The Road Narrows As You Go (37 page)

And how did
you
know Vaughn? we asked another stranger who sat down at our table carrying a plate of Vaughn's sister's famous pot brownies (that he didn't seem to know were pot brownies, judging from how fast he ate them) while Wendy was in the ladies' room.

I knew him through King syndicate, the man said. He plucked brownie crumbs off his corduroy blazer and ate them. I worked as a travelling salesman. For nine years I sold
The Mischiefs
to newspaper editors all across California, Nevada, Utah, Arizona. Tough gig but it paid.

Wendy came back from the ladies' room with a tissue in her hand, wiped her nose and eyes and cheeks and sniffed back a final sob. Her mind's eye was still on the departed, now many, and she hardly noticed her company.

A former assistant got up to speak. She had long, white hair pulled back with a loose black ribbon. She wore a grey sweater over a black dress, and her name was Phyllis Glazier. From the silence that came over the room it was obvious Glazier was part of the lawsuit. However, as soon as she started to speak, she struck a kind of peace in the room with her softspoken, musical voice and graceful gestures of a choreographer. When Phyllis was a twenty-year-old with an art diploma from a correspondence school, Vaughn gave her her first job, inking
The Mischiefs
. And for eight years she painted the layouts of at least twenty different pencillers ghosting for Vaughn, including many infamous dipsomaniacs like Wally Wood and Frank Frazetta. That was her art school. She hadn't worked for Vaughn since the early sixties. She was going broke. He paid late if at all. She told us quitting was the best decision she ever made, but she never stopped missing Vaughn and his studio dungeon. She had loved working on
The Mischiefs
. Often Vaughn would arrive late in the afternoon to see what I'd accomplished, Glazier said, and he would point out places where I had made mistakes or could improve my line. I would set out to make the fixes and Vaughn would say,
No, no, no need to fix this one, fix the next one
. That was a time-saving lesson. He never touched a pen unless it was to impress a girl, but he never stopping thinking like an artist.

We respected Vaughn's privacy, his sister Esme said when it came time for a member of the family to speak at the lectern. When he came back from Korea I guess he changed. He turned into this wild artist. We all loved him—he was our big brother, the war hero with a comic strip about rebels, delinquents, reform school dropouts. He was a rock star before rock music, touring the country. I thought he was cooler than Elvis. I suppose we never got to see enough of the real Vaughn. All of the siblings lead such different lives. We never get to see any of each other except at these occasions, weddings and funerals. I guess the last time I saw Vaughn was … years ago now, but I brought him some of those
brownies, fresh from our farm. He ate too many and passed out on the roof of his house.

The guests all laughed knowingly. Then another person got up to speak.

They
are
delicious brownies, said the travelling salesman, also laughing.

Holy fuck, you scared me again. What are
you
doing here? Wendy gaped at this person seated next to her about to scarf down another brownie.

I'm sorry, I—I wanted say something, but the sister started speaking.

Say
what
?

Our case has moved up the ladder.

What case?

I'm now an assistant to Rudy Giuliani, U.S. attorney for New York.

You are no Jim Rockford, not even a Perry Mason. You're more like Columbo when he's scratching his head.

The SEC reports directly to the president.

The president. As in R. Reagan?

I am investigating a
crime
, Miss Ashbubble. It might be so-called white collar but it's still crime. A serious crime. Call that whatever TV show you want. My investigation is real.

Wendy was rubbing her chin with mild curiosity. I love crime shows. Solving mysteries. My favourite is probably
Rockford Files
but I love
Magnum
and
Remington Steele
, and
Miami Vice
is straight up my alley with its fashion and gunplay. Have you seen it yet?

Someone at the table next to us made a shush to quiet them, seeing as cartoonist Jeff MacNelly was at the lectern speaking.
Me and Dan O'Neill got so drunk one night …

Never mind what you're seeing on paper with your investments, the entire bonds market is a house of cards, Chris Quiltain whispered into Wendy's ear. Flooded with junk. Hexen is playing a Ponzi on the
S&Ls.
None
of the junk market is liquid. He bounces debts from account to account to hide from the IRS. We chase the money. It's an ongoing investigation.

Say no more.

I love that ring you're wearing. What is it, a honeybee made of glass?

She saw what was going on here. What's going on here? she asked and batted her lashes over her shoulder.

Can we find somewhere to talk, in private? Chris pleaded.

Of course, she murmured.

They went around the corner into the cloakroom.

You were there? Tell me. What do you know about his wife's disappearance?

I know it happened, said Wendy. That's all. One minute they're there, the next, gone.

Frank is trouble. He's dangerous, said Chris. Even Reagan is starting to see the truth.

You're
dangerous, said Wendy.

Among the overcoats and jackets, he made his move without a second thought. Pressed himself against her, that elliptical mouth of his on hers, her back to the wall, the cage of his hands groping her ass, his mouth tasted of lip balm wax, his skin smelled of Ruthvah.

What are you doing? said Wendy. Stop for a second. What in the blazes—?

I'm sorry, Wendy. I don't know what got into me. I thought you were flirting with me.

Maybe I was. But only to find out what you're all about.

You're beautiful. I've been following you around, watching you. Reading your comic. I interviewed you, remember? Through the mail for
The Comics Journal
. I feel like I know you.

That
was you? That
was
you. That was
you
. You sneak snake fucker.

You're the exact kind of corduroy reptile I modelled my snake Sam after.

You're so sexy. I want to take you out. I'd love to buy you a dinner. I think, listen to this, because it's true. I'm in love with you. You're the most amazing woman I've ever—. I'm a
good
guy. Get to know me, I am. We could—

Gimme a Kit Kat. Are you concussed? This just got gross. You follow me around. You're the shadow I didn't know I had. I don't know you. You're crazy. You're cute but you're crazy.

