THE KIND ONE
by
TOM EPPERSON
In 1930's Los Angeles, someone desperately wants to know who Danny Landon is. That someone is Danny Landon himself. All the young man really knows about
himself is that some terrible incident has erased his memory. Danny's boss is a mobster named Bud Seitz — a vicious, sadistic killer who's been given the
ironic nickname of "The Kind One." According to Seitz, Danny's amnesia is the result of being hit in the head with a lead pipe. But Danny's not sure of
anything. How can he be a gangster when he doesn't feel like one? It's not easy being the right-hand man to a big criminal, and it gets harder when Danny's
ordered to keep an eye on Bud's lovely young girlfriend, Darla. Danny can't help but fall in love with her.
To make matters worse, Danny's life at his bungalow-court apartment is no picnic as he's constantly having to rescue his 11-year-old neighbor Sophie from
an abusive home life. It seems that only the kindly Dulwich, a lonely neighbor with his own mysterious history, can bring Danny any peace, offering him
tea and sympathy at the end of a hard day. As Danny maneuvers through the corrupt, sun-drenched city, he uncovers terrible secrets and finds himself on
a mission to liberate those he cares about.
Only by following this gripping noir thriller to its violent, shocking climax will the reader discover who Danny really is and if he has it in him to save
his friends — and himself.

Tense, emotional, and unforgiving, Tom Epperson's The Kind One is a beautifully written take on the dark Hollywood of the '30s--a perfect noir novel that
is pure and original, with a heavy heart that beats through each page."" --Robert Crais, New York Times bestselling author. 

Pocket Books
To Stefani
First Pocket Books trade paperback edition April 2009
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon * Schuster, inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America


ISBN-13:978-1-4165-9698-1
ISBN-10:	1-4165-9698-4



Page 341 constitutes an
extension of this copyright page.
"No man goes as far as he who knows not whither he goes."
	OLIVER CROMWELL


1

"SAY," SAID DARLA, "where'd you get that cupcake?"
"They're on that table," I said. "Over there."
"I love cupcakes."
"Want me to get you one?"
"No, honey, I'll get it. Oops!" Somebody bumped up against her,
and she sloshed some of her drink on the sleeve of my coat. She
brushed at my sleeve with her hand. "Sorry, Danny."
"That's okay."
She was pretty plastered. She was wearing a slinky gold lame gown
with gold high heels. She had soft wavy gold hair. She was a singer
that didn't sing anymore. "His eyes?" she said, whispery, like it was a
secret.
"Whose eyes?"
"You know. His''
"What about them?"
"Last night I had a dream about them."
"What did you dream?"
"That I put them out. With sewing scissors. Because I couldn't
stand them anymore. I couldn't stand the way they looked at me."
"Why would you have a dream like that?"
"Geez. I can't imagine."
I had a thought, and I started to say something, but then the
thought started to slip away, it was like a helium balloon a kid was
holding by a string and then he let the string go, and I watched it
float away into the blue.
Darla drifted off into the crowd. The way her gown was, her back
was naked nearly all the way down to her butt, and I watched her
shoulder blades and her backbone moving under her skin.
We were at a party at Bud Seitz's house. The place was packed
to the gills. It was a chilly night in mid April, but the house was
hot. It smelled like sweat, smoke, booze, and perfume. Everybody
was talking and laughing like it was a contest to see who could
talk and laugh the loudest. On the phonograph was a song that I'd
never heard before:

Something strange happened to me,
Lost my heart so suddenly,
Suddenly I found myself in a dream . . .

The new mayor's brother, Joe Shaw, was there. Several cops,
including Jack Otay, head of the Gangster Squad. The head of the
Police Commission, a short fat bald guy named Nuffer. John Hobbs,
a newspaper reporter. Arnold Dublinski, Bud's lawyer--Blinky
people called him. Plenty of girls--starlets, dancers, extras, waitresses,
manicurists, shopgirls, cigarette girls, hatcheck girls, switchboard girls,
and half a dozen out and out whores. And some of Bud's guys, the
guys that were in the coziest with him: Teddy Bump. Tommy and
Goodlooking Tommy. Nucky Williams. Nello Marlini. Dick Prettie.
And me.
I finished eating my cupcake, licked some frosting off my fingers.
Doc Travis moved past me, walking on his knuckles. He grinned at
me and smacked his lips.
I made my way over to the bar. The bartender was a tall blond
Russian named Anatoly, who was also Bud's butler.
"Another scotch, please, Anatoly."
"Of course."
Anatoly was wearing a white shirt and pants and a red velvet vest.
He had two fingers missing from his right hand. I'd heard he'd been
this rich count in Russia and got his fingers shot off when he was
fighting in the Revolution against the Communists.
"Were you really a count?"
He shrugged. "Past is past. In America, no one cares about past. I
am trying to be good American now, Danny."
"I care about the past." I took a solemn sip of my scotch, as though
toasting the past, then somebody slapped me on the back.
It was Police Commissioner Nuffer.
"What's the good word, Danny?"
"I can't think of one."
Nuffer laughed like I'd made a hell of a joke and slapped me on
the back again.
His double-breasted suit was like a sausage casing that could barely
contain its contents. Anatoly gave him another drink. He took a gulp
of it. His face was red and sweaty, and he looked like a man with a
fever.
Bud had told me last week I wasn't acting friendly enough to his
friends, so I made an effort with Nuffer.
"So how are you doing these days, Mr. Nuffer?"
"Hanging in there, my boy, hanging in there, as the condemned
man said on his way to the gallows." Nuffer's eyes narrowed as he
looked around the room. "Quite a shindig tonight. Your boss knows
how to throw 'em. What do you think the odds are of my getting
laid? Mm, look at that tasty-looking young lady on Lieutenant Otay's
arm.Jack! Jack! Join us!"
Jack Otay came over with a big-busted redhead in an orange dress.
Nuffer was about eye-level with her chest, which seemed to suit him
just fine. "Please introduce us, Jack."
"Well, this here's Clover, I believe," said Otay. "Or was it Daisy?"
" Violet," said the girl. "Violet Gilbertson. Pleased to meet ya."
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Gilbertson. I'm Wendell Nuffer."
"No kidding. My daddy's name is Wendell."
"And I'll bet you're a daddy's girl, Miss Gilbertson."
Violet smiled down at Nuffer; it looked like she'd used about half
a tube of lipstick on her mouth. "Definitely. And you can call me

Violet."
"I hope I have a chance to call you Violet many, many more times

tonight."
"Well you never know," she said coyly, swaying a couple inches
closer to Nuffer's flushed face, and then she looked me over. "You got

a name?"
"You mean you don't know who you're talking to?" said Otay. A
cigarette dangled out of his smirking mouth. He had a big square
jawed head that was handsome in an ugly way, or maybe vice versa.
I'd heard that he was an expert in the third degree--that he had a
special pair of pigskin gloves that he put on whenever he was about
to work somebody over.
"This here's Danny Landon," continued Otay. "Two Gun Danny

Landon."
"He's practically famous," said Nuffer. He and Otay exchanged a
look. "In certain circles."
"Famous! Gosh, Danny," said Violet, nearly smacking Nuffer in
the face with her breasts as she swung them around toward me, "I'm
sorry I didn't know who you were. See, I ain't lived here very long, so
I don't know who everyone is yet."
"Where did you come here from?" asked Nuffer.
"Iowa. I was Miss Iowa Pork Queen of 1933."

"You don't say."
"Yeah, when I won that I thought, Violet, your luck is finally
changing, and I decided it was a good time to leave Iowa."
"It's probably always a good time to leave Iowa," Otay said, and
then we all heard a lot of screaming and crashing around and commotion
in the next room. Everybody went rushing out to see what

was up.
I saw Darla stumbling up the stairs; she was crying and her arm
was bleeding and she had blood all over her gold gown. Bud Seitz
and Dick Prettie were hurrying up the stairs to help her.
Nello Marlini was standing next to me and I asked him what happened.
"Darla was eating a cupcake and Doc Travis tried getting it but
she wouldn't let him have it. Then he bit her on the arm and then
Goodlooking Tommy started kicking the hell outa Doc and Doc ran
off screaming his fucking head off."
Bud had seen Tarzan the Ape Man and decided he wanted a
chimp like Cheeta and that's who Doc Travis was. He called him
Doc Travis because supposedly he looked like this old bootlegger
friend of his who had that name. The human Doc Travis had
a cabin in the woods on Lake Arrowhead, and he disappeared
completely in 1929 except for his head which was found floating
in the lake.
I had spent a lot of time with Doc (the chimp). We'd sit in the sun
together out by Bud's swimming pool. He liked to comb through my
hair with his fingers, I don't know what he was looking for, fleas or
lice or dandruff, and sometimes he'd find something and put it in his
mouth. He seemed fascinated by my dent. I have a dent on the right
side of my head. He'd gently touch it with his big black fingers, trace
its route about an inch and a half up my forehead and then into my
hairline where it goes under my hair about three inches and all the
time he'd be making these soft cooing noises. I'd always found Doc to
be affectionate, humorous, and good-natured, and never known him
to bite anybody.
A tit poked me in the arm and I looked over and there was Violet.
Except I got mixed up about her name and said: "Hello, Clover."
"My name ain't Clover damn it. So what are you famous for?
How come they call you Two Gun Danny?"
But before I could answer Dick Prettie came walking back down
the stairs and came over to me. "Gotta talk to you, kid," he said, pulling
me away from Violet.
"Bud wants us to take care of Doc."
"What do you mean take care of him?"
"You know what I mean." He saw the look on my face. "Lookit, I
like the monkey too. But orders is orders."
We started walking through the house looking for Doc. Bud had
declared the party over so everybody was leaving; out front I could
hear car doors slamming and engines starting up. "How's Darla?" I

said to Dick.
"They're sending for the doctor. But she's all right."
"You know how strong Doc Travis is. If he'd really wanted to hurt
her, he could've ripped her arm right outa the socket."
Dick sighed, like he was bone-tired. "Yeah, I know." He was wearing
a brown suit and a tie with yellow flowers on it. The suit looked
too big on him. Suits usually looked too big on him, since he was the
skinniest guy I've ever seen that wasn't dying of something. Even his
moustache was just this skinny little brown line.
"I wonder why he bit Darla," I said. "He likes Darla."
"I heard Tommy and Goodlooking Tommy got him drunk."
"Drunk?"
"Yeah. They was giving him bottles of beer all night. Beers and
monkeys don't mix, I guess."
We found him in the billiard room. It had red carpet and gold
walls and paintings of half-naked French women. Doc was sitting up
on the pool table rolling balls around, making them bump against
each other. He looked up as we walked in then went back to rolling
around the balls. He acted like we weren't even there. I think he
knew he was in trouble.
We stood by the table staring at him.
"What are we supposed to do?" I said. "Take him out in the desert?"
Because if we were supposed to take him out in the desert we
could just let him loose or give him to somebody and Bud would
never be the wiser.
"Nah.We gotta take him out in the back. Bud wants to watch."
The seven went rolling into the twelve which bumped against the

three.
"We don't have to do this," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"You and me and Doc--we could just walk outa here, get in my
car, and start driving."
"Yeah? And which way we gonna drive?"
"Well, we go west we hit the ocean. So I figure we head east."
"Danny, even if I was nuts enough to risk my life for a fucking
monkey, how far do you think we'd get? You don't just drive away
from Bud Seitz and that's the end of it. And another thing. Where's
your sense of fucking gratitude? Bud's took real good care of you
ever since you got hit in the head. You'd be selling apples on a street
corner if it wasn't for him. And you know I ain't saying that to hurt
your feelings."
"Yeah.Yeah, I know."
I stood there a minute and thought about things; then I started
walking toward the door.
"Danny, where you going?" Dick sounded worried.
"I'm coming back."
I went in the party room, went over to the table where the cupcakes
were. I took one and wrapped it in a napkin and put it in the
side pocket of my coat.
I went back in the billiard room. Doc was still playing around with
the balls.
"You were bad, Doc," I said. "Real bad."
Doc looked over at me. He whimpered and twisted his lips around
on his teeth. I held my hand out and then he leapt into my arms.

"Let's go for a little walk, Doc."
I walked out of the house carrying Doc, with Dick walking behind
us. I said softly into Doc's ear: "Did Goodlooking Tommy kick
you? One of these day's I'm gonna kick Goodlooking Tommy." Doc
had this strong musky smell I liked; I always liked the way animals
smelled even when it was kind of bad like a dirty dog that had been
rained on but I didn't always like the way people smelled.
When we got outside I put Doc down. Bud had a big two-story
Spanish house with tall palm trees all around it. It was set on a lot of
property; there was a swimming pool and a pool house and a tennis
court and then a garden with all sorts of plants and flowers and thick
green grass and everything was surrounded by a tall stone wall that
had barbed wire spiraling along the top of it.
I held Doc's hand and we walked out into the night. It was cold
enough that our breath was making clouds. I could hear Dick behind
us coughing every now and then; he coughed a lot because he
smoked one cigarette after another. The swimming pool had lights
under the water and was blue and still and frozen-looking. Bud had
had sand hauled in to make a beach around the pool. The beach had
its own seagull, tethered to a big rock by a ten-foot length of cord
tied to its leg. The seagull seemed asleep.
We walked on past the tennis court and then out on the grass and
among the flowers.
"Let's stop here," said Dick.
I looked back at the house. On a second-floor balcony, silhouetted
against the light from his bedroom, Bud Seitz was standing. He was
like a shape cut out of a sheet of black paper. I could see the burning
tip of his cigar.
"I'll do it," Dick said.
A breeze was blowing in the tops of the palm trees and they were
making rustling sounds and moving against the clear, brightly starred
sky. Doc was looking up at me, waiting patiently, on his best behavior
now, wondering what I was up to.
I squatted down beside him and said: "Look what I got for you."
He watched me as I took the cupcake out of my pocket and unwrapped
it from the napkin then he took it from me eagerly and
started to eat it. He was making little happy grunts. He had a real

sweet tooth.
I looked up at Dick, standing a step or two behind Doc. He looked
like he was about to be sick. He took out his .32 revolver from under
his coat. I stood up and took a step back. Dick leaned over and put
the barrel of the gun a few inches from the back of Doc's head. Then
the gun spurted orange light and Doc pitched forward facedown
onto the grass.
He wasn't quite dead yet. I saw his hands pulling at the grass. And
then Dick leaned down and finished him off.
"Quit blubbering," said Dick. "If the guys seen you carrying on like
this ..." He shook his head darkly.
We were in Dick's car. He was taking me to my hotel. After we'd
buried Doc, we went back in the house and I grabbed a bottle of
Johnny Black and guzzled about half of it. Then I went kind of nuts
and started stumbling around and yelling that we shouldn't have done
it and it was pure murder and Dick had hustled me out of there
and into his car. We went down La Brea then left on Hollywood
Boulevard.
It was the middle of the night, and Hollywood seemed unpopulated,
except for a few shivering whores and some bums sleeping
under Hoover blankets. Pretty soon we pulled up in front of the Rutherford
Hotel.
The lobby was empty. The elevator boy was some old geezer that
looked about ninety. "What floor?" he said.
He was wearing a too-small blue uniform, and he had a huge red
and yellow boil on his forehead that looked like it was about ready
to pop. I couldn't take my eyes off it. He knew what I was looking at,
and he started getting mad. "What floor?" he nearly yelled.
"Eight," I said. "I live on the eighth floor."
He scowled at me and spat some tobacco juice into a spattered
Chase & Sanborn coffee can then took us up.
We went in room 807 and I went in the bathroom and pissed and
puked then came back and flopped on the bed. Dick was standing
with his hands in his pockets looking bleakly out the window.
"This is a crummy hotel," he said. "In a crummy town. On a
crummy night."
"I'm moving as soon as I can find something. Bud gave me a raise."
"Yeah? Great. You get a raise. That's rich."
He walked over to the bed and untied my shoes and took them
off.They made clunking noises as he dropped them on the floor.
"I'm leaving now, kid. Sleep it off. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Don't leave yet. Tell me something."
"Like what?"
"Tell me about why they call me Two Gun Danny."
Dick sighed. "Ah, Danny . . . it's three o'clock in the fucking
morning."
"Come on, Dick. Please."
Dick shook his head but at the same time he lit up a cigarette so I
knew he wasn't going.
"You, me, and a couple other of the boys--one night we drove
down to Long Beach. We took a water taxi out to the Monfakone. It
was one of them gambling boats. It was out past the three-mile limit,
so it was all strictly legit."
"But what we were gonna do--that wasn't legit."
"That's right. We was on a heist job. We was gonna heist the
dealers and the customers and we heard there was a safe with a
hundred fifty G's in it and we was gonna heist that too. But that

wasn't all."
"We were gonna sink it. Sink the Monjakone!' "You wanna tell the fucking story?Yeah, that's right.We was gonna
set it on fire and sink it 'cause Bud had a beef with the owner. And
we didn't care if everybody on it drowned like rats.
"The main gambling room was the greatest place in the world. It
had green carpet and chandeliers, and roulette wheels and dice tables
and slot machines, and all the customers was dressed up like a million
bucks. And the dames was all gorgeous, all of'em looked like Ginger
Rogers. Dozens and dozens of Ginger Rogers."
"Too bad we had to burn it up," I mumbled. "Too bad we had to

sink it."
"Yeah, too bad. But orders is orders. So we was taking a little
look-see at things when you got recognized by some muscle that
worked for the boat and he started to take his piece out. But you
slugged him in the jaw and knocked him colder than a mackerel
and grabbed his piece and pulled out your own piece and jumped
up on a blackjack table and yelled: 'Ladies and gentlemen, this here's
a heist!'"
I was lying flat on my back, with my eyes closed. The room was
spinning around me like a roulette wheel. Dick's voice seemed to be
coming from further and further away.
"Then all these guys come running in the room, some of'em had

sawed-offs and some of 'em had pistols and you was screaming that
they was dirty sons of bitches and blazing away at 'em with a gun in
each hand."
Two Gun Danny. Then I couldn't hear Dick anymore. I was in
endless night, floating on a raft on an infinite sea. And the water was
filled with floundering Ginger Rogerses in golden gowns. And they
were in danger of drowning, but I welcomed them on my raft, one
and all.


2

I DROVE THROUGH Hollywood in my yellow '33 Packard Club
sedan on a sunny Monday morning. I passed a church with a sign in
front that said: "The eyes of the Lord are everywhere." I had to slow
down when a baseball bounced out on the street in front of me; a kid
ran out after it and as he bent down to pick it up he looked up at me
and I felt this sort of shiver like I'd lived through this before, except
the kid with the tousled hair chasing the brownish battered ball was
me, and the guy behind the wheel of the Packard was . . . who} Then
the kid ran off and I felt like me again and drove on.
I turned down La Vista Lane. It was a little street of modest pale
houses and skinny palm trees south of Melrose and east of Vine. I
parked in front of the Orange Blossom Bungalow Court. A sprinkler
was going and made a rainbow over the sloping lawn. I climbed seven
steps to a sidewalk that ran straight back from the street between
identical tan tiny stucco houses, four on each side, facing each other
across a courtyard. The courtyard had a couple of dwarf orange trees
loaded with green half-grown oranges.
I knocked on the door of the first bungalow on the left. Edna
Dean opened the door. She was the Orange Blossom Bungalow
Court manager. She had a long face with a sharp chin and she wore
glasses with wire frames. She smiled and showed a set of teeth that
were way too bright and perfect to be real.

"Oh hi, Danny. I got the place all ready for you. Let me get the
key."
A sour smell wafted out the door. I assumed Mr. Dean was in
there somewhere. When I was here before, he never said a word, but
just sat in a chair with a filthy blanket over his lap. A fly was buzzing
around the room, and Mr. Dean followed it with his watery blue eyes.
He needed a shave, and he smelled like he hadn't had a bath in weeks.
Mrs. Dean explained that he'd been laid up for the last few years after
an accident at a mackerel cannery in San Pedro. He looked baffled as
he watched the fly, like he couldn't figure out how his life had come
to such a pass that he didn't have anything better to do than watch a
fly buzzing around.
Mrs. Dean came back out. She was wearing a drab dress that hung
on her like a gunnysack and she had booze on her breath. "Nice day,
isn't it? I hope you like it here. It's a pretty nice group of people, I
guess, but they come and they go. You've come. You'll go. Just don't
have any wild parties or play your radio too loud and we'll get along
just fine."
We headed up the sidewalk.
"Did you hear about Dillinger?" she said. "It was just on the radio.
They had him and his gang cornered in Wisconsin, but they all escaped
in a blaze of gunfire. They killed one federal agent and an innocent
bystander. I'm just scared to death of gangsters. Nobody's safe
these days."
A little girl, maybe ten or eleven, was squatting on the sidewalk,
drawing hopscotch squares with a piece of chalk.
"Hi, Sophie," said Mrs. Dean. "Meet your new neighbor, Mr.
Landon. Danny, this is Sophie Gubler."
The girl winced. "You said it."
"Said what?"
'My last name.You know I hate it."
Oh Sophie, there's not a thing wrong with your last name.
Gubler's a perfectly fine name."
The girl winced again.
"What would you like your last name to be?" I asked.
She liked that question. "Well in school we studied this French
queen, she told her people to eat cake so they cut off her head. Her
name was Marie Antoinette."
"You'd like to be Sophie Antoinette?"
She shrugged. Her knees were poking up from under her cheap
print dress and were scraped up pretty good and blotched red with
Mercurochrome. I said: "What happened to your knees?"
"I was skating down the street and this dope opened his car door
right in front of me. What happened to your leg?"
"My leg?"
"Yeah. I saw you limping on your leg.You hurt it or something?"
"Sophie," frowned Mrs. Dean,"that's a personal question."
"My knees are personal. He asked me about my knees!' "I got hit in the head.With a lead pipe. See?"
I took my hat off and inclined my head. Sophie stood up to get a
better look at my dent. "Gosh. And you got hit in the leg too?"
"Nah. But it mashed my brain, and it made it so's my left leg and
my left arm don't work so hot anymore. But they're getting better."
Sophie nodded, looking me over, not feeling sorry for me, just
interested. But Mrs. Dean looked embarrassed. "Let's go, Danny," she

said quietly.
We walked on toward my bungalow, the last one on the right. In
front of the third on the right a guy was kneeling and weeding in
front of a carefully tended flower bed. He was wearing brown trousers,
a loose white shirt, a big sombrero, and gardening gloves. A black
and white cat was keeping him company. He gave us a friendly, gap
toothed grin over his shoulder as we walked by.
"That's Mr. Dulwich," said Mrs. Dean as she nodded at him genteelly.
"An Englishman. A real gentleman, too. I've had nary a lick of
trouble from Mr. Dulwich."
Mrs. Dean unlocked the door of my bungalow and we went in.
She looked around the living room with a pleased expression. "I had
a nigger named Matilda spend the whole day cleaning in here. You

could eat off the floor if you wanted to. Because nobody cleans like
Matilda." Then she gave me the key. "Well this is yours now. If you
need anything you know where to find me. Do you play checkers by
any chance?"
"Checkers?"
"My husband loves checkers with a passion. If you ever feel like
a game, just come on over. And I'll pour you a cup of jackass brandy
to boot."
"Okay, Mrs. Dean. Thanks."
She left. The key was cool in my hand. I was all alone in my little
bungalow. I thought it not bad for forty bucks a month.
One reason I took it was, it was furnished, with some battered
mismatched odds and ends. I sat down on a tattered black davenport.
I took my hat off and placed it down beside me, then sat there with
my hands on my knees trying to remember if I knew how to play
checkers. Red and black squares. Take your jump. Crown me. Yes. I
knew how to play checkers.
My head hurt. I always kept a little tin of Bayer aspirin in my
pocket. I got up and went in the kitchen. No glasses. I'd have to buy
some. I'd have to buy a lot of things. I didn't really own anything,
except a toothbrush, a shaving kit, a couple suitcases of clothes. And
the car. It used to be Bud's car. He gave it to me. After I got hit in the
head.
I put two aspirin in my mouth, turned on the tap, put my cupped
hand under the water, and washed the aspirin down. Then I went in
the bedroom.
A bare mattress lay on a rickety frame. I needed sheets, and pillows.
On the mattress was a tea-colored stain almost exactly the shape of
the state of Texas.
I lay down on the bed, avoiding Texas. The box springs creaked. I
put my hands behind my head. I planned to stay here till my headache
went away.
I heard something, and looked toward the window. Sunlight was
pouring in. A fly was buzzing and butting its head against the glass. The fly was greeni bright as a jewel.

3

I PULLED INTO the parking lot of the Peacock Club. It was on the north
side of the Sunset Strip, just down the street from the Clover Club.
It was early afternoon, and the club wasn't open yet. Inside Bud
Seitz sat in his usual U-shaped booth, just to the right of the stage.
Every table had its own little wooden peacock, and the walls and
ceiling were covered with painted peacocks, and there were a thousand
or a million or who knows how many eyes of the tails of the
peacocks looking at you. The club was called Cicero's before Bud
bought it. He changed the name and the look because when he was
a kid growing up in New York he went to the Central Park Zoo
and fell in love with the peacocks. On opening night he had three
dozen live peacocks brought in. They were supposed to just walk
around looking proud and pretty but almost immediately it got out
of hand. People got drunk and started chasing the peacocks around
trying to pull out their tail feathers and the peacocks were screaming
and crapping all over everything and then one of them flew up on a
table where there were candles burning and its tail caught on fire.The
burning peacock flapped around the room and everybody just went
nuts, guys in tuxes and girls covered in jewels were yelling fire, fire and running toward the exits, movie stars were cursing and swinging
their elbows and knocking people down and the funny thing was, the
newspapers the next day didn't print a thing about it. Sure, they had
stories about the gala opening of the Peacock Club and pictures too,
but everything went swimmingly and everybody had a grand time
according to the reporters who were all on Bud's payroll.
One of those reporters, John Hobbs of the Los Angeles Times, was
sitting with Bud in his booth. Nucky Williams, Nello Marlini, and Arnold Dublinski were there too. There was so much smoke rising
out of the booth it was like it was on fire with Nucky and Nello and
Blinky smoking cigarettes, Hobbs a pipe, and Seitz a cigar. I didn't
smoke. It gave me a headache.
I sat down with them. Eddie, the waiter, brought me a cup of coffee.
Everybody was drinking coffee. Bud had a firm rule that nobody
could have a drink before sunset. Sitting over at the bar, Tommy and
Dick Prettie were also drinking coffee. Tommy in particular was a real
booze hound, and I could see him in the mirror staring at all those
shiny bottles of liquor behind the bar like sundown couldn't come
fast enough.
Bud was forty-two but looked older. He had a narrow face with
deep grooves in it, slightly buck teeth, bushy eyebrows, and small
brown eyes that could scare you to death when they looked at you in
a certain way. He was starting to lose his hair. He was maybe five-ten
and a hundred sixty pounds.
He was always dressed to the nines. Today he was wearing a gray
suit, a gray shirt, and a white tie, with a white carnation in his buttonhole.
There
was no way you could describe Bud as handsome, but girls
were always all over him. Maybe it was just a matter of him having
a lot of dough and being a big important guy. Or maybe some girls
actually liked him.
It wasn't like Bud was getting laid by a different girl every day
though. He was very careful about girls, because he was scared of
catching something from them. Before he slept with somebody she
had to go to his doctor to get a clean bill of health. He had a thing
about germs, about cleanliness. He showered three times a day. He
didn't like to shake hands with people. He always had to have a box
of Kleenex tissues near him and every five or ten minutes he'd wipe
his hands.
He also had a thing about order. Let's say that on his desk were
a fountain pen, a cigar box, and a letter opener, then they had to be
lined up a certain way, and if anybody moved them even half an inch
when he wasn't around he'd blow his top. And he couldn't stand to
have anything pointing at him. Once this little bookie named Louie
Vachaboski put his cigarette down in an ashtray with the lit tip
pointed right at Bud. Bud picked up the cigarette and dived over the
table and grabbed Louie by the throat with one hand and with the
other hand mashed out the cigarette in Louie's left eyeball. Louie cut
loose with these high-pitched, girlish screams, which got him nicknamed
"Fay Wray" after the screaming blonde in King Kong. When
Bud was done with Louie, he had to wash his hands about fifty times
to get rid of his germs.
"She's a milestone around my neck," Bud was saying. He was talking
about his wife, Bernice. They'd been married ten or twelve years
but the last two years they'd been living in separate houses, Bud in
Hollywood and Bernice in Beverly Hills.
"She spends my dough like there ain't no tomorrow. And she's always
calling me up and pestering me about dumb shit. Like she calls
me last week, she likes sunbathing naked by her swimming pool and
she says these two kids that live next door are always climbing up in
a tree to get a gander at her. She says she opens her eyes up and sees
them two kids staring down at her and jacking off and she wants me
to take care of'em.What am I supposed to do, send some of you guys
over to bump 'em off? Shit, the truth is I feel sorry for them kids if
they're so desperate they gotta jack off by looking at Bernice's fat ass."
Everybody laughed. John Hobbs puffed on his pipe and said: "She
still won't give you a divorce?"
"Nah, she's a Catholic. She thinks the Pope'll send us both to hell
if we get a divorce. And she says she still loves me too much to let me
go to hell. I tell her the Pope's gonna try and send me to hell anyway
'cause I'm a Jew. But she won't listen to me."
"We need to get something on her," Blinky said. "So she'll cooperate."
"Yeah,"
said Bud. "Like she's fucking a nigger. Something like
that."
Hobbs wrote something down in a notebook. He was wearing a
tweed coat and a red bowtie, and he had a lazy eye that gave him a
slightly loony look. He said: "Maybe I can look into it."
"It oughta be a famous nigger," said Nucky. "Not just some regular
nigger."
"There's no such thing as a famous nigger," said Nello.
"What the fuck's Jack Johnson then?" said Nucky. "Danny? You
ever hear of Jack Johnson?"
"Sure. He's a boxer."
"See? Even Danny knows who Jack Johnson is."
"But he's all washed up now," said Nello. "He ain't had a fight in
years."
"That don't matter. He's still famous."
"He used to be famous. He ain't now."
"Why don't both you guys shut up?" said Bud. "You're giving me
a fucking headache."
Stan Tinney brought a girl over to the booth. Stan used to run
some big club in New York till Bud had brought him in to manage
the Peacock. He was an older guy, with white hair and heavy, black
framed glasses. Stan could hire anybody he wanted as long as it wasn't
a girl. Bud had to approve any girls.
Stan introduced Armilda Lee Keddy to him. Said she was up for
the job as the new cigarette girl.
"What happened to Betty?" said Bud.
"She quit, Bud. She took a job over at the Pom Pom Club."
"You telling me she's going to work for those cocksuckers?" Bud
looked incredulous. Stan shrugged.
"I even offered her a raise."
"Even offered her a raise," repeated Bud, shaking his head; then he
turned his attention to Armilda Lee. "Where you from?"
"Ada, Oklahoma."
She had brown hair, dimples, and a hayseed accent; her jaws were
working hard on a piece of gum.
"Another dumb hick from Oklahoma," said Bud pleasantly. "Just
what this town needs."
Armilda Lee giggled, her dimples deepening.
"Spit it out."
"Huh?"
"The gum. Get rid of it."
Armilda Lee quickly spit the gum out in her hand, then put both
hands behind her back.
"People chewing gum. It makes me sick."
She looked scared and said: "I'm sorry, Mr. Seitz."
"Lemme see your legs."
She hiked up her skirt a foot or two. We all inspected her legs.
Armilda Lee Keddy had killer legs.
"Armilda Lee, if I hire you, do you promise never to go to work at
the Pom Pom Club?"
Armilda Lee's face lit up. "Oh yes sir, I swear to God, I'd never do
nothing like that. And my daddy's a preacher, so I don't take swearing
to the good Lord lightly."
Bud bared his buck teeth in a smile. "Well hallelujah, sister. Welcome
to the Peacock"
Stan led the ecstatic Armilda Lee away. "I need to talk to Danny,"
said Bud. "So everybody kindly clear out."
Everybody did. Bud plucked out a tissue from the box and wiped
off his hands, then added it to a white puffy pile of used tissues. He
chewed on his cigar, looked at me through the smoke.
"How you been doing, Danny?"
"Fine."
Eddie came over, warmed up our coffee, took away the Kleenex.
"You ain't seemed yourself lately. I'm thinking maybe you're sore

