"That's wonderful. How old?"
"He's nine."
"We kept trying for a boy. Got three girls and gave up."
"I bet you wouldn't change them for the world."
"You're absolutely right."
They were silent for a few moments. The band was playing one of Tommy's favorite songs, the one about Running Bear and Little White Dove.
"So, Diane. Forgive me. You're divorced or—"
"Oh, no. I was never married. Tommy was, well... I was very young."
"I understand."
They strolled over to the balustrade. There was a sudden breeze, the tops of the trees swaying and rustling below them in the darkness. Diane shivered.
"You know, Diane, this is a funny kind of town. On one level everything seems easy and modern, as if anything goes. But there's an underside. People talk and the talk gets picked up by those who make a living from it. Sometimes the studios can get a little, well, edgy about things."
It took Diane a moment to understand what he meant by this.
"Forgive my asking, but do you and Ray plan on getting married?"
She showed him the ring and Herb smiled.
"We're hoping to do it at Christmas."
"Well, congratulations. I'm happy for you—and for Tommy. Even so, there's someone I'd like you to meet. Would you mind?"
Ray was still talking to the earnest young writer and looked a lot happier now, so Diane took Herb's arm and they walked around the pool and through clusters of guests then up some wide stone steps and into the house. On the way Herb explained that the man he wanted her to meet was called Vernon Drewe. He was an attorney but also the best public relations guy in town.
They found him beside one of the Gauguins in the long living room, talking with Herb's wife. He was a tall, elegant man, probably in his early fifties, with a voice so soft you had to lean in close to hear. He said he had been looking forward to meeting Diane and after they'd chatted for a while he said that if he could ever be of any service, he'd be only too delighted. She had the impression that Herb had already told him a lot about her, that things had been discussed and arranged. Vernon handed her his business card and she promised to call.
They left a little after midnight, the stripe-vested valets summoning the sedan from the shadows to take them home. Once they were in the car, Ray told her about Steve Shelby and the screenplay he'd written with Ray in mind for the lead. It was a kind of modern-day western, a little like The Misfits, the one Gable and Marilyn had just shot. Shelby was clearly going places, Ray said. He was sending the script over in the morning.
"That's great," Diane said.
"Yeah, well. We'll see."
"We'll see. Come on, it's great."
He put his arm around her and she snuggled in close.
"I'm sorry if I was a little, I don't know, moody earlier on."
"You looked like you were at a funeral."
He laughed. He almost told her the truth, that he got jealous as a jilted skunk when he saw her enjoying herself with another man. Especially some big-time womanizer like Bill Holden. It was a whole new experience for Ray. He'd never felt that way about any woman. They were the ones who got jealous, for godsake, never him. In fact that was how things always ended, in some great, violent bust-up, with ranting and tears and more often than not a flying fist or two, when he paid too much attention to some new gal who happened to catch his eye.
But Diane was different. Four months and still there wasn't a moment in the day when he didn't want to fuck her. And she obviously felt the same way. It was like some kind of hungry sickness that had gotten hold of both of them. The idea of any other man doing it with her, even thinking of her in that way, stirred dark feelings in him.
He kissed her neck and breathed the warm smell of her, sweat from her dancing mingled with her perfume. The kind of scent money couldn't buy, the kind that went straight to a man's loins. She sensed it and put her hand right on it. Lord have mercy.
Dolores was watching TV in the living room and when Diane asked her, in a perfectly friendly way, if Tommy had been okay, she replied without smiling that of course he had, as if the question carried some kind of criticism. The poor gal still had a thing about him and kept giving Diane the evil eye. Ray had already had to have a word with her, telling her to be nicer. He wished, as he often had in the past, that he hadn't been quite so free with his affections. He'd fucked her no more than three or four times. Why the hell did women have to take these things so seriously? As she walked past him, heading off to her room, Dolores gave him a private look with those big sad eyes. Maybe he'd have to get rid of her.
