Grillo had just stepped out of a shower, but the very sound of Abernethy's voice and he was ready to scrub himself down again.
"What are you doing at home?"
"I'm working," Grillo lied. It had been a late night. "The pollution piece, remember?"
"Forget it. Something's come up and I want you there. Buddy Vance—the comedian?—he turned up missing."
"When?"
"This morning."
"Where?"
"Palomo Grove. You know it?"
"It's a name on a freeway sign."
"They're trying to dig him out. It's noon now. How long before you can get there?"
"An hour. Maybe ninety minutes. What's the big interest?"
"You're too young to remember The Buddy Vance Show."
"I caught the reruns."
"Let me tell you something, Nathan my boy—" Of all Abernethy's modes Grillo hated the avuncular most. "—there was a time The Buddy Vance Show emptied the bars. He was a great man and a great American."
"So you want a sob piece?"
"Shit, no. I want the news on his wives, the alcohol, and how come he ended up in Ventura County when he used to swan around Burbank in a limo three fucking blocks long."
"The dirt, in other words."
"There were drugs involved, Nathan," Abernethy said. Grillo could picture the look of mock-sincerity on the man's face. "And our readers need to know."
"They want the dirt, and so do you," Grillo said.
"So sue me," Abernethy said. "Just get your ass out there."
"So we don't even know where he is? Suppose he just took off somewhere?"
"Oh they know where he is," Abernethy said. "They're trying to bring the body up in the next few hours."
"Bring it up? You mean he drowned?"
"I mean he fell down a hole."
Comedians, Grillo thought. Anything for a laugh.
Except that it wasn't funny. When he'd first joined Abernethy's happy band, after the debacle in Boston, it had been a vacation from the heavy-duty investigative journalism in which he'd made his name, and at which, finally, he'd been out-maneuvered. The notion of working for a small-circulation scandal sheet like the County Reporter had seemed light relief. Abernethy was a hypocritical buffoon, a born-again Christian to whom forgiveness was a four-letter word. The stories he told Grillo to cover were easy in the gathering and easier still in the telling, given that the Reporter's readers liked their news to perform one function only: the ameliorating of envy. They wanted tales of pain among the high rollers; the flipside of fame. Abernethy knew his congregation well. He'd even brought his biography into the act, making much in his editorials of his conversion from alcoholic to Fundamentalist. Dry and High on the Lord, was how he liked to describe himself. This holy sanction allowed him to peddle the muck he edited with a beatific smile, and allowed his readers to wallow in it without guilt. They were reading stories of the wages of sin. What could be more Christian?
For Grillo the joke had long since soured. If he'd thought of telling Abernethy to fuck off once he'd thought of it a hundred times, but where was he going to get a job, hot-shot reporter turned dupe that he was, except with a small operation like the Reporter? He'd contemplated other professions, but he had neither the desire nor aptitude to pursue any other. He had wanted to report the world to itself for as long as he could remember. There was something essential about that function. He could imagine himself performing no other. The world knew itself indifferently well. It needed people to tell it the story of its life, daily, or else how could it learn by its mistakes? He had been making headlines of one such mistake—an act of corruption in the Senate—when he discovered (his gut still turned, recalling that moment) that he had been set up by his target's opponents, his position as press prosecutor used to besmirch innocent parties. He had apologized, grovelled and resigned. The matter had been forgotten quickly, as a fresh slew of headlines replaced those that he'd created. Politicians, like scorpions and cockroaches, would be there when the warheads had levelled civilization. But journalists were frail. One miscalculation and their credibility was dust. He had fled West until he met the Pacific. He'd considered throwing himself in, but had instead chosen to work for Abernethy. More and more that seemed like an error.
Look on the bright side, he told himself every day, there's no direction from here but up.
The Grove surprised him. It had all the distinguishing marks of a town created on paper—the central Mall, the cardinal point villages, the sheer order of the streets—but there was a welcome diversity in the styles of the houses, and—perhaps because it was in part built on a hill—a sense that it might have secret reaches.