at me."
"Why would I be sore?"
"Maybe you're wondering why I made you take care of Doc, since
you liked him so much."
"Yeah, I guess I was wondering that."
"You've forgot a lot, and so now I'm trying to teach some of it
back to you. Sometimes it becomes necessary in life to do stuff we
don't wanna do. It ain't easy, I know. I've done a lot of stuff I didn't
wanna do. But, like I said--sometimes it's necessary."
Since I couldn't think of anything to say, I was glad Darla picked
this moment to walk in.
I watched her slide into the booth, kiss Bud on the cheek, smile
across the table at me. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? Eddie?"
she called out to the waiter. "How's about some orange juice?" She
took Bud's cigar right out of his mouth and lit a cigarette with it.
If anybody else had touched Bud or something belonging to him
without his okay he'd have probably broken their arm, but he was just
watching her with this goofy grin on his face, like he was some yokel
in a carnival tent in Tennessee and she was a shimmying hoochie
koochie dancer.
"Whatta you been doing?" he said.
"Nothing. I do nothing all the time now. It's what I do for a living."
"It's
good you come by. There's something I wanted to talk to you
about.You and Danny."
She looked at me curiously. I shrugged.
"It's like this," said Bud. "It's getting around town that you're my
girl."
She blew a stream of smoke in his general direction. "Is that what
I am?Your girl?"
"Sure. Sure you are."
"I thought I was your mistress."
"I don't like the sound of that, mistress. Girl's nicer."
"Okay. So?"
"So I got a lot of enemies. I ain't the easiest guy to get to, but they
might try to hurt me by hurting you."
Eddie came back with the orange juice. Darla took a long drink
like she was really thirsty. Then she looked back at Bud.
"Hurt me how?"
"Use your imagination. So I don't want you going nowhere alone
no more. Danny'll go with you."
Darla looked at me."He'll be my bodyguard, you mean?"
Bud nodded. My heart started beating a little faster.
"I don't need a bodyguard."
"I guess you got wax in your ears, baby. I just said you do."
Darla drank the rest of her juice, then set the glass down so hard
on the table she was lucky it didn't break. "I don't need a fucking
bodyguard!" She slid out of the booth and began to flounce her way
toward the exit.
"DARLA!"
She stopped in her tracks and looked back at Bud. Everybody else
in the place was looking too, Eddie and Dick and Tommy and Nello
and Nucky and Blinky and John Hobbs and Stan Tinney and Armilda
Lee and the peacocks and this little Chinese guy that was sweeping
up with a broom.When Bud spoke again, it was so quietly you could
hardly hear him.
"Where you going?"
"To the beauty parlor." It was like her voice had shrunk several

sizes.
"Danny'll drive you.Wait outside for him. He'll be there in a minute."
She
just stood there, with everybody looking at her like she'd been
hit in the face with a rotten tomato. Then she turned and walked

out.
Bud's cigar had gone out. He put a match to it and puffed a few
times, then gave me a crooked grin.
"Broads, huh?"
"Yeah."
"I'm giving you a lot of responsibility, Danny. But I think you're
ready for it."
I nodded.
"Lookit, you and me both know you can't never trust a broad.
They're just born troublemakers. But don't ever let her make any
trouble between you and me.You know what I'm saying?"
"I think so."
"Don't ever let her tempt you. Just imagine she's got a big sign
hanging in front of her snatch. Private Club. Members Only. No
Trespassing."
"Okay."
"That's it then."
I got up, walked away a couple of steps--then turned back toward
the booth.
"Bud?"
"Yeah?"
"I won't ever let anybody hurt Darla. I promise."
Bud looked at me. Nodded a little.
I walked out to where she was waiting.

4

DARLA WAS ALWAYS reading magazines about houses, like House
Beautiful and American Home. Today, as we drove away from the club,
she was looking through House and Home, and acting like I was invisible.
"Darla,
don't be mad.This wasn't my idea."
She discovered a hangnail, scratched at it with her thumbnail, put
it to her teeth and tried to bite it off.
She was wearing a soft yellow sweater, a gray skirt, silk stockings,
and gray, low-heeled shoes. She was hardly wearing any makeup because
she hardly needed any makeup. I remember the night I first saw
her sing and I thought she wasn't the best or the worst singer in the
world but she probably was the prettiest girl in the world.
She'd started singing at the Peacock Club about five months ago.
Within a couple of weeks, Bud had sent her to his doctor for a checkup.
A couple weeks more and she showed up wearing a ring with a
ruby the size of a marble, then six or seven weeks ago Bud had made
her stop singing because he didn't like other guys looking at her.
She opened her purse and took out a little silver flask. She unscrewed
the cap and took a drink, then gave me a smirk. "Vodka. He
can't smell it on me. And what he can't smell can't hurt him." She
offered the flask to me, but I shook my head. "Oh, come on. I know
you're dying for it. I can see it in your face."
"No thanks."
She shrugged and returned the flask to her purse. I noticed a
charm bracelet on her wrist--a silver chain a-dangle with a star, a
crescent moon, a heart, a man's hat, a Scottish terrier, a mermaid, an
owl, and a lightning bolt.
"I like your bracelet."
"Yeah?" She raised her arm up and looked at it herself; sunlight
was angling in on her side of the car, and the charms trembled and
glittered in it. "Bud got it for me. To make up for what you guys did
to Doc."
We were rolling down the big hill on La Cienega. I turned left on
Fountain. She said: "It's okay, Danny. I don't blame you for it."
I realized my fingers were squeezing the wheel so hard they were
turning white, so I loosened my grip.
"I guess it was all my fault," said Darla. "I should've just given him
the cupcake."
"So you didn't know about it. About what Bud was gonna have
us do."
"Course not. I loved Doc."
Darla was spending most of her time at Bud's house these days, but
she still kept her apartment, in a building on Fountain near Fairfax.
She wanted me to stop off there so she could check her mail and pick
up some things.
I parked the car out front but when I started to open the door she
put her hand on my arm.
"No, Danny.You stay here."
"But--but Bud said--"

"I know what Bud said, but let's get something straight. We're
both stuck with this situation for now, but that doesn't mean I want
you following me around everywhere like you're my little poodle. I'll
be back in five minutes."
Fifteen minutes later I was getting worried. I started thinking I'd
been on the job less than a half hour and Darla was maybe kidnapped
already, she was trying to scream out my name but she had a gag in
her mouth and two muscle-bound goons were throwing her in their
car and I got out and headed toward the apartment house.
It was a five-story yellow-brick building. One of those swank kind
of places, with a green awning. The door to the lobby swung open
and the doorman held it for Darla, who had an armful of clothes. She
saw me and said: "Gimme a hand."
As I was taking the clothes a young, tall guy in a sharp suit came
out of the lobby and walked past us. He gave Darla a grin and a rakish

wink.
I watched him walk toward the street, resettling his snap-brim hat
on his head; he had a happy-as-a-clam look about him.
"Who's that?" I said. "I got no idea."
"He winked at you."	*
"Danny, if I had a nickel for every time a guy winked at me I'd be
richer than Rockefeller."
I put the clothes in the car and we drove off. Darla lit up a Lucky
Strike and tossed the match out the window; then she leaned back
against the door and blew smoke at me and gave me a long look.
"I get it now."
"Get what?"
"You're not my bodyguard.You're a spy."

"A spy?"
"Bud thinks I'm sneaking around behind his back seeing other
guys. So what did you think, Danny? That I'd been up in my apartment
balling that guy that winked at me?"
"I didn't think anything."
Evelyn's Klip n' Kurl was on Beverly Boulevard. I started to go in with
Darla, but she blocked the doorway. "Sorry, Danny. No boys allowed."
She opened her purse and pulled out a bill."Here's ten bucks. Go buy
yourself a nice steak. Or a not-nice girl. Or whatever you want."
I stiffened a little and stared at the money.
"No thanks."
Darla sighed, and returned the ten to her purse. "All men are morons.You
included. Just get lost for a couple of hours, okay?"
She shut the door in my face.
I walked off slowly down the street. It was warm and sunny, and I
took my coat off and slung it over my shoulder, and loosened my tie.
An old Apperson rattled past, its tailpipe billowing smoke. A slack- jawed woman was driving, leaning forward with an anguished look
on her face, clearly desperate to either get somewhere or get away
from somewhere.
Two teenage girls were looking at me kind of wide-eyed and giggly
as they walked by. I'd forgotten about my gun in my shoulder
holster, and I put my coat back on.
An ice cream cone minus the ice cream lay smashed on the sidewalk.
A pair of sparrows pecked at the brittle bits of cone.
Step on a crack. Break your mother's back.
There was a filling station on the corner. A sign above a red Coca
Cola cooler said: NO LOAFING. I opened the lid, reached down
into the icy water, pulled out a dripping bottle of Coca-Cola, paid for
it, and immediately went on my way.
I walked down the street trying to remember just one thing about
my mother. Name? Age? Height? Weight? Color of eyes? Color of
hair? For just a moment I thought I glimpsed some glimmering
something, some look in her eyes as she looked at me as I stood in
some ghostly, long-lost doorway, but it was gone before I could nail
it down.
A guy with no legs was sitting on the sidewalk in front of a hardware
store. He was selling combs and brushes out of a suitcase. A sign
said: WAR VETEREN--I LOST MY LEGS FOR YOU.
"How much?" I said.
He scrutinized me from under his battered hat.
'Brush is two bits. Comb's a dime."
"I'll take a brush and a comb."
"Okey doke. Pick 'em out."
I picked out a black comb and a pink brush; then I dug in my
Pants pocket for some change.
"I was watching you coming up," he said. "I thought you was a
war veteran too the way you was walking. But now I see you close up
I see you ain't nearly old enough."
I handed him a quarter and a dime.
"Nope. Not old enough."
I started to walk away, but then he said: "Hey mister, I'm awful dry.
How's about lending me that sody pop?"
I gave it to him. He looked up at me and gave a harsh, nasty laugh,
as though he'd just put something over on me.
I went back to my car, which was parked just down the street from
the beauty parlor. I slid behind the wheel, slumped down, tugged
down the brim of my hat.
I went to sleep fast, and started dreaming. I dreamed about a girl,
but it wasn't Darla, she was dark where Darla was fair but she was
nearly as pretty but I didn't know her name, and then I dreamed
about a train and the clackety clack of its hard wheels, clackety clack,
clackety clack ..,
I woke up. I looked at my watch. I'd gotten myself lost for the requested
period of time.
I went in the beauty parlor.
Darla was sitting in a chair leafing through a Ladies' Home Journal. A hatchet-faced woman dressed like a nurse was standing beside her.
Darla's hair had disappeared into fifteen or so gleaming metallic curlers,
which were attached to a tangle of black electrical cords which
snaked down from a sinister-looking black apparatus a couple of feet
above her head.
I couldn't help but laugh. Darla looked up at me and said: "Stop
it."Then she said:"Hey! Stop it!"
Then she threw the magazine at me, but she too was laughing.

5

WE CAME OUT of the Klip n' Kurl. 'I'm hungry," Darla said.
"What are you hungry for?"
"Fried chicken. Lots and lots of hot and greasy fried chicken."
"You know the Hottentot Hut?"
"Sure. Let's go."
People were getting off work, and there was a lot of traffic. I was
glad I didn't have a regular job and my job was driving Darla around.
She went in her purse for the vodka and finished it off, then had me
stop at a liquor store to buy some more. She tried to get me to join
her again, and I said no again.
" 'Cause it's not sundown yet? He's not God, Danny. He can't see
what we're doing."
"He might have somebody watching us," and I checked the
rearview mirror. "Somebody might be tailing us."
"You mean a spy that's spying on the spy?"
"I'm not a spy."
"It's no fun drinking alone.You're a goddamn party pooper."
Somebody like Darla was practically always going to get what she
wanted from somebody like me. I'd never had vodka before, and I

hated it. I thought it tasted like rubbing alcohol. But pretty soon as
the bottle passed back and forth I felt like busting out in a song.
I couldn't remember ever being as happy as I was driving north
across Hollywood toward the Hottentot Hut with Darla. I felt like we
were escaping something, like school, or prison, or like the car had
plunged off a bridge into a river and sunk to the bottom but we had
gotten out and now we were holding hands as we floated upwards
in a swirl of silvery bubbles, any moment now we would break the
surface and look at each other and laugh because we were Danny and
Darla and we were still alive.
We drove up Highland Avenue then across the Cahuenga Pass
and onto Ventura Boulevard. The parking lot of the Hottentot Hut
only had two or three other cars in it. As we walked inside, Hawaiian
music was playing. A ceiling fan made of dried palm fronds swished
over our heads.
We took a table, and ate ourselves silly. Washed down the chicken
with cold beer. Darla's hands and lips shined with grease. She wiped
off her mouth with a paper napkin then reached across the table and
wiped my mouth off. "You're a funny fella," she said.
"Yeah?"
"All that Two Gun Danny stuff. Just doesn't seem to fit you."
"I guess I must've been different before I got hit in the head." I was
quiet for a minute, chewing, thinking. "I was Bud's favorite, so they say.
Before--you know. Now I think I disappoint him all the time."
"Maybe it's a good thing you disappoint him."
In a little while she said: "I need to make the river run." She got
up and went to the ladies' room.
A guy at the next table leaned toward me. "Hey, bub. What did
you do to deserve it?"
"Deserve what?"
"That goddamn gorgeous girl."
I just smiled and shrugged. He laughed. I didn't mind him thinking
what he was thinking.
When she came back to the table she was dancing along with
the music like a hula hula girl, hips slowly swaying, arms moving in
a wavelike way. She sat down and gave me a dreamy smile. "Aloha,
Danny."
"We better get going. Bud's probably wondering what happened
to us."
"Fuck Bud."
I paid up and we left. The sun was gone and the stars were out.
We drove back over the Cahuenga Pass. Darla was curled up in a corner
of the seat, arms crossed, eyes closed. She sighed, and murmured
something.
"What?" I said.
"Mutual Movies Make Time Fly."
I'd heard that before--it was the motto of a movie company. She
kept talking but didn't bother to open her eyes. "You like my hair,
Danny?"
"Sure."
"You should've told me, then. When a girl gets her hair done,
that's what she wants to hear."
"I like your hair."
She wiggled around a bit to get more comfortable. The headlights
of oncoming cars lit her up, and left her dark, and lit her up, and left
her dark.

I dropped her off at the Peacock Club, then drove home. Except I
figured out I wasn't ready to go home, so I stopped off at Healy's Bar.
It was on Vine near Melrose.
As I walked up to the entrance, an old stewbum stumbled out,
looked at me with amazement, and said: "Brian!"
"You got the wrong guy," I said. I tried to walk past him, but he
grabbed my arm. He had a black stocking cap pulled down over his
forehead, and his breath smelled like his insides were rotting out.
"You ain't Brian Dunnigan?"
"Nope." I pulled my arm away and went in.
It wasn't a place for fancy people. It was long and narrow and dark,
like a tunnel to nowhere, and had that vomity dead-end smell joints
like that always have. A smoke-dimmed picture of Custer's Last Stand
was hanging on the wall. Kid McCoy was sitting at the bar with his
drinking pals George and Sonny. They all greeted me by name, they
were happy to see me because they knew I would buy them all a
drink. I got a vodka for myself.
"How can you drink that belly-wash?" said Kid McCoy. "Only
queers and Communists drink that shit."
"I know a girl that drinks it. She got me started."
"A girl, huh?" He shook his head and stared broodingly into space
like I'd just explained everything.
McCoy had been the middleweight champ of the world back in the
1890s.The phrase "the real McCoy," meaning the genuine article, came
from him. He'd got in a fight in a saloon with a guy who'd refused to
believe he was Kid McCoy. When the guy woke up ten minutes later,
he rubbed his jaw and said:"Geez, I guess that was the real McCoy."
McCoy got really rich then spent every dime on women and
booze and the high life. He was married nine times. Then he met
somebody he wanted to make wife number ten. But she started getting
nervous that he wanted to marry her for her money, because she
was getting divorced from this wealthy guy and was about to make a
big pile of dough on it. She started talking about maybe moving to
New York after the divorce instead of marrying McCoy, so one night
he got drunk and shot her in the head with a .32 revolver. And then
he left her apartment and ran amok and shot and wounded three
other people before the cops finally stopped him. Both the judge and
the jury went easy on him because he used to be famous, and all he
got was an eight-year bit in Quentin.
He'd been out a couple of years now. He'd gotten married again.
He had a head like a potato with some messed-up hair on top.
"Nothing weakens a man like pussy," said the Kid.
"How true," said George. "One curly little pussy hair is stronger
than the strongest rope or steel cable."
"Depends on whose pussy it's from," said Sonny philosophically.
"Some old ugly bitch--one of her pussy hairs wouldn't be all that

strong."
"Eye of the beholder," said George. "Believe it or not, there's
probably a woman somewhere on the planet who would even find you sexually attractive."
"Hardy har har," said Sonny.
"I can hardly get a hard-on anymore, thank God." George included
us all in a fond smile. "It's much more pleasant sitting here
with my friends sharing a drink in a convivial setting than chasing
around town after some treacherous little chippie whose only goal is
to break my heart."
George wasn't shy about letting people know he was a college
graduate and he used to have a top job at an oil company till he lost it
due to drink. He wore shabby but once-fine suits. His spectacles and
pipe gave him an English-professor air.
Sonny was from West Virginia. He had thin reddish hair and his
skin was so white he approached albino status. He said he used to
have a good job at the Chrysler plant in Maywood till he had to bust
the boss's jaw because he wouldn't get off his back then got thrown
in the clink for assault for a year.
Kid McCoy reached into a big jar of boiled eggs sitting on the bar,
two for a nickel.The eggs were floating in a piss-colored liquid, and I
watched his gnarly-knuckled dirty-fingernailed hand fishing around
until he snagged a couple. He bit one in two and held the other out
to me.
"Hungry?"
"No thanks. I just ate."
"I'm hungry," said Sonny.
McCoy tossed him the egg. "You're always hungry, you scrawny
hillbilly sack of shit."
"Them eggs ain't free," said Henry, the bartender. "The owner
comes in and counts every one of them eggs. If everything don't add
up, my pay gets docked."
McCoy started to reach in his pocket, but George stayed his hand.
It's on me, Kid." He threw a nickel down on the bar, it rolled and
Wobbled around like it was drunk then toppled over.
"That's one for the history books," said Sonny. "George paying for
something."
"You mock me as you eat the very egg I paid for."
Sonny finished the egg then picked up a yellow egg crumb off
the bar and ate that too then licked his fingers. "You know what the
problem is? The problem is, we got some people eating five times a
day, and other people going five days without eating."
"You sound like a socialist," said George.
"Well if a socialist is somebody that wants to string every rich guy
up by his heels and gut him like a hog, I guess I'm a socialist."
"You're probably going to vote for that fool Sinclair."
"Who?" McCoy said.
"Upton Sinclair. He's a writer running for governor. Don't you
read the papers?"
"I only read the papers if they got a story about me. I love reading
about me. But I ain't been in the papers for years."
"Why do you say he's a fool?" I said.
"Because he believes in the unprovability of the human heart. And
he thinks he can actually beat the powers that be. I personally prefer
to keep our corrupt status quo. Why? Because you can always trust a
dishonest man. Now I realize that sounds like a paradox.What I mean
is, you can trust our present leaders to act in a predictable fashion,
which is to do everything they can to line their own pockets and the
pockets of their cronies. But an idealist might do anything. Society
would be disrupted. Chaos might ensue!"
"Five days without eating," mumbled Sonny, who seemed faint
with hunger himself, or maybe just drunk.
George said: "What are your political persuasions, Danny?"
I tried to remember but came up dry. "I don't guess I have any."
"I believe we've found a free thinker. A man with a mind of his
own! That calls for another round, Henry."
So I bought another round, and another, then started feeling as
wobbly as the nickel and knew it was time to go.
There were these two guys at the other end of the bar I should
have paid more attention to. I hadn't seen them in Healy's before.
They must have watched me pulling out a fat roll from my pants
pocket to pay for the drinks. They must have seen how drunk I was
as I headed for the door and how I was limping on my left leg. They
probably pegged me as any easy mark. Not knowing, of course, that I
was Two Gun Danny Landon.
My car was parked about a hundred feet from the bar. The traffic
light at the next corner was changing colors but it could have saved
itself the trouble since there wasn't a car on the street. The only living
thing I saw was a skinny yellow alley cat that looked me over, then
trotted away briskly like it suddenly remembered it was late for a previous
engagement.
I heard their shoes on the sidewalk behind me. When I looked
over my shoulder, they started running at me. I tried to land a Sunday
punch on the nearest guy but missed completely, and took a fist in
the face and one in the gut then hit the sidewalk.
They were about my age. They were dressed maybe just a little bit
better than tramps. They didn't say a word as they proceeded to kick
the living shit out of me. A foot connected with the back of my head
and it was like I'd taken a direct hit from a lightning bolt as light exploded
inside my skull.Then I felt them going through my pockets. I
heard one of them say: "Come on, hurry, hurry!" He sounded scared.
Maybe they'd never done anything like this before. Maybe they hadn't
eaten in five days and they were desperate.
Then I could hear their footsteps moving off. I pushed myself up
off the concrete. Saw them walking quickly, and excitedly counting
my money. It was mainly ones, so they'd probably be disappointed.
I was on my knees now. I reached in my coat and took out my
gun. I pointed it at them.
One of the guys happened to look over his shoulder and saw me
and got kind of a yikes! look on his face and yelled something at his
buddy and they started to run. I kept the gun pointed at their bouncing
backs, shifting the aim slightly from one back to the other.
They reached the corner where the traffic light was, headed down
a side street, and disappeared.

6

LUCKILY, THE ORANGE Blossom Bungalow Court was just a few
blocks from the bar, so I managed to drive home okay. But I couldn't
make it all the way up the seven steps that led up from the street. I sat
down on the fifth step, and put my elbows on my knees and my head

in my hands.
I felt like I'd spent the last few hours rolling around inside a cement
mixer then had climbed out and been trampled on by a runaway horse.
My head was killing me. Blood was dripping out of a cut on my cheek.
I became aware of the presence in my stomach of the chicken
dinner from the Hottentot Hut, it was like an animal that wanted out
and I stretched out my neck and spewed puke down the steps. A few
seconds passed, and I did it again.Then I heard myself groan, and I sat
there with my eyes closed and my nostrils filled with the stink of the
mess I'd made.
"Danny?"
I looked up. Somebody was standing over me, lit faintly from behind
by a street light.
"Who's that?"
"Lionel Dulwich.Your neighbor."

"Oh."
"I don't mean to intrude, but--you seem to be a bit under the
weather."
"I'm okay."
I put my head back in my hands and closed my eyes.
"Are you sure?"
I nodded; then I felt his hand on my shoulder.
"Come on, old man, you're being silly, you're not okay and I'm
taking you inside."
I didn't argue with him. He helped me up, then we headed up the
sidewalk that ran between the eight bungalows. I was feeling dizzy,
and the sidewalk seemed to move beneath me like I was walking
across a trampoline.
"How'd you know my name?" I said.
"The day you moved in, I overheard you talking to Mrs. Dean and
Sophie. Sorry. Didn't mean to eavesdrop."
I remembered the grin from under the Mexican hat. He guided
me toward his bungalow. "I keep a medical kit in preparation for
every sort of emergency: earthquake, fire, flood, famine, pestilence,
war--and young neighbors coming home late from an adventurous
night on the town.There'sTink coming to greet us. Hello,Tink!"
The black and white cat was looking out the screen door at us. We
went inside. Dulwich had me sit down in an armchair, then went in
the kitchen to get me a glass of water.
His bungalow was exactly like mine and not at all like mine. Mine
was shabby and depressing, but Dulwich's looked like a home. The
furnishings were classy and comfy and some of them seemed like
they might have cost a pretty penny. A floor lamp with a lampshade
covered with long-tailed monkeys and many-colored parrots sent a
soft warm light spilling across the room. On the wall was a painting
of a beautiful girl with long blonde hair; she was dressed like a princess
from the days of King Arthur and was standing on a rocky gray
cliff and gazing out at a stormy sea. A cabinet radio was playing an
elegant sunny song, like something Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers
might dance to. And Tink sharpened her claws on a Persian rug then
Walked over and sniffed at my shoes.
They were spattered with vomit, as were my pants legs. The cat
opened its mouth and wrinkled its nose and generally acted like it
had never encountered anything so disgusting before as me. Dulwich
walked back in with the water.
"Getting better acquainted, are we? Tink is short for Tinker, which
is short for Tinker Bell. And Tinker Bell rules the house."
I drank half the glass, then took the aspirin tin out of my pocket.
"Head hurt?" said Dulwich.

"Yeah."
I drank down the aspirin, then gave the empty glass back to Dulwich.
"Thanks."
"Let me take your hat and coat."
I handed him my hat, then winced a little getting out of my coat.
He looked at my dent, looked at my gun; then he went away again.
On top of the cabinet radio was a photograph in a silver frame. It showed a young man in a soldier's uniform. He had light-colored hair
parted in the middle and a strong chin with a cleft in it. He was as
handsome as a motion picture star. He was looking right in the camera,
and smiling a little.
"Aubrey Joyce," said Dulwich. He'd come back in the room with
his first-aid stuff. He looked at the picture smiling a little like Aubrey
Joyce. "The look on his face is so characteristic of him. That sly, mischievous,
I-know-something-but-I-shan't-tell-you expression."
"Who is he?"
"He was my best friend. We were in school together. We were
twenty-one when the war started, and we both rushed to enlist. Or
rather, he rushed to enlist, and I rushed to keep up with him. He was
mad for glory, mad for medals, and he won more than a few. But of
course his mood darkened as the war progressed. He was seriously
wounded on three separate occasions. He could have gotten out of
the war if he wished, but he always insisted on returning. Not because
he still believed in the war, but because he thought his men
needed him. His 'lads,' he called them. 'My lads are helpless without
me,' he would say.'Who else is going to wipe their silly little noses for
them, and make sure they eat their vegetables and say their bedtime
prayers?' He survived the war, rather miraculously I thought, but then
died six weeks after the Armistice. On Christmas Day. Of the Spanish
flu." Now Dulwich smiled ruefully at me. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get
into all of that. Now let's take a look at you."
With a wet washcloth, he wiped the blood off my face. His touch
was gentle, nearly tender. He had sandy hair that fell over his forehead,
hazel eyes, a large round nose, a wide mouth with big lips, and ears that
stuck out from his head. He was over six feet, and very thin. He was
wearing soft tasseled slippers, and an exotic-looking silk jacket with a
sash; the jacket seemed to have a hundred shimmering colors in it.
He peered at the cut on my cheek. "Don't believe we need
stitches. But this will sting a bit."
He soaked a piece of cotton with some rubbing alcohol and
dabbed at the cut. "What happened?"
"I was coming out of a bar, and two guys jumped me. And stole
my dough."
His eyes drifted to my gun.
"Smith & Wesson? .38?"
"Yeah. I couldn't get it out in time. Otherwise . . ."
Dulwich thoughtfully said: "Mm," and put a band-aid on my
cheek.
"Vision all right? Not blurred?"
"It's fine."
He began putting away his first-aid stuff.
"I'm terribly curious about what you do. Would it be impolite to
ask?"
"I work for the Los Angeles Projects Corporation." That wasn't
untrue. Bud had a company, and that's what it was called. "I'm sort of
a ... a guard."
"I see."
"Well, thanks for the help. I should go."
"You're quite sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, I just need to go to bed. I had a lot to drink."
He grinned at me; the space in the middle of his front teeth was
big enough to slip a kitchen match through. "A bit sozzled, are we?"
"Yeah. If sozzled means drunk."
He got my hat and coat for me and walked me to the door. His
cat followed us, and he scooped her up in his arms.
"Well, thanks again, Mr. Dulwich."
"What are neighbors for, hm,Tinker?" he said, scratching her head.
"And by the way, please just call me Dulwich. Mr. Dulwich brings my
father to mind, and the less he is brought to anyone's mind the better.
And only my mother and my lovers call me Lionel."
"You can call me Danny."
"Good night, Danny."
"Good night, Dulwich."
I limped away across the lawn. Looked back once--and saw Dulwich
and his cat still in the door, watching me go.

