The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death (32 page)

She jammed the heels of her hands against her eyes and pressed.

I took the interchange to the 10 West, the traffic loop circling, a lone apartment building jutting high enough from its center for me to be able to see into an uncovered window on the top floor, a glimpse of a woman in front of a vanity mirror, rubbing away the day's makeup.

Soledad uncovered her eyes, looked around.

—Where are we?

I pointed north.

—I need to make a stop.

—Jaime stole the gun.

She was staring out the window at the gated faces of the businesses along Fairfax.

—I mean, I assume he did. He knew my dad had two. A set of them. Those pistols. They were fancy or something. Dad knew Jaime liked that kind of shit and showed them to him once. After I called and asked if he could help with the truckers and their fucking almonds and he came over, he must have stolen it from Dad's desk. The one the cops hadn't taken. The one Dad hadn't used.

We passed the Silent Movie Theater just before Melrose.
Her Grave Mistake
on the marquee.

Soledad read it and turned and smiled at me.

—Now
that's
funny.

—I was with him at the motel. When I called you to clean up after Talbot. I didn't take a cab down there. I went with him to meet the guys to make sure Jaime didn't completely screw things up. I mean, by then I was a little more clearheaded. Fuck. If it had just been a matter of sending the almonds on their way, I could have done that. If it had been legal, I could have done that. But I didn't know what to do with a load like that. What precautions to take. And Jaime, he's the only, you know, shifty character I know.

She blew her nose into an already damp Kleenex.

—Except for my dad, I mean.

We crossed Sunset, climbed toward Hollywood Boulevard.

—And he screwed it up. I kept telling him to settle down, we'd pay for the
stupid motel room and the food and whatever. But he'd been drinking. And he has to have things exactly his way. It's like he gets a picture of how it should all work, and if it doesn't work that way he freaks out. More baggage from our mom.

I took a left onto Hollywood.

—I met her first pimp.

She looked at me.

—Homero?

I stopped at the light.

—The bait dealer.

She nodded.

—Yeah. He and my dad did business sometimes. He
introduced
Dad to our mom. He's a scumbag. And there's a good chance he's Jaime's dad. Still.

She rapped the side of her head against the window.

—If I'd been thinking, I would have called
him
about the almonds.

The light turned green. I veered right and merged into northbound traffic again.

—Jaime did. It didn't seem to help.

She chewed a nail.

—Not much Jaime does ever seems to help. And he needs so much help himself. He needs something for himself. To make him, I don't know, to give him some kind of reason. Not that that's an excuse. The way he treated you that night. Web. I didn't mean to. I wasn't trying to cause trouble when I called. But that mess in the room. It would have caused problems. I was still thinking about police. And what they'd find. I wasn't thinking about. About anything. Except not wanting people to know.

I touched one of the many knots I'd collected on my scalp that last few days.

—Thinking clearly doesn't seem to have been anyone's specialty this week.

She nodded, pointed at the twisting road climbing ahead of us.

—What's in Laurel Canyon?

I took us around one of the hairpins and slid into the left-turn lane for Kirkwood.

—An old man.

…

We were parked, the Apache pulled half onto the sidewalk to keep narrow Weepah Way open to two-way traffic.

—So, was the story as bad as you thought?

I looked at her, looked out at the sky. Here above the Los Angeles Basin floor, a sheet of stars visible.

—No, not quite.

She leaned forward to join me looking out the windshield and up at the stars.

—Not quite.
You must have had some pretty fucked-up ideas about what happened.

I tapped the glass, pointing at a constellation.

—Know what that is?

—No. You?

—That's Corvus. The Crow.

—Never heard of it. I thought there were only twelve constellations. Like the zodiac.

—No. There are lots more.

—Where'd you learn?

—My dad.

I leaned back and looked at her.

—So on the subject of not thinking clearly, I thought Harris and those guys maybe killed your dad. I thought maybe you knew about it. I thought maybe you made a deal to take care of the almonds for them if they did it for you. Killed your dad for you.

I pulled the towel over my leg where it had fallen to the side.

—Still want to go home with me?

She kept looking at the stars.

—Well, I'm not really in much of a position to criticize you for thinking bad things about me right now, am I?

I put that in my top ten of
Most Loaded Questions Ever
and ignored it.

She ignored me ignoring it, and moved on.

—You promise to teach me a few more constellations?

—Sure.

She shrugged.

—Then I still want to go home with you.

I put my hand on the door.

—Soledad.

—Hm?

—The reason we didn't have the truck, the almonds, why we had to get all tricky and, you know, all that crazy shit. That was because Customs was seizing all your dad's property. So, stuff is probably gonna. You know.

She put her hand to the glass.

—Yeah. I know. Jaime told me outside the inn.

She tapped the glass.

—Is that one?

I looked.

—No. But.

I took her finger and traced a circle on the glass.

—All those, those are Vela. The Sails.

—Huh.

I got out.

—I'll be back in a few minutes.

She didn't look.

—OK.

I swung the door back and forth a little, the hinge creaking.

—Soledad, I thought maybe you had killed him yourself. Killed your dad.

She drew her finger around the circle I'd traced.

—You were close enough on that one.

I closed the door and went up to see L.L.

The house smelled like mold and whiskey.