He unzipped Diane's dress as she walked up the stairs in front of him and she stopped and leaned back into him and he slid his hands inside her dress and held her breasts and she swiveled her neck and kissed him.
"I have to go and check Tommy," she whispered. "I won't be long."
Ray went to the bedroom and threw his jacket and shirt over the back of a chair then walked through to the bathroom and had a look at himself in the mirror. It wasn't a pretty sight. His head was blurred from too much Jim Beam and the joint he'd smoked down by the Kanters' croquet lawn. He switched off the light and went and sat on the bed and pulled off his boots. Candles, she always liked candles. He opened the drawer in the nightstand and fumbled to find some matches, pushing aside the bag of grass and the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38, both of which Diane gave him a hard time for keeping there.
He lit the candles on both sides of the bed then collapsed onto the bed, lying on his back with his chest heaving a little. He closed his eyes and fought the drink as it tried to swirl him back through his own head. Where the hell was she? He'd been hard as a gun barrel back on the stairs and now he was starting to wilt. What the hell. There was always tomorrow. He thought about the nice things that young writer had said. Someone, at last, who got him, knew how great he might be, given half a chance. And the kid sure knew his stuff. He was a Stanford graduate, for godsake, knew all about French movies and all that fancy art house stuff.
And the belle of the ball, the woman every man at the party had been drooling over, was going to be his wife. Hell, weren't they going to be some couple? Burton and Taylor, Bogey and Bacall. Montane and Reed. He'd show the bastards. Goddamn it, he'd show them.
Chapter Thirteen
TOM SAW the cat a couple of seconds before Makwi did. They were walking up through the woods and there it was, sitting on a fallen tree on the uphill side of the trail. In the dappled light he thought at first it was a squirrel, then he saw the collar and the shiny metal tag and in that same moment Makwi saw it too or got a whiff of it and was off like a Tomahawk missile. Tom yelled and yelled but it did no good. The crocodile brain had clicked in and the dog might as well have been deaf.
Tom had never much cared for cats. He'd watched enough wildlife films on TV to know that the only difference between a tiger and a pet tabby cat was size. One was big enough to kill you and the other wasn't but would if it could. You could see it in their eyes: basically you were prey and that was all there was to it. Had this one been smarter, it might have stood a chance. But it wasted too long lowering its head and bushing its tail and by the time it got the message and jumped off the tree, the story was pretty well over. Mercifully, Tom didn't see the moment of its demise. He scrambled through the undergrowth after them, sliding and hollering and once taking a heavy fall that knocked all the wind out of him. He found them down by the creek, Makwi standing over the kill with a kind of tentative pride.
"Damn it, Makwi. Couldn't you see the collar? That means no, okay?"
It wasn't just any old cat, it was one of those fancy breeds, a Siamese or Burmese or something and had clearly cost someone a small fortune. Tom picked it up. There wasn't even a drop of blood. The dog must have simply snapped its neck. He looked at the tag. It was engraved with the name O'Keefe and a phone number. He carried the cat home, feeling the warmth ebbing out of it, with Makwi contrite at his heels
.
There was no answer from the number, just a machine. Tom thought it best not to mince words. With what he hoped was an appropriate tone he said he was really sorry but his dog had killed a cat in the woods and the collar had this number on it. He left his name and number and hung up, then stared at the body lying on the kitchen table, wondering what the hell he was going to do with it.
First thing tomorrow he was setting off for California. His friend Liz was coming to mind the house and Makwi, so if the cat's owner didn't call tonight, at least there would be somebody here. The weather was hot. Maybe he should put the corpse in the freezer. Then again, the owner might not appreciate getting his or her beloved pet back all stiff and frozen.
Tom emptied some postcards from an old shoe box and lined it with a hand towel then laid the cat inside. He stood there a moment staring down at the animal. The tilt of its head propped on the red towel gave it a kind of comic grandeur, like some embalmed feline pharaoh. Tom put on the lid and went off to shower.