7



"NO WONDER THEY call you the Kind One," said Max Schnitter.
Bud had just been telling him what happened to this guy named Sal
Tagnoli. Bud used to own this little speakeasy just south of downtown
on Flower, and he had a nickel slot machine in it. And every
night Tagnoli would come in, and he'd make out like a bandit on
that nickel slot. So Bud got the idea that Tagnoli was cheating the
machine somehow. But when he confronted him, Tagnoli denied
it. He said how do you cheat a fucking slot machine, and Bud said
maybe with magnets or some kind of tool and Tagnoli said search me
and Bud had him searched but they didn't find anything. Tagnoli said:
"See? I'm just lucky."
But Bud wasn't convinced. He had the boys take him into the back
room and work him over, but Tagnoli continued to insist he was just
lucky. "I'm gonna cheat Bud Seitz for a buncha fucking nickels?" he
said. "You think I'm crazy?" Then Bud turned him over to Nucky
Williams. Nucky slipped on his brass knuckles, which was Nucky's
thing and how he got his name. He made Tagnoli's face look like a ripe
tomato splitting open but he still just kept screaming that he was lucky.
Then Teddy Bump took some wire pliers and started working on his
nose and nipples and nuts and toes, but that didn't do the trick either.
So Bud was really exasperated now. He had the guys tie Tagnoli
up and throw him in Bud's car along with the slot machine. They
drove to San Pedro and got in a boat and went out about halfway to
Catalina. Then Bud had Tagnoli tied up to the slot machine, and he
told him: "This is your last chance, Sal. Tell me how you was beating

my machine."
Tagnoli started yelling: "Bud, you gotta believe me, I'm just lucky!
I been lucky ever since I was a little kid! I'm just one of them lucky

guys!"
Bud just sighed and said: "Sal, you're tied up to a slot machine and
you're about to be dropped in the fucking ocean. How lucky can you
be?"
Then Sal started screaming his head off in Italian and they threw
him over the side, and Max Schnitter laughed and said: "No wonder
they call you the Kind One."
We were at the Surf Club in Redondo Beach.We were in a private
room where there were some card and dice tables and a row of slot
machines. Sitting in a booth besides myself and Bud and Schnitter were
Teddy Bump andVic Lester, a pug-nosed little guy with Schnitter.
Schnitter was about sixty, and maybe an inch or two north of five
feet tall. He was bald and had pointy ears that gave him a slightly
inhuman look, like an evil elf. I'd heard he was from Germany, and
he'd got a job on a ship as a cabin boy when he was twelve. Then he
jumped ship in Panama and walked all the way to America and now
he was one of the most powerful guys in Los Angeles.

Guys like him and Bud had made most of their money from bootlegging.
Repeal had happened just six months ago, which had basically
jerked the rug out from under them. Now they were scrambling
around trying to get into new things.
"We put too many of our eggs into one single basket," said Schnitter,
who still had a slight German accent.
"That's it exactly, Max," said Bud. "You need a lot of different
baskets, so in case you got some D.A. with a bug up his ass about this
thing or that thing you won't be totally fucked."
"And the secret of success is simple," Schnitter said. "You must give
the people what they want. The government did not have the right
to deny a hard-working citizen a drink on Saturday night. Neither
should it have the right to tell a man he cannot wager a portion of his
wages on the roll of a die; that he cannot enjoy the sexual favors of a
beautiful young lady in exchange for a few of his hard-earned dollars;
that he shouldn't forget the burdens of existence for an hour or two
by smoking opium or snuffing cocaine."
Bud wiped his hands on a tissue. "Danny, you oughta be taking
notes when this guy talks. He's a fucking genius."
Schnitter smiled at me. He had sharp eye teeth, like Dracula. He was
holding a snifter of brandy in his palm. He sloshed it around gently.
Teddy Bump had a laugh like a dying hyena and he let it loose
now. "What's so funny?" said Bud.
"That dame over there. The fucking ash from her cigarette fell
down the crack between her tits and she's going nuts."
The pug-nosed guy looked over and started laughing too; his
laugh was a lot like Teddy's.
I excused myself to go to the can. There was crushed ice in the
pisser. It steamed and crackled and melted as I hosed it down. I had
an image of a little boy peeing in the snow, the little boy seemed to
be me and then he vanished.
I washed my hands, and looked at myself in a mirror over the,
sink.
"Danny Landon," I said softly.
There was a guy standing next to me combing his hair.
"What's that, mac?"
"Nothing." I dried my hands and went out.
But I didn't go back to the private room. I went in the bar.
It was crowded. A chubby Negro in a white suit was playing the
piano and singing "Stardust":

"You wander down the lane and far away,
Leaving me a song that will not die-- Love is now the Stardust of yesterday ..."
It was a sad kind of a song, but he was smiling as he sang, and
seemed like the happiest guy in the room.
Tommy and Goodlooking Tommy were sitting at the bar arguing
about something. They were both very drunk. "Shanghai Sally!" said
Goodlooking Tommy, and Tommy said: "You're full of shit!" Spit was
flying out of their mouths they were getting so mad.
The bar was so full of smoke I wanted to call the fire department.
I went outside to get some fresh air.
Dick Prettie was standing there, one hand in his pants pocket, the
other holding a cigarette. "Who's Shanghai Sally?" I said.
Dick laughed. "Them two dumbbells still going at it?"

"Yeah."
"There's this broad that works as a bouncer in this joint in Pedro."

"A broad?"
"Yeah. She weighs about two fifty and she's got tattoos of dragons
and shit all over her arms. Goodlooking Tommy says her name's
Shanghai Sally. Tommy says her name's Cairo Mary."
"You know which one it is?"
"Sure. But I'm staying out of it. Both them Tommys is fucking

nuts."
The sea breeze was blowing in on us and it was cold and I shivered
a little. Out in the distance in the dark I could see white lines of
foam where the waves were coming in. "Let's go walk on the beach,"
I said.
"What for?"
"The hell of it."
"I'll get fucking sand in my shoes."
"Ah, come on."
So we left the lights and the smoke and the noise of the club behind
us and went out on the beach. There was half a moon and plenty of
stars. And miles out on the ocean I saw the lights of a ship. I wondered
if it was a gambling ship, like the one I'd helped to heist and sink.
Dick stumbled and started cursing. "It's happening already, I'm
getting sand in my shoes! I can't stand the way it feels in between my
fucking toes!"
I wondered what Darla was doing. Seitz had banished her from his
presence for a few days, because it was that time of the month for her
and he couldn't stand to be around her when that was going on.
"So how's it going with Shitter?" said Dick.
"Okay, I guess." I saw some seaweed washed up on the shore that
looked like a tangled clump of snakes. "He called Bud 'the Kind
One.'"
"Yeah?"
"Seems like I remember somebody else calling him that once."
"Sure, it's a nickname. It's kinda like a joke, see? 'Cause kind ain't
the first thing you'd think of calling Bud Seitz."
"Who started calling him that?"
He stopped to light up a new Old Gold. He cupped the flame of
the lighter against the wind. His gaunt face was lit up, and the angles
were filled with shadow. "It was this Mexican girl. Emperatriz.
"She was his girl for a while. He met her in Tia Juana, at Agua
Caliente. She was there with this rich Mexican asshole old enough to
be her grandpa. Bud told her what horses to bet in a couple of races,
and she cleaned up. Then she dumped grandpa and came back up
here with us.
"She was a gorgeous broad, but she was also nice. She was nice to
people that most people don't give a shit about.
"There was this kid, Flumentino. He worked in the kitchen at
the Peacock, sweeping up, taking out the garbage, that kinda shit. He
had a long neck and big ears and he was always smiling at everybody.
Everybody thought he was a dummy, but maybe that's just 'cause he
didn't speak no English to speak of.
"Anyway, Emperatriz was nice to Flumentino, and maybe he got
the wrong idea. One night, him and one of the cooks, they'd been
nipping at a bottle all night, and I guess he musta got pretty plastered,
cause when Emperatriz walked by he grabbed her by the ass. And
Bud happened to walk in right at that moment and he seen it.
"Jesus Christ, Danny, what they did to that poor kid. They cleared
the kitchen out and tied him up and put him up on this counter
where the cooks do their chopping. When they got done with him,
they had to put him in four different gunnysacks to get him outa the
kitchen. And then I got stuck with the job of going out in the desert

to bury the sacks."
"What was Emperatriz doing during all this?"
"Begging. Pleading. Screaming. But it didn't do no good. And after
that she started calling Bud el Benevolo. The Kind One."
"What ever happened to her?"
Dick took a drag on his cigarette--took his time blowing the
smoke back out. "I don't know. She just kinda disappeared. Went back

to Mexico, I guess."
We started walking again.The sand sucked at my shoes.The waves
slid up the beach then slipped away.
"Was I there?" I said.
"Was you where?"
"In the kitchen.That night."
Dick was quiet a minute. "I think you was outa town. On business."
I
wondered what business I was on. We heard some laughing and
screaming--a happy kind of screaming--then we saw a guy and a girl
playing around in the water. Dick said: "Shit.They're naked."
They looked young, maybe seventeen or eighteen. They were
chasing each other around and grabbing each other and kissing and
then they'd laugh when a wave hit them and by the light of the half
of the moon I could make out the nipples on the girl and the hair
down between her legs and my heart felt like it was about to bust I
wanted so bad to be out there in the waves chasing around a girl, not
her, not Darla even, but the girl I dreamed about sometimes, the girl
with the dark hair and the olive skin.
"Looks like they're having fun," Dick said wistfully.

"Yeah."
"You know the last time I screwed a broad that wasn't a whore?"

"No."
"Me neither. Probably when Babe Ruth was still a pitcher."
We walked a little further, then Dick said: "Hey, lookit!"
We'd found their clothes on the sand. A "his" pile and a "her" pile.
"I know what," said Dick. "Let's bury 'em!"
"Their clothes? What for?"
" 'Cause it'll be funny as hell."
I thought about it a minute. "Nah. Let's just leave 'em alone."
"Well, no way I ain't gonna get a fucking souvenir."
He rummaged through the "her" pile then pulled out her underpants.
He held them up dangling in front of his eyes and grinned then
stuffed them in his pocket.
We headed back up the beach. When we got close to the Surf
Club we saw a couple of guys duking it out on the sand. We got a
little closer and saw it was Tommy and Goodlooking Tommy.
It looked like Goodlooking Tommy was getting the worst of it. By
the way, it wasn't like Goodlooking Tommy was really that goodlooking.
Nello Marlini was twice as goodlooking as Goodlooking Tommy,
girls were telling him all the time he was a dead ringer for Rudolph
Valentino. But it got confusing having two guys named Tommy
around, so since one of them was goodlooking in comparison to the
other, who was very ugly, he got hung with the name Goodlooking
Tommy. The alternative would have been for Goodlooking Tommy
just to be Tommy and for Tommy to be Ugly Tommy.
We ran toward them, as well as you can run in the sand, yelling at
them to stop it.
But they ignored us. Goodlooking Tommy tried to kick Tommy
in the balls but Tommy dodged it and grabbed hold of his leg and
started twisting it till he fell down. Then Tommy jumped on his back
and started pounding on his head with his fists and yelling: "SAY IT!
SAY IT! SAY IT!" and Goodlooking Tommy said: "FUCK YOU!"
Tommy suddenly whipped out his revolver and put it to Good
looking Tommy's head and pulled back the hammer.
"Say 'Cairo Mary,' damn it, or I'm putting a bullet in your fucking
head!"

Dick and I jumped on Tommy and dragged him off. His gun went
off with a heartstopping pop and a bullet flew out over the ocean.
Dick was beside himself.
"Jesus Christ, Tommy, are you crazy? Bud's gonna cut all our
fucking balls off!" Because Bud couldn't stand for us to get out of
control in public. Unless, of course, he'd given us the say-so.
"Dick," said Tommy, "you know what her fucking name is. Tell
him.Tell the prick."
"I'm staying outa this."
Goodlooking Tommy stood up, brushing sand off his suit. He shot
his cuffs, straightened the knot in his tie. "Everybody but this shitstick
knows her name is Shanghai Sally."
"Shut up," said Dick. "You guys are like a couple of fucking kids. I
don't wanna hear nothing more about it."
We all started walking back toward the Surf Club. By the time we
got there the Tommys were laughing and joking around about something.
I'd noticed they had memories like dogs or cats, not usually
seeming to go back more than a minute or two into the past.
I went back in the private room. Everybody was standing up and
getting ready to go. "That musta been the longest piss in history," said
Bud when he saw me.
"Sorry, Bud. I went for a walk."
Max Schnitter was smiling at me with a slightly puzzled expression,
as though he couldn't quite figure out what to make of me. "It
was good to see you again, Danny," he said, holding his hand out.
I shook his hand and said: "Good to see you again, Mr. Shitter."
Bud glared at me, but Schnitter didn't act as if he'd noticed.
"So, Max," said Bud, "lemme talk to Blinky about a couple of
things and then I'll call you."
"I'll be looking forward to it," said Schnitter. He didn't stick his
hand out to Bud because he knew how he felt about shaking hands.
We all headed toward the door. Teddy Bump was walking in front
of us with Vic, Schnitter's guy. They were talking and swapping their
hyena laughs with one another like they'd suddenly become best
buddies.
A fat-assed woman wearing a fox stole that had the sad head and
bushy tail of a fox hanging off it squealed as a clatter of quarters
came out of a slot machine. A long-legged cigarette girl snarled at
some drunk: "Hey, keep your stinking mitts offa me!" White dice
tumbled across a green table as the shooter yelled: "Eighter from
Decatur!"
I noticed people looking at us respectfully as we passed, like we
were all big important guys, like we had the world by the tail, by its
bushy tail.
We stopped off at a table near the door where some guys were
playing cards. "Hey, Floyd," said Bud, "let's see what kinda balls you
got. Let's cut the cards for 10,000 bucks."
Floyd, who had three or four chins spilling out over his collar,
looked around at the other guys at the table, who were grinning at
him expectantly; then he set down the deck in front of Bud.
"Okay, Bud. Let's go."
"Go ahead, Danny," said Bud.
"Huh?"
"Cut the cards."
"Aw, no, Bud, not me--"
"Go ahead, kid. I got a feeling."
People at other tables were watching now. The cigarette girl
paused in her tour of the room, and waited high atop her legs. I felt
my heart speeding up as I reached for the deck.
Three of hearts.
The guys at the table started to laugh--Floyd too, his chins shaking.
The cigarette girl smirked at me. But Bud didn't bat an eye.
"Hey, it ain't over yet. Floyd?"
Floyd shook his head and sighed like this was all a tiresome formality
and reached over and cut the cards.

Deuce of spades.
The guys at the table were howling now. I heard some cheers
and applause coming from some of the other tables. The cigarette
girl gave me a nice smile, showing rosy gums and even white teeth.
And Floyd's face and all his chins were turning as red as a brick. "You
know, Bud, I don't actually have that kind of money on me right at
this moment--"
"Don't sweat it, Floyd. I know you're good for it. Just bring it
around tomorrow."
Then Bud slapped me on the back as we went out. "See, kid?
You're a winner."

Bud and I were in the back seat of his bulletproof black Lincoln
sedan as it sped northward on Sepulveda toward Hollywood. Teddy
Bump was driving. Dick and the two Tommys were behind us in
another car.
Bud was smoking a cigar and sipping some whiskey on the rocks;
he was in a good mood.
"I figured something out tonight. It's like silent pictures and pictures
with people talking. Most of them old movie stars couldn't
make the switch. It turned out the guys had voices like fairies and the
broads sounded like cats that was getting their tails stepped on. Same
thing since they made booze legal. A lotta guys are gonna fall along
the wayside. But not me. I'm gonna be smart about all this."
I nodded. Bud rattled around the ice in his glass. "What do you
think of Schnitter?"
"He's okay."
"What's the matter with him?"
"I didn't say anything was the matter with him."
"Come on, Danny, I know you. Spit it out."
"Well ... if you were to eat a bunch of bad oysters and you're
puking your guts out all night, and then you finally fall asleep, but
you're still sick, and you're having these horrible dreams, they're like
the worst nightmares of your life, and you're thrashing around in
bed and moaning . . . well, Schnitter's the kind of guy you might be

dreaming about."
Bud puffed on his cigar and looked at me.
"That sounds nuts, I guess."
"No, Danny, I understand your meaning. I've noticed you're usually
very sharp about people. I always take what you say very serious."
We
rolled on through the dark awhile, and then: "Bud? Can I ask
you a question?"
"Sure."
"How old am I?"

He seemed taken aback. "How old are you?"
"Yeah."

He looked away from me and out the window. There wasn't much
to look at.

"Twenty-five, kid. You're twenty-five."


8

"SMELL ME," SAID Darla.
She offered me her wrist. I could see green and blue and purple
veins under the skin which seemed as thin and white as tissue paper.
It made me dizzy she smelled so good. Like sticking my head in a
bucket of flowers. "Nice," I said.
"It's Mitsouko. Jean Harlow's favorite. I bought twenty bottles."
We were driving away from Bullock's Department Store on
Wilshire. On the radio the announcer said Clyde Barrow and Bonnie
Parker had been killed by lawmen in Louisiana.
"So they finally got them," said Darla.
I'd been guarding her body for three and a half weeks. I was obviously
an intimidating force, since there hadn't been a single attempt
to attack or kidnap her.
I'd taken her, in puffy pants and high black boots, to her weekly
horseback-riding lesson at the DuBrock Riding Academy. I'd driven
her, pale and sweaty and gritting her teeth, to see a Dr. Siegel in Beverly
Hills for some kind of "female" complaint. I'd eaten triple-decker
ice cream sundaes with her at Eskimo Ice Cream, which was a building
shaped like an igloo, and had platefuls of steaming, gleaming, tender
pork ribs at the Pick-a-Rib Barbecue Pit on Melrose. I'd gone with her
to a bar in Malibu because she said they served great silver fizzes there,
that's a drink made with egg whites; I couldn't have choked one down
on a bet but she drank three then we drove on up the Coast Highway
to Point Dume. It's a finger of land sticking out in the ocean where
Santa Monica Bay ends. We got out of the car and walked around. It
was windy and the water was blue and there weren't any clouds. A
couple of hundred feet from shore a sea lion was sunning itself on a big
rock. You could look up the coast and see the rest of California disappearing
into the distance, and you could imagine disappearing into
that distance too, not looking back, just traveling forever.
Point Dume was where Darla told me all about Darla.
She grew up in a speck-like town on the prairie called Nebraska
City, Nebraska. Her father was the postmaster. One winter when she
was twelve there was a terrible blizzard and no one could get out
of the house for days. Her father just sat there drinking moonshine
out of a mason jar and getting more and more worried because
he couldn't get the mail out to people and he felt like he was letting
everybody down. Darla said she and her father were sitting at
the kitchen table and her mother was standing at the stove cooking
breakfast and her mother told her father to quit feeling sorry for
himself. Her father didn't say a word, just got up and started walking
toward her mother and then Darla saw a gun in his hand and he shot
her mother in the back of the head. Then he turned and looked at
Darla.
The wind was howling outside and snow was blowing past the
windows and she could see in her father's eyes that he was about to
kill her. She jumped up and ran in the bathroom and locked the door.
He started beating on the door then throwing his weight up against
it, and she tried to get the window open but it was jammed shut then
he burst into the room.
She got in the bathtub like it was some kind of protection and
tried to squeeze herself up into a little ball as he walked over and
looked down at her. "No, Daddy, don't!" she said, and he smiled at her
and said: "Aw, honey, I wouldn't never hurt you, I'm your daddy," and
then he shot himself in the side of the head.
She was sent to live with her uncle Gideon. He lived on a farm
out in the middle of nothing. He and his wife didn't have any children.
She was an invalid and seldom left their bedroom.
Darla had to do all the cooking and cleaning like the stepchild in a
fairy tale. She had to bring in water from the well and feed the chickens
and once she even had to help Uncle Gideon slaughter a hog;
she held on tight to the hog's hind legs so it wouldn't run off while
Gideon beat it in the head with a sledge hammer.
One day Darla was sitting in the outhouse when she became
aware that Gideon was spying on her through a crack in the door.
As the weeks went on it seemed like every time she looked around
she'd find her uncle's eyes on her. She was only twelve but she'd developed
early and she looked sixteen, and she knew enough about
the facts of life to know what was on Gideon's mind.
She was out in the barn gathering eggs on a day in early spring
when Gideon came in. He came up behind her and put his hand on
her bottom and started rubbing and squeezing it. She told him to
stop and he said: "I'm just giving you what you been wanting, you
little whoremongering bitch."
She tried to get away but he chased her around the barn, giggling
all the while like they were two kids playing tag. She started taking
eggs out of her basket and throwing them at him, and he dodged and
giggled till one hit him in the forehead. Then his face turned dark
with anger as he wiped off the dripping mess, and she made a break
for the ladder that led up to the hay loft. She nearly made it all the
way up but then he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down,
then, still holding on to the one ankle, he dragged her over to a pile
of hay. He yanked her dress up and her drawers down and climbed on
top of her. She said the sounds he made while he raped her reminded
her of how the hog sounded when it was being killed.
When Gideon finished he became enraged and slapped her face
again and again. He said it was her fault he'd fallen into sin and it was
her fault his brother had killed himself; he was sure Darla had tried to
tempt his brother into doing what Gideon had just done and he had
to kill himself to keep from doing it. As he got up and buttoned his
britches he told her not to tell anybody what had happened or else
he'd throw her down the well then say she'd killed herself because she
couldn't live with all the lies she'd been telling.
She ran away, but Gideon called the sheriff on her and he caught
her and she was back on Gideon's farm in less than a day.
Gideon told her if she was going to act like some kind of sorry
no-account dog that wouldn't stay in the yard unless it was tied up
then that was how he was going to have to treat her. He chained her
to the stove. He brought her food and water twice a day, and the only
time he let her loose was to go to the outhouse. He'd go with her and
stand in the door to make sure she didn't run off.
Darla said that after about a week she wrapped the chain around
her neck and tried to strangle herself, but it hurt too bad so she gave
up.
Finally one night her aunt Bess crept out of the bedroom, wearing
a flowing white nightgown that made her look like a ghost. She had
a key. Darla could hear Gideon snoring as Bess unlocked the padlock.
She whispered: "Now you just run, honey, you run away fast as you
can. I'd go with you if I could." So Darla snuck out of the house and
ran down the road and the sheriff didn't catch her this time.

She walked for two days, hiding whenever a car went past, till
she happened upon a hobo jungle near a railroad yard. Three hoboes
were cooking some stew and Darla was starving and they fed her. She
stayed with them a few days and they were really nice to her. Darla
said it was kind of like a Shirley Temple movie, three loveable tramps
adopting a cute little runaway girl; one of the tramps even looked and
talked like Wallace Beery, but then they all got liquored up one night
and tore off her clothes and took turns with her.
So she ran off again. She hitchhiked. She tried to accept rides only
with older husband-and-wife-looking couples who seemed unlikely
to attack her. When asked what her story was, it never occurred to
her to tell the truth; she would just say she was on her way home
after visiting relatives. Her rides would often feed her and sometimes
give her a buck or two.
Darla drifted eastward across the country; her only goal was to put
as much distance as possible between herself and Nebraska.That summer
she got caught in a thunderstorm out on a road in Indiana. She'd
always been terrified of lightning and so she jumped in the first car
that stopped.
It was a Model A Ford driven by a young Army lieutenant. Within
ten minutes his hand was on her knee and headed north. She sunk
her teeth in his arm and he yelled and she opened the door and flung

herself out.
She bounced and tumbled in the rain till she came to a stop with
her left arm sticking out at a crazy angle. The lieutenant's car slowed
down a minute then sped away.
Darla found herself just outside the city limits of Elwood, Indiana.
She walked into town, her broken arm hanging. Lightning struck a
tree in front of her and a big limb fell down on the ground. She saw a
sign in front of a house that said: Woodrow Ames, M.D.
Dr. Ames turned out to be a tall silver-haired old man who set her
arm with gentleness and skill. He complimented Darla for not crying or crying out. He was nearly finished when she started getting bad
stomach pains then blood came pouring out from between her legs.
He called to his wife to come and help, and the Ameses and Darla
were all astonished when a tiny half-formed baby plopped on the

floor like a dead fish.
Darla hadn't known that her uncle Gideon or one of the tramps
had gotten her pregnant. She began to cry and she told them everything.
She begged them not to send her back to Uncle Gideon, and
Dr. Ames said don't worry, the only things that man deserved were a
vigorous horsewhipping and a long prison term.
Dr. Ames and his wife had a daughter but she had grown up and
had her own children and moved away, and now they were very
lonely. They looked on Darla as a gift from God. They moved her
into their daughter's old bedroom. They felt bad about what had been
done to her and they couldn't do enough for her. They bought her
new clothes and shoes and ribbons for her yellow hair and whatever
kind of bright gewgaw a girl twelve going on thirteen might desire.
They told everyone in Elwood Darla was the daughter of a distant
relative who had died. They said they would like to adopt her legally
if it was all right with her and she said yes.
On Sundays, they took her to church. She had a fine singing voice
and joined the youth choir.
In September, she enrolled in school. She was in the eighth grade.
She felt much older than her classmates and didn't make any real
friends. But she found herself popular because she was so pretty and
everyone was eager to sign the cast on her nearly mended arm, and
she liked school and studied hard and made good grades.
In December, there was a lynching.
An old white woman named Bathsheba Butler had been found in
her house robbed, raped, and stabbed and hacked to death with a pair
of gardening shears. Earlier that same day, a colored man named Beau
Jack had done some yard work at her house, and he'd been seen trimming
some bushes with those very same shears.
Beau Jack was arrested and put in the local jail. That evening a
mob formed and took him from the jail and out to the edge of town.
They stood him in the back of a pickup truck under an oak tree with
a big horizontal limb; Darla found out it wasn't the first lynching that
had happened there.
It seemed like the whole town turned out, and people were acting
excited and happy, like it was the Fourth of July and they were waiting
for the fireworks. Near the outskirts of the crowd Darla saw the
mayor talking to the police chief; they were both laughing and smoking
cigarettes. Some kids were playing Pop the Whip.
Crisp brown leaves covered the ground. It was very cold, and it
was sleeting, and the sleet made a frying sound on the dead leaves.
The scene was lit up by the headlights of several cars. Beau Jack
had his hands tied behind his back. He looked to be about thirty. He
Was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-muscled. He was naked. He was
bleeding from many places. He'd been whipped and beaten, and his
right ear and his private parts had been cut off.
He was shaking all over, whether from the cold or fear or the
shock of his wounds Darla couldn't say, but his face as he looked out over the crowd was completely blank. Somebody said: "Dumb nigger
don't even know what's happening to him," but Darla understood the
blankness.
They put the rope over his neck, and somebody started up the
truck. But there had been a lot of rain lately, and the truck only
moved a foot or two before it got stuck in the soft ground. Beau Jack
stumbled a little but regained his balance. Good natured jeers came
from the crowd as they struggled to get the truck moving. The tires
spun in the mud. A big fat guy named Donnie Collins unwisely got
right behind one of the tires and was splattered head to toe with
mud, which caused a lot of laughter. Finally the truck got traction
and lurched away, and Beau Jack swung and jerked at the end of the
rope for several minutes till he was still. Then people got out their
cameras and posed in front of the dangling corpse.
Darla was there with Dr. and Mrs. Ames. Bathsheba Butler had
been his patient and the life-long friend of both of them. Mrs. Ames
couldn't bear to watch, she hid her face in her husband's chest, while
Dr. Ames looked grim but he never turned away.
Darla told me she didn't care what that poor coon had done,
he didn't deserve what had been done to him, at the very least he
should have got a fair trial. And the whole town had just stood there
and watched and nobody had said a thing, including her beloved Dr.
Ames. And the people had brought out their own children to see the
torture and killing of Beau Jack, and it was evil, purely evil, out there
on the edge of town, evil in the leave > and evil in the sleet and evil in
the headlights and the stark shadows and evil even in Darla, she had
stood there with the rest and hadn't said a word, it didn't matter she
was only thirteen she should have said something.
At church that Sunday, she looked around at everybody, and she'd
seen many of them at the lynching and if they'd been a bunch of naked
wailing witches leaping around a fire at midnight she would've had
more respect for them, it just made her sick them singing hymns about
going to heaven and acting like they were so godly and so good.
She started having bad dreams about her and Beau Jack, although
sometimes her eyes were open so they couldn't be dreams: Beau Jack
would be crouching in the bathtub as her father stood over him with
a gun, Darla would be standing naked on the truck with the rope
around her neck and the tires churning the mud and throwing it
up into the headlights, she would be holding on to Beau Jack's legs
as Uncle Gideon beat him in the head with a hammer, and she and
Beau Jack would be fleeing the hobo jungle, running away together
into an eternal night.
Elwood, Indiana had seemed like a haven to her at first, but now
it seemed a dark place, full of ghosts and sorrow. It seemed like Nebraska
all over again, a place she needed to leave.
It was the Ameses' habit every Sunday after church to go to the Totempole
Grill for a fried chicken and waffles dinner. A few weeks after
the lynching they were there when Darla overheard the waitress talking
to a man at the next table; he said he was a traveling salesman for
Morrill Meat and was just passing through. When he got up to leave,
she excused herself, saying she needed to go to the restroom, but she
followed the man outside. She asked him if he could give her a ride to
the next town, and he looked her up and down and grinned and said
you bet, hop in, and Darla never saw Elwood or the Ameses again.
For the next several years she wandered around the middle part of
the country, making it a rule never to return to a place once she'd left.
By the time she was fourteen she looked twenty; she lived her life
as an adult, and thought of herself as one too. She had little trouble
getting a job as a waitress at one greasy spoon or another. Sometimes
when she left a job she'd clean out the cash register on her way out;
she said she'd steal a hot stove in those days. She got caught by the
law once, but she slept with the sheriff and he let her go.
She turned eighteen in Aurora, Illinois. One day she was at a picture
show, watching Hills of Peril, a Buck Jones western. She was nearly the
only person there. After the movie was over she started talking with
the owner; the place was named the Dream Theater, and she asked him
why it was called that. He told her it was because he thought "dream"
Was the most beautiful word in the English language.
Darla started going to the theater at least once a week, and she
found herself looking forward as much to seeing the owner as the
picture. His name was Goldsborough Bruff. He was forty-eight. He
got around on crutches, because one of his legs was missing just
below the hip. He had dark wavy hair with gray streaks in it.
One night he told her his ticket girl had just quit and did she want
the job? And so Darla gave up waitressing and began working in the
Dream Theater.
It was an old drafty building that leaked in the rain and there never
seemed to be very many customers but she loved it there. She sold
tickets and candy and soda pops and popcorn and helped Mr. Bruff
change the titles on the bright marquee and put his messy office in
order. She would come in even on her days off to help him out.
Bruff didn't have a wife or any close relatives. He told her he had
grown up in a wealthy family but his father had lost everything in the
Panic of'93. When the Spanish-American War started he joined the
Army, and was very disappointed that the fighting was over before he
could get into it. But eventually his outfit got shipped to the Philippines
to fight the rebels there. One day a donkey wandered into their
camp. He and some other soldiers went over to take a look at it. The
donkey was carrying some packs on its back, and Bruff saw smoke
curling up out of one of the packs an instant before the donkey exploded.
Several soldiers were killed, and a dozen or so were wounded;
Bruff woke up without a leg.
Darla told him a little of what had happened to her, and she saw
tears welling up in his eyes as he listened, and she thought she had
never known anyone so kind.
She'd been working there about three months and she was up in
the projection booth with Bruff helping him get the picture ready
for the Saturday matinee, when she sensed that he wanted to kiss her.
She said it's okay, Mr. Bruff, go ahead, and he did so. He said he was
in love with her and wanted to take care of her forever and for her
to be his wife but there was something she needed to know: his war
wounds had left him unable to father children. She said the last thing
she wanted was to have a bunch of bratty kids and as far as what went
along with having children she'd already had more than enough of
that and could live without it just fine and she loved him too and the
answer was yes.
Darla said they were very happy for a while as they planned their
wedding and honeymoon, but then he started acting sad and glum.
He said she was a beautiful young girl with her whole life ahead of
her, and it was selfish of him to allow her to join up her life with
that of an aging cripple running some falling-apart picture show that
barely made a dime. She said she was old enough to know her own
mind and they loved each other and that's what counted and she
didn't want to hear anything more about it.
One day she came in for work and didn't find Bruff in his office,
then went up to the projection booth and that was empty too. But
then she looked down and saw Bruff sitting in one of the seats, right
square in the middle of the big empty theater, facing the curtained
screen.
She went downstairs. Bruff's crutches were propped up on the seat
beside him. His eyes were closed and his chin was on his chest. She
thought he was asleep, but then touched his shoulder and knew he
was dead.
The doctor said it must have been a heart attack, but Darla wasn't
so sure. She said that Bruff was still often in terrible pain because of
his war injuries, and he'd take such great quantities of morphine he'd
be so woozy he could barely keep his eyes open. She thought that
maybe he'd accidentally taken too much.
Darla discovered that Bruff before he died had changed his will
and left her everything--which basically meant his little house and
the Dream Theater. She knew she couldn't stay in Aurora with him
gone, so she sold the theater and the house, and after the bank loans
were paid off, she was left with a little over 3500 dollars.
Around that time she happened to read an article about Los Angeles
in a magazine. The article's name was "The Newest City in the
World." That sounded good to her, and so she booked a seat on the
Santa Fe Chief.

