Die A Little Part 9

"It has a gold lock and key, gold edging, the most charming gold studs in the tufted padding." She runs her hand across the top of the book, then looks up at me.

"I ... I don't understand."

"Oh," she says, setting the book down. "Usually I have a good sense about these things. You look like the diary type."

I feel my face warming. "Sorry, no. I really just have a question." I take the address book from my purse and set it on the counter in front of her. "Is this from your shop?" She tilts her head at me and then looks down at the book. She flips the cover open to the stamp on the inner leaf.

"I guess you already knew that," she says.

My face grows warmer still. "I do. I guess ... I suppose what I m asking is if you might, somehow, know anything about this purchase. If you might remember making this sale."

"Do you know how many of these we might sell in a given week?" she asks with a clipped voice, looking back down at the Deau stamp.

"I'm sorry. Of course. Really, I have no idea. Pardon me," I say, reaching out to retrieve the book.

"We sell less than one in a given week, on average," she says, holding on to the book with pressed-together forefingers. "Actually, we sell maybe one or two a year."

I look up at her.

"It's not a comment on business, which is fair, all things considered," she continues. "It's just that this is a custom-made book, sewn with special French thread, hand-pressed leather. We had to order it specially."

I nod, not seeing.'

"This book," she says, holding it up between two fingers. "This tiny book costs two hundred and fifty dollars."

"Two hundred and fifty dollars," I repeat.

"Yes. This tiny book cost us two hundred and fifty dollars when the check bounced."

"Oh." I see at last.

"Oh indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came upon this book? We'd obviously be very interested in finding its owner." She holds the book still, despite my unthinking effort to take it back again.

"Don't you know, from the check?"

Pursing her lips, she pulls out a small clipboard from under the counter. To it are attached a few checks and a list of names.

She slides the clipboard toward me, her finger pointing at one of the checks.

"This person does not exist. We don't know who pa.s.sed it." It reads, John Davalos.

I feel a wave of disappointment. The name means nothing.

"Ring a bell?"

I say, "No."

I say no. But, on a hunch, I take the book from her tight little fingers.

And wish her a fine day. I leave too-quickly for her to try to take the book back.

I have the thought it might come in handy.

I do try, at first, to forget about the address book, too. What, after all, do I really know? But it keeps b.u.mping up against me, shoving itself in front of my face like a carnival huckster trailing after you as you hurry past, avoid eye contact, resist the spiel, the hot, fast patter of infinite and gaudy persuasion. Somehow, it lingers with me even more than the dirty playing card. That photo seemed part of Alice's ancient past, but this is Alice's- and Bill's-present.

It is with a vague twitch of guilt that I begin watching her. Before I know it, I find myself watching her everywhere. At Sunday dinner, at social events, at the new school year's first department meetings, I keep waiting to see a connection, a clue. A clue to what, though, really, after all.

There is a string I am pulling together, a string of question marks so long they are beginning to clatter against each other, and loudly.

I count them on my fingers, beginning to feel the fool: the missing credentials, the unexplained absences, the playing card, the postcard, and now the address book. And perhaps most of all, Alice herself. Something in her. The hold so tight over my brother, and suddenly it appears more and more as though she is this brooding darkness lurking around him, creeping toward him, swarming over him. Her glamour like some awful curse.

"Mr. Standish is on set right now. If you'll wait." The receptionist with the silver fingernails gestures toward a long row of chrome-trimmed leather chairs.

Guests of publicists and press agents don't rate too highly with the front office staff, or so I've come to learn in recent months. I sit down, back straight, as awkward as I always feel anywhere near the studio.

I watch the top of her foamy blond head tilt this way and that as she answers calls on her headset, fingers tapping the earpieces with each turn and swivel of her chair.

I look over at a rough-hewn boy seated four chairs down. He has a scar like a lightning bolt over his left eye and wears a sweater and gymnasium shoes.

When he spots me looking at him, he nods, straightening in his seat. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes, gesturing toward me.

"No. Thank you."

He nods again and slides one into his mouth. "Do you mind?" I shake my head and smile slightly.

Blowing a shallow stream from his mouth, he looks back toward me. "You in that college movie? The one with all the football scenes?"

"Pardon?"

"Sorry. I just know they're shooting this afternoon and I thought I seen you over there before."

"No." I shake my head. "I'm just visiting someone."

"I did a few stunts over there," he says, leaning forward. "Those pretty boys in the letter sweaters can't take a tackle to save your life."

I smile. Sensing he expects a reply, I say, "Did you get that scar from doing stunts?" He touches his forehead self-consciously, and I feel bad. I a.s.sumed he'd be proud of it, like a battle wound.

"No, I got this a long time ago. Old bar fight. But I've been working here for a while now." He looks at me expectantly, and I can tell he is waiting for a response.

"How did you get into stunt work?" I offer, hoping Mike will show up.

"Oh, I was knocking around, trying to find a way to make some money for taking punches, rather than taking them for free," he says. It sounds like he's said it many times before, to great effect.

I try to stop the conversation politely with a closing smile. "I been doing it for four years now." He takes another drag. "I did a stunt for Alan Ladd once. Frank Sinatra even." "Well, well."

Suddenly, the foamy blond head of the receptionist pops up, and her nasal voice rings out, "Teddy, Mr. Schor is through with him. Mr.

Davalos is on his way out. He wants you to bring the car around."

The boy jumps up, suddenly fl.u.s.tered.

"On it," he shouts, dancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet for a second before nodding his head toward me and heading to the door.

