"This is serious business, Frannie. Why haven't you done something about it? Talked to people?"
"I have! I've talked to a lot of people. I'll tell you about it sometime."
"Now you're suddenly getting mysterious on me? Where's David Cadmus now? Do you know?"
"Hollywood. Runs an independent film company. They put out that big hit recently, The Blind Clown?"
"Sounds like your worm turned, huh?"
Frannie pointed his finger at Cass. "Touche."
"Why would Gordon Cadmus kill Pauline if she was his mistress?"
"Because Edward Durant's father was a federal attorney investigating racketeering. Guess whose case he was assigned to three weeks before Pauline died?"
Unfortunately I had to go out on a book tour to promote the paperback edition of The Magician's Breakfast, so I wasn't able to return to Crane's View for a while. Before leaving, I asked if I could rent a room in Frannie's house so I could set up shop and not worry about bringing things back and forth from Connecticut on the many trips I knew I would be making to my old hometown. Frannie said I didn't have to pay rent so long as I dedicated the book to him. I didn't know if he was serious but I'd promised the next one to Cass.
From the way he lived, it seemed my old pal could use all the money he could find. His house was beautifully furnished. I knew enough about furniture from my second wife to recognize that some of the pieces he owned were very expensive. He also drove an Infiniti and had a closet full of clothes that reminded me of the Great Gatsby's shirt collection. When I asked how he afforded these things, he laughed and said he'd once been married to a rich woman. I didn't know how far that explanation would fly but it wasn't my place to probe. Despite the fact he was chief of police and had apparently turned his life around since I'd known him, I had a lingering suspicion that somewhere behind Mr. Solid Citizen, old rogue McCabe was up to some kind of mischief that allowed him to live way beyond his means.
Book tours can be irritating and exhausting. Too many cities in too few days, "interviews" with people who haven't read the book but need you to fill up a few desultory minutes on their TV or radio shows, meals alone in dreary restaurants . . . When I'd first done them, I thought tours romantic and exciting; now they were only part of the job. Worse, I found I lived in a kind of empty-headed limbo for days after they were finished. This time I resented the fact I couldn't get to work on Pauline's book until this was out of the way.
Trying to find some way to cheer up the inevitable, I hit on the idea of asking Veronica to come along. I was hesitant at first because two weeks on the road with anyone could end in disaster. But by the time I did ask, we had been having such a nice time together that I was willing to try. So was she, and the way she accepted the invitation gave me hope. Her face lit up, but she said, "What a nice idea. Are you sure we won't drive each other crazy?"
"No, I'm not sure."
"Me neither, but I'd like to try."
Because of earlier commitments, she couldn't go to Boston or Washington, but would catch up in Chicago and we'd go west together.
The trip began dreadfully. In Boston, the tail end of a hurricane was visiting the city. As a result, about twenty sodden people showed up at the bookstore for my signing. The next morning while the weather continued to eat Bean Town, I dutifully showed up on time for an interview with an "alternative" newspaper. The woman asking the questions arrived half an hour late and immediately started launching verbal assaults at any person who'd ever been on a bestseller list. Things between us went quickly from coldly polite to open warfare. When she smugly asked if I ever read "serious" writers, I suggested she should stop reading Georges Bataille awhile and go get laid instead. Then I got up and left.
Because of the weather, the plane to Washington was delayed two hours so I sat in airport hell wondering once again why there is nothing to do in airports. Why hasn't some enterprising genius yet realized all us bored ticket holders would adore, flock to, pay hard cash for . . . any diversions that lasted longer than a cruise through the magazine racks or dull necktie store?
In contrast to Boston, Washington was going through an ugly heat wave that melted your brain into raclette cheese. Who wants to leave the great god air-conditioning to go listen to some thriller writer read from a book they've already read?
When it was over, I ate sushi across the street from my hotel and stared at a couple nearby. Watching them was like seeing a terrific film in a foreign language with subtitles: No matter how much you enjoy it, you know it would be even better if you understood what was really being said. Looking at the passion and electricity between them, I knew I wasn't in love with Veronica, although it was still a possibility. I loved seeing her, but not all the time. She seemed full of the kind of engaging contradictions I like in a woman: tough in her profession but vulnerable and affectionate with me, strong-minded and intelligent but also curious about the workings of the world and thus open to suggestion. One of the best things about our relationship was how well we communicated, including long conversations in bed after sex – that dangerous, sometimes magical time when people tend to tell the truth more than usual.
In Chicago, she was waiting for me in the hotel room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with the TV remote control in her hand, she was wearing a crisp white T-shirt, black skirt, white socks and black Doc Martens tie-up shoes. Her hair was back in a ponytail and the whole package made her look eighteen years old.
I walked over to the bed and put a hand on her shoulder when she started to stand up. She turned off the television and smiled at me.
"I hope you don't mind me sneaking into your room, Mr. Bayer. I'm your biggest fan. Will you sign my heart?"
I moved my hand to her cheek. "It's nice to touch your face again. I'm glad you're here."
Her eyes were all eagerness. "Are you really? You weren't worried or anything?"
"I'm worried and everything, but I'm still glad you're here."
From Chicago we went to Denver, then Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles and finished in San Diego. One radiant morning in Seattle while walking by the water, I told Veronica all I knew about Pauline Ostrova and the book I wanted to write. I told her about Frannie McCabe and growing up in Crane's View, what came after, and then about some of the people who had mattered along the way.
We were sitting at a Starbucks coffee shop when I finished. The air outside was cool and crisp, full of delicious smells that kept changing with the breeze – wood smoke, ground coffee, the sea. Veronica wore a pair of large black wire-rimmed sunglasses that made her look alluring and powerful. Her face was so changeable. One moment she was Lolita, the next, the president of some multinational conglomerate.
"Thank you."
"For what? You look famous in those sunglasses. Aren't you Veronica Lake?"
"I mean it, Sam. Thank you for telling me your story. It's a dangerous thing to do. Telling someone leaves you open and vulnerable. I think I've done it a total of three times in my life."
"Think you'll ever tell me?"
She slipped off the glasses and put them on the table. Tears glistened in her eyes. "I don't know yet. Whoever says I love you first, loses. That line has always frightened me. You already know I love you. If I tell you my story too and then things go wrong between us, I won't have much left."