How old are you, Danny?" asked Darla.
We were still in the Mitsouko-smelling car, heading north on La
Brea.
"Twenty-five," I was pleased to be able to say.
"Me too.Think you'll live to be thirty?"
"I don't know. I never thought about it." I thought about it. "I

guess so."
"I think I'll be real lucky if I live to be thirty. I don't think the

odds are in my favor at all."
"That's just plain dumb. Why would you say that?"
Darla shrugged. La Brea crossed Franklin then ran up a little hill
and ended right in front of Bud's house. I stopped the car. Usually
someone was around to open the gate, but I didn't see anybody.
I tooted the horn, and someone came running.

9



"SO YOU DON'T remember a thing," said Dulwich.
"Not before about ten months ago," I said. "They told me a
bunch of guys jumped me in Ocean Park, and one of them hit me
in the head with a lead pipe. But all I remember is waking up in a
hospital and seeing a nurse putting some flowers in a vase. And I said:
'Those are beautiful flowers,' and she gave me this big smile and said:
'Weeellll ... welcome back, honey!'"
"Do you know why you were beaten?"
"No. Nobody knows who the guys were. My wallet was missing.
Maybe they just wanted to rob me. Or maybe they knew me. Maybe
they wanted to get even with me for something."
"Who took care of you afterwards? Do you have family members
here?"
"The guys I work with. They took care of me."
"The guys at the . . . what was the name . . . the Los Angeles
Projects Corporation."
I nodded. I sipped my tea. It was in a delicate cup that had a red
and blue oriental dragon twisting around it.
We were in Dulwich's living room. Aubrey Joyce smiled musingly

at us from his perch atop the cabinet radio. There were some tasty
little sugary cookies on a saucer on the coffee table. Next to the saucer
was a book, lying open and facedown: Is China Mad? by Baron

Auxion de Ruffe.
"You ever hear of Bud Seitz?" I said.

"The hoodlum?"
"I guess so.That's who I work for."
"Really."
"Yeah."
Dulwich looked at me with interest as he nibbled on a cookie.

"I sunk a ship once."
Dulwich looked surprised. "An entire ship?"

"Yeah."
"Just you?"
"No, me and some of the boys. It was a gambling ship. The Mon
falcone."
"Oh, I remember that. It was about four years ago, wasn't it? It
went down near Long Beach."

"Right."
"But I remember it being an accident. An inebriated cook, a fire
in the galley, something of that sort."
"It was no accident. It was a heist job and a sink job. 'Cause Bud
had a beef with the owner."
"Is it tea time, old chap?"
We looked toward the door. Sophie Gubler was standing there,
peering in through the screen, her hands cupped around her eyes to
block out the sunshine.
"It is indeed," said Dulwich. "Would you like to join us?"
Sophie came in and eyed the coffee table. "I'll join you in cookies,"
she said, and took one.
"Why aren't you in school?" said Dulwich.
"It's summer, dummy. School's over." She took another cookie
while still chewing on the first one. "Well, is it?"
"Is what what?"
"Is China mad?"
"The whole world's mad."
"You shouldn't put a book down like that. It's terrible for it. It'll
break its back."
"You're quite right." Dulwich picked the book up, turned down
the corner of a page, and closed it.
"You shouldn't bend a page like that--"

"Oh, that's enough. Be quiet."
Sophie looked at me for the first time.
"Hi, Danny."
"Hi, Sophie. How are you today?"
"Fine." She plucked at her dress. She suddenly seemed a little shy.
She turned back to Dulwich. "Where's Tinker Bell?"
"The last confirmed Tinker Bell sighting was on the foot of my
bed, where she was observed to be taking one of her not infrequent
catnaps."
"Can I go see her?"
"Of course."
Dulwich waited till Sophie disappeared into his bedroom, then
said softly: "Poor girl. She loves animals, but that beastly mother of
hers won't let her have a pet."
I'd seen her mother a few times in the courtyard, usually hearing
her first, clicking quickly down the sidewalk on her very high high
heels. She wasn't much older than me. She was pretty in a trampy
way, with wiggling hips and platinum blonde hair obviously out of a
bottle. Her name was Lois.
"I don't know why Mrs. Dean puts up with her behavior," Dulwich
sighed.
"What kind of behavior?"
"Well, she's had a succession of male 'houseguests,' each more
unsavory than the last. She introduces them as 'my cousin Joe' or
'my uncle Roy' or 'Mr. Ritter, an old family friend.' And then in the
middle of the night one hears an ungodly yowling and yodeling emanating
from her bedroom as she and Mr. Ritter talk over old times.
I consider myself the least prudish of men, but really! It's hardly a
proper environment in which to raise a child."
Sophie walked back in, looked at us suspiciously. "Were you talking
about me?"
"Not at all," said Dulwich. "How was Tinker?"
"Still asleep. Her whiskers were twitching. She's probably dreaming
about catching birds." Sophie turned to me. "Mrs. Dean hates her.
She feeds the birds, and Tinker hides in the bushes then runs out and

tries to catch them."
"Does catch them, sometimes. 1 like our feathered friends as much
as Mrs. Dean does; however, she obviously hasn't read Darwin, and
understands nothing about the survival of the fittest and the balance
of nature and so forth. She actually suggested once that I give Tinker
away. I replied:'Mrs. Dean, with all due respect, I suggest that you go
climb a tree.'"
Sophie giggled. "Think about it.Think about Mrs. Dean climbing
a tree."
"I've had a sudden inspiration," Dulwich said.

"What?" said Sophie.
,?"
"There's a new Clark Gable picture playing. Who would like to
go?" Oh,
I would, I would!" said Sophie, bouncing up and down.

"Danny?"
"Sure."
"Can we go in your car?" asked Sophie.
"Fine by me."
"Have you seen Danny's car?" she said to Dulwich. "It's a doozie!"
"Oh really? I thought it was a Packard."
She rolled her eyes. "That's dumb."
"But Sophie," said Dulwich, "you should go ask your mother for
permission."
"She's at work. But she wouldn't care. She likes it when I'm not

around."
Dulwich rose from his chair. "Then let us heed the words of the
Persian sage: 'Up! Up! Only a little life is left, the road before you is
long, and you are immersed in illusion!'"

The movie theater was on Wilshire and Western. Fortified with popcorn,
candy, and icy cups of soda, we walked across crackling peanut
shells to our seats.
Claudette Colbert played this rich girl engaged to marry this rich
guy, but he was a jerk, and so she ran away. She was in Miami, and
she took the night train to NewYork. And it became this big national
story for some reason, and Clark Gable was a newspaper reporter, and
she left the train and got on a bus and Clark Gable was there except he
didn't tell her he was a reporter. And then they started to fall in love,
and then everybody on the bus started singing "The Daring Young
Man on the Flying Trapeze," and it was funny: at night I'd lie awake for
hours dying to go to sleep but I couldn't, but during the day I'd find
myself falling asleep when I didn't want to, and I fell asleep now.
I dreamed about Doc Travis and Doc Travis. The monkey and the
man. We were driving in my car, on a road that ran through the desert.
Nobody said anything, but everybody was happy. Then Sophie
elbowed me in the ribs.
"Hey, wake up, you big boob, you're snoring!"
"Sorry."
I don't know what happened while I was asleep, but Claudette Colbert
was in NewYork now and was about to marry the jerk again, but
then Clark Gable showed up, and there'd been some kind of misunderstanding
between them, but her rich father, who you didn't like too
much before but now started to like, saw that Clark Gable was a fine fellow
and a perfect husband for his daughter, and so Clark and Claudette
ended up together, not that you'd ever really doubted that they would.
It was a good movie, what I saw of it. We walked down Western
afterwards, and we started singing that trapeze song. Like I said, I was
really happy when I was driving with Darla to the Hottentot Hut, but
I was drunk then, and I was sober now, and I was just about as happy.
We went in a drugstore and sat down at the soda fountain. The
skinny young sodajerk's face was covered with jerkblossoms. He made
us three chocolate sodas. They were fifteen cents apiece. Dulwich
tried to pay, but I wouldn't let him.
"But it's not fair, Danny, you've been paying for everything."
I shrugged as I peeled a twenty off my roll. I was aware of Sophie
looking at all the dough with big eyes. "You can get it next time," I
said.
Truth was, I was flush these days. The day after we went to Redondo
Beach Bud summoned me over to his booth at the Peacock
Club. He handed me an envelope and said: "Your cut for your cut."

"Huh?"
"Twenty-five percent. For cutting the cards."
There were twenty-five hundred-dollar bills in the envelope. He
was watching my face and smiling.
"Gee, Bud," I said, "you didn't need to do this."
"You deserve it.The sky's the limit, kid."
The sky's the limit. For some limping guy who couldn't sleep
except when he shouldn't and usually had a headache and couldn't
tell you his middle name. I basically just didn't get it. Didn't get Bud
Seitz, didn't get myself, didn't get how I could ever have sunk a ship.
"Here's your change," said the sodajerk. I left fifty-five cents on
the counter. His red infected face lifted in a grateful grin. "Oh, thank
you very much, sir."
"Want your cherry?" said Sophie to me. I shook my head. She
plucked the cherry off the whipped cream and popped it in her
mouth, then turned to Dulwich. "Want your cherry?"
"Yes, darling, but I believe you want it more."
"Thank you so much, dah-ling."
Sophie was a plain little girl, but there was something about her
that made you think she might someday be a pretty woman. She had
brown eyes, a small snub nose, a longish face. Her mouth was wide
and kind of drooped down at the corners like she was used to frowning
but when she smiled it was a great smile. Her hair was short,
brown, and straight, and fell over her forehead to nearly her eyebrows.
There were eleven freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. She
was wearing a yellow-and-white-striped dress that wasn't very new
or clean and hung down loosely over her bony, angular body. But her
shoes did look new: shiny black mary janes worn over sagging white
socks.
She mumbled through a full mouth: "I'm catching the night train
to New York.Who wants to come with me?"
"I've lived in NewYork," said Dulwich,"and have no wish to return."
"What
did you do in NewYork?" I said.
"Oh, I did a bit of scribbling. Mainly for a silly little publication
named Top Hat."
"You're a writer?"
"A scribbler. And then I came here to scribble for the movies."
"You write for the movies?" said Sophie skeptically, as though he'd
claimed he flew back and forth to the moon every day.
"Oh, that's all in the past. It's not as easy as it looks. Although one
of my scenarios was actually produced. The Doctor of Devil's Island, it
was called. It was hysterically funny, but unfortunately it was a drama.
I wrote it under the nom de plume 'John Ross.' Secrecy was necessary,
since my mother would never have approved of my writing for the
moving pictures." He spooned some ice cream into his mouth, and
groaned. "I believe I need to have my stomach pumped."
It was late in the day as we drove back home in my shining yellow
Packard. Sophie sat between Dulwich and me. "Watch me wave like
a queen," she said. She put on a kind but reinote smile, and waved
her hand in a slow arc of three or four inches at the pedestrians on
Western Avenue.
We walked up the seven steps and between the dwarf orange trees
whose ripening fruit glowed in the deepening dusk. Music and light
were coming out of Sophie's bungalow, the third one on the left.
"Mother's home," she said in a flat voice, then turned to Dulwich
and me. "Thanks for taking me to the movies. I had a nice time."
"It was our pleasure, Sophie," said Dulwich.
We watched her walk inside. We could hear Lois Gubler laughing
like a jackass at something, then some guy laughing back, then the
music got louder.
Dulwich invited me in for some whiskey.
I settled down on the sofa. Dulwich turned on the radio to a live
classical music broadcast from the Hollywood Bowl.
After several sips I closed my eyes, and felt my brain pleasantly
baking in the warm dry heat of the whiskey. "Plenum opus Dei," said Dulwich.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. "The full work of God," he
said.
I continued to observe him blankly.
"Everything comes from God, or nothing comes from God. Everything
is random, or nothing is random."
"Are you sozzled?"
He laughed. He was sitting in his easy chair. He'd put on his
many-colored silk jacket and his slippers with the golden tassels on
them. His cat was in his lap, and he was stroking her, and smoking a
pipe.
My eyes wandered over to the painting. "She looks like Darla," I
said of the girl on the cliff.
"Who's Darla?"
"Bud Seitz's girlfriend. I'm her bodyguard."
He looked at me awhile through the drifting smoke.
"Are you in love with her?"
"I guess so."
"Is that a good idea?"
"I don't know. Maybe not."
"Oh well. I've been known to fall in love with inappropriate people
myself." He looked at the painting."Aubrey painted that, you know."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, he was quite talented. And the girl there is his fiancee. Edith
Wick. It was his last gift to her. He was barking mad in love with
Edith. I thought her a rather routine sort of girl, but you know how
love transfigures its object. At any rate, after he died, she couldn't
stand to have it around so she gave it to me. And then she couldn't
marry another fellow fast enough."
We lapsed back into silence. My brain baked, the cat purred, the
smoke floated. His pipe kept going out, and he kept relighting it. Finally
I said: "Your smoke smells funny."
"That's probably because of the nature of what I'm smoking."
"What is it? Marijuana?"
"Opium. Like a puff?"
"No thanks."
"It's one of the bad habits I acquired in Mesopotamia, during
the war. I spent a good part of it as a prisoner of Johnny Turk, and it
wasn't terribly fun. But I befriended one of the guards, a very sweet
and gentle boy named Harutiun. I called him Harry. He actually
wasn't a Turk, but an Armenian. Since the Turks were massacring the
Armenians at the time, life was a bit awkward for him. His captain
was not a bad sort, and was protecting him, but I shudder when I
think of the fate that may have finally befallen him.
"Ah, the Turks, Danny. Quite a people they are. Once I saw them
punish a young Arab boy for stealing a horse. They nailed horseshoes
to the soles of his feet. Then they tied a rope around his neck, and
made him walk around and around a stake in the ground for days, till
they tired of their sport and shot him.
"As I said, Harry and I became friends, and he shared his opium
with me. He was well educated, and spoke English. He had a mystic
bent. We used to argue about whether men had souls, and if so, did
they exist before birth, or did God just create them as needed, like a
cook popping a new batch of cookies in the oven? And what about
donkeys? And if God knew the future, how could we possibly have
free will?"
Dulwich gave me a wry smile, and said: "Confessions of an English
opium smoker." He was silent awhile, contentedly petting his cat and
puffing on his pipe. And then he closed his eyes, and quoted some
poem from memory:

"Pierce thy heart to find the key;
With thee take
Only what none else would keep:
Learn to dream when thou dost wake,
Learn to wake when thou dost sleep . .


10

DICK PRETTLE AND I rolled east on Route 66 past rabbit ranches
and poultry farms, and through vast orange and lemon and avocado
orchards, the trees whipping by in ruler-straight lines that made you
dizzy to look at. Dick was reading the paper while I drove.
"FuckingYankees won again," said Dick.
"How long have I been here?"

"Huh?"
"In Los Angeles. How long have I lived here?"
He turned the page of the paper without looking up. "Beats me."
"Well, how long have you known me then?"
Dick shrugged. "I don't know.Three years maybe?"
"Somebody told me the Monfalcone sank four years ago. So you
must've known me at least that long."
Dick put down the newspaper, lit up a cigarette. "I'll take your
word for it. I'm no good with dates. I can't hardly remember when
my own fucking birthday is."
"What was I like then?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean was I the same kind of guy as I am now?"
Dick sat silently and smoked.
"Dick?"
"I'm thinking. I'm trying to remember."
"Where did I live? Did I have a girlfriend? What did I do when I
wasn't working?"
Dick looked uncomfortable. "Ah, I don't know, kid. You kinda
stayed to yourself. You were . . . mysterious, I guess you could call it.
Nobody knew nothing much about you."
"I think maybe I'm from NewYork. I mean originally."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
" 'Cause when I see NewYork in the movies, it kind of reminds
me of stuff I dream about."
Dick didn't say anything. He returned to his paper. I had to swerve
to avoid a run-over dog.
"Jesus," said Dick.
I looked over at him. He was looking at the paper.
"Listen to this. 'CIGARETTE GIRL FOUND DEAD IN
DESERT. The body of a 26-year-old woman was found dead in the
desert near Lancaster Tuesday, the Sheriff's Department reports. Betty Me Williams--'"
"Betty?" I said.
"Yeah, fucking Betty.'. . . had been missing for about three weeks,
according to co-workers at the popular Pom Pom Club on Sunset
Boulevard, where she worked as a cigarette girl. The Sheriff's Department
said her body was in a state of de . . . de .. . com ... pi
"Decomposition?"
... which made it difficult to determine the cause of death.
Foul play, however, is suspected.'" Dick looked at me. On the best of
days, his face was pretty pasty, but now he looked like a ghost. "Jesus,
Danny."
Betty had been this big happy friendly girl from Minnesota. I
remembered how when she worked at the Peacock Club Dick had
always been watching her and mooning over her but had hardly ever
said a word to her because he was shy around girls. He'd been in love
with her, for all I knew.
"Poor Betty," I said. "I wonder who killed her."
"Yeah, I fucking wonder," said Dick bitterly.
"What do you mean?"
"Skip it. Shut up. Drive."
I drove through Monrovia, Duarte, Glendora, La Verne. Just outside
Upland, an old truck was on fire by the side of the road. Black smoke
twisted up. A ragged family was standing around staring bleakly at the
truck. A kid in overalls and no shirt was holding a birdcage with an
agitated blue jay in it. The cage looked way too small for the bird.
Mountains in front of us got bigger and bigger. In San Bernardino
we left Route 66 and took the Rim of the World Highway, and pretty
soon we were up in the mountains and looking down at where we'd
been. We'd been driving inland nearly three hours, but still we could
see at the limits of our vision the dreamy glitter of the Pacific.
We were on our way to Lake Arrowhead, because a bunch of high
muckypoos were meeting there: Bud Seitz and Max Schnitter and
Loy Hanley, an old bootlegging partner of Bud's, and Joe Shaw, the
mayor's bagman brother, and Lieutenant Otay of the L.A.P.D., and
Police Commissioner Nuffer. Word was they were supposed to cook
up some grand plan together for running the rackets in Los Angeles.
The road wound up and up through thicker and thicker stands of
pine, and right on top of a mountain we found the jewel-like lake.
On its shores were hotels, cabins, tourist camps, and lodges, and a
little village with places to eat and shop and dance and drink.
A motorboat was cutting across the lake, throwing up white wings
over the blue water, and a guy and a girl on water skis skimmed along
in its wake. Even at a distance you could tell the skiers were young,
tan, goodlooking. Rich, probably, too. Perfect people on a perfect
lake.
We saw a sign that said Birkenhead Manor, with an arrow that
pointed up a road that ran through the pine forest. A blonde was
bouncing along the road on the back of a horse, and she smiled at us
as we cruised by. Dick was positive it was Ginger Rogers, but I had

my doubts.
After a quarter mile or so, the road ended at Birkenhead Manor.
It was three stories, wood and stone, and like something you might
see on a picture postcard from Switzerland. Two cheerful college-boy
types met us as we pulled up; one drove my car away ("Quite a snazzy
car, sir!") and the other took care of our bags.
Under the name of the hotel, a stone lion was standing on its hind
legs on top of a column; its front legs were holding on to another
column, and it looked like it was trying to hump it. Then when we
walked in the lobby there was a stuffed grizzly bear rearing up on its
hind legs about ten feet in the air, teeth bared and long claws sticking
out of its paws.
"I hate fucking animals," said Dick. "I wanna see animals I'll go to
the fucking zoo."
"But you liked Doc."
He grimaced. "Doc was different. Doc was like a person.What did
you have to bring him up for?"
A girl was standing at the front desk with her back to us chatting
with the desk clerk. She was wearing gray slacks and a red blouse and
a red beret-like hat with a black fluffy ball on top. She had dark hair
under the hat and her bare arms were a creamy olive color. When
she turned her head a little in our direction, my heart picked up its
pace and even on my limping leg I seemed to skim over the polished
wood floor like the golden skiers across the lake. I touched her shoulder,
and said:"Gwynnie?"
Then she turned and looked at me. Nice brown eyes, but not her brown eyes.
"Sorry. I thought you were someone else."
She kind of looked me over and said: "Maybe I'm sorry too."
"You gentlemen checking in?" said the desk clerk to Dick and
me.
"Yeah," I said, then someone touched me on the shoulder.
I turned around, and nearly bumped into a pair of big tits.
"Hi ya,Two Gun Danny," said the redhead standing there.
It took me a moment to place her.
"Clover," I said.
" Violet. Violet Gilbertson."
"The Pork Queen."
"It's all coming back to you."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here with Wendell.You know, Mr. Nuffer?"
"Yeah? Where is Wendell? Mr. Nuffer."
"Up in his room, changing into his bathing suit. I got a new bathing
suit.Wait'll you see it."
"I'd rather see you in a bathing suit than Nuffer," said Dick. "That's

for fucking sure."
Violet tittered. I looked around. Dick was signing the guest register.
The girl that looked like Gwynnie was gone.
Bud and the rest of the guys hadn't arrived yet. I got my key and
went up to my room. It was a great room, on the third floor, with a
wide window looking out on the lake.
Above the bed was a painting of an Indian village on the banks of
a river. An Indian boy was standing knee-deep in the water. He'd just
speared a fish, and was holding it up, and it was shining in the sun.
Two pretty Indian girls were standing at the edge of the river and
looking at the kid like he was their hero. And an old man was sitting
back in some green shade watching the youngsters and smoking a

pipe.
Beneath the painting the bed looked broad and inviting. I took
two aspirin, and lay down, and pondered the question: Who the hell
is Gwynnie?, till I fell asleep.

11

EVERYBODY HAD DINNER that night in the Big Boulder Dining
Room, called that because at one end of the room was a little waterfall
trickling down over a tall pile of big boulders with a pool that had
live trout in it. I was sitting at a table with Nucky and Nello. Dick was
standing over by the waterfall, smoking a cigarette and looking at the
boulders.Then he got all excited and started pointing at something.
"Hey, lookit, lookit, lookit! Get over here! Look at this!"
So we went over and looked. Guests of the hotel who were famous
were asked to write their names on the boulders, and I'd already
seen the autographs of Cary Grant, Buster Keaton, Myrna Loy,
and a lot of others. Now Dick was pointing at one of the names.
"What's that say?"
'"Ginger Rogers,'" read Nello.
"See? I told you Danny and me seen her today on a fucking
horse!"
"That don't prove nothing," said Nucky. "That don't prove a goddamn
thing."
"Nucky's right," said Nello, who came over from Italy when he
'Was a kid and still had a little bit of an accent. "She coulda wrote that
Years ago."
"Like hell she could have. She ain't been famous for years."
"Every place we go you say you see Ginger Rogers here or Ginger
Rogers there," said Nello. "But nobody else ever sees her."
"Danny seen her."
"Well, maybe it was her," I said. "But maybe it wasn't."
"Oh fuck you, guys, I know she's here someplace," and he started
looking around the room like he expected to see her sitting at one of
the tables stuffing her angelic face with mashed potatoes.
I looked at one of the other names and said: "Who's Laura La
Plante?" But nobody answered me. Dick threw his cigarette in the
water, and they all headed back to our table.
A trout glided over and took a look at the cigarette butt. Decided
it wasn't food, and finned away.
I looked over at the table where Bud was sitting with the other big
cheeses, along with Violet and Darla. Darla was watching me, and now
she smiled. Bud saw the smile, and looked at me, and smiled too.
I smiled back. Everybody was smiling.

There was a fancy little club on the other side of the hotel called the
Moonlight Room. At the entrance was a poster showing a blonde in
a red glittering gown, standing there with her hands spread out and
her mouth open; she was Sally Layne, "THE GIRL YOU WONT
FORGET."
She was onstage in a spotlight singing as we walked in. She appeared
to be wearing the same gown as on the poster, it seemed to be
made of a billion beads, each one catching the light. It all felt a little
eerie, because she was singing that same song that I'd heard at Bud's
party:

"Suddenly I found myself in a dream,
One sweet kiss did it to me,
I got dizzy instantly ..."

We took a table, and ordered drinks. At another table we saw the
two Tommys, yakking it up with a couple of touristy-looking girls.
Dick was drunk, and he was getting drunker. He didn't say a word
for a while, just glared at Nucky and Nello. I thought he was still sore
about Ginger Rogers, but that turned out not to be it.
"So which one of you monkeys did it?" he said.
"Did what?" said Nello.
"I'm talking about Betty. The cigarette girl."
Nello and Nucky exchanged a look. Dick turned to me. "Nucky
told me once how he strangled to death this broad in Jersey with his
fucking tie. I'm thinking maybe that's what he done to Betty."
"But why would he want to kill Betty?" I said.
"That's a good fucking question," said Nucky. He was a plug-ugly
little guy, with a mashed-in face and eyes with no more expression
than a chicken's. He leaned a little closer to Dick. "You got
a problem with me, you skinny prick, maybe you oughta talk to
Bud about it."
Dick stared into the lightless eyes of Nucky, then muttered: "Fuck
yourself," and got up and headed for the exit.
Nello called after him: "If you run into Ginger, tell her I said
hello!"
Nucky and Nello laughed. Now a girl came over, all giggly and
blushing, and asked Nello to dance. Wherever we went, girls flocked
around Nello, like they were pigeons and he was birdseed. He got up
with a shrug and took her out on the dance floor.
"Fucking Nello," said Nucky. "He needs two dicks he gets so
much pussy," and then he said: "I'm getting a whore tonight, kid.
Want me to get you one while I'm at it?"
"No thanks."
"You know, I never see you with a broad.You ain't queer or nothing?"

"Nah."
"Saving
it for your wedding night? At Niagara fucking Falls?"
I pretended to laugh. "Yeah, maybe something like that."
"Or maybe you're saving it for Darla? Or maybe you ain't saving it
for Darla. If you know what I'm saying." And he laughed.
It was smoky as hell in the Moonlight Room, so I decided to get
some fresh air. I went through French doors out onto a wide terrace
and into actual moonlight.
A well-dressed elderly couple was strolling along arm in arm.
Their hair was so white it seemed luminous. They nodded at me in a
familiar fashion as if this was a regular walk they took and they were
used to encountering me at this point on my regular walk.
A guy and a girl were sitting on a bench feverishly necking. The
girl's eyes opened for a moment and saw me in an unseeing way then
her face disappeared behind his shoulder like she was a swimmer and
he an overwhelming wave.
I walked across the flat stones of the terrace to the stone balustrade.
I faced the forest. Sipped my whiskey. Looked up at the shaggy
silhouettes of the pine trees against the moon-drenched sky.
I heard someone walking up behind me.
I turned and saw an uncertain smile and a glass of champagne,
then one of the girl's high heels caught in one of the stones and she
tripped and pitched forward. I grabbed her arms and she splashed
champagne on me.
"Dear Lord," she laughed, "what an entrance! I'm always spilling
things on people."