He was going down to California to see Danny. Not that Danny had invited him or seemed at all keen on the idea. But at least he hadn't said no. Gina had at last let him have the boy's new cell phone number and two nights ago, after many hours spent summoning the courage and planning what he might say, Tom had called. The conversation was about as stilted as it could be and still qualify as one. Danny's voice was more guarded than hostile but it still made Tom feel like a cold-calling salesman. Which, when he came to think about it, was pretty much what he was, pitching reconciliation to someone who had many more pressing things on his mind.
Tom had decided it might sound better if he didn't make too big a deal of it, so he lied and said he had some meetings in LA and would be renting a car anyway and it wasn't too much of a drive down to Camp Pendleton. Maybe they could have lunch or something? It all came out wrong, as if he wouldn't dream of making a special trip just to see his son and didn't much care one way or the other.
"Lunch? Why?"
"Or something, I don't know. Danny, I'd really like to see you. I've missed you."
There was a long silence. Tom heard him take a deep breath.
"Listen, I don't know if it's a good idea—"
"Please, Danny."
Ever since, Tom had been expecting him to phone back and cancel. More likely he'd do it via Gina. But when she did call it wasn't to cancel, just to ask him to go easy, not to lecture Danny or criticize him.
"Gina, do you honestly think I'm that dumb?"
"No, of course not. I'm sorry. He's just so fragile at the moment."
"Oh, really? I'm so glad you told me."
"Tom, don't be like that. The desk job they've given him is driving him crazy and so are the lawyers."
Tom nearly raised the issue again of whether they should get him an independent lawyer, but decided not to. He'd talk to Danny about it instead.
He watched the news while he had his supper but there was nothing about Danny. There hadn't been for days, only the usual tally of suicide and roadside bombs, the random loss and ruin of anonymous lives. He was about to turn in when the phone rang.
"Is that Tom Bedford?"
It was a woman's voice and somehow familiar.
"Yes."
"This is Karen O'Keefe."
He hesitated. The name didn't mean a thing.
"Ah..."
"We met at your friend Troop's book party?"
Tom remembered. He even felt a flutter of flattered excitement.
"I'm sorry. Of course. How are you?"
"Fine. Your dog just killed my cat."
She didn't sound so much upset as intrigued that he should be the killer's owner. Then she explained that, actually, the cat didn't belong to her but to her mother who lived on the other side of the hill. Karen O'Keefe was staying with her for the summer. She asked where the body was.
"It's in a box on the kitchen table."
"I'll come and get him."
"What, now?"
"Is that okay?"
He told her the address and how to find the house then went to his bedroom and put on a smarter shirt and checked himself out in the mirror. Within twenty minutes the headlights of a car panned into the driveway.
Tom went out to meet her and they shook hands and he ushered her into the kitchen. He'd forgotten how striking she was. The thick pre-Raphaelite hair, those green eyes, the freckled skin that gave her a kind of glow. She was wearing a short red skirt and a cropped pink T-shirt that showed her navel. She caught him sneaking a look. Makwi greeted her rather too intimately, sticking a wet nose up her skirt. Tom pulled the dog away.
"So this is the murderer, huh?"
"Yep."
"And this is..."
"I'm afraid so."
He lifted the lid of the shoe box and stepped back so that she was slightly in front of him. They stood in silence for a few moments, looking down at the cat.
"I'm so sorry," he said.
She nodded and then her shoulders started to shake. Tom didn't know if he should put a consoling arm around her but decided not to. Then he realized she wasn't crying but laughing. She put her hands up to her mouth but couldn't stop herself. He didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry," she said. "This is so inappropriate."
She controlled herself for a few moments and adjusted her face to a suitable expression of concern, but that just made her burst out laughing again and it was so infectious and bizarre that Tom couldn't help joining in. Then she started to cough and he went to the sink and got her a glass of water and after a couple of sips and one more eruption of laughter, she managed to stop.