Piled books squeezed the entryway, leaving just clearance enough to open the door and scrape through. Bindings and pages swollen and dotted with rot from the damp canyon air, the stacks teetered and listed, propped up by more books. Shelves lined the walls. Shelves that were little more than more stacks of books broken by the occasional strata of a pine plank used to create stability. The fireplace, long out of use, vomited books. The couch rested on a pedestal of them. Looking into the kitchen, I could see that the doors had been removed from the cabinets to allow more room for the spines of oversized editions to jut out. If I opened the fridge, I had little doubt I'd have found paperbacks wedged into the crisper, first editions of Mailer growing ice crystals in the freezer. The only thing to challenge the rule of books were the empty bottles lining window ledges, mounded in the sink, overflowing from liquor store delivery cartons.

I picked my way through the heaps, noticing, above the books' high watermark on the walls, the occasional slightly less dingy patch of paint where L.L. had once hung posters from his halcyon years.
Five Easy Pieces
signed by Jack. An original lobby card from
The Thin Man.
An Alfred Hitchcock silhouette, also signed. A photo of himself and Mom, when the novelty of Hollywood could still hold her wandering attention, flanked by Francis Ford and Eleanor Coppola at the
Apocalypse Now
opening night after-party

But over the mantel, on the wall that had been entirely rebuilt following the fire, there was no mark to show where there had once been a picture taken by Mom: L.L. reclining on a lounge chair, a wineglass in one hand, pen in the other, marking up a script propped on his knees, a sleeping baby in his lap. And beyond him, mugging and holding his own child over his head like a trophy, Chev's dad, a cigarette between his lips, sideburns to his jawline, his wife beside him in a purple Mexican housedress, brushing long gold hair.

I walked past the absent photo and out onto the deck where it had been taken.

Ringed with wood vegetable crates filled with more waterlogged books, by the light of several candles pressed into a mass of melted wax that
flowed over a rusting tin-top table and dripped to the planks below, L.L. dozed with an open copy of
Tom Jones
on his stomach.

—L.L.

He lurched, came awake with a phlegmy cough.

—Nguh. Hm.

He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes without turning.

—Money's in the jar, Raj. Leave it anywhere.

He put the glasses back on and started to crane his head around, the book slipping from his belly and onto the deck.

—Could you maybe take out a few of the empties for me?

He saw me. Cleared his throat. Looked at the book he'd dropped.

—I'd make a cliché comment about the prodigal, but it wouldn't really apply, would it?

He reached for the book, missed it, and his shoulder jostled the table, sending the candle flames jittering and the various glasses and empty bottles clinking.

I bent and picked up the book and held it out to him.

—Here.

He took it.

—Thank you.

He found his place and scanned the page.

—Thought you were the delivery boy.

—Late for deliveries.

He looked at his watch.

—Suppose it is.

I nudged a box of full bottles by the table.

—Looks like he was here earlier.

L.L. pulled his glasses low on his nose and looked at me over the rims.

—Is that someone I know casting judgments about? Is that, wait, allow me to cup my ear.

He cupped his hand to his ear and angled his head at me.

—Is that perhaps the voice of my absent wife speaking to me through her son?

He removed his hand.

—A prodigious bit of ventriloquism for her to accomplish from her far northern climes. Perhaps, if I speak distinctly, I can send a message back to her via the same medium.

He put his hand to the side of his mouth.

—Althea, dear bitch, get out of the boy's head, he's sufficiently fucked up now, we need neither of us endure in the effort.

He wiped his brow.

—There. With luck that will transmit to her and she will desist in dispensing her opinions about how I live my life, through my own flesh and blood. However misbegotten said flesh and blood may be.

He took a full bottle of Seagram's from the carton and held it to the light.

—Drink?

I shook my head.

—No thanks.

He shrugged, picked up a glass, sloshed the dregs at its bottom over the edge of the deck into the toyon, chaparral, coast oak and walnut growing up from the hillside, and poured himself a double.

—I'll have one for the both of us.

I moved some books from another chair and took a seat.

—Was there any doubt?

He saluted me with the glass.

—In your mind? Apparently none.

He downed the whiskey.

—But I generally don't drink alone.

I looked back into the dark house, the moonlight glinting off all the empty bottles.

—Been having a lot of company, have you?

He swung his arm in an arc, indicating his massed library.

—My oldest friends. My enduring companions. Those that stand by me.

I picked at the wax on the table.

—And experiencing the delights of Renaissance technology, as well, I see.

He topped off his glass, sipped this time.

—The electric bills. They send them, God knows they're here somewhere, I just never quite find the time to deal with them.

I looked up at the sky, remembered that same sky projected inside the Griffith Observatory planetarium, how the stars would swim and race down the horizon as the view shifted, season by season, between the hemispheres. L.L. providing commentary, whispering in my ear.

—You could always get someone to take care of that shit for you.

—I have an ex-wife, my boy, I don't need another.

—I was thinking more in the way of an assistant. Or a business manager. Didn't you used to have one?

He opened his book, turned a page, ignored the implication that he might once have been in the kind of business that would require a manager.

—L.L.

—Yes, I attend.

—Has it ever occurred to you, all these books, the alcohol, open flames?

He turned a page.

—Has it ever occurred to you, mother's son that you are, to mind your own business?

I snapped a stalactite of wax from the edge of the table.

—L.L.

—Web.

—I don't want you to die.

He pressed the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth and closed his book.

—I'm choked up, filled with emotion. Imagine, my son not
wanting
me to die. How many fathers can say the same?