CJ went into the kitchen and I heard him opening the refrigerator, then the rattle of ice. I waited on the couch. His living room was cluttered as always. There was a deck of cards on the coffee table and a girl’s sandal half under the couch. A painting, apparently a recent acquisition, leaned up against the wall, waiting to be hung. It depicted the narrow, crowded street of a Chinatown. It could have been the work of someone famous, or the amateur effort of one of CJ’s friends.
He came back with a bottle of Asahi in one hand and a tall glass in the other. It wasn’t tap water. Bubbles crawled up the side of the glass, and it was stacked with ice, then a wedge of lemon.
“Pellegrino,” he said.
I’d almost forgotten how CJ did things for the people he loved, always with a little extra touch of generosity.
He took a seat on the piano bench, sideways, with his long legs casually spread, and said, “How is it that you’re down here again? Don’t you have to work, up in the city?”
“I set my own schedule, remember? I’ve been taking some time off lately.” I paused. “Look, if you’re thinking about the money you lent me-”
“No, that’s not why I asked. Don’t worry about the money.” He waved my concern off. “As long as you’re down here, maybe you and I-”
“I’m going back north tomorrow morning,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Tomorrow?” He was casual about it, but I heard the veiled hurt in his words, that I would come and go so quickly, without making plans to spend any real amount of time with him.
“Sorry,” I said again. This was where I should have said, Please come up and visit me, but I already knew I wasn’t going to be in San Francisco.
I changed the subject. “You know, it’s Saturday night. Why don’t you have a date?”
He shrugged. “You can’t always party,” he said, then shifted position and started into “Lush Life” on the piano.
I leaned back and listened to him play. I wasn’t optimistic about the days to come, that Skouras’s men weren’t going to catch up with me one way or another. That was why I’d come here to see my cousin. But I couldn’t say anything important. If I launched into some reminiscence of old times or told him how vital his love had been to me, from my unlovely preadolescence to this moment, he was going to realize something was up.
Abruptly CJ got tired of his own talent, stopped playing, and stood, looking at Henry. “Can I hold him?” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
“If he’s sleeping, and it’ll bother him…”
“No,” I said, moving over to let CJ sit next to me. “He had his eyes open a minute ago. He’s just being mellow.”
I gave Henry up and CJ took him gingerly. He touched the baby’s mouth with one finger, and Henry sucked at it, hopefully, opening his gray eyes again.
“I think he’s hungry,” CJ said.
“No, if he were hungry, he’d cry,” I said. “He’s fine. You’re doing fine.”
“What’s his name?” CJ asked.
“Henry.”
He took his attention off the baby to give me a curious glance. “Like your old man.”
“You just saw me three months ago,” I pointed out. “Do the math, CJ. He’s not my kid. It’s not possible.”
CJ said, “I don’t think the world has yet found the limits of what you’re capable of, Cainraiser.”
A little later, in CJ’s spare bedroom, Henry slept in another makeshift bassinet while I stretched out in the graceful white iron bed. And failed to fall asleep. After some time, I gave up, rose, and padded barefoot into CJ’s room.
The ambient light in there was a little better, because the uncurtained window faced the waning moon. In its dim light I could see my cousin lying on his side, his back to me, maybe sleeping, maybe not. Carefully, I lifted the covers and slid in behind him.
“Don’t trip,” I said quietly. “S’me.”
“Knew that,” CJ murmured.
I lifted the hair off the back of his neck and kissed the nape, the body’s most unguarded area. He smelled of Ivory soap, like he had at age twelve, and that was one small point of continuity in our vastly changed lives. He didn’t smell of anything pour homme. He never would.
“Hailey,” he said, “I know something’s up. Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
“I always worry about you.”
I felt his weight shift, as if he was about to roll over and face me, but I put my hand on his shoulder and exerted a light warning pressure: Don’t. We were Orpheus and Eurydice; if he brought us face-to-face, something was going to happen that shouldn’t, even if it was just me breaking down and telling him the truth.
“Ask me something else,” I said. “Anything.”
“Say my name.”
“CJ,” I said obediently.
“No,” he said, disappointed in my obtuseness.
I put my mouth close to his ear. “Cletus,” I whispered, and felt him smile.
“Better,” he said.
I reached over his hip and took his hand. “Go to sleep. I’m right here.”
“Never long enough,” he said sleepily.
Like Serena, CJ woke briefly when I got up, again using Henry’s crying as my excuse. Like Serena, he was asleep again by the time I left the house, Henry in my arms. It was dawn, and down the hills I could see a faint outline of the tall buildings of the real Los Angeles, the city I hadn’t been to for over a year. Golden, godless, avoided, beloved: my Nineveh.
fifty-two
Even in war, there are territories that aren’t to be intruded upon, and religious sanctuaries are one of the most important. So, in the bright late-December morning that followed my long, interrupted night, I stood on the steps of the Baptist church that Luke Marsellus had rebuilt. I had only been inside as far as the narthex, where I’d politely asked one of the ushers to tell Mr. Marsellus, as soon as the service was over, that Hailey Cain was waiting outside to speak to him.
Henry was being good as gold. I only wished I had a hat for him. It was a nice temperature out, maybe sixty degrees, but I wondered if the full sun was bad for him, at his age. So I kept my back to the sun, putting Henry in my shadow.
The church service broke, and the parishioners emerged onto the church steps, into the sun. Then the usher appeared at the top of the steps. Next to him was Marsellus.
He was a very tall man, with large, lambent eyes and a physical gravitas that made people watch him covertly. He left the usher behind and came down the stairs until he reached my side. “You,” he said.
“Mr. Marsellus.”
“I’m told you want to speak with me.” He had a low voice, like suede, and there was very little of South Central left in it.
I nodded. I couldn’t read anything off his tone and bearing.
“About?” he said.
“Half of it’s what you’d expect,” I said, meaning an apology. “The other half’s going to take a little explaining.”
Marsellus looked into the distance and rubbed his chin with his hand, considering. Then he took a cell phone from his jacket. “I’m going to call someone to pick you up and take you somewhere we can talk. I’ll be there later.”
He didn’t specify how much later and it wasn’t my place to ask. But I said, “The baby’s got to come with me, wherever I go.”
“Yours?” he said. Marsellus was economical with language.
I shook my head. “My responsibility, but not mine.”
He nodded and then moved a little bit away from me to make the phone call. I didn’t try to overhear what he was saying.
Then he returned and said, “Wait here. Someone will be here in about fifteen minutes.” He moved off into the dispersing crowd.
Not long after, a Lincoln Navigator pulled to the curb. There was a large black man in warm-ups behind the wheel, and another in the passenger seat.