We buried him in the spot where he had stored his morphine, jamming him into the deep narrow space he had originally created to hold a huge steamer trunk full of death. We covered him over with rock-strewn dirt and covered the dirt with a spray of dried leaves.
I hauled the trunk over to Brubaker's car, siphoned gas from his tank, and drove the car off to a safe distance. Then I lit a match and set the trunk on fire. Brubaker, who had remained silent since the moment of Doc's death, stared at the flames musingly.
"Have you got a valedictory, Larry?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, and quoted Cole Porter: "'Goodbye now and amen, here's hoping we meet now and then, it was great fun, but it was just one of those things!' You like that, baby?"
"No, you're too hep for me, Larry," I said, throwing dirt on the charred remains of the trunk. "Let's get out of here. I'll drive."
I took Pacific Coast Highway back. Brubaker was silent, and it troubled me.
"You saved my life," I said. "Thanks."
"He was going to kill me, baby. I knew it. He swooped down on me and took me aside and told me you were dead meat, and then things would be copacetic. But I knew he was going to kill me." Brubaker turned in his seat to face me. "I would have let you die otherwise," he said.
"I know. You were in love with him, weren't you?"
"From the moment I met him, baby. From that very moment." Brubaker started to sob quietly, sticking his head out the window to avoid my watching him. Finally he turned to face me. "But I cared, too, baby. When you and that big Irish cop rousted me years ago I knew you were an okay guy. You just didn't have too good an idea about what was going on. You dig?"
"I guess so. If it's any consolation, I used to have a friend, a drunk who was sort of way ahead of his time, who used to say there was a city of the dead, existing right here where we are, but invisible to us. He said that when people go there they carry on exactly the way they did on earth. That's not much consolation to me, but I think it may be true."
Brubaker didn't answer. He just sobbed out the window, his head wedged tightly against the doorjamb. He was still sobbing when I left him at his bar in Venice.
25
I staked out the apartment building on Beverly Boulevard for three days. Huddled low in the seat of my car, I watched Michael read comic books on his front lawn, noting that he wore thick glasses to read. I watched him throw a tennis ball against the wall of the building and usually blow the catch when it returned to him. I watched him pick at his acne, and I watched him thrash at the tennis ball with an old rusted putter. I watched him lie on the dead grass and dream. I noted that the other kids in the neighborhood avoided him like the plague. I noted that by the time he was twelve he would be far taller than I am.
At the end of those three days I knew that I loved him.
He just stared at me when he flung the door open in answer to my knock. I stared back for a moment, then broke the silence.
"Hi, Mike. May I come in?"
"Sure."
I moved my way through the modest little apartment, looking for something to give me something to say. "Where's your puppy?" I asked finally.
"She ran away," Michael said.
It was obviously my cue. "Your father is dead, Mike."
Michael said, "I figured he was," then looked out the window to the stream of cars moving along Beverly Boulevard. "I knew he had to die—because of the stories. He thought I was a smart kid, but he didn't know how smart. He used to think he was fooling me. He used to think I didn't know that the stories were real."
"What stories, Mike?"
Michael turned his gaze from the street to me. "I won't tell you. Not ever. Okay?"
"Okay. Do you miss your dog?"
"Yes, she was my friend."
"I've got a dog. A hell of a good dog."
"What kind?"
"A big black Labrador. He loves people, but he hates cats."
"I don't like cats either. They're slimy. What's going to happen, Fred?"
"You're going to come and live with me. Do you want to?"
"Are you married?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"What's your wife like?"
"She's very smart and strong and very beautiful."
"Will the Lab be my dog, too?"
"Yes."
"Then okay."
"Pack your stuff. Leave your father's things, I'll get rid of them later."
Ten minutes later the backseat of my car was packed with a meager collection of clothes and assorted other stuff—and a huge collection of books. I drove to a pay phone and called Big Sid at home and told him I had a guest for him to look after for a few days. The monster mogul was bewildered, but ecstatic when I told him it was a bright young boy who loved horror movies.
Sid was there on the front lawn of the huge house on Canon Drive waiting for us when we pulled up. I introduced Michael to him, and Sid double-taked on the huge youngster and offered him a cigar. Michael fell on the lawn in his laughter, then got up and hugged me before running off in the direction of the house.
From a pay phone I called Lorna's office. Her secretary told me she was down in San Diego for a convention. She was staying at the El Cortez Hotel and would be returning in two or three days. I couldn't wait. I got a tank of gas and highballed it south on the San Diego Freeway.
It was turning dusk when I got to Dago. A drunken sailor gave me directions to the El Cortez, a pink Spanish-style building with an outside elevator enclosed in glass.
I ditched my car in the parking lot and tore through the lobby to the front desk. The clerk told me that the guests who were here for the American Bar Association convention were at the banquet in the Galleon Room. He pointed to a large banquet hall off to his left. I ran in, catching glimpses of a stern-looking man at the podium, who was speaking ambiguously about something called justice.
I walked quietly along four walls, scanning every rapt and bored face at every table. There was no Lorna. There was an exit at the rear of the room, and I went for it, hoping it would provide access to an elevator to the hotel proper.
I opened the door into a hallway just as Lorna limped out of the ladies' room, talking to another woman. "I only come for the food, Helen," she was saying. Helen noticed me first, and must have known something was up, because she nudged Lorna, who turned around and saw me and dropped her purse and cane and said, "Freddy, what—"
Helen said, "Excuse me, Lorna," and darted out of sight.
I smiled and said, "I never liked phones, Lor."
"You lunatic. What's happened to you? You look different."
"I think I am different."
I bent down and handed Lorna her cane and purse. Impulsively I threw my arms around her and said, "It's over, Lor. It's over." I grabbed her waist and lifted her off the floor and held her way over my head until she shrieked, "Freddy, goddamnit, put me down!"
I held her higher still, tossing her up to where her head almost banged the ceiling.
"Freddy, goddamnit, please!"
I lowered my wife to the lushly carpeted floor, She retained her hold around my neck and looked into my eyes sternly and said, "So it's over. And now?"
"There's us, Lor. There's a great big little boy who needs us. He's with your father now."
"What great big—"
"He's Maggie Cadwallader's son. That's all I'll tell you. I want you back, but it's no good without him."
"Oh, Jesus, Freddy."
"You can teach him justice, and I can teach him whatever I know."