"And I'm always getting spilled on."
"That could make us a swell team. So do I still look like her? In

moonlight?"
It was the girl that looked like Gwynnie, and: "Yes," I said.
?"
"My name's Janet Van der Eb," and she held her hand out and
I shook it. "I'm also known as the Girl You Won't Forget, though
my won't has an apostrophe in it, unlike that little ninnie's," and she
jerked her thumb back toward the Moonlight Room, where through
the French doors I could see Sally Layne still singing. "I think the
illiteracy rampant in America these days is simply shocking, don't
you
"I'm Danny Landon."
"Yes, I know. I asked around.You're one ofthem."

"Who?"
"The gangsters."
"The gangsters?"
"Oh, don't play innocent. Everyone's talking about it. It's extremely
exciting. The rumor is that Lucky Luciano is here, or was
here, or will be here soon. Is that true?"
"Not that I know of."
"How disappointing. As you can probably tell, I like gangsters. I
respect them. In the United States of Hypocrisy, they are our only
genuine citizens. I predict that at the end point of capitalism, we shall all be gangsters. All be carrying submachine guns in violin cases, and
taking people we don't like on one-way rides. Oh dear. I am blabbering
a bit, aren't I? It's the champagne. Mother told me to stop, but I
just wouldn't listen."
I asked her where she was from.
"Philadelphia. You've heard of Philadelphia cream cheese, haven't
you? Well, the Van der Ebs practically invented it. I don't say that in
a boastful way. I think cream cheese is a ghastly stuff, don't you? The
Van der Ebs have unleashed a horror upon the earth, and we must
certainly pay for it, if not here then in the Hereafter. Amen."
"You're here with your mother?"
"And father. They're inside, listening to the Girl You Wont Forget.
You know, Sally what's-her-name." She finished off the last few drops
of champagne, then set the glass down on the balustrade. It immediately
tipped over, and I caught it, as she reached in her purse and
pulled out a silver cigarette case. I was sorry I didn't have matches
because I would have liked to have lit her cigarette because however
drunk and sort of loony she was she was disturbingly beautiful.
"This is my graduation present, you see," she said as smoke drifted
out of her lightly lipsticked mouth. "This here trip. To Sunny California.
I'm a Rumson girl, I was voted 'Best Ail-Around Woman' in
the Class of '34, but now I have to decide what to do with the rest
of my life. I'm considering writing an obscure and unpublishable
book. Applying Freudian methods of analysis to the masterpieces of
American literature. Moby-Dick speaks for itself naturally, but what of
that sunny innocent boys' book The Adventures of Tom Sawyer? It's not
what it seems. Think, for instance, about Tom getting lost with Becky
Thatcher in the cave.The entrance to the cave is the vagina.The cave
itself represents the dark, unplumbed mysteries of sex. Injun Joe, of
course, is Tom Sawyer's id. The episode is about repression. Injun Joe
must die so that Becky Thatcher may remain a virgin."
She blew smoke past my ear.
"How many men have you killed?"
"I don't know."
"I'm getting goosebumps.Why do you limp? Were you shot in the
leg?"
"No."
"I didn't mean to offend you. I think a limp in a man is awfully
attractive. I have an uncle who came home limping from the Great
War, and I adore him dreadfully. A limp means, I have been through
something difficult, but I am still walking. I am indomitable.
"You keep looking at my lips.What does that mean?"
Wondering if I was taking advantage of a crazy person, I leaned
down and kissed her.
She tasted like champagne and cigarettes. She had a lively tongue,
and her hands went under my coat and rubbed my chest, and tugged
at my tie, and then she whispered: "Officially I'm still a virgin, but
that doesn't mean I'm not quite a creative girl." I was mulling over
what she might mean when with the deftness and speed of a pickpocket
she snatched my gun out of my shoulder holster and then
holding it in both hands pointed it at me as she crouched down and
backed away giggling uncontrollably.
"Janet!" I said. "Be careful with that!"
"It's so heavy! It's like a brick!"
The necking couple was staring at Janet in alarm. The guy said:
"That's not a real gun, is it?"
There was a flash and a bang, and I heard the bullet whistle past
my ear.The necking girl screamed. Janet dropped the gun and it clattered
on the terrace. She stared down at it in shock; then she clapped
her hand over her mouth and cried: "Oh my God!"
I quickly moved to pick up the gun and reholster it. The neckers
hurried off hand in hand in a huff. A smell of gunpowder hung in
the air. Janet's hand stayed over her mouth, trying to stifle hysterical
laughter.
The French doors opened and Darla came out. She eyed Janet and
me like a mother who's just come in a room where two kids have obviously
just committed some rowdy act but she can't figure out what.
"What's so funny?"
"You didn't hear it?" I said.
"Hear what?"
"Nothing."
"Nucky told me you were out here."
"Nucky!" snorted Janet.
Darla looked at Janet with puzzlement and distaste. "Who are
you?"
Janet sighed, and wiped away a tear just under her eye. " 'She
wiped away a tear of laughter.' I'm sorry. I plead guilty to conduct
unbecoming a Rumson girl. I'm Janet." She looked at me. "My parents
and I are leaving in the morning, Danny. For Lake Tahoe. We
specialize in lakes. So I guess this is good-bye."
She approached and then as she leaned in I put my hand on my
gun in case she was planning to go for it again but all she did was
whisper in my ear: "Room 225. I'll leave the door unlocked, my darling."
She brushed my earlobe with her lips, then Darla and I watched
her walk back inside.
"What was that all about?"
"She reminds me of somebody I think I used to know."
"Oh, Danny, you're starting to remember?"
"I think so. A little."
"That's great."
"Where's Bud and everybody?"
"Discussing 'important business.' They told Violet and me to get
lost.The crummy bastards."
The sounds of Sally Layne and her band floated out onto the
terrace. We looked back into the Moonlight Room, could see Sally
Layne dramatically lit up in the dark, covered in the cold fire of her
gown.

"That should be me," Darla said softly.
"You miss singing?"
She nodded. She looked at me. "Wanna go down to the lake?"
We were the only ones on the little road. The pines crowded in
close as the lights of Birkenhead Manor disappeared behind us. All we
could hear was the wind in the tops of the trees and our shoes on the

pavement.
" 'Member that bear in the lobby?" said Darla.

"Yeah."
"Think there's any more like him out here?"
"I doubt it. I think the pioneers killed all the bears and the Indians

and so on."
"It's still pretty scary though."
"Wanna go back?"
"No." And then her hand found mine.

"Danny?"
"Yeah?"
"I hear the guys talking about you sometimes. I hate to say it,
but--it's like they're making fun of you. It's like they don't respect

you."
"What do they say?"
"They make jokes about you being stupid. 'Cause you can't remember
stuif. Which shows you how stupid they are. And they got
this name for you."
She hesitated.
"What?"
"Limpy.Two Gun Limpy Landon."
"Dick? He calls me that?"
"No, not Dick. I think he really cares about you."
"And Bud? What does he say about me?"
"It's funny with Bud. I can tell he really likes you. But he never
wants to talk about you. Except to make sure you haven't been getting fresh with me."
"How come you're telling me this?"
"I just think you should know who your friends are.That's all."
It seemed like there were about ten times as many stars up here in
the mountains as down in the city, and they shined above us between
the pines like a parallel heavenly road. I started thinking as we kept
walking and didn't find the lake that maybe we'd taken the wrong
road and we were lost like Tom and Becky and I would have to save
her from Injun Joe; then we came out on the lake.
We could see the lights of hotels and cabins on the dark shores,
and from the south, where the little village was, we could hear faintly
voices, music, laughter. The wind moved on the lake and turned the
reflected moon into wiggling quicksilver. The wind was chilly, and
Darla shivered; I took my coat off and draped it over her shoulders.
We walked a bit. We saw the lights of a boat out on the lake, then
heard the low growl of its engine. I wondered if we were anywhere
near where they found Doc Travis's head.
"Does it ever seem strange to you?" said Darla. "Just being alive?
Why is there anything here anyway? The lake. The stars. You and me.
The world would make a lot more sense if it just didn't exist."
"I love you," I said.
"Oh Danny. No you don't."
"Yes I do."
Silence from Darla.
"Don't you like me a little? Sometimes I think you do."
"Sure I do. I like you a lot. That's why I don't want you to get
hurt."
"I'm not gonna get hurt."
She stopped walking and we faced each other.
"Listen, Danny. Take my word for it. You don't wanna be with
somebody like me."
"Why not?"
"You just don't. That's all."
Darla was looking up at me, and I saw the glistening of her eyes
in the moonlight; then it was like my heart stopped and the moment
seemed to stretch on forever, her eyes in the moonlight on the shore
of the lake atop the mountain. But when I moved a little closer to her, she immediately turned away and said firmly: "Time to go back."
We were walking back toward the road when we heard groaning.
My first thought was somebody was hurt or sick; then we saw Teddy
Bump.
He was leaning up against a tree with his eyes closed and his
mouth ajar. A guy was kneeling in front of him and his head was
moving back and forth. They were into the woods twenty feet or so,
but if they'd been looking to conceal themselves they'd picked a bad
place since a shaft of moonlight hit them like a spotlight.
Darla giggled. Teddy heard her and opened his eyes. He stared at
us in horror, then the guy on his knees looked over his shoulder; he
had a pug-nosed face, and I saw it was Schnitter's guy Vic Lester.
"We'll leave you two lovebirds alone!" called Darla, then, both
laughing, we walked away quickly.
We were back on the road that led up to the hotel when we
heard shoe leather cracking along at a great pace behind us. It was
Teddy. He was walking so fast, arms pumping and hips rolling, that
he looked like a contestant in a walking race. As he went by us he
snarled: "Don't either of yuz say a fucking thing!"
"Or what?" said Darla.
"Or else!" yelled Teddy.
"Don't threaten us, you bastard!" said Darla, then she grabbed my
shoulder for balance and snatched off one of her shoes and flung it at
Teddy. It sailed over his head and landed in the woods.
Teddy, arms swinging savagely, disappeared around a bend in the
road. Darla limped like me in her one shoe as we went over to look
for the other one. It took us about five minutes to find it.

12

I RETURNED TO my room, and fell asleep under the painting of the
peaceful Indian village. Dreamt all night of massacres, and bugling,
and scalping, and bodies floating down the river.
At one point I woke up with a rockhard hard-on and the conviction
that Janet Van der Eb was in the room. My heart was racing and
I looked around wildly, then seemed to see her in silhouette, standing
at the foot of the bed, gazing down silently at me. The silence should
have been a clue it was all an illusion, and after a few seconds she
melted back into the general darkness and I fell asleep again.
When I woke up for good it was nearly nine. I felt exhausted, as
though I'd spent the whole night doing calisthenics and running laps
around the hotel.
I shaved and brushed my teeth then went downstairs.
Darla was in the lobby, sitting around a coffee table with Violet
and Wendell Nuffer. Darla was writing a message on a picture
postcard, Nuffer was reading the sports pages, and Violet was leafing
through a Photoplay with Clark Gable on the cover sporting a roguish
grin.They were all drinking coffee; Violet was also chewing gum and Srnoking a cigarette.
"Good morning, my boy, how did you sleep?" said Nuffer heartily.
He was wearing white trousers, white shoes, and a shimmering silk
shirt with an orange and green and yellow tropical fruit design. "I
slept like a top myself.The mountain air, the mountain air!"
"Anyone hungry?" I said.
"I'm sorry, Danny, we all just finished breakfast. And what a breakfast
it was!" He patted his huge stomach. "What did I have? Five trout
and ten eggs? Or was it the reverse?"
"I don't know, Daddy," said Violet, "but it was sure good."
Darla glanced up from her postcard."'Daddy'?"
Nuffer squeezedViolet's knee. "She likes to call me that."
"I'll bet because you got the same name as her father," I said.

"Wendell."
"You have an excellent memory. I don't know if you're aware of
it, Darla, but Danny was there at the very moment when Violet and I
met. At that momentous moment, I might say. I know we've known
each other only these few short weeks, but in the deepest depths of
myself I feel as though I've known Violet forever. Her sense of humor,
the joy she takes in the little things, not to mention of course her
green eyes, her red hair, her fair form . . . it's hard to imagine their
absence from my life. It must have been a very impoverished life. But
it all seems so long ago, I can hardly remember."
Violet beamed at Nuffer, smacking her gum rapidly. "I just love
the way Daddy talks. Don't you?"
Loy Hanley came walking up. He was six-four, with a hard lean
body, weathered reddish-brown skin, and high cheekbones over hollow
cheeks and a thin straight line of a mouth. He was wearing a gray
suit, black cowboy boots, and a string bowtie. He hailed, I'd heard,
from Texas.
"Me and some of the fellers is fixing to go fishing," he said. "Any

ofy'all wanna join us?"
Nuffer patted his stomach again. "No thank you, Loy. I'm too busy
digesting fish to catch them."
"Danny?"
"I don't think so. I don't even think I know how to fish."
"Oh, there ain't nothing to it. You just bait your hook and throw
it out in the water."

"What are you gonna use for bait?" said Violet.
"Minners."

"What's a minner?"
"Little bitty fish. 'Bout as long as your finger."
Violet took a drag on her cigarette and looked Loy over; the butt
of the cigarette was stained red with her lipstick. "You gonna go
dressed like that?"

"Naw, I'm gonna change into my fishing britches. Where you
from anyway,Violet?You don't talk like you're from California."
"Iowa."

"Iowa, huh? I used to do a little bi'ness up in Waterloo."
"I was Miss Iowa Pork Queen of 1933."
Hanley stared pointedly at Violet's breasts. "Miss Pork Queen! I
woulda thunk they'da made you Miss Cow Queen!"
Violet giggled while Hanley guffawed and Nuffer chuckled uneasily
and turned red.
"Well, see y'all later," said Hanley, and then his long black-booted
legs carried him off across the lobby.
"Don't you think Mr. Hanley looks just like Gary Cooper?" said
Violet.

"More like Boris Karloff," grumbled Nuffer. He made a show of
returning to the sports pages, folding them noisily and then holding
them up so they hid half his face.
"Daddy?" said Violet.
"Hm. Jigger Statz went three for four. He's been on quite a tear
lately."

"Daddy?"
He continued to ignore her. She put her hand on his arm and
made him lower the paper; then she pinched his fat pink cheek.
"Smile, Daddy."
But he just gazed back tragically at her. She tickled him under the chin with her finger like he was a baby.
"Smile, Daddy! Smile!"
And suddenly he burst out in a great laugh and grabbed her and
kissed her and then looked at us utterly happy like he'd just won the
grand prize.
"Isn't she amazing?"
Pretty soon after that they walked off to the elevator, holding
hands.
"I felt bad for Mr. Nuffer," I said.
"I feel bad for his wife and kids."
Darla licked a stamp and put it on the postcard. It had a picture of
Birkenhead Manor on it, with the caption: "The Mile-High Paradise
In The Pines." I asked her who she was sending it to.
"Dr. Ames and Mrs. Ames."
I was surprised. "You're still in touch with them?"
"I don't know. I've always felt guilty about how I just walked away
without a word, so a couple of times a year I've been sending them a
postcard. Just to let them know I'm okay. I don't put a return address,
so there's no way for them to write me back. I don't even know if
they're still alive anymore.They'd be in their eighties now."
"I'll bet they're alive. And they'll be real happy to get this, and see
you're staying in such a beautiful place."
Darla gave me a sad smile. "You're so sweet."
I went in by myself to the Big Boulder Dining Room, and
had what Daddy had, the trout and scrambled eggs, called "world
famous" on the menu. On my way out I was walking through the
hallway that led to the lobby when I saw Nucky and Goodlooking
Tommy sitting at the shoeshine stand. The shoeshine boy was this
old colored man named Timothy; he was the only Negro I'd seen
at Lake Arrowhead.
Goodlooking Tommy was reading The Racing Form while he
waited for Timothy to finish up Nucky's shoes. He saw me and motioned
me over.
"So what's the word?"
"What's the word on what?"
"On how it's looking from Bud's corner."
"What do you mean?"
"I hear Max and Loy ain't getting along. And Bud's been like a
referee in a prize fight."
"You've heard more than me then."
"I thought you was always in the know with Bud."
"He hasn't said ten words to me since we been up here."
Goodlooking Tommy looked at me skeptically.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."

Now Nucky was inspecting Timothy's handiwork. "Looks real
good, boy. A hell of a shine."
"Thank you, suh," said Timothy. He had white curly hair like a
lamb, and skin the color of milky coffee.
Nucky dug in his pocket, and pulled out a silver dollar.
"Here's a nice shiny silver dollar. I think you deserve it. Don't you?" *	Timothy smiled, revealing three or four snaggly teeth. "If you
think so, suh."
"Well, I think so."

Nucky held out the silver dollar, and Timothy put out his palm;
then Nucky gave Goodlooking Tommy and me a quick wink and
moved his hand half a foot and dropped the coin. It clanged on the
rim of a brass spittoon then vanished inside.
Goodlooking Tommy laughed, then said low in my ear: "Nucky
hates niggers."
"Yeah, I can see."
Timothy was staring at the spittoon; dripping brown spittle glistened
around the rim.
"Well ain't you gonna get your dollar, boy?" said Nucky. "You
don't wanna hurt my feelings, do you?"
Timothy looked into Nucky s chicken eyes, then: "No suh," he said
slowly. He reached in the spittoon. His hand was just small enough to
get in there. He fished around a minute, then pulled out the dollar.
It, and his hand, were covered with a slime made of spit and tobacco
juice and cigar and cigarette ashes. I watched Timothy reach for one of his red shoeshine rags to clean off the slime as Nucky and
goodlooking Tommy laughed. And then I walked away.
13

"I'LL BET YOU think my name's not really Vera Vermillion."
I shrugged. I held no opinion on the subject. She pulled a business
card out of her purse and handed it to me.

Vera Vermillion
"One in a Million"
Actress Singer * Dancer Et Cetera
THE MEL GOLDBERG AGENCY
NOrmandic 3215

It seemed like every girl came with some sort of motto or slogan
up here. One in a Million. The Girl You Wont Forget. Best All
Around Woman.
I started to hand the card back but she said: "Keep it. You never
know when you might need an et cetera."
It was the middle of the afternoon. I was killing time till tonight
when there was going to be a birthday dinner for Max Schnitter. I'd
gone in the hotel bar looking for some company, but it'd been empty
except for the elderly couple I'd encountered on the terrace last
night. They smiled and nodded at me, and I smiled back and took a
seat at the bar. I was drinking a beer, and hoping Bud wouldn't catch
me at it, when Vera Vermillion came in.
She was a big girl, nearly as tall as me, with a little begirdled waist
separating big shoulders and breasts from wide lush hips. She was
wearing a clingy reddish-orange dress with matching high heels. An
extravagantly colored feather boa was wrapped around her neck, and
a little hat with more feathers was perched atop her thick auburn
hair.

She flounced across the room looking flustered and exasperated.
She plopped herself down on a barstool and ordered something
called a blue moon. It looked like a glowing blue martini. She slurped
some down, and it seemed to hit the spot as she sighed and relaxed a
little; then she noticed me.
"I nearly killed a fucking deer," she said.
"Really? Why?"
"Jesus, it wasn't on purpose. I was driving up here and three deers
ran across the road and I nearly hit one of 'em. Jumped right over
the hood of my car, I nearly had a heart attack. I hate to drive in the
first place. Usually Mel, my agent, he drives me. But we were driving
down Melrose yesterday and a bee flew in the window and stung him
right in the eyeball. Poor Mel, that kinda shit only happens to him.
So he's back in Hollywood in bed with an ice bag over his eye and
I gotta drive up here by myself. Up in the goddamn mountains with
deers jumping over my car like the cow jumped over the fucking
moon. Whew! At least I made it." Then she took another drink, and
said: "Hi, I'm Vera Vermillion."
And I told her my name and that's when she gave me her card.
"So what did you come up here for?" I said.
"I'm doing a show tonight."
"What kind of show?"
"Well, it's for this guy's birthday party."
"Max Schnitter?"
- "Yeah.You know him?"
"A little."
"You gonna be there?"
Yeah."
She smiled at me and primped her hair a little. "I guess you'll be

seeing more of me then."
"I guess so."
"You must be in the mob, huh?"
She seemed impressed. I shrugged.
"Your name's not really Vera Vermillion, is it?"
She laughed. "Nah. Susie. Susie Pulaski. I'm from Chicago."
"Why'd you come to Los Angeles?"
"Why do you think? To be in the movies, like every other girl. So
I'm living downtown near Pershing Square, and I'm taking a trolley
car out to the beach, and there's this little guy in a bowtie looking at
me. I think he's trying to pick me up, and I'm ignoring him, then he
says, Mae West has only got one thing that you don't have. An agent.
And I says, are you an agent, and he says yeah. And I says how do
you know I don't have an agent, and he says if you had an agent you
wouldn't be riding in some dumpy trolley car. And I says you're riding
in a trolley car, what kinda lousy agent does that make you, and
he says it makes me a very good agent, 'cause I've just discovered the
next Mae West."
I looked again at the business card. "Was that Mel Goldberg?"
"Sure was."
"So how's it going?"

"You know, Danny, it's tough. They say only one in a million
make it to the top in Hollywood, but that's why I chose my name.
Vera Vermillion,'One in a Million.' But you wanna hear something
interesting?"
"Sure."
"Mel became not only my agent, but also my husband."
She held up her hand to proudly show off a big diamond or
something pretending to be a big diamond. "That's great,Vera. Congratulations."
"That
little guy'll do anything for me, it nearly killed him not
being able to bring me up here, I nearly had to tie him down to the
bed. And the last thing he said to me when I was walking out the
door was, Susie, you're the only thing I've ever loved. He's always saying
that to me, you're the only thing I've ever loved." She frowned.
"And sometimes I treat him like shit too."
Her glass was empty now, so I bought her another blue moon,
which she seemed very happy to get.
"Don't get the wrong idea, Danny, I ain't some kinda lush. I don't
usually drink like this, but them fucking deers nearly scared me to
death. I can't get 'em out of my head. Jumping over my car like that."
She sighed. "The things a girl does to get ahead. It's just I hear that
clock ticking all the time. I'm not as young as I look, you know."
"No?"
"How old do you think I look?"
"Oh, I don't know."
"Go ahead. Guess."
"Thirty?"
Vera looked disappointed. "I'm twenty-eight."

"Oh."
"I'm scared time's running out on me. I don't wanna wind up
some flea-bitten old floozy living downtown in some crummy
room."
"That's not gonna happen."
She eyed me over her beautiful blue drink.
"You're nice."
"Thanks. So are you."
"When we get back in town, if you ever wanna call me, that's
okay. You got my number."
I looked at the card again. "That's Mel's number."
"Just call it and ask for me. Mel won't mind."
"He won't?"
"We got this understanding. Mel and me, we love each other, but
all that bedroom stuff, that ain't part of the deal. See, when he was
thirteen, he had the mumps, and it caused his tetiscules to stop growing."

"His
what?"
"Tetiscules.You know, his manly parts."
"Oh."
"They're like little peanuts. So he's not much good to a girl, in
that department. But I'm not complaining. 'Cause like I said. We got
this understanding."
I felt like changing the subject.
"So I don't know anything about agents. How does Mel go about
getting you a job?"
"Well in this case, Mr. Seitz called up and asked for me personally.
He saw me perform once. I do this thing with peacock feathers." She
looked uncomfortable. "Look, Danny, the only reason I'm doing this
thing tonight is 'cause it's a hell of a lot of dough for Mel and me. Just
remember, I really do act and stuff. Like it says on the card."
"What are you gonna be doing?"
"I'll be wrapped up like a present, then Mr. Schnitter's gonna unwrap
me, then I'll sing 'Happy Birthday' to him, and then--well, you
get the picture."
"Mm."
"Is he a nice guy? Mr. Schnitter?"
"You know, I don't really know him that well."
Teddy Bump came in, with Tommy. They took a table in the corner.
The waitress went over, and they ordered coffee.
Teddy had a funny kind of a face; his eyelashes were unnaturally
long, and he had bushy eyebrows that seemed to be growing too far
up on his forehead. Right now he was giving me one of those iflooks-could-kill
looks.Vera looked over and saw it too.
"What did you ever do to him?"
"Saw him."
"Saw him what?"
"I better not say."
"Ain't you the mysterious one."

14

THE HOTEL SHUT down the Moonlight Room that night so we
could have Schnitter's birthday dinner there. Everybody sat at a long
table and ate big pink slabs of prime rib. Bud was hosting the dinner,
so he sat at the head. The important guys, Schnitter, Loy Hanley, Joe
Shaw, Jack Otay, and Nuffer, were clustered up around him, and then
came the rest, us Seitz guys, and some Schnitter guys and Hanley
guys. There were about twenty of us all told. No Darla or Violet or
any other girl.
We were all in tuxedoes. I'd rented mine in a store downtown on
Broadway. The clerk that helped me was this pissed-off little Russian
who spent the whole time cursing out Roosevelt as a tool of the
Bolsheviks and Jews. I asked him if he happened to know a Russian
count named Anatoly who'd got two fingers shot off in the Revolution.
He said it didn't ring no bell.
Waiters moved in and out keeping the food and booze coming. It
was loud and there was lots of laughing and if there was any tension
between anybody I didn't see it.
A guy in a powder-blue tux with curly golden hair and a sissy
kind of a face sat at a baby grand playing soft swoony tunes that nobody
seemed to be listening to but me.
Doc Travis was being reminisced about.
"You know how ugly Doc was," said Loy Hanley. "But I 'member
time I thought he was the prettiest sight this side of heaven."
"What happened?" said Bud, already beginning to grin.
"Well Doc was living in a tent in the desert out east of Yermo.
There was a natural spring the Indians used to use, so he had all the
water he needed for his operation. He kept his still hid in a old abandoned
copper mine. So I drove out there in this big old Chevrolet
truck with a load of sugar. It was more like a trail than a road, and
by the time I got out there it was nearly sundown. Doc said he'd just
finished up a new batch of turtle juice; that's what he called moon.
He said I oughta just stay out there tonight and him and me could
sample the new stuff and I could drive back with my load of moon
in the morning.
"Well we sat there in his tent that night, drinking by the light of
a kerosene lamp--and by God that goddamn turtle juice nearly took
the top of my head off. After a hour or two all of a sudden Doc let
loose with this big long scream, like he'd just been pushed off the
top of a mountain, then he keeled over sideways and his head hit the
ground so hard it bounced, and then he started to snore. But I stayed
awake and kept drinking that dadgum turtle juice."
Loy knew how to tell a story, already he had everybody laughing;
now he leaned in a little and lowered his voice a notch.
"And then I commence to hearing things. First I hear a coyote
yipping, then a wind kicks up and starts the tent to flapping and snapping,
then I think I hear people whispering to one another, like they's
out there in the dark creeping up on us. I get it in my head that the
Dry Squad has done found us and they're fixing to lower the boom.
"Doc always kept a loaded thirty-thirty handy, so I took one more
swig of turtle juice, then I grab up the rifle and go charging outa the
tent. And the wind's blowing sand in my eyes, but I think I can see
people, some of'em kinda hunkered down and others running away
so I go running through the greasewood bushes hollering my head
off and shooting off the rifle, then that's the last thing I remember for
a while.
"When I come to, I'm laying on the ground. I think it must still
be nighttime, 'cause my eyes are open but I ain't seeing nothing. But
the funny thing is, it's hotter'n hell. The sand's burning my skin, and
I'm thinking there has to be a fire, but how could there be a fire if I
can't see it, and then it comes to me: Loy Hanley, you are one dead
son of a bitch, and your mama was right, you've done gone to hell.
'Cause I was remembering what I heard the preacher say when I was
a kid, that hell's a place of utter darkness, that the fires of hell burn
without no light.
"But then I'm thinking, if I'm in hell, how come I'm laying in
the sand with the wind blowing over me, and then I figure it all
out. I'm still in the desert out east of Yermo, and the sun's come
up, but I can't see it 'cause Doc's turtle juice has made me go
stone-cold blind!
"Well sir, I'm scareder than shit, I get up and start hollering for
Doc: Doc, Doc, where are ya, come get me! But Doc don't answer
back. So I'm in the middle of the goddamn desert and I'm blind as
a bat. And it's a hunnerd twenty degrees, and I don't have no water,
and my tongue's so swole up it's sticking outa my mouth. So I start
stumbling around yelling and moaning, and I run into a cactus and
get a pussful of needles, and then I take a step and there ain't nothing
under my feet and I'm falling and I don't know whether I'm fixing to
fall five feet or a hunnerd feet.
"And then I find myself waking up for the second time. Somebody's
splashing water on my face and saying Loy, Loy, are you all
right? And then I open up my eyes and there's Doc Travis. I ain't
blind no more! And I say: Doc, if you wasn't so ugly, I'd kiss you right
on your fucking mouth!"
Everybody laughed. Jack Otay said: "You know that old bastard
Was wanted for the same murder in two different countries?"
"How could that be?" said Joe Shaw.
"He stuck a knife in a guy in Mexicali, Mexico.Then the guy got in his car and drove over the border and died in Calexico, California.
So he got charged in both countries."
"What finally happened?" said Nuffer.
"The main witness against him had a bad accident. Drowned to
death in a dry river bed."
"Some witnesses just seem to have the shiftiest luck," said Bud.
"We all miss Doc," said Schnitter, slicing his knife through a juicy
piece of meat. "But we all know there's a reason he's not sitting here
with us at the table tonight. He showed a lack of loyalty. An unwillingness
to work as part of a team."
This seemed to be directed at Loy Hanley.
"Well, hellfire," said Hanley, "let's drink to teamwork!" and everybody
bumped their glasses together and mumbled: "To teamwork."
"This ain't a wake," said Bud to one of the waiters. "Tell Goldilocks
to pep it up a little."
The waiter went over to the piano player and said something, and
the piano player glanced worriedly at Bud then started playing a rollicking
version of "Bill Bailey."
I was sitting next to Nuffer, who was getting drunk as fast as he
could. His face was florid -with sunburn. He gave me a blurry affectionate
smile, and patted my arm. "I like you, Danny. You're a nice

fella."
"I think you're a nice fella too, Mr. Nuffer."
"Nice fella. So therefore I think there's something you need to

know."
"What?"
He moved his mouth close to my ear. "A rumor has been afloat
today. To the effect that you and Darla were observed together last
night by the lake."
"Yeah, so?"
"Not to put too fine a point on it--the lady was seen with your
dick in her mouth."
I looked down the table at Teddy Bump. Caught him in the middle
of one of his dying-hyena laughs, his mouth open and full of food.