If the woods had any secrets of their own, they'd been trampled down by the sightseers who'd come to see the exhumation. Grillo flashed his credentials and asked a few questions of one of the cops at the barrier. No, there was no likelihood that the corpse would be raised soon; it had yet to be located. Nor could Grillo speak with any of those in charge of the operation. Come back later, was the suggestion. It looked like good advice. There was very little activity around the fissure. Despite there being tackle of various kinds on the ground nobody seemed to be putting it to use. He decided to risk leaving the scene to make a few calls. He found his way to the Mall and to a public telephone. His first call was to Abernethy, to report that he'd arrived and to enquire whether a photographer had been sent down. Abernethy was away from his desk. Grillo left a message. He had more luck with his second call. The answering machine began playing its familiar message—
"Hi. This is Tesla and Butch. If you want to speak to the dog, I'm out. If it's Butch you need—" only to be interrupted by Tesla.
"Hello?"
"It's Grillo."
"Grillo? Shut the fuck up, Butch! Sorry, Grillo, he's trying to—" the phone was dropped, and there was a good deal of commotion, followed by Tesla's breathless return to the receiver. "That animal. Why did I take him, Grillo?"
"He was the only male who'd live with you."
"Fuck you."
"Your words."
"I said that?"
"You said that."
"Out of my mind! I got good news, Grillo. I got a development deal for one of the screenplays. That castaway picture I wrote last year? They want it rewritten. In space."
"You're going to do it?"
"Why not? I need something produced. Nobody's going to do any of the heavy-duty stuff till I have a hit. So fuck Art, I'm going to be so crass they'll be coming in their pants. And before you say it, don't give me any of that artistic integrity shit. A girl's got to feed herself."
"I know, I know."
"So," she said, "what's new?"
There were a lot of answers to that: a litany. He could tell her about how his hairdresser, with a palmful of straw-blond clippings, had smilingly informed Grillo that he had a bald patch at his crown. Or how this morning, meeting himself in the mirror, he'd decided his long, anemic features, which he'd always hoped would mature into an heroic melancholia, were simply looking doleful. Or that he kept having those damn elevator dreams, trapped between floors with Abernethy and a goat Abernethy kept wanting Grillo to kiss. But he kept the biography to himself; and just said:
"I need help."
"It figures."
"What do you know about Buddy Vance?"
"He's down a hole. It's been on the TV."
"What's his life-story?"
"This is for Abernethy, right?"
"Right."
"So it's just the dirt."
"Got it in one."
"Well, comedians aren't my strongest point. I majored in Sex Goddesses. But I looked him up when I heard the news. Married six times; once to a seventeen-year-old. That lasted forty-two days. His second wife died of an overdose . . ."
As Grillo had hoped, Tesla had chapter and verse on the Life and Sordid Times of Buddy Vance (ne, of all things, Valentino). The addictions to women, controlled substances and fame; the TV series; the films;
the fall from grace.
"You can write about that with feeling, Grillo."
"Thanks for nothing."
"I only love you because I hurt you. Or do I mean the other way around?"
"Very funny. Speaking of which: was he?"
"Was he what?"
"Funny."
"Vance? I suppose, in his way. You never saw him?"
"I must have, I suppose. I don't remember the act."
"He had this rubber-face. You looked at him, you laughed. And this weird persona. Half idiot, half slimeball."
"So how come he was so successful with women?"
"The dirt?"
"Of course."
"The enormous appendage."
"Are you kidding me?"
"The biggest dick in television. I got that from an unimpeachable source."
"Who was that?"
"Please, Grillo," Tesla said, aghast. "Do I sound like a girl who'd gossip?"
Grillo laughed. "Thanks for the information. I owe you dinner."
"Sold. Tonight."
"I'll still be here, looks like."
