Fridays at Enrico's (27 page)

“What was that?” Charlie asked Neil. Kazuko could barely see over the wheel, her face set in determination. She showed no hint of concern, in fact none of the females were upset. Only Neil and, by contagion, Charlie. What horrible risk had he put his daughter through?

“Nothing.” The color came back to Neil's face. “Normally you don't turn broadside to the wind, that's all. We could have been swamped.”

“If we sank would the sharks eat us?” Kira asked.

Most of the time Charlie and Kira walked through town, window-shopping and people-watching. There was a little park, with a couple of pale brown stone elephants, palm trees, and a sunny patch of lawn, but they'd lost the privilege of sitting on the grass in the sunshine. Charlie heard the story at the no name. Ginsberg and Orlovsky and Ferlinghetti had been in
Sausalito for some reason, and had found themselves in the park. They were clowning around, maybe Peter kissed Allen, there were people watching, and that night, that very night, the police came and put a fence around the lawn. No playing on the grass from now on. The first time in history that a park had been closed due to an infestation of poets.

Now, the park closed, the hippies and other undesirables sat on the broad steps in front of the park or across the street on the steps up to Bulkley Avenue. “Look at the clowns,” Kira said loudly one day, meaning some colorfully dressed hippies.

“Yes, dear,” Charlie said.

The official end to their walk was always the bronze sea lion, which sat on a rock on the edge of the bay, down the long breakwater past the Trident. Charlie and Kira would sit on the bench there, side by side, looking at the sea lion and the boats on the bay. Kira usually fell asleep on his lap, and he'd carry her back through town to their car. Would this be one of Kira's childhood memories? Charlie hoped so.

Home was awkward without being tense. Cynthia took care of everything. Call girl or not, Cynthia was a fine au pair, and Kira loved her deeply. The two were always whispering together, leaving Charlie out of it. Which was fine. That wasn't the problem. It was just that living in the house with an extremely good-looking young woman who was a prostitute on the side induced certain unworthy thoughts, which demanded of Charlie constant suppression. He wondered if Jaime had stuck him with Cynthia deliberately, to tempt him. In response to Linda, years ago. Whether she did or not, he wasn't going to make any mistakes. If he made a pass at Cynthia she'd surely tell Tanya, who'd tell Jaime, and there you are. Not that Cynthia flirted, or walked around half-dressed, or anything like that. It seemed to Charlie that she was very careful not to. Which was also tremendously sexy.

His life was insane, but calm. When Jaime finally decided what to do about her book, things would settle back to normal, except of course that Charlie had nothing to do. His long-time obsession was over. No point in
starting another writing project. He was no writer. The thing was to find another obsession.

49.

Then Bill Ratto called, saying he'd finished reshaping Charlie's manuscript. “I think we have a novel.” He seemed bright and brash over the telephone, but that's how he always sounded. “We got you cheap at five grand,” he said with a bubbling laugh. He'd be coming to the West Coast to talk to writers and wanted to have dinner with Charlie and Jaime. Charlie hung up the telephone and rolled over on his back. It was seven in the morning, ten in New York. He'd not heard from Jaime in days. Now he called Bob Mills to share the news about Ratto's call and the impending visit. He wanted to ask if Mills had word of either Jaime or her book, but found he couldn't let Bob Mills learn he didn't know where his own wife was.

Listening to the sounds of Kira and Cynthia out in the house, Charlie got up and showered and dressed. His poor old war novel. The damnable stack of pages that was his oldest friend. Why was that, Charlie? Can't you keep your human friends? Maybe the novel was done. Maybe Ratto had actually worked some kind of magic.

Cynthia and Kira sat eating in front of the television set. Charlie got himself a mug of coffee and walked out into the garden. A linnet was singing its incredibly complex song. Charlie finally spotted the little bird at the highest point on his television antenna. Shouldn't Charlie be doing the same thing? Crowing with all his might? He sipped at his coffee, hoping the caffeine would cut through his depression. He sat on one of the redwood lounge chairs, staring out at the misty bay, then felt wet seeping through his jeans. He stood, brushing at his wet seat, and went back into the house.

Three days later Bill Ratto called again, this time from the Mark Hopkins.
He was ensconced and receiving. Charlie's anger at Jaime was growing. Not for being out of touch, but because with Bill here, frankly, Charlie needed the moral support. He'd geared up to dislike what Ratto had done with his stuff, but he hated arguing about writing, especially his own, and dreaded having to do it without Jaime at his side. She had the diplomatic gifts, unless she lost her temper. Charlie was blunt. Now, at last, his manhood was offended by her failure to be where he could find her. Especially since he refused to look. He'd begun avoiding even North Beach at night, confining his drinking to Sausalito and the no name bar. Even there, he half-expected to see Jaime come through the door.

Charlie parked in the Standard garage up the block from the Mark and walked to the hotel with his hands jammed in his front pockets. At least the thing would be out on the table, no longer beyond his control in New York. He'd pick up the manuscript, carry it home, read it in leisure, and then call Bill Ratto. If Jaime happened to show up, he'd have her read it too. If not, then not. Charlie was a big boy. He could handle it all by himself.