"But that's not what happened--"
"Shhh!" said Nuffer so sharply my ear was sprayed with spit. "The
truth doesn't matter. Only appearances matter," then he squeezed my
knee under the table. "A word to the wise, hm?"
After dinner, the waiters brought around brandy and cigars.
"Want my cigar?" I said to Dick Prettie.
He shrugged, and put it in his pocket, then lit up his own. As usual,
his clothes didn't fit; the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket were too short,
and his collar was too big for his long skinny neck.
He still seemed to be in a sour mood. He studied the smoke curling
up from his cigar.
"You know, when I was growing up, no way I ever coulda imagined
smoking a cigar like this in a joint like this. But now I'm here,
who gives a fuck?"
Joe Shaw started coughing and clearing his throat like something
had gone down the wrong way, then he slowly stood up. Bud tapped
on his brandy glass with a spoon and shouted to the loud table: "Hey,
pipe down, you fellas! I think Joe's got a few words he'd like to say."
"Thanks, Bud. Well, I got a few words, then my brother's got a few
more words." Shaw was burly and pleasant-faced, with little glittery
eyes and a dimple like a bullet hole in his chin. "I wanna thank you
guys for inviting me up here, and I've had a great time the last two
days. And on top of everything else, I got to see the Eighth Wonder of
the World: Wendell Nuffer on water skis! Wendell, when you fell off
them skis, I was afraid there wasn't gonna be any water left in the lake.
But luckily it all ran back in."
Nuffer laughed harder than anybody.
"My brother was sorry he couldn't make it up here himself, but I
just finished talking to him on the phone, and filling him in on what
we all been talking about. Frank said he can't wait till we all get back
in town so we can continue making Los Angeles the Greatest City in
the World!"
Loud applause. Joe Shaw took a piece of paper out of his pocket
and unfolded it. "Now let's move on to what this night is all about."
He looked at Max Schnitter. "Max, Frank wanted me to read this to
you.
'"Dear Max: Heartiest congratulations to you on your birthday!
Max, you're what the American Dream is all about. A poor immigrant
kid who started from scratch and is now leading a prosperous,
productive life and providing employment for a lot of people. I'm
proud to call you my friend,' and it's signed: 'Frank Shaw, Mayor of
Los Angeles.'"
More applause as Joe Shaw sat down and Schnitter stood up. Everybody
was puffing away on their big cigars and the room was becoming
as smoky as a battlefield.
"Thank you, Joe. And I'm proud to call the Shaw brothers my
friends. And to the rest of my friends here: Thank you very much for
this birthday dinner in my honor."
Somebody sneezed so loud it was like a window falling shut and
then they blew their nose.
"Life is a forward motion, we are always marching into tomorrow.
But an occasion like this sends us the other way, back into the labyrinth
of memory."
He smiled a little, baring his eye teeth as he gazed off into the

smoke.
"My first night in America. I had slipped across the border from
Mexico into Arizona. I had no passport, no papers of any kind. I
barely knew any English. I was fourteen years old.

"I was hungry and tired, and I walked into a bar. It was full of
Mexicans and Indians. Not any whites but me. I put my last few coins
on the bar, and ordered a glass of beer and a sardine sandwich.
"There was an Indian boy and an Indian girl also sitting at the
bar. I don't know what their relationship was. Husband and wife?
Boyfriend and girlfriend? Brother and sister? All I know is the girl
was beautiful. Long black braids. Brown eyes that had no bottom to

them.
"I smiled at her. And she smiled back at me. And her husband,
boyfriend, or brother watched. And that night I learned my first lesson
in America: Never get in a knife fight with an Indian."
Schnitter paused and took a sip of his brandy to allow for the

laughter.
"When I got out of the hospital, I traveled west. When I arrived
in California, I thought I had arrived in paradise. The warmth, the
sunshine, the oranges hanging in the trees. But when I tried to pick
one of those oranges, I was chased away by a man on horseback. And
I learned that even in paradise, a price must be paid for oranges.
"And so I got a job, picking lima beans, and I thought my back
would break. Then ten years later I went back to that same tree, or
one very much like it, and I picked an orange, and I peeled it, and I
ate it, and that day no one tried to chase me away--for I was now the
owner of the grove.
"I enjoyed eating that orange as much as I have ever enjoyed anything,
before or since. And my birthday message to you, my friends,
tonight, is, savor all your victories, great or small, because ultimately
there is just one rule in life: Everybody loses everything."
Schnitter sat down, to somewhat befuddled applause. Bud stood
up, and started singing: "For he's a jolly good fellow," and everybody else
joined in as the piano player vigorously played along. As they reached
the first which nobody can deny the blue lights in the Moonlight Room
began to fade till all you could see were the fiery tips of everybody's
cigars. Then a spotlight hit a curtain on the stage. Then, as the song
concluded, the curtain opened to reveal Vera Vermillion.
She was lying on the stage wrapped in cellophane and tied up
with red ribbons. She was completely naked. She was very white in
the light, except for her auburn hair and her abundant pubic hair and
her big pink nipples.
"She's all yours, Max!" said Bud. "Go ahead! Unwrap her!"
Schnitter looked as if he'd just as soon be someplace else, but he
managed a smile and walked toward the stage, accompanied by ribald
cries of encouragement. He knelt in front of her, and pulled at the
ribbons, and it quieted down in the Moonlight Room, and you could
hear the crinkling of the cellophane, then you could hear Schnitter
mutter: "What the fuck is this?"
Now Schnitter stood up, and turned and faced us in the bright
round light. His pointy-eared face was contorted and terrible. He
shouted: "What the fuck is THIS?!"
15

SHE'D SUFFOCATED, EVIDENTLY.
Nucky and Nello had been in charge of her. They'd wrapped her
up a little before dinner started. They said the last they saw of her she
was fine, except she'd been drinking like a fish all night, so at some
point she must have passed out, which must have been why she didn't
yell for help or something before she died.
Max Schnitter seemed to think the whole thing was some kind of
practical joke on him, and he stormed off with his guys. Hanley, Shaw,
and Nuffer bailed out of there pretty fast too.
Bill Flitter, the hotel manager, who looked like his name, and seemed
terrified of us, called a doctor and the San Bernardino County sheriff.
Bud sat at the table wiping off his hands with one Kleenex after
another. "Some fucking mess," he said glumly.
Jack Otay said: "Don't sweat it.We'll fix it."
Vera Vermillion lay on the stage in the cellophane and ribbons,
looking very white, lonely, and pathetic. And still. So still. Finally a
waiter flapped out a tablecloth and let it settle down upon her.
The doctor and the sheriff showed up. The doctor was an old,
white-haired guy that looked just like the picture I had in my head of
Dr. Ames. He examined the body, while Otay and the sheriff went off
in a corner together. I'd have expected somebody that was a sheriff
to look lanky and tough, like Buck Jones, the cowboy movie star, or
maybe Loy Hanley, but this guy looked more like Oliver Hardy or
Wendell Nuffer, wearing bright-red suspenders and a straw hat, and
mopping his sweating neck with a handkerchief even though the
room wasn't hot.
Turned out the sheriff and Otay were old pals. Every winter they'd
go south to El Centra together and shoot ducks. After the doctor
finished with Vera, he went over to Otay and the sheriff, and the three
of them talked for a while as Bud and myself and the rest of the guys
watched. At one point they all busted out laughing, and the sheriff
slapped Otay on the back.
"Hey, they're laughing," said Nucky. "That's a good sign."
"You better hope it's a good sign, you fucking moron," said Bud.
Finally the three shook hands all around, and Otay came walking
back.
"The doc says it looks like a heart attack. 'A tragedy in one so
young,' he said. Nothing nobody coulda done."
Bud sighed with relief.
"Thanks, Jack. I won't be forgetting this."
"Glad to be of help," said Otay with his usual smirk.
Now Bud addressed us generally.
"I don't want some headline-happy reporter getting wind of this.
You know, 'Dame Dies At Wild Party Attended By Mayor's Brother.'
Talk to the waiters and the busboys and the guy that ran the spotlight
and anybody else you can think of. Spread around some dough. Tell
'em to keep a lid on it if they know what's good for 'em."
We heard a thud. The piano player had fainted. He was lying near
his piano all crumpled up in his powder-blue tuxedo.
"Poor Goldilocks," said Bud. "I guess the excitement was just too
much for him," and everybody laughed.
Two guys dressed in white came in and loaded the body on a
stretcher and lugged it off into the night. I went up to my room
without trying to bribe or threaten anybody. Took two aspirin and
filled up the bathtub with the hottest water I could stand.
I eased myself in and lay there with just my nose and eyes above
the surface like a crocodile. It seemed strange and somehow impossible
I'd been talking to Vera this afternoon and now she was dead. I
thought if I hadn't bought her that second drink maybe she would
have stopped drinking and maybe right now she'd be frolicking with
Max Schnitter in his room instead of riding in an ambulance down a
twisty road with the guys in white.
I was barely awake now, like my nose was barely above the water.
And then I either dreamed, or imagined, or imagined I dreamed, or
dreamed I imagined that Vera Vermillion was running naked through
the woods around Lake Arrowhead, pursued by three angry snorting
deers, and then I snorted up the hot water of the tub and sat up
coughing and choking then heaved myself out and grabbed a towel.
Above my bed the Indian kid was still holding up his shining triumphant
fish. I wandered over to the window. The moon had gone
down, and I couldn't see much, just a few dark trees; they looked
like a bunch of guys standing around on a corner with their hands
in their pockets and their backs to me, talking about stuff they didn't
want me to hear.
I sat down in an armchair. The back of my brain felt like it was
teeming with bad dreams, and I was reluctant to go to bed, go to
sleep, and unleash them.
I don't know whether I'd been sitting there five minutes or two
hours when I heard a ruckus out in the hallway: yelling, and cursing,
and crashing around, and I jumped up and yanked on my pants and
opened my door.
Wendell Nuffer was crawling down the hallway on his hands and
knees, wearing nothing but blue-and-white-striped boxer shorts,
while Loy Hanley walked behind him, kicking him violently in the
butt with his cowboy-booted foot.
Hanley was wearing trousers and an undershirt. His jaws were working
on a piece of gum, and there was something remorseless and impersonal
in his face, like a grasshopper chewing its way through a leaf.
Nuffer's body was covered with a glowing-pink sunburn, and he
wept and bled from the nose as he crawled and cried out: "No! No!
Stop! Stop! Please! No!"

There were spectators: Hotel guests in their nightclothes peeked
fearfully out of their rooms. The two Tommys leaned against a wall,
smoking cigarettes and yukking it up. Violet Gilbertson, wearing a
bathrobe, her hair messed up, stood in a doorway and nervously bit
on one of her fingers; it took me a moment to realize she was in the
doorway of Loy Hanley s room.
Nuffer finally collapsed to the floor. Hanley stood over him,
chewing, hands on hips, not even breathing hard. He said: "You had
enough, Nuffer?"
"Yes."

"You ever fuck with me again I'll kill you.You hear me?"
"I hear you."

"Loy?" called Violet. "Come on back."
But Hanley wasn't quite ready to let it go. He stood there, looking
at Nuffer, then reached down and jerked his boxer shorts down
past his buttocks; then he turned and walked back to his room. "Get
back in there, you're half nekkid," he toldViolet, then the door closed
behind them.

Other doors up and down the hallway also closed. Tommy and
Goodlooking Tommy walked away, still giggling.
I went over to Nuffer. His eyes were scrunched shut and leaking
tears, snot and blood were dripping out of his nose, and he was
gasping and wheezing. His butt was starkly white compared to the
boiled-looking rest of him; there was something shockingly obscene
about it, like he'd been posed for a dirty photograph.
"Come on, Mr. Nuffer," I said, and I took one of his arms and
helped him to his feet. I tugged up his shorts, then led him toward his
room. He shuffled along, with the blank eyes of a blind man.
He'd left his door wide open. We went in, and I sat him down in a
chair, then went in the bathroom and wet a washcloth.
He stank of sweat and liquor. I wiped the blood off his face and
chest. "What happened?" I said.
He looked at me like he'd just become aware of my presence. "Oh,
Danny."
I asked him again what had happened.
"I was pretty pickled, you see. Oh yes. Extraordinarily pickled.
And Violet and I went to bed. Then I woke up, and she wasn't there.
"Oh I knew right away where she was, my boy, I knew right away,
because I saw, you saw, we all saw, how she and Hanley were looking
at each other. So I went straight to his room. I pounded on the door.
I stood bellowing in the hallway like a bull. Then when he opened
the door, and I saw her behind him, I struck him in the face."

Nuffer laughed.
"I was something of a sissy when I was a boy, and I suppose I forgot
I'm still a sissy."
And he kept laughing, and it was a scary kind of laugh, like he was
on the edge of going loony.
"And oh, my boy, how could it have been any worse! Intoxicated,
in my underwear, getting kicked in the hiney by a gangster, while the
cheap tramp that caused it all looks on and laughs! Soon the whole
town will know! I'll be a laughingstock! And I should be! I'm funny,
I'm funny, Nuffer is funny!" He was shaking all over with laughter,
and his face was turning even redder if that was possible. "But I won't
let it get me down, no, not a bit, my boy, not a bit, because Nuffer has
that fighting spirit," and then he began to sing in a hoarse boisterous
voice:

"Fight on for ol' SC,
Our men fight on to victory,
Our alma mater dear
Looks up to you,
Fight on and win
For ol' SC,
Fight on to victory,
Fight on!"

16

NEXT MORNING I came out of the elevator with my suitcase and
saw Dick Prettie in the lobby, looking thoughtfully up at the grizzly
bear. He was standing so still that he looked stuffed too.
I walked over and looked up at the bear myself.
"Look at them fucking teeth," he said.
"They're big all right."
"Just think about it. Think about being ate to death by that fucking
thing. I couldn't never have been a cowboy. Bears trying to eat
your ass. Indians trying to scalp the fucking hair right off your head."
Probably to the great relief of the staff and the other guests, we
were all leaving Birkenhead Manor. Bud and Darla walked by, trailed
by two college-boy bellhops with their luggage. They seemed to be
in a hurry. Darla glanced over at us and waved. I waved back.

"Look at him," said Dick. "Trying to get outa here before he runs
into Shitter."

"I guess this whole thing was a disaster, huh?"
Dick shrugged and coughed, which seemed to remind him it was
time to light up another cigarette. As he flicked his lighter, Timothy,
the old colored shoeshine boy, stumbled out of the corridor where
he was persued by Nucky Williams, who was hitting him with
a dead fish.
suh! Lordie! Stop it, suh!
"I know you did it, you lying nigger!" yelled Nucky.
"No suh," said Timothy, "it wasn't me,

Please!"
Timothy had his arms up, trying to fend off the blows. The fish
looked like one of the trout from the pool in the Big Boulder Dining
Room. Guests and employees were keeping their distance, some
looking scared and others amused. I saw the manager come out of his
office behind the front desk, take a quick look, then flit back into his
office.
"Nucky, what's going on

I said. I took a step toward. Nucky and
the old man. I felt Dick's hand on my arm, heard him say: "Stay out
of it, Danny.
Nucky looked over his shoulder at me.
you'll  be looking at me too. "Huh?"
,,„_, 		'. He was holding the fish
by the tail, and its glassy eye seemed to be looking amused.
"What's going on
"Snowflake here put this fucking fish in my bed."
"No suh, I didn't do no such of a thing--"
With a smooth backhand motion, like he was playing tennis,
Nucky slapped the trout into Timothy's face and shouted: "Shut up!"
Now he turned back to me. "He was getting back at me 'cause I
dropped that dollar in his spit bucket."
"But how do you know it was him?"
"I seen him last night sneaking around outside my room
then he said: "What's it to you, Danny?You a me
Association for the Advancement of Niggers?"
all
"Suh," said Timothy, "reason I was up there, I was picking up shoes
to shine. Folks put their shoes outside of their doors at night, and in
the morning when they open their doors up they find their shoes
to
nice and shiny."
"I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP, NIGGER!" and Nucky began
ferociously flog Timothy with the fish again.
"Nucky, stop it!" I tried to grab the fish away from him, then he
shoved me and I stumbled back then I started to go for him but Dick
grabbed me and hissed in my ear: "Danny, are you nuts?"
Nucky's tie had gone crooked and he straightened it as he stared at
me in disbelief with his flat chicken eyes. "Yeah, Dick, that's right.You
keep your pal away from me."
Timothy had taken this opportunity to scuttle off and vanish. I
' could see in Nucky's face that he wanted to do a lot more to me than
just hit me with a fish. Dick picked up my suitcase and pulled me
toward the front entrance. "Come on, let's get outa here."
We got in my Packard and began to drive down the mountain.
"You don't wanna get on the wrong side of Nucky Williams," said
Dick. "The only reason he didn't kill you is 'cause he's scared of Bud."
"You mean he's not scared of me?"
Dick didn't answer. Pretty soon the mountains were in my
rearview mirror and we'd reentered the flat lands. Orange orchards.
Hubert's Rabbit Ranch. People in tattered clothes toiling in emerald
fields. We stopped for gas. It was thirty-three cents a gallon. We'd
made a deal that if I drove my car Dick would buy the gas, and he
started complaining to the sullen kid with the swollen jaw that was
manning the pumps that this was fucking highway robbery, gas was
twelve cents a gallon in Los Angeles. The kid said:"Lay offme, mister.
I just work here. And I got a goddamn toothache."
I found myself glad to get back to the city. It felt like we'd been
gone weeks instead of a couple of days. I dropped Dick off at his
apartment house on Wilcox, then headed for La Vista Lane.
As I pulled up in front of the bungalow court, I saw Sophie flying
down the sidewalk on roller skates. I called out to her, but she didn't
look back, then I realized it wasn't Sophie at all, but another little girl
who didn't even particularly look like Sophie.
I climbed the seven steps. Fifteen or twenty sparrows and three mourning doves were busy at some birdseed Mrs. Dean had put out.
They scattered with a whoosh of wings at my approach, the doves
making choppy whistling sounds.
I unlocked my bungalow and went in. It seemed musty and stuffy and still and silent.
 thought I'd drop in on Dulwich. Tell him about my adventures.
I could picture the gap in his teeth as he laughed at certain things,
the kindness and sadness in his eyes as he listened quietly to other

things.
His door was closed. Usually it was open. I knocked. Knocked
again. He seemed not to be home. I turned to leave, but then heard:
"Who's there?"
But it wasn't Dulwich's voice.
"Danny," I said.
"Who?"
"Danny Landon," I said more loudly to the closed door. "I'm Dulwich's
neighbor. Is he there?"
Silence. I was getting an eerie feeling. Maybe Dulwich had been
murdered, and his murderer was on the other side of the door, just a
foot or two away, trying to decide what to do with me.
"Hello?" I said.
I heard the door being unlocked, and now it opened. Standing in
front of me, on the other side of the screen door, was ... Dulwich.
"Dulwich," was all I could think of to say.
"Hello, Danny," he said very softly.
"I didn't recognize your voice."
He didn't respond. I was alarmed by the way he looked. It was like
it both was and wasn't him, as if he was wearing some kind of ghastly
Dulwich mask. I couldn't remember ever having seen such bleakness,
such despair in anybody's face before.
"Dulwich, what's the matter? What's happened?"
"Nothing has happened. It's just that ... on some days . . . the fog

rolls in."
He mustered up the ghost of a smile.
"But I'm all right, Danny. I'll be seeing you soon."
He stepped back, and slowly shut the door.
I went back into my bungalow.
In the bedroom I took off my hat and coat and my shoulder holster
and gun, and sat down on the side of the bed and took off my
shoes. Mrs. Dean had given me an old radio. It didn't work very well-
I twisted the dial and got nothing but static, then somebody yakking
away in Spanish, then finally, faintly, a woman singing:

"Life is just a bowl of cherries,
Don't take it serious,
Life's too mysterious ..."

The voice seemed to be coming from some immeasurable distance,
from the other side of space and time, and suddenly I was
surprised by a sob that jumped up through my throat and out of my
nose, and my eyes stung as tears ran down my cheeks.
It didn't last long. I lay down on the bed. It had bedclothes now
that covered the stain that was shaped like Texas.
I laced my fingers behind my back and looked at the ceiling. There
were some interesting cracks up there.
In the living room, the phone started to ring. As far as I was concerned,
it could ring till kingdom come and not make me get up.
Not make me stop looking at the ceiling, as though this was the very
thing I'd been put on earth to do.

SOPHIE HAD A black eye.
"Where'd you get the shiner?" I said.
She shrugged. "I fell down."
She was sitting on the steps in front of the bungalow court, poking
at some ants with a stick. I'd just come back from the store, and
was carrying two bags of groceries plus a brand-new broom with a
bright-yellow handle. She said: "What's the broom for?"
"Gee, I don't know. What are brooms usually for?"
"Don't get wise, BB eyes.You need some help?"
I gave her one of the bags, and we moved down the walk. She was
wearing dirty dungarees and a shirt with huge purple polkadots on it.
A fashion plate she wasn't. Suddenly she startled the heck out of me
by clattering her shiny black shoes across the concrete as she belted
out in a high-pitched voice:

"Come and meet those dancing feet
On the avenue I'm taking you to,
Forty-second Street!
Hear the beat of dancing feet,
It's the song I love the melody of
Forty-second Street!"
I'd come to a dead stop as I watched her. Now she looked back

at me.
"Say," I said, "that's pretty good."
"Thanks. I plan to run away and be a tap dancer in New York."
"Why not? Maybe you can be the new Shirley Temple."
"I'm much, much older than Shirley Temple. Anyway, I can't stand
that kid. I think she's just a big phony."
"So you seem like you're in a pretty good mood for a girl with a
black eye."
She gave me her shy look. "Seeing you--that makes me be in a
good mood."
Dulwich's door was open, and we could hear the energetic rattle
of typewriter keys, the ding of the bell, and the sliding of the carriage.
"Sounds
like he's writing something," I said.
"Yeah. Maybe a new movie! Maybe he'll write a part for me!"
We went in my bungalow. Sophie helped me unpack my groceries
and put them away. Coffee, milk, baloney, rat cheese, bread, licorice
sticks, and so forth.
She looked at a bar of Lifebuoy soap.
"You know what they call me at school?"

"What?"
"Soapy. Soapy Gobbler."
"That's not very nice."
"Yeah. I hate 'em."
I knew she was lying about her black eye, and I felt like doing

something for her.
"Wait here a minute."
I went in my bedroom, rummaged through a dresser drawer, then
found the pink brush I'd bought from the veteran with no legs. I returned
to the kitchen and presented it to Sophie.
"A brush," she said, looking it over.

"Yeah."
"How much you pay for this?"

"A quarter."
"You got robbed. But thanks anyway."
I walked her to the door.
"You wanna go over and pester Mr. Dulwich?" she said.
We walked over and peered in his screen door. Saw him sitting at
his typewriter with his back to us, tapping away furiously.
I knocked on the door frame as Sophie said:"Knock knock!"
Dulwich looked over his shoulder, broke into a grin. "Hello
there!" he said as he got up to greet us. I was relieved to see he
seemed to be back to his old self, though his smile went away when
he saw Sophie's face.
"Sophie, what happened?"
"I fell down. When I was playing."
"And those bruises on your arms? That also happened when you
fell down?"
I'd missed them somehow--a purplish cluster of bruises, like a
bunch of grapes, emerging from under her shirt sleeves on each of
her upper arms.
"Yup," said Sophie.
"And Jerry? Did he have anything to do with your falling down?"
Jerry was her mother Lois's latest boyfriend--a stocky fellow with
dark curly hair and a toothy too big smile.
"Nope," said Sophie.
Tinker Bell plodded in from the bedroom, stuck out her front
paws and stretched. Sophie said: "Hi, Tinker Bell, have you been
sleeping?" and went over to pet her.
"Sorry about the other day," said Dulwich to me.
"Why be sorry? I get down in the dumps too, sometimes."
"Are you writing a movie?" asked Sophie, as Tinker purred under
her hand.
"I'm writing a so-called 'detective' story, actually. Or at least trying
to write one. I always seem to be finding out things aren't as simple
as they seem."
There was a pile of magazines on his desk, and he picked up the
top one. On the cover were a tough-looking guy and a sultry blonde in a silver convertible, passing a city-limits sign that said:
NOWHERE
"Now here's a recent issue of Super Detective Stories!' He leafed
through the pages. "All right. Listen to the beginning of'Names in
the Black Book.'
'""Three unsolved murders in a week are not so unusual--for
River Street," grunted Steve Harrison, shifting his muscular bulk restlessly
in his chair.
'"His companion lighted a cigarette and Harrison observed that
her slim hand was none too steady. She was exotically beautiful, a
dark, supple figure, with the rich colors of purple Eastern nights and
crimson dawns in her dusky hair and red lips. But in her dark eyes
Harrison glimpsed the shadow of fear. Only once before had he seen
fear in those marvelous eyes, and the memory made him vaguely

uneasy.
'" "It's your business to solve murders," she said.'"
Dulwich bit his lower lip for a moment as he studied the story.
"The writing's a bit uncouth, perhaps, but I think you'll agree
there's a certain seductive energy that lures one on. Why is there the
shadow of fear in the nameless beauty's marvelous eyes? What do the
three unsolved murders have to do with her? And Harrison, our hero,
he of the grunts and the muscular bulk . . . why is he so restless and
uneasy? What terrible event occasioned the previous appearance of
fear in the dark eyes of his exotically beautiful companion?"
Dulwich tossed Super Detective Stories back on the pile. "My story seems to have all the dynamic forward motion of the
figures painted on Keats's Grecian urn. The spying eye in the keyhole
never blinks. The drooping ash at the end of the cigarette in the long
cigarette holder held by the willowy blonde never actually detaches
itself and falls."
"Mister," said Sophie, "I got no idea what you're talking about."
Dulwich sighed. "Precisely the problem."
"You seemed to be typing a mile a minute when we walked up," I
said. "Like you were really inspired."
"Misleading. A mouse in a cage running frantically in his exercise
wheel. But I should persevere, I suppose," and he smiled cheerfully at
us. "After all, one can't honestly call oneself a scribbler unless one occasionally
makes some wretched attempt at scribbling!"
Tinker rolled on her back and presented her belly to Sophie.
"She likes to have her tummy scratched," said Sophie, then she
looked up at Dulwich. "Would you write a part for me in your
story?"

"A part for you in my story," Dulwich mused. "How would that
work exactly?"

"It's easy. You just write about a cute smart kid named Sophie!"
"Sophie Antoinette?" I suggested.
Sophie laughed. "Yeah. And her faithful cat Tinker. They can solve
crimes together. Tinker can climb trees and look in people's windows
and report back to Sophie. And Sophie can wear all kinds of disguises!
And she can trap the crooks and--"

"I thought I heard your voice, you little devil!"
We all looked toward the door. Jerry was there, in a red plaid
sports jacket with a matching tie. He looked exactly like the door-to
door salesman that he was.
"Your ma's been looking everywhere for you," and then he flashed
his smile at Dulwich and me. "Hello, Mr. Dulwich! How are you
today, Danny?"

Jerry was one of those people that after meeting you for three
seconds remembers your name forever and repeats it every chance he
gets.

"Fine day today, isn't it? Not like Foggy Old England, huh, Mr.
Dulwich! And Danny boy! When are you going to a ballgame with meI I caught a homerun the other day, and you know who hit it? Jigger
Statz! He signed the ball for me after the game, Danny, I'll bet it'll
be worth a ton of money someday!"
Tinker disdainfully turned her back on Jerry and went back in the
bedroom.

"Come on, Sophie.Your ma's got things she wants you to do."
"What sort of things?"
Jerry's smile started looking a little rigid.
"How should I know? Let's go, Sophie. Quit bothering these two

gentlemen."
"Oh, she's no bother," said Dulwich. "Quite the opposite."
"Well, isn't that nice of you to say so! Good seeing you, Mr. Dulwich!
And you too, Danny boy!"
Sophie got up and listlessly slumped toward the door. "Bye," she
said without looking at us.
We went to the door and watched them walk toward Sophie's
bungalow. Jerry put his hand on her shoulder, and she flinched it off
like a horse would a horsefly, then they disappeared inside.
"So you think Jerry beat her up?" I said.
"I think it likely, yes. Something happened over there on one of
the nights you were gone. I could hear all three of them shouting and
shrieking like banshees; it calmed down only when Mrs. Dean came
out and knocked on the door and threatened to call the police."
"How could anybody hurt a little girl?"
"Unfortunately, I've grown unsurprised at anything human beings
do. Not excluding me. I believe Sophie's ideas for my story are better
than mine. I'll make us a cup of tea, and you can tell me all about
Lake Arrowhead. Hm, Danny boy?"

It was like I was at the bottom of a deep black well, and I listened to a
phone for a long time ringing way above my head, till finally I awoke
and stumbled into the living room and picked it up.
"Danny? It's Darla."
It was about three in the morning. I tried to get my wits about

me.
"Darla? What's the matter?"
"Nothing, really. I woke you up. I'm sorry."
"S'okay.Where are you?"
"At Bud's. Downstairs. He's upstairs. Asleep. I had the most terrible

dream."
A yawn tried to pry my mouth open.
"Yeah? About what?"
"Doc. He was out on the balcony. He was trying to get in. He was
beating on the window with his fists. The glass was breaking. He was
so mad at me, Danny. So mad."
"What happened to Doc wasn't your fault."
"He's buried out there somewhere, isn't he?"
"Yes."