"So I'll come find you."
"Maybe tomorrow, if I'm still here. I'll call you."
"If you don't, you're dead."
"I said I'll call; I'll call. Go back to Castaways in Space."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do. And Grillo—"
"What?"
Before answering she put the phone down, winning for the third consecutive time the game of who hangs up first they'd been playing since Grillo, in a maudlin stupor one night, had confessed he'd hated goodbyes.
V
____________ i ____________
"MOMMA?"
She was sitting by the window as usual.
"Pastor John didn't come last night, Jo-Beth. You did call him like you promised?" She read the look on her daughter's face. "You didn't," she said. "How could you forget a thing like that?"
"I'm sorry, Momma."
"You know how I rely upon him. I've got good reason, Jo-Beth. I know you don't think so, but I do."
"No. I believe you. I'll call him later. First . . . I have to speak to you."
"Shouldn't you be at the store?" Joyce said. "Did you come home sick? I heard Tommy-Ray . . ."
"Momma, listen to me. I have to ask you something very important."
Joyce looked troubled already. "I can't talk now," she said. "I want the Pastor."
"He'll come later. First: I have to know about a friend of yours."
Joyce said nothing, but her face was all frailty. Jo-Beth had seen her turn that expression on too often to be cowed by it.
"I met a man last night, Momma," she said, determined to be plain in her telling. "His name is Howard Katz. His mother was Trudi Katz."
Joyce's face lost its mask of delicacy. Beneath, was a look eerily like satisfaction. "Didn't I say?" she murmured to herself, turning her head back towards the window.
"Didn't you say what?"
"How could it be over? How could it ever be over?"
"Momma, explain."
"It wasn't an accident. We all knew it wasn't an accident. They had reasons."
"Who had reasons?"
"I need the Pastor."
"Momma: who had reasons?"
Without replying Joyce stood up.
"Where is he?" she said, her voice suddenly loud. She started towards the door. "I have to see him."
"All right, Momma! All right! Calm down."
At the door, she turned back to Jo-Beth. Tears welled in her eyes.
"You mustn't go near Trudi's boy," she said. "You hear me? You mustn't see him, speak to him, even think of him. Promise me."
"I can't promise that. It's stupid."
"You haven't done anything with him, have you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh my Lord, you have."
"I've done nothing."
"Don't lie to me!" Momma demanded, her hands clutched into bony fists. "You must pray, Jo-Beth!"
"I don't want to pray. I came wanting help from you, that's all. I don't need prayers."
"He's got into you already. You never spoke this way before."
"I never felt this way before!" she replied. Tears were perilously close; anger and fear all muddled up. It was no use listening to Momma, she wasn't going to provide anything but calls to prayer. Jo-Beth crossed to the door, her momentum enough to warn Momma that she wouldn't be prevented from leaving. There was no resistance. Momma stepped aside and let her go, but as she headed down the stairs called after her:
"Jo-Beth, come back! I'm sick, Jo-Beth! Jo-Beth! Jo-Beth!"
Howie opened the door to his beauty in tears.
"What's wrong?" he said ushering her in.
She put her hands to her face and sobbed. He wrapped his arms around her. "It's OK," he said. "Nothing's that bad." The sobs diminished steadily, until she disengaged herself from him and stood forlornly in the middle of the room, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story. It goes way back. To your mother and mine."
"They knew each other?"
She nodded. "They were best friends."
"So this was in the stars," he said, smiling.
"I don't think that's the way Momma sees it."
"Why not? Son of her best friend—"
"Did your mother ever tell you why she left the Grove?"
"She was unmarried."
"So's Momma."
"Maybe she's tougher than my—"
"No, what I mean is: maybe that's more than a coincidence. All my life there's been rumors about what happened before I was born. About Momma and her friends."
"I know nothing about this."