Ratto's room was a tiny cube down a long dark corridor. Charlie had assumed the Mark Hopkins was a luxury hotel, but it didn't look like one from the inside. Bill yelled “Come in!” and Charlie opened the door to find Bill on one of the twin beds, dressed in dark pants and a white shirt open at the throat. He was plump and round-faced, with a sharp little nose. He wore silver-rimmed glasses and had a small moustache. He had a manuscript in his hands and there others all over the room, as many as fifty of them, Charlie estimated, on the other bed, on the furniture, and on the rug.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, as if they hadn't had an appointment. Charlie closed the door and took a couple of boxes of manuscript off one of the chairs and sat down.

“Hello, Bill,” he said, trying to calmly set the tone for the meeting.

“I want you to find me some pot,” Bill said. “I thought it would be easy, but the bellhops here don't even seem to know what it is, and the writers I've been talking to either can't get it or won't. How about you?”

“I can't help you,” Charlie lied. “But I'll ask around.”

“Just a couple of joints. To remove the hotel flavor from my life.”

“How's it going?” Charlie said, not eagerly, but calmly.

Bill sat up and put the manuscript down. “You ready to read a great book?” he said with a pursed smile. “Are you ready to die over a book?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, and grinned. He began to feel better. Bill rummaged around and came up with a big fat unrecognizable pile of pages, held together by thick rubber bands. “Is that mine?” he asked.

Bill handed it to him. “I took the liberty of having it typed. It was a mess, you know.”

Charlie hefted it. Couldn't be more than five hundred pages. Out of at least fifteen hundred he'd sent in, all told. “How long you in town for?” he asked Bill. “I can read it and call you, or we can meet or something.”

“Are you kidding?” Bill said. “I want you to read it here and now.”

Charlie numbly sat down and began removing the rubber bands. He didn't want to sit here and read it. He'd read just a little, say something nice, then take the fucker home. “Nice title,” he joked. The title was his own,
The End of the War
. The trouble wasn't the title, everybody loved the title. He started reading the first paragraph. The telephone rang and Bill answered it, not lowering his voice at all, making an appointment with somebody. Charlie kept reading, his face going numb. There was a knock at the door and Bill jumped up, mumbled with somebody at the door, and came back in with another hefty manuscript, this one all done up in wrapping paper and string. Charlie read on, his heart freezing. He recognized hardly anything but the character names and a few four-letter words. The rest had been so screwed around that he had a feeling of lightheadedness, as if he was about to faint. He read on while Bill talked on the phone, waiting to see if all the dramatic rewriting came to an end, maybe after the first chapter. No. It went on and on, page after page of stuff he simply did not recognize and intensely did not like. Gradually he lost his temper. His novel had been turned into a pile of shit. He stopped reading, the manuscript on his knees. He breathed deeply, trying to get control over himself.

“Well?” said Bill brightly. “How do you like it?”

Charlie thought carefully. He had nothing against Ratto. Bill had been trying to help. He'd worked hard trying to turn Charlie's manuscript into a publishable novel. Perhaps he had. It read smoothly enough. In fact, too smoothly. It had a nice slick tone. It might be pretty good commercial fiction now, instead of worthless words on paper.

“Well?” Bill's face was wide open for some praise.

Charlie sighed. “Haah.” He carefully put the manuscript on the floor and stood up. “I can't do it, Bill.” He grinned at the floor, embarrassed. “I'll give back what I've been paid. Of the advance. I'm sorry.”

The surprise on Bill Ratto's face could not have been more complete.

PART FOUR

C Block

50.

Stan Winger's cell was seven feet long, five feet wide, and nine feet high. It was in the middle of the third tier and fairly quiet. Stan had a few books, but no other personal possessions. He swept the cell every morning and made up his bunk. Once a week he washed all the surfaces in the cell and rubbed them dry with an old tee shirt. He liked it as clean as he could get it, but he was not a clean freak. The men in C Block didn't go to jobs or eat in the big dining hall or leave their cells for any reason except hospitalization. They were better off than the men in the Rehabilitation Center who were in strip cells. In C Block you had a toilet, a bunk, and your clothes. You had a broom to sweep with, and all the personal junk you could cram in. But you couldn't leave, except to exercise once a day for an hour, or to shower twice a week.

C Block was for the inmates who needed, for one reason or another, to be off the main line. If a politician or a judge or a police officer was sent to prison he ended up here, among the snitches, the queens, the child molesters, and others, like Stan Winger, whose lives might be in danger. Stan was in here because the administration felt he would get into trouble on the main line for the creative arts program, which he had started.

Up in Oregon State pen there had been an arts program, and Stan had done quite a bit of painting. He liked to paint. More than writing, painting got you out of there. You could fall into the brush strokes, disappear, or you could get so turned on by the act of painting that your whole body felt
a rosy sexual glow. Painting was great, and Stan meant to do some painting during his nickel bit. He complained and agitated and acted like a complete jerk by demanding that the administration get on with the business of rehabilitation. There had been a little gift shop in the visitor's center, but it had lapsed under changing conditions. The shop had sold hobby work made by the cons, the woodwork and metalwork, the rings and earrings made from toothbrush handles, etc., and Stan decided that the gift shop should open again, only now also showing prison art. Plenty of the men were talented. They could sell their stuff and become rehabilitated. So Stan argued.

The program had been a big success. They had their first big art show, with the public invited, and a couple of newspapers and television stations gave them coverage. The show brought in several thousand dollars, although Stan himself sold nothing. But he was generally credited with bringing the money into the joint, and word spread that he was a pretty good guy. They began having regular shows, the gift shop was reopened, and Stan Winger developed a reputation not just as a good guy but a guy to know. A minor celebrity on the big yard.