"Do monkeys have ghosts?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
A long silence.
"Darla?"

"I'm here. Do you really love me?"
"Yes."
"Good night, Danny."
"Good night."

IT WAS FUNNY. It was like the clean mountain air Nuffer was talking
about really did have some kind of effect on me. I came back from Lake Arrowhead and started having fewer headaches, and my
left arm was feeling stronger when I did my morning pushups, and
it seemed like I was walking with less of a limp. And the dark veil
separating me from my past seemed thinner now, and a little light
was passing through. For instance, not only could I see myself as a
kid pissing my name in the snow, but I could see the snow was on
the rocky bank of a river, and the river was half frozen, and a skinny
mutt of a dog was walking on the ice and I was afraid it would
break through, and beyond the river rose the tall buildings of a
mighty city.
Also, I understood better how I felt about Darla. I loved her, but
I didn't love her without reserve. Because there was the other girl,
Gwynnie. The lost girl, the ghostly girl. Who was still loved by some
lost, ghostly part of me.
I didn't see Darla for about a week after we got back. I was told
she was laid up in bed with a cold, though when I'd talked to her on
the phone she hadn't sounded sick, and it didn't seem the right season
for a cold. But Bud called me one night and told me to come to the
Peacock Club and she was there.
"Feeling better?" I said.
"Sure. I'm on Cloud Number Nine."

We were in Bud's booth. I was on the outside, then next to me
was Goodlooking Tommy, then came Bud, Darla, and Moe Davis,
and Nello Marlini was sitting across from me at the other end of
the U.

Moe was so fat he could hardly fit in the booth. He probably
weighed as much as three Dick Pretties put together. He had a basket
of bread in front of him, and he was loading up a piece with one pat
of butter after another without even bothering to smear them around.
Then he took a big bite and said: "Great fucking bread."
Bud looked pleased. "Baked fresh on the premises every day."
"Yeah? Well my compliments to the chef."
He pronounced the ch in "chef" like the ch in "champ." Butter
shined on his blubbery lips, and he was chewing with his mouth
open. I noticed Darla was watching him too, like she was about to be
sick, then our eyes met and she snorted out a laugh.
"What's so funny?" said Bud.
"I was just thinking about a joke."
"Why don't you share it with the rest of the table?"
"Too late. I already forgot the punchline."
Bud had an office called the Security Finance Company on the
second floor of a building on Cahuenga. It was the front for a bookie
joint and Moe Davis ran it.
"Guess who I seen walking down the street the other day," said
Moe. "Louie Vachaboski."
Bud grinned. "So how's Fay Wray doing?"
"He seemed kinda nervous. But he said to give you his best regards."
"How'd
his eye look?" said Nello.
"Kinda squinty. Like he was winking at me."
Everybody laughed. But Darla wasn't laughing. She was sucking
down a cigarette, and getting tanked on martinis; the waiter came by
and she ordered another one. Bud frowned at her.
"How come you drink so much?" he said.
"How come you commit so many crimes?"
"That supposed to be funny? 'Cause I ain't laughing."
"I wouldn't expect somebody to laugh whose idea of funny was
putting out somebody's eye with a cigarette."
It got quiet around the table as Darla puffed on her cigarette and
tried to pretend she didn't feel Bud's eyes boring into her; then you
could see him deciding to let it go. He looked at Moe as he wiped his
hands off with a Kleenex.
"You talk to Phegley?"
Pete Phegley was a lieutenant in administrative vice, and a frequent
loutish visitor to the Peacock Club.
"Yeah. He still says he needs twenty percent."
Bud shook his head. "Phegley's already gotta be the richest police
lieutenant in Los Angeles, if not the fucking world. And yet he still
wants more."
"I think we all got in the wrong perfession," said Moe. "We all
shoulda been cops.That way all we'd have to do all day is ride around
town and eat free and screw whores without paying for 'em."
"And stick our fucking hands out for envelopes filled with dough,"
said Bud.
"Why do you put up with him?" I said. "If he's such a prick."
"We can't just go around getting rid of cops, Danny," said Bud,
like a patient parent explaining life to a five-year-old. "They're necessary
evils."
"Yeah, like broads," said Goodlooking Tommy, and he and Nello
laughed.
Stan Tinney, the manager, walked over.
"How is everything? Darla, you're looking lovely tonight."
"Thanks. So where's the body?"
"The body?"
"It's like a wake in here. So I figure there must be a body around
someplace."
The club was pretty empty. A bored-looking orchestra was playing,
and two or three couples were shuffling round on the dance floor like
zombies in a nightclub in hell.
"Well, you know," said Stan, "it's Thursday night."
"Stan," said Bud, "is it also Thursday night over at the Pom Pom
Club?"
"Of course."

"And you think the Pom Pom Club is this empty?"
"I've got no way of knowing that."
"Maybe I'll drop by later and see for myself."
"All I know is, the Peacock Club is still a popular place. Especially
with the right people. Why, just last night Lionel Barrymore was
here."

"And Dick said he thought he seen Ginger Rogers in here last
week," said Nello.
"Who wants to dance?" said Darla.
Silence around the table.
"Come on, it won't cost you much. I'm just one of them dime-a
dance dames."

"You know I got two left feet," said Bud.
"Danny?" said Darla. "You got a dime? I'll dance with you for a
dime."

Goodlooking Tommy laughed. "Danny dancing. That's a good
one."

Darla glared at him. "What do you mean?"
Goodlooking Tommy was losing confidence.
"Well, you know--his leg, and all."
"I'll give it a try, I guess," I said.
We went out on the dance floor. I didn't remember ever having
danced before, but I had a feeling I'd be okay at it; and after a minute
or two Darla said: "You dance real nice, Danny."
She was wearing a beige beaded dress with no back; two slender
straps made an X centered just below her shoulder blades, and just
below the X my hand rested on her bare flesh.
It was a slow song, and she snuggled in pretty tight.
"Were you ever really a dime-a-dance girl?"
"No. But I had a friend who was. Bombina.This Italian girl from
Boyle Heights. She worked at a club on the Santa Monica Pier. She
said one night she was dancing with a handsome stranger, and she
looked down and saw he had one goat foot and one chicken foot.
Then her skin started burning where he was touching her, and she
looked in his eyes and realized she was dancing with the devil. Then
she could feel herself fainting.
"Bombina said the next thing she knew, she was waking up on the
beach. She was all by herself. The pier was about half a mile away. And
she had burn marks on her arms."
"You really believe all that?"
"Well, I saw the marks on her arms. And they did look kind of like

fingers."
We drifted along with the dreamy music; then: "I'm proud of you,
Danny," Darla said.
"What for?"
"I heard you and Nucky got into it. Because you were sticking up
for a shoeshine boy."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Oh, a pretty little bird told me. But you gotta be careful, Danny.
Don't turn your back on Nucky," and then she giggled. "Nucky the
knucklehead. I'm drunk." And then, in a singsongy voice:

"I had a little bird
And its name was Enza.
I opened the window
And influenza!"

"What's that?"
"Something us kids used to say in Nebraska City. During the flu

epidemic."
"You know Dulwich? My neighbor? His best friend died of the

flu. On Christmas."
"You really like Dulwich, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"Is he married?"
"No."
"Does he have a girlfriend?"
"I don't think so."
"Is he a fairy?"
"No. Of course not."
"Anyway. I'm glad you have a friend. You should have lots of
friends."
So Darla and I danced, us and the zombies, beneath the eyes of the
painted peacocks. If we could have danced forever like that, it would
have been fine by me. I felt the delicate knobs of her backbone under
my fingertips. I smelt her Mitsouko. I could feel the warmth of her
body through the sheer chiffon of her dress and on my neck the
warmth of her breath and then the song was over.
We went back to the booth. Bud said: "You looked pretty good
out there, kid.You been taking lessons from Arthur Murphy?"
I laughed and shook my head.
Darla took the olive out of her latest martini and put it in her
mouth and chewed on it slowly and looked at me.
Nello looked morose. "You know what I seen in the mirror
today? Three gray hairs. I can't believe my hair's turning fucking gray
already."
"You ever try Grey Gone?" said Darla.
"Naw, what's that?"
"A hair dye. Bud uses it. It works great."
Everybody looked at Bud's hair.
"You dye your hair?" said Moe.

Bud looked steamed. "It's none of your fucking business. And you
talk too much, baby," he said to Darla.
"First you don't want me to sing, now you don't want me to even
fucking talk."
"That's right."
"Why can't I start singing again, Bud? When I was singing, every
night this place was packed."
"And you think that was all 'cause of you?"
"I think I had something to do with it, yeah."
Armilda Lee Keddy walked up in a tiny skirt with a tray of cigarettes.
"How
are y'all doing tonight? Anybody need some cigarettes?"
"Gimme a pack of Spuds," said Moe, addressing her legs. He gave
her a five for the smokes but when she started to make change he
said: "Keep it."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Davis."
"Moe."
"Moe.You know, you're the first Moe I ever met."
"Yeah?"
"I'm from Oklahoma, and I guess Moe ain't a Oklahoma kind of
a name."
"You like working here?" asked Darla.
Armilda Lee smiled at Bud. "You bet I do! It's the best job I've
ever had."
"That's good. I just hope things work out better for you than the
last girl that worked here."
Armilda Lee's smile faltered a little. "What do you mean?"
"Her name was Betty. She's dead now. Somebody killed her."
"Oh. That's terrible."
"Get lost," said Bud to Armilda Lee.
Armilda Lee sashayed away, looking happy to escape.
Bud glowered at Darla. "What was that all about?"
"What was what all about?"
"You seemed to be inferring something. About Betty."
Darla lit up a Lucky Strike.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I just know I'm sick of
you. Sick of this place. Sick of these fucking peacocks."
"Get the hell outa here then." He turned to me. "Danny, take this
whiney bitch home."
"I'll go home when I'm good and ready."
The waiter put down a fresh basket of bread in front of Moe.
"Don't make a scene," said Bud.

"Why don't you share some of that fucking bread, you greedy
pig?" said Goodlooking Tommy.
"Fuck you," said Moe, and: "Fuck yourself," said Darla, as Goodlooking
Tommy suddenly leaned across the table, reaching for the bread.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a gleam of metal, then there
came a deafening bang and a flash of light.
The bullet went in one side of Goodlooking Tommy's head and
out the other, blowing blood and brains all over Bud and Darla.
Time seemed to slow down. I saw right in front of me a big revolver
with a long barrel. It was pointed at Bud. It felt like I had all
the time in the world to reach out and slap down the barrel just as
the gun tired again. The bullet blew a hole in the table.
I looked up, and saw a little balding big-nosed guy standing over
me; he was wearing a red bowtie and had a bandage over his left eye.
He was looking at Bud and screaming: "She was the only thing I ever
loved!"

I knew right off it was Vera Vermillion's husband. I lunged at him
and wrapped both arms around him and we went to the floor as the
gun fired again and the bullet lodged in the ceiling. And then I saw
Nello twisting the gun out of Mel Goldberg's hand, and he screamed
again: "SHE WAS THE ONLY THING I EVER LOVED!" But he
didn't quite finish the last word because Nello shoved the barrel into
his wide-open mouth and all the way down to the back of his throat
and pulled the trigger. I could feel his body jump like he'd just got a
jolt of electricity, then he was still.
The orchestra had stopped playing and I could hear people running
and shouting. I pushed myself up off Mel Goldberg and came to
my knees. His unbandaged eye was open and staring up at the ceiling
at the peacocks painted there, as a pool of blood, a darker red than his
bowtie, began rapidly growing behind his head.
I looked back at the booth. Goodlooking Tommy was slumped
across the table, one hand still extended toward the bread. Moe Davis's
mouth was ajar and filled up with half-chewed bread; he was
gazing down at Goodlooking Tommy, but now he looked over at
rne and slowly started to chew again. Bud was using one Kleenex
after another to wipe the splatters of blood and brain off his face and
clothes; he was moving really fast, as if the blood would start burning
holes in him if he didn't immediately get it off.
But most of the blood seemed to have landed on Darla. The lustre
of her blonde hair was dimmed with blood, and the lit cigarette she
was holding in her right hand had actually been extinguished by the

blood.
She was sitting there still as a statue. Nothing moving at all except
her wildly blinking eyes.


THE SUNSET STRIP is on county land between Hollywood and Beverly
Hills and thus under the jurisdiction of the Sheriff's Department.
Two homicide dicks from the Fairfax station drove up to investigate
the killings.
They wore loud sports jackets and powerful cologne; I'd seen them
before at the Peacock bar. They barely gave the bodies a glance, told
everybody still left in the club to stick around, then disappeared into
Stan Tinney's office. Bud and Darla were already in there.
A police photographer, a daffy-looking guy in a derby hat and a
green tweed suit, showed up and took some pictures of the bodies. I
didn't see him for a while and thought he had left, but then flashes
started coming out of the bar, and I saw he was in there with Armilda
Lee. She was sitting on a barstool with her pretty legs crossed, and
making big dimples for the camera.
After about twenty minutes, the homicide dicks returned.They asked
me a few polite questions, and I told them what happened. They had
notebooks, but didn't write anything down. Then they said I could go.
I walked out of the club fast. I was in the parking lot and nearly to
my car when I heard: "Hey! Danny!"
It was Bud.
He'd changed his clothes, and was all spic-and-span again. He
walked up, then solemnly held his hand out. I knew a handshake was
a big deal for him.
"Thanks, kid. I owe you."

"What for?"
"You kidding me? You saved my life."
I hadn't really thought of it that way until now. What had happened
had just been a reflex. But it was true: I'd helped Bud live and
Goldberg die.
"How's Darla?" I said.
"Ah, she'll be all right. She's so soused she probably won't remember
a goddamn thing in the morning," and then he smiled a little and
gave a puzzled shake of his head. "That Goldberg guy, huh? Getting
so worked up about some two-bit stripper."
An ambulance from the coroner's department drove up. Two guys
took two stretchers out of the back.
"You got some blood on your clothes," said Bud. "Send me the
cleaning bill, okay?"
"Okay."
"Get a good night's sleep.We'll talk tomorrow."
I got in my car, and as I pulled away he yelled: "I got big plans for
you!"
I looked in my rearview mirror. Saw him take his handkerchief
out, and try to wipe away my handshake.
Instead of turning left, toward Hollywood and home, I turned

right, toward the ocean.
It was about a twelve or fifteen mile drive. I highballed down Sunset
with all the windows open and the cool night air rushing in and
cleaning me like water.
You could tell right where the Strip stopped and Beverly Hills
began because all the neon nightlife ended and suddenly great mansions
were vaguely visible back in the darkness beyond towering palm
trees and high stone walls. Past Beverly Hills were more tony communities,
Bel Air and then Brentwood and then Sunset got very hilly
and twisty for several miles and trees flashed past in the headlights as
I pushed the Packard hard on the curves and the tires squealed and
then the road straightened out and I was in Pacific Palisades and I
smelled the ocean and then I saw it.
I turned south on the Coast Highway, drove a bit, and then pulled
over. I got out, and walked toward the water.
I saw four Mexicans sitting around a fire. They were passing
around a bottle of wine. They looked pretty down and out. One of
them had a guitar, and was strumming it and softly singing, and you
didn't have to understand Spanish to know he was singing one of the
saddest songs in the world. He fell silent when I appeared, and all four
watched me, a guy in a suit with blood on it limping across the sand,
but as soon as I passed out of the flickering circle of firelight I could
hear the singer start up again.
I walked down to where the waves had polished the beach and
made it slick and shiny. I was glad to get out of my clothes. I waded
naked out into the water. It was colder than I expected. I plunged
headlong into a wave and came up gasping, but it felt good.
The sky was moonless but stupendously starry. There was one particularly
bright star, or maybe it was a planet, hanging just above the
rim of the ocean. I swam toward it. It looked pure, sad, and beautiful.
It looked like the song had sounded.
After a while I realized that I wasn't much of a swimmer, and that
I was fortunate the ocean was pretty calm tonight, and that if I didn't
stop swimming toward the star soon I'd never make it back to the
beach.
When I got back on terra firma, I couldn't find my clothes. I was
thinking maybe I'd been dragged by the current and I'd returned to a
different part of the beach, when I saw a dark, oval shape on the sand
that I recognized as my hat.
I brushed the sand off, put it on my head, and looked around. The
fire was still burning, but the Mexicans had vamoosed.
Not only had they gotten my clothes and shoes but also my wallet
and my Smith & Wesson revolver along with its holster. I wondered
why they had left the hat. Decided it was probably a reflection of a sly
sense of humor.
I looked down Santa Monica ways and could see the lights of the
pier and the circling jewel-bright Ferris wheel and I thought about
Bombina; then I trudged across the sand back to my car.
Luckily I'd left the keys in it. I drove south on the Coast Highway,
then took Santa Monica Boulevard back into Hollywood.
It was interesting driving naked. It was like the dreams I had
sometimes of being naked in a public place, except the dreams were
always filled with anxiety and shame but tonight it felt just fine. In a
way it was more like another type of dream I had, my dreams of flying.
I felt exempt from the rules of life as I glided steadily east in my
gleaming yellow car.
I was stopped at a red light when a motorcycle cop pulled up beside
me. He looked me over, but I guess as far as he could tell I was
just a somewhat eccentric fellow wearing a fancy fedora but no shirt,
and when the light changed he tipped the bill of his cap to me and

roared away.
I turned down La Vista Lane and parked in front of the bungalow
court. The street was deserted. No one saw me get out of the car and
pad barefooted up the seven steps, but as I was walking between the
rows of bungalows I heard someone discreetly clear his throat.
It was Dulwich. He was sitting outside his door on the stoop,
smoking his pipe.
"Hello, Dulwich," I said.
"Hello, Danny. Nice night, isn't it?"
I nodded. I didn't stop to chat. Dulwich, for his part, was careful
not to let his face register the least bit of surprise as he watched me
and my hat pass by.

4

I SAW THE postman walk by outside, with Sophie skipping along
beside him. She was shouting: "I'm a hit,Abner, I'm a hit!"
"Aw, lemme alone, you crazy kid," said the postman. "And my
name ain't Abner!"
I was sitting on my tattered davenport in an undershirt with the Times. Matilda, the colored woman that worked for Mrs. Dean, was in
the kitchen scrubbing the sink. I'd hired her to come in once a week
to clean house and do my laundry.
We'd had several days of very hot weather and I'd gone out and
bought a box fan, which was cooling me off but wreaking havoc with
reading the paper.
The story I was reading was headlined: "MURDER AND
SUICIDE ON SUNSET STRIP," with two smaller headlines:
"PEACOCK CLUB SCENE OF HORROR," and "SHERIFF'S
DEPARTMENT BELIEVES LOVE TRIANGLE TO BLAME." It
was written by John Hobbs.
"A crazed gunman entered a popular nightspot on the Sunset Strip
Thursday night, shot to death one of the customers, then, as hundreds
of people looked on in horror, turned the gun on himself. The victim
Was Thomas McPartland, a 32-year-old life insurance salesman, who
was having dinner at the Peacock Club with several friends. Witnesses
say the club was packed with patrons when, a little after eight,
Mel Goldberg entered the premises, walked up to McPartland's table,
screamed 'She was the only one I ever loved!' and shot McPartland
through the head with a revolver, killing him instantly. Goldberg then
put the gun into his mouth and took his own life.
"Goldberg, 53, was reportedly despondent over the recent death
of his wife, Susie, who worked as a strip dancer under the name Vera
Vermillion. Goldberg was a self-styled 'talent agent,' though the voluptuous
and much younger Vera Vermillion was thought to be his
only client. Vera, or Susie, had been ill for many years with a heart
damaged by a childhood case of rheumatic fever, and passed away last
week.
'"It looks like the oldest story in the world,' said homicide
detective Roy Foster of the Sheriff's Department sadly. 'Mr.
McPartland evidently met Vera recently when she tried to buy a
life insurance policy from him because she was concerned about
her health. It appears that she and the handsome young McPartland
then struck up a relationship of an amorous nature. Goldberg found
out about it. He went crazy because of jealousy and grief, and the
unfortunate young McPartland had to pay the piper.'"
It was the bee's fault. If the bee hadn't flown in the car window
and stung Mel Goldberg in the eye, he would have gone up to Lake
Arrowhead with Vera, and been able to look after her, and she'd probably
still be alive. Him, too. And Goodlooking Tommy. The bee killed
all three of them.
Somebody knocked. I looked up from the newspaper flapping in
the fan and saw a guy on the other side of the screen door.
"Sorry to bother you, mister, but you think you can spare something
to eat?"
He was holding his hat in a humble way by the brim with both
hands, and looked tired and scruffy.
"Matilda?" I called, and she stuck her head out of the kitchen.

"Yes suh?"
"Would you make this fella something to eat, please?"
"Yes suh."

"Thank you kindly," said the hobo.
He put his hat back on and moved away from the door as Matilda
got his food. In a minute or two I heard a sharp female voice: "What
are you doing there? You get a move-on or I'm going to call the police!"
Now
I saw through the window Mrs. Dean's pinched features and
her eyeglasses glinting savagely in the sun. The hobo was attempting
to stammer out a reply when Matilda came out of the kitchen holding
a plate with a sandwich and an apple on it and a glass of milk.
"Tell Mrs. Dean it's all right," I said.
Matilda went to the door and said: "Miz Dean, it's all right. Mr.
Landon he tell me to fix him some food."
"Well, Matilda, I'm sure Mr. Landons not aware that when you
start feeding one tramp you only encourage others to come around.
They have a way to secretly mark houses to let each other know
which ones are hospitable to them and which aren't," and now she
addressed the hobo. "And I can assure you the Orange Blossom Bungalow
Court is not hospitable."
"Okay, okay, lady, keep your shirt on, I'm going," said the hobo,
and he started to walk away, but Matilda had pushed through the
screen door and it banged shut behind her and she said: "You ain't
going no place!"
The hobo and Mrs. Dean both stared at Matilda. She was maybe
forty or forty-five, with a pretty but worn-out face, bloodshot brown
eyes, and a big behind. She always wore a faded dress and falling-apart
men's shoes and a white apron and a green scarf over her hair. I'd
seldom ever seen her open her mouth except to mumble some version
of yes or no and so I could hardly believe it now when I heard
her say: "My grandma that raised me she told me never to turn away
nobody that come to your door a-wanting food 'cause it might be a
angel in disguise or even Jesus hisself, and even if it ain't, even if it's
just a old hobo, you still gotta feed 'im 'cause that's what the Good
Book tell us to do. And Miz Dean, you can fire me if you want to but
I'm still giving him this here sandwich and this glass of milk."
I'd gotten up and gone to the door by now. "And the apple," I
said.
"And the apple. And that's about all I got to say."
Mrs. Dean looked shocked, while the hobo and I were both grinning.
"Well,
all right, Matilda," said Mrs. Dean finally. "But as soon as
he's finished, please tell him to move along."
Matilda immediately reverted to her usual servile self. "Yessum,"
she said, as she handed the hobo the plate and the glass.
Mrs. Dean fled back across the courtyard to her bungalow, as Matilda
went back inside, and the hobo sat down on my little stoop to

enjoy his meal.
He took a drink of milk, crunched into the apple, then lifted up
the top piece of bread and examined his sandwich.
"My favorite!" he said. "Baloney and cheese!"

5

SUNDAY MORNING I was summoned to the HollywoodY.M.C.A.
Bud liked to have meetings in the steamroom there. I took my clothes
off in the locker room and wrapped a towel around my middle.
Nucky Williams was sitting in a chair outside the steamroom keeping
guard and giving his teeth a thorough going-over with a toothpick.
"Hello, hero," he said with a nasty grin. I didn't say a word, and went
into the steamroom.
Bud was sitting with some guy I didn't recognize. Bud saw me and
lifted a finger to indicate he'd be with me in a minute. The guy was
balding and practically chinless and had soft flabby breasts. He was talking fast, with passionate gestures, and Bud seemed to be listening
intently. Then the guy stood up and stuck out his hand; Bud, though,
pretended not to notice it. Now the guy turned and walked past me,
dripping with sweat and smiling like things had gone just great.
Bud motioned me over.
"Interesting guy," he said as I sat down beside him.
"Who is he?"
"Harry Seaburg. He's an inventor. He invented a machine that
electrocutes hot dogs."
"Why would you want to electrocute a hot dog?"
"It's a cooking method. Cooks hot dogs faster than you can say Jack
Robbins," he said. "That way you'll never have to keep a customer
waiting while you boil up a new pot of dogs. He says a year from now
everybody in America'll be eating electrocuted hot dogs and he's giving
me a chance to get in on the ground floor. Nice of him, ain't it?"
"Does his machine have a name?"
"The Electrodog. He's bringing it over to the club tomorrow to
demonstrate.You oughta come by. I wanna get your opinion about it."
"I'll be there."
I'd never seen Bud without a shirt before. Even when we were sitting
around by the pool he always wore a shirt and long pants. I was
surprised by how puny he looked: skinny arnas and a sunken chest
and a soft little belly. He had quite a bit of chest hair, but it could
have used some Grey Gone. There was a roundish scar about an inch
wide on the lower left part of his stomach.
"So how you feeling?" he said, and he looked at my dent. "How's
them headaches?"
"They're better. I'm feeling good."
"You been seeing Dr. Bartlestone?"
"Not lately. But last time I saw him he said he was pleased with
my progress."
"Him and me both. You know, I knew it was the right thing,
bringing you into the business," and then he added: "Back into the
business. You can write your own ticket now, Danny. After what you
done for me.Whatever you wanna do, I'll help you get set up. Whores.
Numbers. You like the fights, don't you? There's a lot of dough to be
made in fights. Or what about the hot-bond racket?"
"What's that?"
"It's a new thing I'm doing. We heist government bonds from post
offices and banks back east, and sell 'em out here. We got some dicks
in the Bunco Squad working with us. It's a nice way to make some
jack without getting your hands too dirty."
"Sounds interesting. But I been thinking about it lately. I'm not
sure I'm cut out for this."
"For what?"
"You know--the underworld."
Bud laughed, and shook his head.
'"The underworld.'You been seeing too many of them Edward
G. Robertson movies. There ain't an underworld and an upperworld.
There's just the world. Legit and illegit's just two sides of the same
nickel. We're businessmen, we're judges, we're wheelers, we're dealers,
we're killers, we're everything.You think the Chink that runs the
Chinese laundry don't cheat his customers every chance he gets? And
you think if the Chink accidentally gives one of his customers too
much change, the customer's gonna say: 'Hey, Mr. Chink, you gave
me too much change, here's your money back'? But you want me to
set you up in the Chinese laundry business? I'll do it. You can run a
whole fucking chain of Chinese laundries. Like I said. You name it.
It's up to you."
Then Bud gave me such a long, penetrating look it made me start
squirming around a little. Like my toe was hooked up to the Electrodog.


"I need someone near me I can trust. Keep this under your hat,
but it ain't going so good with Schnitter. Not with Hanley neither.
And I think the mayor's mad at me. That little trip up to the lake
blew up in my fucking face. And now I think they're all conspiring
together to get rid of me. So I got my guys around me, sure. Like
Nucky sitting outside the door right now. But think about it. All my
guys are packing. Any one of'em could knock me off. Who's gonna
guard me from my guards? It's like that Roman guy, Julius Caesar. It
was his best buddy, Brutal, that slipped in the shiv."
I knew I ought to say something like: "You can trust me, Bud," but
all I did was nod. My eyes drifted down to the scar on his stomach.
"What happened there?"
He took a look at the scar himself, smiling crookedly. "I got shot.
That's where the slug come out." He twisted around, pointed out
another, smaller scar on his back. "That's where it went in. S.O.B. shot

me in the back."
"Who was it?"
"Night watchman at a warehouse down at the Battery. I was trying
to heist about twenty cases of canned anchovies. I thought I'd cased
the job out real good. The night watchman was this old redheaded
mick that'd spend the first half of every night getting drunk and the
second half pounding the pillow. But I didn't know the mick didn't
show up that night and they had another guy working. This other
guy didn't give me no chance at all. Just plugged me as soon as he
seen me walking away with some of them anchovies."
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen. Just a kid. But I'd been on my own--I'd been part of the underworld--ever since I was eleven.That's when my mother died."

"What about your father?"
"I never knew who my old man was. My mother never talked

about him."
"What was your mother like?"
"Why all the questions?"
I shrugged. "I'm just curious about you, I guess."
He seemed pleased by that. "Yeah? Well, you can ask me any question
you wanna. But I ain't gonna guarantee you I ain't gonna lie." He
laughed. "You asked me about my mother. She was nice. Pretty. She
never laid a hand on me in anger. I didn't have no brothers and sisters,
so it was just her and me. But I didn't see her much. She was working
all the time. She worked in one of them places they had 500 girls
sewing on sewing machines sixteen hours a day. But then she got sick.
I took care of her. I seen a lot of her then." He fell silent, and then: "I
don't wanna talk no more about my mother, if you don't mind."
"What happened after you got shot?"
"Well, I dropped them anchovies and run on outa the warehouse.
Then I was running down the street. Then I guess I musta passed
out, and somebody musta found me and drug me off to the hospital,
'cause that's where I woke up.
"Maybe I'da been better off if I got left on the street. That hospital
was a crummy joint. Blood and puke all over the floor. People moaning
and screaming. The doctors and nurses didn't give a shit about you, they just wanted to get you outa there 'cause you didn't have any
dough.
"Some cops come by and wanted to know how I got shot. I didn't
tell 'em nothing. Then another cop come by, he used to know my
mother. He was nice to her and me when she was sick. He told me
this gang of wops was looking for me, they knew it was me that done
the warehouse job and they figured I was trying to muscle in on their
territory. He said I was hotter than a dime-store pistol and I oughta
get outa town as soon as I could.
"Well, I knew these wops, they'd already killed a good friend of
mine, so I didn't need no extra encouragement. I told one of them
nurses I wanted my clothes, and I just walked outa there. Nobody
tried to stop me. They was glad to see me go.
"I had a girlfriend. She was a year younger than me. She was a real
smart girl, had a lotta class; tell the truth, I don't know what she was
doing with somebody like me.
"She was still going to high school. So I went over to her school
and waited around. Blood was coming through my shirt and it was
colder than shit and windy and it was starting to snow. Then she
come out, and I told her what happened and how I needed to get
outa town, and you know how broads are, she started crying and
begging me not to leave her. I told her I didn't have no choice and
I needed some dough. She only had something like two bits on her,
but she said she knew where her old man kept some dough stashed
away at home.

