“Are you all right?” she said. “Did you eat anything?” she said, her hands still on his jacket. “Come on, I’ll get you something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“And then you’re weak. It puts a strain.” She patted his chest. “Come on. It was bad?”
Lasner said nothing, moving one of his shoulders.
“Her face, too?”
“No.”
She shook her head a little, relieved. “You know she was beautiful. Before everything started. You can’t see it now, but she was.” She took his arm to lead him into the house. Bunny stepped aside.
“And where the hell were you?” Lasner said, not really angry.
“Out.”
“Out.”
“Even the maid gets a night off. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow. Fay said cremation?”
Lasner nodded.
“What shape’s the car in?”
“Scrap, probably.” He pulled a receipt out of his pocket. “Here’s where they tow it.”
“Anybody there from the papers? You want me to-?”
“Ben took care of it,” Lasner said, giving him a thank-you wave.
Bunny hesitated for a moment. “Ah. See you tomorrow then. You want an obit?”
“Who would read it? Who did she know?”
“It’s a question of respect,” Fay said, then to Bunny, “I’ll get you the dates. She was in a few pictures over there. You think they’d be interested in those?”
“They always cut something,” Bunny said, evasive. “But we’ll see.”
He watched them go in, then came over to Ben.
“German silents. From the ’twenties. Just what the papers want.” He looked at Ben. “Who’d you talk to?”
“Kelly from the Examiner. Don’t worry, they already had this one as an accident. You don’t have to make any calls.”
Bunny held his stare, not answering, then said, “How’s Mr. L doing?”
“He’s all right. It’s more the idea of it. He scarcely knew her.”
“Neither of them. I don’t think she said ten words. Except to you.”
Ben glanced up at the big picture window where she’d looked out over what had been bean fields. “She knew my father. It took her back.”
He drove to the Hollywood Hills, his head filled with the grainy clips in Hal’s cutting room. Why did some survive and some break? But maybe it was only a matter of degree. Nobody was the same after. Only the mindless, or the callous, could pretend nothing had happened. The others would feel the weight of it, pressing on them, until they accepted it, part of the air, or it got worse and they drove away from it. Still, why the car? Maybe because it was the one way it wouldn’t have happened there-not gas or starvation, what they used, your own choice.
Liesl was on the couch, smoking, her legs drawn up under her, a script in her lap. When he walked in, she drew on the cigarette, deliberately not saying anything.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t call.”
“I play a daughter,” she said, picking up the script. “So it’s good for me. Something I know.” Not asking where he’d been.
He went over to the tray on the side table and poured a drink.
“She takes care of him, but now she has to go away. So I can just think of my father. What that would be like.”
“You didn’t wait, I hope.”
“No. Daniel would do it sometimes-not come. So I know, don’t wait.” She put out the cigarette. “Of course I thought he was working. That’s all I thought then.”
“There was an accident. I had to take Lasner. Remember the cousin at dinner?”
“What happened?”
“Car crash. Near Lion’s, in fact. I saw him. When they pulled her out.”
“You mean she’s dead?”
Ben nodded. “She went into the canyon. Probably killed when she hit, that kind of drop.”
“Oh,” she said, a sound standing in for everything else.
“They’re listing it as an accident.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“No other car. She drove herself off.”
“Oh,” she said again, taking this in. “She did that?”
“It happens, with the survivors. It’s hard to come back.”
“And here I am, thinking about- You’re not surprised at this.”
“No. Neither was Lasner.”
“It’s terrible for them. To be the ones left. It doesn’t end-” she said, her voice private, interior.
He looked over at her. “He didn’t do that to you. That’s not what happened.”
“It feels the same. You can’t put it away somewhere. It’s in your head. Tonight I sat here, I thought, it’s just like before. So foolish-a roast chicken, something as foolish as that. Waiting, just like before. And I thought, it’s happening again. I’m waiting again.”
He went over to the couch, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrank from it, moving away.
“No. Don’t.”
She stood up and moved toward the French windows, clutching the sides of her arms, guarded.
“We can’t do this. What happened-all right, it happened. But to keep-” She turned. “You know what I was thinking about tonight? Maybe I’m still angry, that’s why. Like a child, hitting back. You can, I can, too, something like that, I don’t know.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Not for you. I don’t know what it is for you. Maybe something of his. Something crazy like that.”
“Why does it have to be anything?”
“Because he’s still in my head. How can you want me like that?”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh. And that makes it all right.” She shook her head, then moved toward the kitchen, a distraction. “Are you hungry?”
“No. I want to talk.”
“About this? There’s nothing to say. We have to stop. Before something happens.”
“Like what?”
“We went to bed. I don’t know why, maybe just to do it.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“Yes, all right. Do you want to hear that? I enjoyed it. But now it’s not so easy.”
Ben was quiet for a second, taking another sip of his drink, waiting for her, a look to get them over it.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“Leave. Where would you go?”
“The Cherokee. I still have the key.”
“Ha. To take women there. Then you can really be him. It’s what you wanted.”
“Not anymore.”
“No, why not?”
“He’s not who I thought he was.”
She looked at him, disconcerted, then turned back to the window, not wanting to pursue it.
“You can’t go to that place. It’s-what’s schaurig?”
“Ghoulish. Creepy.”
“Ghoulish.” She fingered the handle on the window, testing it. “Anyway, I’m afraid here now. The man never came. About the locks.”
“I know. You don’t have to worry. Turns out it was him. Or someone he sent.”
“What?”
“He wanted to look through Danny’s desk.”
“Like a thief? Why?”
“They used to work together. He wanted some information Danny didn’t get to pass on,” he said, his voice taut.
“I don’t understand. Worked how?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Know what?”
“You can stop waiting for him,” he said, cocking his head toward the couch. “He wasn’t who you thought he was, either.”
“What’s wrong?” she said, her hands fluttery, nervous. “What’s happened?”
“I had a drink. A real eye-opener. With Dennis Riordan. Mean anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“Ex-FBI. They worked together. Danny was keeping an eye on all of you for the Bureau.” He gulped down the rest of the drink, angry at the sound of his own voice.
“All of who?”
“The Germans. All of you. Your father, I suppose. I don’t have the exact list. I’d like to get it, see how far he went. What do you think he told them about Alma? Talk about suspicious characters.” He looked up at her. “You really had no idea?”
“What, that people watched us? Of course, all during the war. My father always said. We had to be careful on the phone. They listened. You had to expect that.”
“But not from your husband. But who better? He was practically a refugee himself. He’d know everyone in the German community-he married into it. Be the most natural thing in the world for him to know what everyone was up to. Just not so natural telling the FBI about it.”