The Mystic Arts Of Erasing All Signs Of Death Part 48

I stopped at the light.

-The bait dealer.

She nodded.

-Yeah. He and my dad did business sometimes. He introduced introduced Dad to our mom. He's a sc.u.mbag. And there's a good chance he's Jaime's dad. Still. Dad to our mom. He's a sc.u.mbag. 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 him about the almonds. 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 winds.h.i.+eld and up at the stars.

-Not quite. You must have had some pretty f.u.c.ked-up ideas about what happened. You must have had some pretty f.u.c.ked-up ideas about what happened.

I tapped the gla.s.s, 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 Most Loaded Questions Ever and ignored it. 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 s.h.i.+t. That was because Customs was seizing all your dad's property. So, stuff is probably gonna. You know.

She put her hand to the gla.s.s.

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

She tapped the gla.s.s.

-Is that one?

I looked.

-No. But.

I took her finger and traced a circle on the gla.s.s.

-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 ABSENT PHOTO.

The house smelled like mold and whiskey.

Piled books squeezed the entryway, leaving just clearance enough to open the door and sc.r.a.pe 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 Five Easy Pieces signed by Jack. An original lobby card from signed by Jack. An original lobby card from The Thin Man. The Thin Man. An Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k 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 An Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k 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 Apocalypse Now opening night after-party 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 winegla.s.s 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, brus.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.s 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 Tom Jones on his stomach. on his stomach.

-L.L.

He lurched, came awake with a phlegmy cough.

-Nguh. Hm.

He took his gla.s.ses off and rubbed his eyes without turning.

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

He put the gla.s.ses 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 cliche 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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.ses 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.