Dolly Miles, the woman I'd hired as Toby's new watchdog, answered Toby's phone. "So how is he?" I asked.
"He's been good all day. He's just lying around in the sun with an aluminum reflector around his neck. Says that way he won't have to wear makeup tomorrow. But my God, Simeon, does he use a lot of dope."
"Stay away from it," I said.
"Stick it where the sun don't shine," Dolly said. "He'd just try to make a pass at me if he thought I was loaded." Dolly weighed almost two hundred pounds, but there was no telling about Toby.
"Keep your legs together," I said, "and let me talk to him."
Dolly muttered something resentful and dropped the phone. After a moment, Toby picked it up. Today he was featuring bluff but hearty.
"Champ," he said, "come on out and get some sun."
"Toby, listen to me. If you get that girl loaded and she loses you, I'll blame you and not her. And if I do, I'm going to break your nose, understand?"
"Hey, we're all in this together."
"Yeah, but I don't know how many of the Toby's are on my side."
"All of us," Toby said. "Toby, Toby, and Toby. Jack, too. Anyway, I'm sure Norman told you not to hit me in the face."
"Just behave," I said. "Think about your residuals, and don't lose Dolly."
"Meaty, isn't she? In fact, I wish she'd watch me from closer up."
This time I hung up. I was writing his phone number on a yellow stick-it when I became aware that Wyl was standing at my shoulder.
"God in heaven," he said. "Is that Toby Vane's home phone?"
I put it on the wall, and he leaned forward in a nearsighted fashion to read it. "How strange," he said. "All the numbers are odd, not an even one among them. How often do you see that? I wonder what a numerologist would make of it."
"Wyl. You show it to anyone or sell it to anyone, even a numerologist, and I'll have three Sicilians drop in on you and bleach out your eye makeup."
"Oh, please," Wyl said. "The Sicilians sound interesting, but don't you think I have any discretion? Don't you think I respect the stars? I know how they need their privacy."
I got up and headed for the door.
"My God," Wyl said behind me. "I didn't even ask Lee J. Cobb for his autograph."
11
"Whoa," Eleanor said, not quite sarcastically enough. "Hold on. Are you telling me you know Toby Vane? Gee. Holy moly. Radical." At the mention of Toby's name, several diners glanced over at us.
"Wyl says hello. He's had his eyes tattooed."
"What, like Queequeg?" Eleanor chose her reading by weight; she never opened anything that weighed less than a pound. "What color?"
"Kohl black. That's kohl, with an H."
"As in Egypt," she said patiently. "If you have to make puns, I guess they might as well be archaeological." She closed her eyes and held up a hand. "Wait, wait. Listen. Have you ever heard a joke with a punch line like 'So that's why they call it the Windy City'? Somebody told it to me a couple of days ago, but I can't remember how it began." She looked wonderful, one of nature's very best pieces of work. Her beautiful, straight black hair hung blunt cut at her collarbone, curving in slightly toward her pale, slender throat. Some tendrils were much longer than others. The bangs were feathered.
"No," I said. "And that's a new haircut."
"It's not so much a haircut as a landscape. You should have seen Dickie do it, all grim determination and serious snipping. I'm sure the people who splice genes do it with a lighter heart. I forgot, you don't know Dickie, do you. What's he like?"
"Who, Dickie?" I asked unpleasantly.
She ignored me, a skill she'd had considerable opportunity to cultivate. "Of course not. Toby."
"Jesus," I said. "The people I see all day ask me about you. Then I see you, and you ask me about Toby."
"How come nobody ever asks you about you?" she said.
"My point exactly. I used to be interesting."
She looked around the restaurant. "You're still interesting," she said in the tone she would have used to calm a querulous four-year-old. A well-dressed, upwardly mobile young couple seated themselves gracefully at the table next to us. Something on the woman's wrist sparkled discreetly. The man smiled. He looked like a commercial for a credit dentist.
"If I'm so interesting, how come you're looking at them?"
The man glanced over at her, and his smile broadened. I wouldn't have thought it was possible. Its corners were already crowding his ears. Eleanor gave him the merest ghost of a smile, a dimpling at the corners of her mouth that was a specialty of hers, in return. "Good to know I haven't lost it completely," she said complacently.
"I think you've got another fifty years."
Eleanor put her chin on her hand and glowed at me. "You are interesting," she said. "Interest me some more. For instance, tell me about Toby Vane."
"Oh, apes and monkeys. Don't tell me you watch the show, too."
"It takes a lot of people to make a rating point. I'm not too proud to be one of them. Anyway, he's a hunk."
"A hunk of what is the question."
She picked up a fork. "Is this the right one?"
"For what? There isn't any food yet."
"I thought I might stick it through your tongue."
"That one's not on the table. Waiter." I raised my hand.
"I hope it's dull," she said.
"I could arrange for you to meet him. He likes bouncing Oriental women around."
"Ah," she said, looking with great interest at her left forearm. "Is there one of those on the horizon?"
"Yes," I said, kicking myself under the table. "Half of one, anyway." The waiter appeared at my shoulder. "Do you want anything else to drink?" I asked Eleanor.
"Another 7-Up."
"And a white wine for me," I said. The waiter beamed at Eleanor as though she'd ordered a magnum of Dom Perignon, ignored me completely, and left.
"Is she pretty?" Eleanor said. "And don't ask me who."
"I suppose she is."
"You forgot to ask for the fork."
"So I did."
"What's her name?"
"She's got a lot of names."
"Not the best character reference, is it?"
"Eleanor, I'm not checking her out for a security clearance. She's a girl, that's all."
"Ten years old? Twelve?"
"All right, a young woman."
"How young? And what do you mean, half of one?"
"How's what's-his-name?" I said.
"Don't start," Eleanor said. "You know perfectly well what his name is."
The salad arrived in the nick of time. We both chewed. It seemed safer than talking. While she was using her bread to mop up the plate, I said, "So. You watch the show."
"Sure. Who doesn't?"
"I don't, for one. What's it about?"
"The usual bang-bang. Screeching tires and breaking glass, ladies in distress, dope dealers, and Central American dictators. The same guest stars as every other show on the air. Stupid dialogue. Lots of commercials telling us what we're missing in life."
"And you give it an hour of your time every week."
"It's my time," she observed. "And that Toby's really something."
"The premise," I said. "Swallow once or twice so you don't drool on your blouse and tell me the premise."
She looked down. "You gave me this blouse."
"I know." I'd felt a pang in my heart when I saw that she was wearing it. "It goes with your skirt," I said. I hadn't given her the skirt.
She glanced at the skirt. "His name, as you know perfectly well, is Bart." She sipped her 7-Up. "You really haven't seen it? Not even one show?"
"Not even the credits."
She pushed her salad plate to one side. "Well," she said, "it's not easy if you haven't seen it. It's like Toby's not really human."