Am
I? Do you find me attractive?

Look, buster, do you want to arrest me or date me?

Date you, arrest him, Chris said. Frank Fleecen's the one we want. You're the one
I
want.

Stop talking.

He's cooked, crooked, and triple crooked. I'm sure of it. You know it. You must. Tell me what you know. What has he told you?

Nothing. No more out of your mouth.

You're in business with a dangerous man. Frank's pulled you right into the middle of a massive swindle and you don't even know it.

Shut up and fuck me, you oblivious doll.

The screech of metal coat-hangers sliding in a bunch as someone parted the coats in front of them startled everybody. A pretty voice cried out, Mercy me! and an elderly stranger, no, it was not a stranger, and not so elderly, either, but a lively athletic middle-aged woman Wendy recognized right away. It was Jean Schulz and she was with her husband.

Charles Schulz and his wife apologized for interrupting.

Wendy said,
There's
my glasses! Right on my … face. Well, thanks so much for your help, Chris. She took her glasses off and put them back on. I don't know
how
they got there.

Yes, wow, strange, said Chris. There they are. Sometimes it's the last place you think to look.

How do you do? said Charles Schulz. Meanwhile we're looking for our coats.

It was polite of Schulz not to recognize Wendy at this moment, but it still kind of stabbed her, since the last time they met—at Hick's wake—he had told her to call him Sparky. But now was not the time.

STRAYS

24

The hospital promised to run a few more tests and make sure, but the doctors told Biz that, on the surface of things, she did not have the AIDS virus. The relief was confounding. Biz went into shock. She couldn't be alone; she couldn't go up to her room. She didn't trust herself. In the week after Vaughn's death, Wendy doted on Biz completely. They would lie together on Wendy's mattress and Wendy rolled the joints, and one day she made a chocolate pecan pie, and she rented movies, an early John Waters, some rare shorts by Kenneth Anger, Cronenberg, Lynch, Alejandro Jodorowsky, Pasolini, Jesús Franco, as well Andy Warhol's
Dracula
. Wendy's bedroom had no draft, stifling hot, she kept the windows shut and the shades drawn and she'd warmed the air with incense. They half slept, half woke in the dim amber glow of the days and nights flickering by, eating cakes and pies and drinking coffee far too much, getting stoned on top of it. Sleeping all day, working all night, crying a lot. There was a decadence to grief and it was shameful, except shame made it harder to heal, and the cycle of pain prolonged the ordeal. The disorienting, cavernous feeling of abandonment
played a number on their internal compass. Seven days passed before they awoke from this sorrow.

Biz turned to face her in the bed, and said, He gets it. I don't. He dies. I don't. I should have it. I
must
have it, unless he had it first. He never told me or nobody he hired that art school kid to paint those clowns he was so proud of. That's obscenity on top of an obscenity. What kind of man was I seeing? Floccinaucinihilipilification!

Those clowns
were
the worst, Wendy said and yawned.

The VCR on her dresser played the last scenes of
Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior
. Biz cracked open another cassette—
Prince: Purple Rain, Live
.

Biz yawned, too. I'm a wreck. Limp. No strength. Can't crawl out of bed. No appetite. Sapped of my will to live. Last person who meant something to me's dead, Wendy, dead. I should be, too. Shouldn't I be?

Eat some pie, said Wendy. Make sure to at least get some sugar in your system.

Yeah, I got to have sugar, said Biz with a fork poised over the pie Wendy had made.

Tell me if it's good.

It's good.

There's a whole bag of chocolate chips in the filling.

I said good. Biz ate through a piece with no lack of difficulty. You should be a pastry chef.

Anything other than a cartoonist?

That's right, said Biz between chews.

I don't think new options are open to me anymore. This is it. My one skill in life. If I can't do this, I'm doomed.

That's where you're wrong, said Biz. There's hella options always open to us. Look at me. I used to be loose, now I'm celibate. I used to be at war, now I'm at peace. I used to be in the closet, now I sing.

You're not like puny humans, Wendy groaned. I feel trapped by the choices my choices made. Meanwhile you fly free.

She was thinking about earlier that afternoon when Gabby had called to hear the entire story of what happened. Her editor said, And you saw the
Times
piece on Frank? Really powerful, sympathetic portrait of an American titan. Perfect timing. Your strip gets a little nod. I hate to say it but I'm going to use this to pin down the editor, strike while your name rings bells around those halls. See if I can't get you a subscription.

I'm going back to bed, Gabby. I'm losing my mind. I can't think about the
New York Times
.

Wait, before you go. You should call Frank, said Gabby. This one's not my business. He's got other bad news. Hexen's copyright lawyers sniffed out a company in Houston selling knockoff
Strays
toys and T-shirts to dollar stores, Texas all the way to Phoenix. Apparently they ignored cease-anddesist letters so now it's time to take them to court. Reason you might care is your contract says you agree to cover half of all legal fees with Hexen …

Well, shit.

Legal fees. She didn't want to call Frank. She thought about it, she even sat next to the phone. She did everything other than call Frank, including clean behind the toilets and write Dr. Pazder another letter. She wondered why, if Frank felt so strongly about her, and he was about to sue a bootlegger, he hadn't broken the rule and called
her
. She wondered why, if he was her business manager, she didn't tell
him
the New York District Attorney's Office was investigating him. A month had gone by since the trip to Death Valley and she hadn't said a word about her interactions with Chris Quiltain. All things known and familiar were falling away piece by piece, vanishing into light one after the other at a terrible rate.