“He had a son?”
“Yes, they had a baby. He’d just been born, and he wasn’t much bigger than my thumb. Little John was the apple of his father’s eye. They were quite a touching little family.”
Bolling’s voice was gentle. Away from the crowd and the music he showed a different personality. Like other performers, he had a public face and a private one. Each of them was slightly phony, but the private face suited him better.
“You met the wife, did you?”
“Certainly. She was sitting on the front porch when I got there, nursing the baby. She had lovely white breasts, and she didn’t in the least mind exposing them. It made quite a picture, there on the bluff above the sea. I tried to get a poem out of her, but it didn’t come off. I never really got to know her.”
“What sort of a girl was she?”
“Very attractive, I’d say, in the visual sense. She didn’t have too much to say for herself. As a matter of fact, she massacred the English language. I suppose she had the fascination of ignorance for Brown. I’ve seen other young writers and artists fall for girls like that. I’ve been guilty of it myself, when I was in my pre-Freudian period.” He added wryly: “That means before I got analyzed.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Mrs. Brown’s name?” He shook his head. “Sorry. In the poem I botched I called her Stella Maris, star of the sea. But that doesn’t help you, does it?”
“Can you tell me when you were there? It must have been toward the end of the year 1936.”
“Yes. It was around Christmas, just before Christmas – I took along some bauble for the child. Young Brown was very pleased that I did.” Bolling pulled at his chin, lengthening his face. “It’s queer I never heard from him after that.”
“Did you ever try to get in touch with him?”
“No, I didn’t. He may have felt I’d brushed him off. Perhaps I did, without intending to. The woods were full of young writers; it was hard to keep track of them all. I was doing valid work in those days, and a lot of them came to me. Frankly, I’ve hardly thought of Brown from that day to this. Is he still living on the coast?”
“I don’t know. What was he doing in Luna Bay, did he tell you?”
“He was trying to write a novel. He didn’t seem to have a job, and I can’t imagine what they were living on. They couldn’t have been completely destitute, either. They had a nurse to look after the mother and child,”
“A nurse?”
“I suppose she was what you’d call a practical nurse. One of those young women who take charge,” he added vaguely.
“Do you recall anything about her?”
“She had remarkable eyes, I remember. Sharp black eyes which kept watching me. I don’t think she approved of the literary life.”
“Did you talk to her at all?”
“I may have. I have a distinct impression of her, that she was the only sensible person in the house. Brown and his wife seemed to be living in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land.”
“How do you mean?”
“They were out of touch with the ordinary run of life. I don’t mean that as a criticism. I’ve been out of touch enough in my own life. God knows. I still am.” He gave me his down grin. “You can’t make a Hamlet without breaking egos. But let’s not talk about me.”
“Getting back to the nurse, do you think you can remember her name?”
“I know perfectly well I can’t.”
“Would you recognize it if I said it?”
“That I doubt. But try me.”
“Marian Culligan,” I said. “C-u-l-l-i-g-a-n.”
“It rings no bell with me. Sorry.”
Bolling finished his drink and looked around the bar as if he expected something to happen. I guessed that most of the things that can happen to a man had already happened to him. He changed expressions like rubber masks, but between the masks I could see dismay in his face.
“We might as well have another drink,” he said. “This one will be on me. I’m loaded. I just made a hundred smackers at the Ear.” Even his commercialism sounded phony.
While I lit a fire under the bartender, Bolling studied the photographs I’d left on the table:
“That’s John all right A nice boy, and perhaps a talented one, but out of this world. All the way out of this world. Where did he get the money for horses and tennis?”
“From his family. They’re heavily loaded.”
“Good Lord, don’t tell me he’s the missing heir. Is that why you’re making a search for him?”
“That’s why.”
“They waited long enough.”
“You can say that again. Can you tell me how to get to the house the Browns were living in when you visited them?”
“I’m afraid not. I might be able to show you, though.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning if you like.”
“That’s good of you.”
“Not at all. I liked John Brown. Besides, I haven’t been to Luna Bay for years. Eons. Maybe I’ll rediscover my lost youth.”
“Maybe.” But I didn’t think it likely.
Neither did he.
Chapter 9
IN THE MORNING I picked up Bolling at his Telegraph Hill apartment. It was one of those sparkling days that make up for all the fog in San Francisco. An onshore wind had swept the air clear and tessellated the blue surface of the Bay. A white ship cutting a white furrow was headed out toward the Golden Gate. White gulls hung above her on the air.
Bolling looked at all this with a fishy eye. He was frowsy and gray and shivering with hangover. He crawled into the back seat and snored all the way to our destination. It was a dingy, formless town sprawling along the coast highway. Its low buildings were dwarfed by the hills rising behind it, the broad sea spreading out in front.
I stopped beside a filling-station where the inland road met Highway 1, and told Bolling to wake up.
“Wha’ for?” he mumbled from the depths of sleep. “Wha’ happen?”
“Nothing yet. Where do we go from here?”
He groaned and sat up and looked around. The glare from the ocean made his eyes water. He shaded them with his hand. “Where are we?”
“Luna Bay.”
“It doesn’t look the same,” he complained. “I’m not sure whether I can find the place or not. Anyway, we turn north here. Just drive along slowly, and I’ll try to spot the road.”
Almost two miles north of Luna Bay, the highway cut inland across the base of a promontory. On the far side of the promontory, a new-looking asphalt road turned off toward the sea. A billboard stood at the intersection: “Marvista Manor. Three bedrooms and rumpus room. Tile bathrooms. Built-in kitchens. All utilities in. See our model home.”
Bolling tapped my shoulder. “This is the place, I think.”
I backed up and made a left turn. The road ran straight for several hundred yards up a gentle slope. We passed a rectangle of bare adobe as big as a football field, where earth-movers were working. A wooden sign at the roadside explained their activity: “Site of the Marvista Shopping Center.”
From the crest of the slope we looked down over the roof-tops of a hundred or more houses. They stood along the hillside on raw earth terraces which were only just beginning to sprout grass. Driving along the winding street between them, I could see that most of the houses were occupied. There were curtains at the windows, children playing in the yards, clothes drying on the lines. The houses were painted different colors, which only seemed to emphasize their sameness.
The street unwound itself at the foot of the slope, paralleling the edge of the bluffs. I stopped the car and turned to look at Bolling.