aren’t little anymore.”
“Well, he was one cute little guy.”
“He’s an actor now,” Walker told her.
“Another one of us, huh?” She was good-humoredly restraining her own little boy with both hands. The child broke away finally and ran off toward the corral.
“Speaking of cute kids,” Walker said.
“We were having our nature walk. We saw the animals and the cemetery.”
Walker chuckled agreeably. Sam Quinn came out with two drinks on a tray. Beside them was a tiny glass bottle of cocaine with a miniature chain attached to its cap. Seeing Sam, the little boy turned around and came running back toward the porch.
“Sam Sam Sam,” the infant shouted.
“What cemetery?” Walker asked. Quinn handed him a drink.
“Ah,” Sam Quinn said, “we bury the animals. We have a ceremony.”
“And we buried Hexter,” the little boy cried.
Quinn sighed. “We gotta talk about this,” he said to Lucy. “I mean really.”
“We buried our dog,” Lucy said merrily. “Hexter.”
“Oh,” Walker said. A few years before he had known an aspiring screenwriter, a fellow Kentuckian, by the name of Hexter. Hexter had left for New Mexico some time before.
Lucy gathered the child to her loins. She seemed oppressed by Quinn’s even stare.
“Well,” she said to Walker, “best of luck.”
“The same to you, Lucy,” Walker said. He waggled his fingers at the little boy. Lucy took the boy by the hand and led him off.
Sam Quinn turned his back on an imaginary breeze, dipped the cap-spoon device into the vial of cocaine and had himself a snort. Done, he screwed the cap on and passed the works to Walker.
“I’m a murderer,” Quinn explained. “I murder my enemies. I bury them under my barn and then I drink champagne from their skulls.”
“We were talking about a dog,” Walker said.
“We were friends,” Quinn said. “We were close. He got into fucking nitrous oxide and he was not getting it from me. One time he comes up here from Taos and his pickup is loaded with tanks. We have parties, it’s great, except he won’t stop doing it.” Quinn sniffed and wiped his nose with his wrist. “So one morning I go into the john and Hexter’s in the tub. He’s underwater and he’s stone fucking dead and the tank’s on the floor next to him. So what am I supposed to do, send for Noguchi? I don’t want the damn cops up here. I loved that man, Gordon. He was like a brother.”
Walker took a hit off Quinn’s coke. It was very fine, better than his own. It dispelled his anxiety and his sorrow about his sons. He watched Quinn with a tolerant smile.
“I welded him into an oil drum and we brought out the Bible and we laid him to rest. He was divorced, didn’t have no kids. He’s home, man, he’s in Abraham’s bosom.” Quinn shrugged. “All right — it sounds kind of sordid.”
“I see,” Walker said, and did another tiny spoon.
They sipped their vodka-and-tonics. The hang gliders disappeared beyond the inland ridge.
“I have to get out of this business, Gordo. My nerves are shot. My life is in danger. Then I got Lucy and Eben to think of.”
“Funny,” Walker said. “I can’t remember meeting Lucy.”
“Stover,” Sam Quinn said. “I don’t think she’s worked since then. She had a speed problem and a couple of crazy boyfriends. I helped her out.”
“The kid yours?”
Quinn shook his head. “I can’t tell you whose kid that is, Gordo. Very big name. Since deceased.”
“You ought to get out,” Walker said. “I thought you’d be doing stunts forever.”
“Yeah, I was born to die in a burning stagecoach. But I’m too old for it, that’s the problem. I tell you, Gordon, this after-forty shit sucks.”
“You could coordinate. You been all over. You know a lot about filmmaking.”