He was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt that read HUSSONG'S CANTINA, MEXICO. He carried a clipboard. "Ssshh," he said again, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Behind him, in a blaze of light, I saw the flower-bedecked set of "Celebrity Corner." It was apparently Skippy's turn, because he was talking earnestly. The rock star, Clive, whom I remembered from a century ago, looked like he'd nodded off.
"Boy," I whispered to the man with the ponytail. "Have you got problems." I wiggled the rest of the way out of the duct and started to put on my shoes.
"I have?" he said anxiously, squatting down.
"Filtration system's shot to shit. And this grate is loose."
He looked relieved. "Tell it to the Air guys," he said. "I'm Lights."
"Yeah," I said. "Well, the lighting down there is pretty terrible too."
"Hey," he said. "I just do the show. Talk to the Church."
I finished tying my shoes and stood up. "You're not Church?"
"Puhleeze," he said. "I'm a lighting engineer, not an asparagus. No offense, I hope."
"Are you kidding? I'm with the city."
He gestured for me to keep my voice down and glanced around the studio. "What a bunch of spaniels," he said, "although the little girl is cute." He looked at me and edged away. I looked down at myself. I was so filthy I would have edged away too. "Boy," he said, "the things you guys will do for a buck. I wouldn't go down there even if I was straight."
"This is nothing," I said. "I used to pick up dead animals."
"I bet you got some stories," he said, taking another step. "I lit Art Linkletter once."
"We'll sit around and horrify each other someday," I said. "Well, I guess I better get this grate down to Defect Control."
He nodded like he was glad to be rid of me, and I picked up the grate and circumnavigated the stage. People rarely look twice at someone who's carrying something, and nobody focused on me now. There was absolutely no way of knowing how much time I had. I had no idea whether the man who'd grasped the wire was dead, and I didn't really care if Needle-nose was. Even if they were both alive, I didn't think it was likely that either of them would file a complaint soon. When I looked at my watch, it was only twelve-fifty.
"Thank you, Skippy," Mary Claire said over the public-address system. "That was very enlightening. Angel, would you like to say something?"
"Thank you, Mr. Miller," Angel said in her best Brooklynese. The kitten had fallen asleep in her lap. "And thank you, Miss deWinters. I can't wait to see your new picture." She turned to Clive and said, "Would you gimme your autograph?"
"If you'll give me yours," Clive said, reviving briefly. People laughed, and I could see that beyond the lights lay a darkened auditorium that seated about three hundred. It was full of the hopeful, people still wearing their raincoats, leaning forward into the splash of light to catch every word. People who didn't know about the basement yet. I doubted that Angel knew about the basement. But who could tell what Angel knew?
"We're going to close with a special treat," Mary Claire said. "Some music of the moment from our very own group, the Time Signatures. I know you're going to enjoy this."
Lights came up to reveal the sextet who had tormented the audience at the Revealing. A blond woman whose hair looked about as flexible as the fossil record leaned toward a microphone and sang, "This is the moment…"
After all I'd been through, it didn't seem fair that I'd have to listen to "The Hawaiian Wedding Song" too. I was contemplating joining the more discerning members of the audience, who were already shuffling toward the exit, when the lights on the main set went down and everybody stood up and started congratulating each other. Angel and Mary Claire shook hands all around and headed stage left, where they were joined by a slender man in beautifully tailored white linen slacks and an aqua shirt. I had to take a couple of steps closer, my grate firmly in hand, before I could be certain that it was everybody's favorite internist, Dr. Richard Merryman.
Merryman took Mary Claire's arm and put his free hand firmly on the back of Angel's neck, parting her long blond curls to get at it. He steered them quickly away from the set. I followed.
Merryman was talking hard and fast, obviously displeased about something and not caring who saw it. Mary Claire gazed up at him unassertively, but Angel's back was stiff and straight. At one point her steps lagged behind his, and he yanked her forward. The little girl stumbled and dropped the kitten. Merryman leaned down and picked it up roughly by the scruff of its neck. It writhed and twisted in his hand. He passed it to Mary Claire, took hold of Angel's neck again, and jerked her along in his wake. They vanished through a door at the back of the stage. The door had a little sparkly star on it, and the name ANGEL ELLSPETH. I lagged behind, scuffing my foot professionally at some imaginary irregularity in the stage floor. After a moment, Mary Claire came out alone and the door closed behind her. She looked unhappy.
Well, I wasn't very happy either. I went down a series of steps at the edge of the stage and joined the throngs who were fleeing the implacable music. Out on the sidewalk I put my grate down in the rain and went around the corner to Alice. I drove around the block once, checking out the building that housed the TV studio and traversing the alleyway behind the hotel to locate the Borzoi's service entrances. Then, nursing my bruised cheek, I drove off to pick up Eleanor. I knew I was coming back. III — Heaven
Chapter 18
Eleanor was fuming. "You look like Jett Rink after he hit his gusher," she said. "You've got a bad bruise on your cheek that someone should take a look at, one of your knees has bled through your pants, and your clothes are filthy."
I drove west on Olympic Boulevard without saying anything.
"And your hands smell like your feet," she said. "Simeon, are you going to tell me what's going on?"
"How'd you find him?"
"Just forget it." She folded her hands primly and stared through the windshield at the rain.
"It's the middle of the day. How do you know he'll be home? Doesn't he work?"
She sniffed. We seemed always to be fighting in cars lately. "You could get killed," she said to the air, "and no one would know for days."
"So could you. That's what I've been trying to tell you. These people do not give to UNICEF."
"Stop treating me like Miss World Porcelain of 1988. At the risk of being tedious, let me remind you of a few things. I'm the one they can look up in the phone book, I've been more than a little helpful so far, and I'm the one who found him. I'm also planning to write this whole story, and I think you owe me. I want to know what's happening."
"I think maybe you should move."
"Don't be dramatic. In fact, don't be anything. Just shut up and drive."
I drove.
"Anyway," she said in an acid tone, "you're supposed to be good at your job. Surely it's not anything we can't figure out."
"We already know who," I said. "What we want to know is who else, and why. It's whether we can figure them out before they figure us out. And I doubt it."
"I don't. I'm an optimist."
"Are you ever."
"Optimism, as Larry McMurtry said, is a form of courage."
"It can also be a form of stupidity."
"Oh, Simeon. You're always so eager to stomp on anything that's growing. Except your stupid roots."
I didn't feel like someone who was ready to stomp on anything that was growing. But Eleanor usually knew me better than I did.
"So what happened to your cheek?" she asked a few miles later.