“Courage,” Walker told the artist, “you’re talking to the right crowd. There are people at this table who can vulgarize pure light.”
“I want to tell you more,” Maldonado said. “More of the truth.”
“Isn’t he beautiful?” Lu Anne asked the people at the table.
“Great face,” old Drogue said. “Good bones.”
“Mr. Maldonado,” Lu Anne said, “if you were the god of good bones it wouldn’t matter what you told me. The truth is no concern of mine.”
“Can’t you see she’s crazy?” Miss Armitage asked her friend.
“Because I lie so well in your language,” Maldonado said, “and because I listen so well to lies, I’m successful. Perhaps also because I’m beautiful and have good bones. Now I have an arrangement with a very prestigious department store. They sell my paintings there and my prints. They also use my designs. So I can look forward to the day, Miss Verger, when my visions will be stamped on every shower curtain in America. In every swimming pool, Jacuzzi and bathtub. On the toilet wallpaper and in the toilet bowl. Wherever sanitation is honored — Maldonados. Standing tall.”
“Somebody’s got to do it,” young Drogue told him.
“Hey, man,” Patty said to her husband, “you know we own a lot of this guy’s stuff and he’s telling us it’s all crapola.”
“We can fix that tomorrow morning,” young Drogue said. “One phone call.”
“Do you want me to forgive you, Mr. Maldonado?” Lu Anne asked. “I would forgive you if I could.” The Long Friends gathered round her. “But I myself am no more than good bones. A rag, a hank of hair and good bones.”
“Just a minute,” Maldonado said. “We have a bargain. This is the time of truth among truth tellers. You people,” he told the people at the table, “you who know how good you are! Tell us!”
“Come off it, man,” Axelrod said.
“Yeah, man,” Dongan Lowndes said. “Come off it.” He seemed restored to full vigor and he was doing an imitation of Axelrod.
Axelrod looked at him pensively.
“I don’t want anyone to leave,” Maldonado said with a hint of menace. “I want everyone to explain themselves.”
Lowndes raised his glass, which contained tequila au naturel, in Charlie’s direction.
“Thank God it’s Freitag,” he declared.
“This is fun,” Walker said. “This is better than poker. Who opens?”
“What do we need?” Ann Armitage asked. “Do alcoholism and impotence make a pair?”
“Miss Armitage,” Walker announced, “was the only person in America actually hanged during the McCarthy period. She was strung up at the height of her career from the witching elm at the Hamilton horse trials.”
“You louse,” Ann Armitage said in her cultivated voice. “You eunuch.”
“Miss Armitage is a student of sexual prowess in males,” Walker continued, “and a major Mexican art critic. She combines in her single self the principal attributes of Eleonora Duse, Eleanor Roosevelt and Eleanor of Castile. Also Rosa Luxemburg, Sacco and Vanzetti. If a passing divine hadn’t noticed her dangling there during the dressage competition and recognized the visible manifestations of grace, her poor alcoholic impotent husband might be alive today. Pretty soon she’s going to write her memoirs and we’ll see a parade of virtue as long as Macy’s at Thanksgiving but with twice as much gas and imagination.”
“Everyone’s under a lot of strain,” Charlie Freitag said grimly.
“They’re all drunk, Charlie,” Axelrod explained. “That’s what it is.”
“Tell him about yourself, Gordon,” Walter Drogue junior said.
“Walter’s a wonderful dresser,” Walker told the Mexican, “and he’s a feminist and he’s not taking a writing credit on this movie because he hasn’t written it.”
“Watch it, buster,” Patty Drogue said.
“These are only insults,” Maldonado complained. “It’s childish to insult people for being only what they are. I want to hear about ability.”
“Laughter,” Lu Anne said. She looked radiant in the firelight and everyone watched her. “Ability and sighs.”
“For Christ’s sake, Maldonado,” Walker said, “everybody here is at least pretty good.” He took Lu Anne by the hand. “This one thinks the owl was a baker’s daughter but she’s as pure as country water.” He turned to Freitag. “And Charlie — Charlie,” he said, “are you O.K.?”
“Everyone’s under a lot of strain,” Charlie Freitag said.
“Charlie’s under a lot of strain,” Walker explained.
“Tell him about yourself, Gordon,” young Drogue said again.
“He knows, Walter. He and I are compañeros in crime. Two flash acts. Where did we go wrong? Who knows? Who gives a shit? We’ve done O.K.” With a sweep of his arm he encompassed the patio, the neat lighted pathways and the dark bay. “Here we all are, man. On top of the hill.”
“Top of the world, Ma,” Axelrod said.
“Then there’s Axelrod,” Walker said, “who should have been pushed out of a ninth-story window of the Half-Moon Hotel at an early age.”
“Your momma,” Axelrod said.
People were coming by in various stages of intoxication to eavesdrop and to bid Charlie Freitag farewell. The fires were being banked and the meat wrapped in foil to keep it warm.
Maldonado sagged in his chair. His charge was wearing down, fatigue and drink weighed down on him. He looked at Lowndes, who was wide awake at the end of the table, an unsound smile on his face.
“What about him?” Maldonado asked Walker.
“He’s a bone god,” Lu Anne said.
“We’re not going to talk about him,” Walker said. “He’s dangerous work for the likes of you and me.”
Axelrod slapped Lowndes on the back.
“He’s a collector. He collects art.”
Everyone at the table looked at the former novelist.
“It’s been heaven,” Patty Drogue said. “Can we go now?”
“I’m going to turn in,” Charlie said. “I think we all should. When all is said and done,” he told them, “we still have a lot of work to do.”
“Oh,” Lu Anne said, “but not tomorrow, Charles. We’re free tomorrow.”
“Damn right,” Lowndes said. Everyone turned to him. “This lady doesn’t need some damned Freitag to tell her when to retire,”
“Hey, Dongan,” Axelrod said, “that’s not polite.”
Freitag appeared not to have heard himself insulted.
“Dongan …” he began, “I hope you’ll bear with us.”
“Don’t call him Dongan,” Axelrod said, “he doesn’t go for tinsel-town familiarity. Hey, Charlie,” he said, taking Lowndes by the arm, “how long has it been since we had to buy pictures off some wise fuck?”
“What kind of pictures?” Freitag asked.
“Yes,” Ann Armitage asked, “what kind of pictures, Mr. Lowndes?”
“I don’t know what you goddamn people are talking about,” Lowndes said. “What are you so worried about? Isn’t there a clear conscience in the crowd here?”
“I have to tell you,” Lu Anne said, “that we played with the bones. Yes, we did. Gordon.” She looked beseechingly at Walker and then at each of the others in turn. “Mr. Lowndes. Walter. Charlie. Sir. And you, sir, and you, madam, whose forgiveness I implore. We went to the cemetery, and where the ovens — the crypts — were broken, we played with the bones.”
“You go ahead, Patty,” young Drogue said. “We’ll be right there.”
“Don’t follow the counsels of drink, Lowndes,” Walker said. “Liquor’s not your friend. Tomorrow, we’ll have a conference call — you and Axelrod and Van Epp — it’ll work out great. Everybody will make out great.”
“What pictures?” Charlie Freitag asked. “What pictures have you got, Mr. Lowndes?”