"I only know bits and pieces. There were four of them. Your mother; mine; a girl called Carolyn Hotchkiss, whose father still lives in the Grove, and another. I forget her name. Arleen something. They were attacked. Raped, I think." Howie's smile had long since disappeared. "Mother?" he said softly. "Why did she never say anything?"
"Who's going to tell their kid they were conceived that way?"
"Oh my God," Howie said. "Raped . . ."
"Maybe I'm wrong," Jo-Beth said, looking up at Howie. His face was knotted up, as though he'd just been slapped.
"I've lived with these rumors all my life, Howie. I've seen Momma driven half-mad by them. Talking about the Devil all the time. It used to scare me so much, when she started talking about Satan having his eye on me. I used to pray to be invisible, so he couldn't see me."
Howie took his spectacles off and threw them on to the bed.
"I never really told you why I came here, did I?" he said. "I think . . . think . . . think it's time I did. I came because I don't have the first clue as to who or what I am. I wanted to find out about the Grove and why it drove my mother out."
"Now you wish you'd never come."
"No. If I hadn't come I wouldn't have met you. Wouldn't have—have . . . have . . . fallen in love—"
"With someone who's probably your own sister?" The slapped look slackened. "No," he said. "I can't believe that."
"I recognized you the moment I stepped into Butrick's. You recognized me. Why?"
"Love at first sight."
"I wish."
"That's what I feel. It's what you feel too. I know it is. You said it is."
"That was before."
"I love you, Jo-Beth."
"You can't. You don't know me."
"I do! And I'm not going to give up on that because of gossip. We don't even know if any of this is true." In his vehemence, all trace of his stammer had disappeared. "This could be all lies, right?"
"It could," she conceded. "But why would anybody invent a story like that? Why did neither your mother nor mine ever tell us who our fathers were?"
"We'll find out."
"Who from?"
"Ask your momma."
"I already tried."
> "And?"
"She told me not to go near you. Not to even think of you . . ."
Her tears had dried as she'd told the story. Now, thinking of Momma again, they began to flow. "But I can't stop that, can I?" she said, appealing for help from the very source she'd been forbidden.
Watching her, Howie longed to be the holy fool Lem had always called him. To have the freedom from censure only idiots, animals and babes-in-arms were granted; to lick and lap at her, and not be slapped away. There was no denying the possibility that she was indeed his sister, but his libido vaulted taboo.
"I think maybe I should go," she said, as though sensing his heat. "Momma wants the Pastor."
"Say a few prayers and maybe I'll go away, you mean?"
"That's not fair."
"Stay awhile, please," he coaxed. "We don't have to talk. We don't have to do anything. Just stay."
"I'm tired."
"So we'll sleep."
He reached and touched her face, very lightly.
"Neither of us got enough sleep last night," he said.
She sighed, and nodded.
"Maybe it'll all come clear if we just let it be."
"I hope."
He excused himself and went through to the bathroom to empty his bladder. By the time he got back she had taken off her shoes and was lying on the bed.
"Room for two?" he said.
She murmured yes. He lay down beside her, trying not to think about what he'd hoped they'd be doing between these sheets.
Again, she sighed.
"It'll be all right," he said. "Sleep."
____________ ii ____________
Most of the audience gathered for Buddy Vance's final show had drifted away by the time Grillo got back to the woods. They'd decided, apparently, that he wasn't worth the wait. With the onlookers dispersed the barrier-guards had become lax. Grillo stepped over the rope and approached the policeman who looked to be in charge of the operation. He introduced himself, and his function.
"Can't tell you much," the man replied, in answer to Grillo's questions. "We've got four climbers going down now, but God knows how long it'll take to raise the body. We haven't found it yet. And Hotchkiss tells us there's all kinds of rivers under there. The corpse could be in the Pacific for all we know."
"Will you work through the night?"
"Looks like we'll have to." He looked at his watch. "We've got maybe four hours of daylight left. Then we'll be relying on the lamps."