"I'm not normally so heartless," she said. "It's that red towel. He looks so grand, like Lenin or Chairman Mao or something. To be honest, I'm more of a dog person."
"What was his name?"
"Maurice."
This started her off again, but she quickly contained herself and took another drink of water.
"Do you have anything a little stronger?"
He always kept a couple of bottles of wine in the cupboard, strictly for visitors. It made him feel stronger to have alcohol in the house and not be tempted. She chose the pinot noir and he opened it and poured her a glass, then poured himself a glass of water. While he did this she put the lid back on Maurice's casket and told him that what had happened actually solved a problem. Her mother's boyfriend had run off earlier in the year and her mom was planning a major life change which apparently involved moving to France. The only thing stopping her was not knowing what to do with Maurice. Now she'd have no excuse, Karen said.
They went out and sat on the deck overlooking the creek and Tom lit the candles that stood on the rail in little glass jars and they talked for more than an hour. About her parents, her work, what she'd been doing lately. In all of it, he noticed, there was no mention of a boyfriend. She'd seen the piece he'd written for the Missoulian about the Holy Family Mission and she said how much it had moved her.
"I know you already touched on it in the TV series," she said. "But it would make a great film on its own."
"You think?"
"Definitely."
"I've got a lot of stuff on tape I've never used. Maybe we should do it."
"I'd like that."
He said he would call her when he got back from LA. He didn't mention Danny or the true purpose of his visit. It would impress her more, he thought, if he told her the same lie he'd told his son, that he had a couple of meetings down there. He didn't elaborate, just let it hang in the air with its implication of movie deals and schmoozing with Hollywood hotshots. It was so pathetic, it made him cringe as he heard himself. He thought about her as he lay in bed that night and the next day on the flight to LA. It was ridiculous, of course. He was old enough to be her father.
* * *
Danny had let it be known—as usual, through Gina—that he didn't want Tom to come to the base. They were to meet at the Fisherman's Restaurant in San Clemente. The flight got in ahead of schedule and e
ven with the heavy traffic on Interstate 5, Tom arrived half an hour early. The restaurant stood on stilts above the beach. It had a bleached wooden deck with tables under blue umbrellas. There were palm trees behind and a long pier in front reaching out over the water. The ocean was flat and glassy and overhung with a pinkish haze.
Tom strolled out along the pier, seagulls wheeling and squawking over him. A group of boys were fishing over the rail near the bait store, their brown bodies streaked with salt. They were making a lot of noise, much to the annoyance of a few old-timers who didn't seem to be having nearly so much luck. One of the kids hauled out a big silver fish that looked like some sort of tuna and there was pandemonium while the others tried to hold it still so he could take the hook from its mouth. Then one of them plunged a knife into the top of its head and it flipped and flopped and thrashed around a little more then lay still, blood spreading in a gleaming crimson plate around it. One of the boys put his hand in the blood and made a palm print on the bare back of another who yelled and chased after him.
When Tom got back to the restaurant Danny was already there, sitting on his own at a table in the far corner of the deck. Tom had expected him to be in uniform but he was wearing jeans and a white short-sleeved shirt and a pair of aviator shades. When he saw his father, he stood up but didn't come to meet him, just waited. Tom took off his sunglasses but Danny didn't.
"Danny, hi!"
"Hi."
He'd been planning to give his son a hug but the body language suggested this maybe wasn't such a good idea, so he held out a hand instead and Danny shook it with a brief, almost formal smile.
"Sorry," Tom said. "I got here early and walked out along—"
"Yeah, I saw you."
His head was shaved and his skin looked as if he had been living under a rock. He was thinner than Tom had ever seen him. He had a US Marine Corps tattoo on his forearm which he saw Tom notice. Danny gave a little shrug and almost smiled but didn't say anything about it. He had a glass of iced tea in front of him. Tom caught the waitress's eye and ordered the same.
"So," he said, sitting back and trying to look relaxed. "What's new?"