Bygones
TWO WEEKS LATER, his father in Vegas, Kit made an appointment to see Alf.
(While Burke is away, the mice will play.)
He tucked into the backseat of Cela’s Volvo while Tula spirited him away. They knew the drill — same old same old. Not too much action on the barricade, anyhow.
They drove past old haunts.
(He’d gathered up the addresses and given them to Tula, who spent the night before hunched with the Thomas Bros.)
The Chateau and the Strip…
(Though not a glance to or thought of the liquor store.)
His old house, in Benedict…
(Had the impulse to go in but forgot to ask the lawyers for a key. Was of a mind to sell the whole caboodle, but legally, nothing could be done until issues of conservatorship had been settled. At least that’s what Burke said. He sat and stared, trying to imagine living there again or having lived there.)
Viv’s house.
(Imagining himself and Viv inside; then being replaced by Alf.)
Last stop before Alf’s aerie — the grave. Old haunts…
Rita Julienne Lightfoot
1950–1996
“Mother Courage”
• • •
THEY DROVE THROUGH the gates, high above Sunset Plaza — minimalist, hipster digs, as if Lenny Bruce still lived and had commissioned a Richard Meier redo. There stood barefooted Alf, grinning from the porch. Both men nervously self-conscious. Kit wore the gray Prada suit that Cela had selected on a rare after-hours expedition. (Maxfields had stayed open late, so he could shop without hassle.)
Big hugs. Awkward stuff. Alf offered Tula entrée, but the bodyguard declined. More hugs inside. Water and foodstuffs dispensed by a nondescript helper who then vanished for good. Kit was laconic, weighing and measuring words far more than he would in Riverside. They settled into couches. Alf took a brief phone call. Apologized. Said it was business.
“Think you’re going to sell the house?” said Alf. (To have something to say.)
“Maybe,” said Kit. “Not sure.”
“Now, don’t do that,” said Alf, with a pleading, country-western star smile. “Shit, that place should be on the historic registry. We had some crazy times there, huh.”
“Very crazy!”
Alf laughed with tension release, and Kit laughed too, spittle boisterous; still finding his way. It got a bit easier — the court and spark exchange of trademark grins. “If those walls could talk! Speaking of which, what ever happened to our old friend Mr. Raffles? What’s he doing now, workin escort?”
Kit had to be reminded of the canine casanova, more on account of nerves than anything else.
“He died,” said Kit.
“Oh shit,” said Alf, genuinely sorrowful. Any sort of loss now had a larger context. “That’s fucked up.” Then, joshing again: “Thought he might have met a nice Beverly Hills socialite and settled down.”
“Great Danes don’t live too long.”
“Sure you don’t want a martini?”
“Can’t. Take all the medicines. For seizure.”
“Oh, right. Right.” Awkward. “You know, you look really great. And you talk well too — I mean, you’re well-spoken. Much better than the last time I saw you.”
Wished he hadn’t said it. Sounded patronizing. And it had been too long since they’ve seen each other — his fault.
Everything his fault…
“Yeah,” said Kit.
“I been workin,” said Alf, by way of explanation and apology.
“Me too,” said Kit.
“Oh yeah?” he said, intrigued.
“Physical therapy!” said Kit, grinning at the joke.
“Right!” The attempt at humor shot past. “They’re workin my ass, Dog. But you ain’t missin much — ain’t shit out there. Scripts are all shit. Showbiz is a shambles, dude. I mean, there’s always one or two people out there keepin it real. But hey! You’ve really managed to stay fuckin hidden, man, I’m impressed. Guess your dad’s done a pretty good job. After Osama, you’re the world’s most wanted man!”
Awkward again — coming in waves.
“But it’s good over there? I mean, with Burke?”
“Pretty good. Pretty good.” He shifted on the couch. Reached for the water, drank, set the glass back down. Cleared his throat. “Hey, Alf, I want to ask you something.” Cleared his throat again. Reached again but pulled back his hand before it got to the glass. Shifted. “OK. I want to see Viv. I know she feel bad — feels bad. Maybe afraid. Maybe she’s afraid. Not of me! I want to tell her it is — that it’s OK. I want to tell her that, Alf. That I am OK. That it — it’s cool.”