We were staying at the Peninsula Hotel but when I got back to the room, Veronica wasn't there. That was okay because we had been as inseparable as Siamese twins throughout the trip. It was good having time alone to think through my meeting with Cadmus and make notes.
I write all my books by hand. There is something ceremonious and correct about putting things down a letter at a time, your hand doing all that slow work instead of fingers tap-dancing across a keyboard. For me, something is lost in all that speed. On the computer screen, the work looks finished even when you know it isn't.
From my briefcase, I took out a beautiful leather notebook Cass had given me for my last birthday. Then the forty-year-old mustard-colored Parker 51 Custom fountain pen that was the only one I ever used for this purpose. I am superstitious about everything and over the years the pen had become a fundamental element of whatever mysterious chemistry was involved in writing a book. I filled it with ink and opened the notebook to the first page.
In that lovely anonymous room with the air-conditioning purring around me, I began the story of Pauline Ostrova's death – with my dog Jack the Wonder Boy.
He looked at you seriously and appeared to listen to what you said. He was smart and generally reasonable, but there were certain things he insisted on and refused to stop doing even if you went after him with a broom or an angry hand. Bones could only be eaten on a rug, he had to sleep on the corner of my bed, any food left too close to the edge of a table was his if he could somehow get to it.
Every morning of his life he stood by the front door at a reasonable hour, waiting to be let out. We all knew to check the hall as we walked to breakfast to see if he was waiting by the door. In all of his fifteen years, I don't think his neck ever knew the feel of a collar or the tug from a leash. Jack took care of himself, thank you, and didn't need to be led by any human. None of us ever followed him on his rounds, but he was a dog of such fixed routines and dimensions that I'm sure he walked the same route, lifted his leg on the same trees, sniffed the same places thousands of times.
I began the book with our front door opening and Jack stepping out into a new day in Crane's View. My words took him out to the street and then on his morning jaunt.
I wrote for an hour, then got up and walked restlessly around the room, flicked the television on, channel-surfed, turned it off. Looking out the window, I remembered I had a book signing at Book Soup at seven and wondered if Veronica would be back in time. I sat down again and went back to work.
Jack trotted through town. Stores were beginning to open. A few cars were parked in the Grand Union lot on Ashford Avenue. Three teenagers stood in front of the firehouse smoking cigarettes and watching cars go by. Bobby LaSpina. Victor Bucci. Alan Tarricone. According to McCabe, LaSpina died in Vietnam, Tarricone ended up running his father's gas station, Bucci left town and no one heard from him again.
Why did Frannie keep calling Cadmus over the years? Even if Gordon was guilty of Pauline's murder, what could David do about it, especially now that his father was dead? And what else was McCabe up to? What other inexplicables did he have up his sleeve?
Pauline Ostrova hit our dog Jack in front of Martina Darnell's house. At the time, I had a big crush on Martina but she wasn't interested in me. The only time we ever spoke for more than ten seconds was when she described hearing the screech of tires in front of her house, the thud, Jack howling.
That morning, I was the only one home when Pauline knocked at our door.
"Hi there."
I was so involved in writing that Veronica's voice gave me a jolt. I turned around. Her face was a foot from mine. "It's just me."
"Hi! I didn't hear you come in."
"I see that! You're writing away like a little engine. Whacha doin'?" She had a couple of bags in her hand, which she tossed onto the bed. A piece of anthracite blue lingerie slid provocatively out of one. Pushing her hair up with one hand, she fanned her face with the other. "It's not hot outside – it's a punishment! Can you tell me what you've been writing?"
"After I talked to David Cadmus, I started writing notes and think I might even have begun the book."
"Really!" Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands to her chest. "That's wonderful, Sam! Can I give you a hug?"
"I'd love one."
The moment we were in each other's arms, the phone rang. We kept hugging, but the insistent ringing made it feel like someone was in the room, waiting. I broke off and answered. A very deep woman's voice asked for Veronica. Taking the receiver, she looked at me like she couldn't imagine who it might be.
"Hello? Oh hi, Zane. What?" She paused to listen, then both her voice and face went from blank to fierce in a flash. "So what if I'm here! Am I required to check in with you every time I come to L.A.?" Listening, she started tapping her foot and shaking her head. "Zane . . . Za . . . You don't need me anymore. What? It's a big town. I doubt we'll bump into each other. No, I'm not going to Mantilini's. What? Because we shouldn't see each other!" She raged on like that a few more minutes and then, making an exasperated face, hung up. "That was Zane. We used to go out. She wanted to meet." She shrugged and frowned.
"You hung right up on her."
"Life's too short." She took a deep breath and looked hard at me. "Does it upset you that I was with a woman?"
"Makes you more intriguing. Anyway, who's counting?"
The book signing went well and afterward we had dinner at the restaurant next to the store. Both of us were in good moods and we gabbed away throughout the meal. It was the kind of conversation only new lovers can have – a combination of discovery, recognition and sexiness that comes as a result of knowing one facet of a person extremely well and almost nothing about the others.
I said something about how magically our relationship had evolved and how I wished I knew how that magic worked so I could spread it over other parts of my life. She stood up and said, "The only ones who want to know how a magician does his tricks are children and fools. I'll be right back."
Although to the eye there is nothing immediately wrong, there are wrong faces. All the features are in the correct places and the nose has only two holes, but something is off and without being able to say exactly what, you know it. The restaurant made a wonderful creme brulee. I liked it so much that I had my eyes closed in ecstasy over a mouthful of it when I heard that deep voice again.
"You're Samuel Bayer, aren't you?"
I didn't know whether to open my eyes or swallow first, so I did both. Every feature on her face was sharp as a Cubist painting – nose, cheekbones, chin. Her eyes were as black as her hair, which was short and spiky and very a la mode. She was good looking in a combative, don't-fuck-with-me way and had a long thin body that matched. She would have been a good villainess in a James Bond film, dressed in patent leather, knowing every lethal karate move in the book.
"Yes I am. Do I know you?"
"My name is Zane. I was the one who called Veronica before. The one she hung up on. I've been waiting to talk to you, but it has to be fast, before she comes back."
"How did you know she was in Los Angeles? How did you know where we were?"
"She had lunch today with a mutual friend. She told me." She kept looking toward the bathroom. Tough as she looked, she was clearly apprehensive. Was it a crazy face? Mean? Maybe it wasn't her face at all that was so disturbing: maybe it was the incredibly negative, mad-mouse-running-in-a-wheel energy she shot out in all directions. "Ask Veronica about Gold. Ask her what happened with her and Donald Gold."