Mr. Davalos. Suddenly, I see the arched brow of the woman at Deau Stationers as if she were right before my eyes. Mr. Davalos. Could this be the owner of the address book in my sister-in-law's bed? No. I must have misheard. The name has occupied my thoughts so much in the last few days that I must have imagined hearing it aloud.

I take the opportunity to pick up a Modem Screen, in case the boy returns and wants to continue the conversation. Burying my head behind it, I wonder how long Mike will be and if I should really keep waiting.

A few minutes pa.s.s before I hear a quiet, faintly familiar voice. "Is Teddy out there?"

"Yes, Mr. Davalos. He should be waiting for you."

"Thank you."

As the voice trails away, I glance up from the magazine just in time to see Joe Avalon, resplendent in sharkskin, pa.s.sing the reception desk and through the office doors.

He doesn't see me.

I rise as he steps out. Walking to the window, my heart jumping a bit, I look out. Tugging his hat down, he opens the door of a sleek black roadster. I see a flash of deep maroon interior as he pulls the door shut behind him and the car leaps to life and drives off.

Joe Avalon is John Davalos.

Shaken out of my shock by the nervous buzzing at the reception desk, I turn around on my heel, almost losing my balance.

Foamy-head is watching me. "Mr. Standish says he's coming.

"Fine," I say. Ticking my finger lightly on the window, I ask, "Who was that man? I think I know him."

She pauses and looks at me for a moment. "That's Mr. Davalos."

"Does he work for the studio?"

She pauses again. "He's not a casting agent, if that's what you mean."

"No, no." I smile. "I'm not an actress. I just think I've met him before." I then add, "Maybe through Mr. Standish."

"He doesn't work here. He's a business a.s.sociate of Mr. Schor's."

"I see," I say, just as Mike pushes open the gla.s.s doors.

"Let's go, doll," he says, tipping the hat in his hand to Foamy-head. "Before the gray fellows call me back. I gotta talk to a few columnists at Sugie's."

Joe Avalon. What more do you need, I ask myself. What more do you need to know you must do something? The next morning, as Alice gathers her sewing samples for our first day back to school, I grab her phone book and pa.s.s through it as quickly as I can. I'm not sure which number is his. There is nothing under A or D that fits. I end up looking under J, and there is a number without a name attached. In my haste, I end up scribbling it on the inside of my wrist.

That afternoon, during my prep period, I call the operator, who tells me that the name listed with the number is J. Devlin. Given the multiplying names, I feel sure that it's Joe Avalon. And then, she actually gives me the address. As I write it down, I wonder what exactly I think I'm going to do. But something keeps telling me I've waited long enough, let enough strange glimmers acc.u.mulate in the corners of my eyes. It's time to stop blinking.

After dropping off Alice after school, I drive into Los Angeles and find the house on Flower Street. I sit in my car for three hours, and he never appears.

I go back the following evening. I sit and watch. I think about Bill. I think about Joe Avalon in my brother's bedroom. I think about Alice and what she has brought with her, what she's carried into my brother's world. Our world.

At a little past ten, a car pulls up his driveway. I duck down in my seat and then wait, watch.

Joe Avalon, in a s.h.i.+ny raincoat, emerges and heads for his front door. I ask myself, Could this man really be Alice's lover? And if not that, what? He is alone. Here is the opportunity. There is no reason to wait. I banish the strumming refrain in my head. The one that keeps asking what I think I'm doing here, after all.

As he unlocks his door and walks inside, I slide out of my car and walk to his house. There is no use thinking about it, I just have to do it, without thinking, just go ...

I am suddenly there, knuckles rapping the pine door.

And it's a long minute before he opens it, coat off, collar open, blast of cologne in my face. He doesn't know what to make of it.

"Miss King, right?"

He opens the door wider. "Come in," he says. He says, "Come in."

I step past him and into the darkly paneled hallway of the pristine, cocoa-colored bungalow.

"I can't guess why I'm so lucky," he says softly. He always speaks softly, and low, so you have to lean in to hear. A trick like a southern belle's.

The hallway spills into a living room, Oriental rug, teak-colored blinds, amber lamps, and a large, plush sofa in deep rose.

"Have a seat." He b.u.t.tons his collar, twisting his neck. "Can I get you a drink?"

I shake my head, but he begins pouring two gla.s.ses from the mahogany bar cart. Whiskey and two quick sprays of soda from a smooth green bottle.

He hands the drink to me and gestures for me to sit on one of the damask chairs. Opposite me, he settles on the sofa.

My hand curls around the gla.s.s, and I'm suddenly glad I have it to hold on to. I finally look at him straight on. I can't avoid it. His eyes, glossy dark like brine, fixed and waiting.

"I couldn't be more surprised, Miss King. I'm sitting here thinking that I don't even know how you know where I live. Is this about our mutual friend Alice?" He says this all nearly tonelessly, only the vague lilt of someone very conscious of how he speaks, the words he wants to use.

"I have something of yours." This is what I say. I just say it, and that's it.

"Is that right?" he shoots back more quickly than I antic.i.p.ated.

"I have something of yours." I look him straight in the eye this time, and his right lid twitches for just a second.

"And what is that, Miss King?"

"You can't guess?" I watch his face. I want him to admit something, confess to something, betray something.

"Miss King, I really can't imagine." He smiles vaguely, unreadably. "But I'd really like to know."

"I bet you would." How I manage to say this, I don't know. It's like a movie scene. This is what they say in the movies.