"I waited around till she come back with the money. It was about
forty bucks. She brung a suitcase too. She was planning on going
with me. I told her that wasn't a good idea, but I promised I'd come
back for her when the heat was off.

"So I went down to the train station. All the time I was still bleeding
and feeling like I was about to pass out. But I was just scared to
death of them wops. I wanted to put as much distance as I could
between me and them and still be in America, so that's how I wound
up here," and he laughed. "All 'cause of them anchovies. And I don't
even like fucking anchovies."
"You ever see her again?Your girlfriend?"
"What do you think?"
There were some guys in the other corner of the steamroom
and suddenly they started laughing at something. We looked at them,
and they were dim in the steam, faded like an old photograph, and
suddenly I had this feeling as though it was a hundred years in the
future and everybody in the steamroom was long dead, and Darla
was dead too, and Dulwich, and Sophie, and everybody else in the
world and every dog and cat and horse and cow and fish and bird, so
why did anything we said or did or thought or felt really matter?
"I heard some shit," said Bud. "About you and Darla. Up at the
lake." I started to say something, but he held up his hands to stop me.
"You don't have to splain nothing to me. I know you and her ain't
up to any monkeyshines, 'cause you never would do that to me. Plus
you're too smart. But you got any idea who mighta started this shit?"
I thought it best to keep my mouth shut. I shrugged.
"Well, I'll find out. Eventually I always find out everything. But
understand something. This ain't about you and Darla. It's about
politics. Politics ain't just like when you're electing a mayor, it's all
the time and everywhere. People see you rising in the organization,
so they wanna throw in a banana peel and hope you slip on it. I just
thought you oughta know."
"Okay, Bud.Thanks."
"I'm leaving town for a couple days. On business. Maybe you
could take Darla out someplace. Show her a good time. She's been
hiding out in her room with a bottle ever since Thursday night. That
ain't healthy for her. She's turning into a regular boozehound."
"Okay. I'll see what I can do."

6

THAT NIGHT I dreamed I was pissing my name in the snow. Since
I wasn't sure what my name was, I was paying close attention, but I
couldn't make heads or tails of it, it was like I was able to write my
name but not read it.
A dog was barking, but then it stopped. I looked out toward the
half-frozen river.

The buildings of the great city across the river rose black and jagged,
seeming more like mountains than buildings. The starving dog I
had seen on the ice was gone. I realized it must have broken through.
Panic surged through me. I ran out on the ice. It was clear like
glass. I looked down and in the dark water I saw Vera Vermillion.
She was naked. She was on her back. She was looking up at me.
Her auburn hair was floating around her head in a snaky tangle. The
current was carrying her, and her fingernails were clawing at the ice
and making white streaks in it. Shouting her name, I ran to keep up.
But she was moving along faster and faster, till finally she was borne
away. I felt like I was about to burst with grief. I fell facedown on the
ice, and began to cry.
After a while I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. It was my
mother.
She was young, maybe twenty-five. She had coppery hair and
light-blue eyes. She was smiling at me.
I sat up. She was wearing just a thin summer frock that left her
arms bare, and I said: "Aren't you cold?"
"No. Are you?"
"No."
"Don't cry about the dog. It's all right."
"It didn't drown?"
She shook her head. Her face was so beautiful, I couldn't get
enough of looking at it. I noticed a faint, crescent-shaped scar on her
left cheek. "What happened there?" I asked.
But she just smiled a little, and shook her head again, and laid a finger on my lips. An overpowering drowsiness possessed me. I lay
back down, and my eyes closed. I was curled up on the hard ice of a
wintry river, but I felt as comfortable as if I were inside on a soft rug
in front of a blazing fireplace. I was basking in the warmth of her.

7

DARLA DIDN'T LOOK like somebody that had been on a five-day
bender. She came down the stairs in a curve-hugging white silk gown
with a halter neck and patches of black beads over the left breast and
left hip. Three plump pearls dangled from each earlobe, and she was
wearing a pearl bracelet on her left wrist.
"New dress?" I said.
"Mm hm. Joan Crawford wore a dress just like this in Letty Lynton."

Anatoly, Bud's eight-fingered butler, held the front door open for
us. "You are pretty as princess," he said to her. "On snowy night. In St.
Petersburg. Long ago."
"Why, thank you, Anatoly," said Darla with a gracious princess-like
nod.
Teddy Bump and Tommy were hanging around outside, smoking
and passing a pint of Haig & Haig back and forth. Tommy looked
pasty-faced and haggard; even though they used to fight all the time,
he'd taken the death of Goodlooking Tommy hard. Teddy glared at us
from under his crooked eyebrows.
"Now you boys behave yourselves," said Darla as we walked past.
Teddy looked like he was about to bust he wanted so badly to say
something, but all he did was throw his cigarette down and grind it
out under his shoe.
I opened the door of my Packard for Darla and she hitched up her
gown and got in. We drove down the sloping driveway to the front
gate. Willie Cooney was sitting in a chair reading the funnies with a
flashlight. Everybody called him Willie the Coon, though not usually
to his face, since he heartily hated Negroes. He had a nose that
looked like it had been broken about a dozen times and a jutting
jaw and shoulders a yard wide. He'd spend all night at the gate, and
I knew there was at least one more guy somewhere out there in the
dark patrolling the walls; Bud had brought in extra guys to guard the
house when he got back from Lake Arrowhead.
Willie gave us a lazy wave and hit a button, and the tall iron gate
rattled open.
We drove down the hill and across Franklin and continued south.
It was nearly midnight, and there wasn't much traffic. Los Angeles was
mostly a town that went to bed early.
"Ever notice something funny about Teddy's eyebrows?" I said.
"Sure.They're pasted on."
"They're fake?"
"Yeah. And he wears a wig and false eyelashes too. Bud told me
about it. He's bald as a billiard ball all over his body. He was born that
way. Some kinda rare disease."
"No hair on his arms, or legs, or--?"
"Nowhere. Not even down around his you-know-what."
We both had a good laugh about it. Now Darla had me pull into a
filling station to buy her some Lucky Strikes.When I returned to the
car, my heart jumped as I heard a gunshot. But it was just a backfire
from a red Buick moving slowly by on the street.
Darla touched my hand to steady it as I lit a cigarette for her. She
didn't seem to have been drinking, which I was glad of. She was in a
good mood, because she was going to sing tonight.
The place we were going was on Adams Boulevard, a little south
of downtown. She said it was one of the first joints she sang in after
she'd arrived from Aurora. I asked her what it was called but she said
it didn't have a name.
We crossed San Pedro. We were in a neighborhood of once-fine
houses that had mostly gone to seed. Now Darla told me to pull
over.
"That's it," she said, nodding at a gloomy mansion that didn't seem
to have a single light on inside.
"I don't think anybody's home," I said. "Or maybe they've already
gone to sleep."
Darla laughed. "They're in there. And they're not asleep."
We were lit up from behind as another car parked. A very dressed
up man and woman got out of a long white Marmon and walked
toward the mansion. Darla and I followed.
The couple looked a bit odd, since the woman was about a head
and a half taller than the man. We all went up the front steps, and the
man knocked on a heavy wooden door. A panel was pulled back, and
the stern face of a Negro appeared.
"Open sesame," said the man in a booming deep voice as the
woman giggled.
"Well, if it ain't Earl and Shirley," said the Negro.
"Hello, Otis," said Darla.
The Negro's face was split by a big grin and two gold teeth
gleamed at us.
"Darla," he said, and opened the door.
We stepped inside. It was nearly as dark inside as out. By the light
of a lone candle, I saw that Otis looked like a character out of The
Thief of Baghdad. He was wearing a turban, a loose silk blouse, and
baggy silk pants, and had a wide curving sword hanging from his side.
He was about six and a half feet tall.
"Little Brother told me you was coming," he said.
"How have you been?" said Darla.
"The same. Everything been zackly the same round here cepting
you ain't been here but now you back here everything zackly the
same."
We walked into a cavernous room lit only by a few candles, the
ceiling barely visible in the darkness. The floor was covered in colorful
Persian rugs, and all the windows were hidden behind heavy
purple drapes. There were several low sofas and low tables, and plush
pillows were scattered about on the rugs and people sat or reclined
on the sofas and among the pillows.The air was thick with the smoke

of cigarettes and reefers.
A handsome young colored man, wearing a white dinner jacket, a
red shirt, and a black bowtie, sat at a baby grand playing a lazy jazzy
tune. He gave Darla a wink and a wave.
We sat down on one of the sofas. Three waiters, all colored and
all dressed like Otis, were moving among the customers with trays of
drinks. Darla ordered a cherry bomb, and I asked for the same, whatever
it was.
I looked over the clientele. Several Negro men were cuddled up
with white women, one hefty Negro woman was sitting on a portly
white man's lap, and two white women were passionately smooching.
Darla was enjoying my obvious amazement.
"You ever seen a joint like this before?" she said.
"Nope. Looks like you and me and Earl and Shirley are about the
only regular couples here."
"Take a look at Earl and Shirley and tell me what they're doing."
They were sitting on another sofa. Earl was lighting Shirley's
cigarette; now he applied the flame to a big cigar sticking out of his
mouth.
"Earl's lighting a cigar."
"Unh unh.That's Shirley. Earl's the one in the dress."
I looked again. I could see it now. A guy dressed up like a broad
and vice versa. I laughed.
The waiter came back with our cherry bombs, which turned
out to be glasses of champagne with cherries in them. Darla ate
her cherry, then asked for mine. As I handed it over, Little Brother,
the proprietor of the place, appeared. He was a short, light-skinned
colored guy dressed like his waiters and doorman except he wasn't
wearing a turban. His head was shaved and he had a gold earring in
his right ear. He hugged Darla and kissed her on the cheek then presented
me with a very limp hand to shake as Darla introduced us.
"Oh, he's cute, sugar," he said to Darla. "If I was you I'd go out and
find a judge and get married right now."
"Marriage just means three things," said Darla. "Diapers, dirty
dishes, and dinner."
Little Brother laughed extravagantly, then sort of twirled away, at
the same time clapping his hands above his head.
"Ladies? Gentlemen? Look who we got here with us tonight!
Darla! Yeah, Darla's back! And if we ask her real nice, she might sing
us a song or two! With her sweet, bird-like voice!"
The candle-lit couples applauded softly for Darla. She finished off
her cherry bomb and handed me the glass and walked over to the
piano. She talked briefly with the piano player, then started singing
"One Night of Love"--

"When at the break of dawn
I find my lover gone
I'll whisper with a smile
I've lived a little while-- I've known one night of love."

She seemed in her white gown to be a perfect creature of the smoke
and the flickering light. I looked around the room, and saw people
looking lost and dreamy as they listened, as if she was a witch casting a
wonderful spell. Earl and Shirley got up and started dancing, with Shirley's
face buried in Earl's false bosom. The two white women seemed
unaware of everything else as they continued to kiss and caress each
other; one of them had a cool, aloof beauty that seemed very familiar.
Little Brother came over and gave me a glass filled with a clear
green liquid.
"Try this."
I took a sip. It tasted like liquid licorice.
"Not bad. What is it?"
"Absinthe."
"That woman over there? The one in the brown skirt? Is that

Greta Garbo?"
Little Brother took a look. "Maybe. Maybe not. When people
come in here, they check their names at the door. I'm glad you like
the absinthe. It makes the heart grow fonder."
Darla sang more songs, and I drank more glasses of absinthe. I
began to see things I wasn't sure were actually there. A gigantic blue
and red and green parrot appeared on the arm of the sofa, squawked
"So long!" eleven times, then flapped away and disappeared up a staircase.
Greta Garbo gave me a sinister smile, then stuck out her unnaturally
long tongue at me. A colored guy in a three-piece chesterfield
suit was on a sofa with his hand up the dress of a writhing white girl.
A big dark dick began to lift up out of his lap like a cobra out of a
basket. Bats crawled across the purple curtains.
A waiter approached with still another glass of absinthe, and I
raised my arms like a man who was being beaten. "No! No more."
Little Brother sat down beside me. "How you doing, sugar?"
My tongue felt like a dead slab of meat as I mumbled some stuff
that even I didn't understand.
Little Brother laughed and said: "I didn't know you spoke Chinese."
I
laughed too, a weak, wheezing, old man's laugh. My head started
tipping over, it was like it bore no relationship to my shoulders. I felt spit
gathering in the corner of my mouth, getting ready to turn into drool.
Little Brother moved very close to my face; he seemed to have the
overlarge predatory eyes of an owl. "That girl over there? Singing by
the piano? She's very near and dear to me.You understand what I'm
saying?"
My head lolled around loosely at the end of my stalk-like neck as
I tried to nod.
"She seems to trust you, for some reason. So you take good care of
her.You don't, and Little Brother's gonna come looking for you."
He kept talking, but I couldn't hear him anymore because an
enormous roaring filled my ears, and then all went black as though I
was swept into a railroad tunnel.

8

CLACKETY CLACK.
Next thing I knew I was outside the mansion of Little Brother
throwing up lavishly and greenly on the lawn.
"Ha ha!" I heard. "Har har!"
I looked up from my bent-over hands-on-knees position, and saw
Darla a few feet away, watching me with concern; near her was the
white man who'd had the colored woman on his lap. He was an older
guy, with a bushy white walrus moustache. He had his hands on his
hips and was laughing at me. He said, with an English accent: "Your
friend's giving it a bit of the old heave-ho, what?"
"You gonna be okay, Danny?" asked Darla.
I nodded. I noticed it was dawn. I took my handkerchief out and
wiped off my mouth. The guy handed Darla something.
"My card, my dear."
'"Anthony Goodall,'" read Darla.'"Motion picture producer.'"
"I am not one of those fly-by-night soi-disant producers, ask anyone
in the city about Tony Goodall and I am confident they will tell
that I am, as you Americans call it, the real McCoy."
"I know the real real McCoy," I said.
Tony Goodall laughed again. "Yes, you poor fellow, I'm sure you
do." He turned back to Darla. "By dint of long practice, my eyes have
become, for all practical purposes, motion picture cameras, and as I
gazed upon you tonight I thought I detected that elusive sidereal quality
that we are all in quest of. My next film and the next of Ronald
Coleman happen to be one and the same. While fox hunting, the
Prince of Wales takes a nasty spill from his horse, suffers a knock on
his noggin, and develops amnesia. He wanders off on his own. The entire
country's looking for him, of course, but somehow, the script's still
a bit weak on this point, he winds up in America. He finds work as a
common laborer, and falls in love with a very beautiful girl who works
as a maid. Inevitably, one morning he awakes and remembers who
he is. His dilemma is this: He knows his responsibility is to return to
England to be who he was born to be. But if he does so, he'll have to
give up the girl, since obviously a mere maid is unfit to be the wife of
the future king. It is an impossible choice between duty and beauty."
"So what does he do?" said Darla.
"Oh, I don't know, love, the writers, such as they are, are still hashing
all that out. At any rate, that vile horrible witch Joan Crawford wants the role of the girl but over my dead body. Ronnie and I are
looking for a fresh face. Perhaps you are she."
"Funny you should mention Joan Crawford," said Darla as she
gave her gown a pluck.
"Yes, isn't it? Well, I must toddle. I do hope you call. You have
nothing to lose but your chains. Ha ha!" And then to me: "I once
knew a man whose liver was rotting out who produced vomitus of
precisely that color. I'd go to a doctor if I were you."
Goodall doffed his hat to Darla and walked off toward his car.
Darla stuck out her arms and closed her eyes and gave a mewing half
yawn as she stretched luxuriously.
"What a night.You ready to go, Danny?"
We got in the Packard and drove away from Little Brother's. The days had been hot, but now it was cool. A bit of morning mist hung
in the air. We had Los Angeles largely but not completely to ourselves.
Plenty of birds were out. A kid in knickers on a ramshackle bike was
expertly flinging newspapers at the front steps of houses. A milkman
dressed in white was carrying white bottles of milk away from a
white milk truck.
Darla was scrutinizing herself with a frown in her compact mirror.
"Well, my face doesn't look very fresh right now. Matter of fact,
it looks like hell." She snapped shut the compact and returned it to
her purse. Then she looked at Tony Goodall's card, tore it in half, and
threw it out the window.
"Why'd you do that?"
"Oh, he just wants to screw me."
"Maybe he was on the level."
"What if he was? I was in a movie once. A guy a lot like Tony
Goodall got me the role. I had one line in one scene. This mean little
kid let loose a bunch of white mice at a fancy party. I had to jump up
on a table and say:'Take me home at once, Alfred!'Then I fell backward
into a bowl of punch.
"They shot the scene again and again. And all these white mice
were supposed to be dropping down the fronts of women's dresses
and getting in their hair and crawling up guys' trouser legs, and these
stuck-up people were running around and screaming and going nuts
and it's supposed to be hilarious. And usually I'm scared of mice, but
these mice were just so cute. Little pink ears and eyes and feet and
tails. And they were getting stepped on, and thrown against walls, and
I saw one dragging itself along the floor leaving a trail of blood, and I
found another one drowned in the punchbowl. And the director just
kept screaming: 'More mice, more mice!' I was nearly hysterical by
the time it was all over.
"I know, they were just mice. But it wasn't right, what happened.
Nobody cared about the mice. Somebody should've looked out for
them."
"So 'cause you had one bad experience, you don't wanna be in
the movies?"
She shrugged, and lit up a cigarette. We drove along in silence
awhile. My head was killing me. Since I didn't have any water I just
chewed up two aspirin and swallowed them. Which tickled my throat,
which made me start coughing, which made me feel sick again.
pulled the car over and jumped out and ran over to the side
of the street and threw up in some brownish, patchy grass. We were
in a neighborhood of shabby warehouses and machine shops; I saw
chalked on the side of one building: "END POVERTY IN CALIFORNIA.VOTE
FOR SINCLAIR."
As I walked back, I saw a car about a block and a half behind us,
stopped in the street with the engine running, dark smoke drifting up
from the tailpipe. It was a red Buick.Two guys were in the front seat,
but they were too far away for me to see what they looked like.
I got in my car and drove on. In the rearview mirror I could see
the Buick driving on too. I made a left. In a few moments I saw the
Buick making the left behind us.
"Don't turn around," I said. "Just look in the mirror. I think we're
being followed."
Darla took a look. "Jesus. Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."
"You got your gun, right?"
Wrong. The Mexicans had my gun, and I hadn't got around to
getting a new one.
"Right."
"Who do you think they are?"
"I don't know."
I turned right at the next block, and the Buick obligingly followed.
"Shouldn't
we go fast?" said Darla. "Try and lose 'em?"
"Maybe it's better if we don't let 'em know we know they're
there."
"But Danny, what if they're about to kill us, or kidnap us?"
"I think they've been following us since last night. I'm pretty sure
I saw the same car when we stopped at the gas station to get cigarettes.
So if they wanted to hurt us, they probably would've already
done it. I think they're just watching us. They wanna see where we
go, what we're up to."
"It's Bud.They're reporting back to Bud."
"Most likely."
"Bastard."
She started puffing away furiously at her cigarette, like the cigarette
was Bud and she was trying to smoke him up.
"He's completely nuts. I'd leave today, but I know he'd come after
me. Betty, the cigarette girl? He had her killed just 'cause she took
another job. And there was this other girl, this Mexican girl. She was
his girlfriend for a while, but finally she'd had enough, and she took
off and went back to Mexico. He sent his creeps after her, and they
brought her back. She was on her knees, begging for her life. And he
shot her. Right in the Peacock Club."
"Was her name Emperatriz?"
"Yeah. So you know about her."
"I didn't know she was dead."
"I know the same thing would happen to me if I ever tried to
leave him." Now she gave a long sigh. "Look, I don't wanna drag you
into my mess. It's all my fault, and now I'm paying for it. Forget I said
anything."
The Buick continued to hang back at a discreet distance all the
way to Bud's house. I stopped in front of the gate and beeped. Willie
the Coon peered out, unkempt and unshaven; he was peeling a banana,
and, through the bars of the gate, looked like he lived in a zoo.
The gate slid open, and I drove up to the house. Anatoly was out
by the swimming pool, at the artificial beach. He was barefoot and
wearing an undershirt. He was feeding the seagull. He tossed up
scraps of food and the gull, flapping around on its ten-foot tether,
snapped up the scraps in mid-air. Anatoly seemed to be talking to
the gull, while the gull was making screechy cries. Both man and gull
seemed happy.
Darla and I went in the house. I could hear somebody snoring
somewhere. I walked with Darla to the stairs.
"Thanks for taking me out, Danny. I had a great time."
"Yeah, me too. But I think next time I'll lay off the absinthe."
She smiled. She pulled her pearl earrings off.
"I can't wait to crawl into bed."
She was standing on the second stair, so her head was a little higher
than mine. And now she bent down a little and put her hand on the
side of my face and kissed me on the mouth for about three seconds.
Then she turned, and I watched her hips in the Joan Crawford gown
sway their way up the stairs.
I wandered off in search of the snoring. I found Teddy and Tommy
asleep in the room where we'd had the party Tommy was slumped in
an armchair, and Teddy was sprawled on his back on a couch. Teddy
was the snorer.
I stood above him and looked down at him. His mouth was wide
open. I ripped off one of his fake eyebrows and dropped it in his
mouth and walked swiftly toward the door. I heard choking and gagging
noises behind me, and then I was outside where the sun was just
coming up over the barbwired wall.

9



"I USED TO doubt the existence of fairies too," said Dulwich to nae
and Sophie--this in response to Sophie's declaration that she didn't
believe in God, ghosts, Santa Claus, fairies, or anything else. "But a
summer I spent in Ireland when I was eleven caused me to doubt my doubt.
"I was staying with my uncle and aunt, who lived a few miles outside
the little town of Foxford. There was a girl that worked there as
a maid, her name was Kitty. A wide, freckled face, a bit on the podgy
side, very warm, always laughing and filled with garrulous stories.
She was a firm believer in the fairy folk, and she told me about a
phenomenon known as the 'lone sod.' That occurs when a place is
particularly precious to the fairies, and they cast a spell on the unwary
trespassing traveler which makes him completely befuddled and lost
and unable to find his way out of the place, until the fairies choose to
let him go. She said the only way to break the spell is to take off your
coat and turn it inside out and put it back on, but such a maneuver
works less than half the time. There was a field just a short distance
down the road that had a huge gnarled thorn tree growing in the
middle, and Kitty said it was a fairy tree and that I should avoid the
field lest I fall victim to the 'lone sod.'
"Well, of course I just considered Kitty to be an ignorant superstitious
Irish girl and thought no more about it. Then a few days later
came a day of great heat."
"Like today," said Sophie. We were walking back from a drugstore
on Melrose, with ice cream cones we were hurrying to consume before
they dripped onto the baking street.
"Like today. My uncle was a very quiet chap who had lost a leg to
an infection caused by a Zulu spear at the Battle of Isandhlwana, and
he seemed forever to be brooding on its loss. The only time his spirits
seemed to brighten a bit was when he talked about his boyhood,
which he obviously saw as some cloudless prelapsarian paradise."
Sophie frowned and said: "Speak English."
"My uncle smiled as he told me about a stream that flowed out
of the Ox Mountains, it had a deliciously cool pool embowered by
blackthorns where he and his young chums used to bathe on hot
summer days such as this.
"It seemed like the proper place to go, so I got directions from
my uncle and set out on foot. The road looped around the aforementioned
field. I could see the thorn tree standing tall and dark and
twisted in its center. The field was surrounded by a fence, and in the
fence was a gate, and there was a footpath that led across the field. It
seemed silly to walk all the way around the field when I could walk
directly across it, so I went through the gate and closed it behind me.
"The path seemed to belie Kitty's claims, since it seemed unlikely
that if the local folk were afraid of being kidnapped by the fairies
they would have crossed the field often enough to have ever worn
a path there. Or so it seemed at least to my logical, eleven-year-old
mind. The path passed near the thorn tree, and I looked it over as I
walked by. Its branches were moving a little in a breeze, which would
have been unremarkable if there had actually been a breeze. But the
air hung heavy and still.Yet still the branches moved.
"I quickened my pace, and reached the other side of the field
without further incident. A stile was there."
"What's a stile?" I said.
"Steps over a fence. Beyond the fence I saw the road. I climbed
up the stile, but as I crossed over onto the other side I felt a strange
sensation in the pit of my stomach and a ripple of dizziness. But it all
lasted just a moment and then I was fine.
"I was puzzled though to find myself, not back on the road, but
in another field. I set off down another path, and then I saw before
me another large twisted thorn tree, and then I realized, with some
consternation, that I wasn't walking across another field but was walking
back into the same field. I turned around, went back to the stile,
crossed over the fence again and--well I'm sure you can guess that
the experience repeated itself exactly.
"I decided to give up the whole idea of a short cut and to depart
the field at the same place I entered. The day seemed preternaturally
still as I crossed the field again. I heard no buzz of bug nor chirp of
bird. The thorn still seemed to be vaguely gesticulating to me as I
walked by.
"I was relieved to see the gate again, and I opened it and passed
through. But again I felt the dizziness and the strange feeling in my
stomach, and I was dismayed but not altogether surprised to find myself
still on the wrong side of the gate and trapped within the field.
"Then I heard human voices. A rickety cart was approaching on
the road, pulled by a decrepit donkey. In the cart were an old man and
a young boy. I called out to them, but they didn't seem to hear me. I
called out louder, and jumped up and down and waved my arms. The
donkey glanced my way, but the man and the boy just continued to
talk to each other, and I watched the cart trundle on down the road
and out of sight.
"At this point I began to panic. It was, as I said, very hot. I felt
thirstier than I'd ever felt in my life. And I feared that I would be
a prisoner here forever, a poor damned creature roaming from one
side of the field to the other ceaselessly seeking an exit that didn't
exist. I turned toward the thorn, which was rising up dark and terrible
against the blazing blue sky, and I cupped my hands around my
mouth and shouted toward it: 'I'm sorry I didn't believe in you! I
believe in you now! Please let me go!'And then I tried the gate again,
but unfortunately the result was the same."







A mangy brown and white beagle with an oozing sore on its leg
had been limping along behind us; now I gave it the soggy remnants
of my cone, which it chomped up ecstatically. "But why didn't you
just turn your coat inside out?" asked Sophie. "Like Kitty said."
"I wasn't wearing a coat, but I did do this: I took off every article
of clothing I was wearing, turned it inside out, and put it back on."
Sophie giggled. "What happened?"
"It worked like a charm. I passed through the gate, and found myself
back out on the road, whereupon I resumed my journey to the
stream. Taking the long way around, of course."
"Were you still wearing your clothes inside out?" said Sophie.
"No, of course not. I undressed and then redressed properly."
Sophie gave Dulwich a squinty, sideways look. "Did all that really
happen?"
He tousled her hair. "I only lie to myself, Sophie. Never to others."
We
walked by some kids who'd erected forts made out of lawn
furniture and were throwing firecrackers at each other. Today was the
Fourth of July.
"Danny and I have a surprise for you when we get back," said
Dulwich.
"Really? What kind of surprise?"
"It's a birthday present," I said.
"But my birthday was two weeks ago."
"Uh oh. Looks like we screwed up, Dulwich."
"Indeed. We've made a dreadful error. What do you think we
should do?"
"Take it back to the store, I guess. Get a refund."
"Yes, I do believe that's the correct course of action."
"You better not," said Sophie grimly.
In Dulwich's bungalow Sophie tore the wrapping paper and ribbons
off a box then lifted up the top. She pushed aside some tissue
paper and said: "Shoes."
"Tap-dancing shoes," I said.
'"Split clog' tap-dancing shoes," said Dulwich. "The very best
one can get, according to the helpful young lady who sold them to
us. Beechwood soles and hollow wooden heels that produce a very
special sound."
Sophie looked beside herself with excitement as she took her
mary janes off and slipped on the gleaming red tap shoes.
"Where'd you get them?"
"This store called Capezio's," I said. "It's on Hollywood and Vine.
The salesgirl said Bojangles Robinson gets all his shoes there."
Tinker Bell jumped into the shoe box, and started clawing at the
tissue paper. Sophie began clattering around the room in her shoes.
"We guessed at the size," said Dulwich. "Do they fit all right?"
"Perfect. I can run away to New York and get famous now. Like
Ruby Keeler."
"No running away," I said.
"You can come too. And Dulwich. And Tinker. We can all run
away together."
"That charming sound you're producing," said Dulwich, "reminds
me that I really ought to sit down in front of my typewriter and get
to work."
"How's your story going?" I said.
He sighed. "Worse and worse, I'm afraid. The patient barely has a
pulse."
" 'Scuse me, Tinker," said Sophie as she evicted the cat from the
box then gathered up the wrapping paper and the ribbons and her
old shoes.
"It's a wonderful present," she said. "It's the most wonderful present
I've ever gotten."
Later I sat on my davenport in the living room as the day ended
and the dusk seeped in. I'd bought a new Philco radio with some of
my gambling winnings, and Betty and Bob was playing on it, but I
wasn't really listening. I was trying to remember where I'd left my life
like a man tries to remember where he's left his hat.
I heard someone walking down the sidewalk, then Sophie appeared
at the door. She squinted in through the screen.

"Danny? You in there?"
"Yeah. Come in."
"How come you're sitting in the dark? Why don't you turn on a
light?"
"Why should I?"
"I don't know."
She walked around, looking the room over like she'd never seen
it before. Then she came over to the davenport, perched on the edge
of it. She fidgeted, sighed, tugged at her hair, knocked her knees together.
Finally she said: "Thanks again. For the shoes."
"You're welcome."
"I always have so much fun when I'm with you guys. Everybody's
always laughing and joking around. How come everybody can't be
like that all the time?"
"Beats me. Things just don't work that way, I guess."
Sophie chewed on her lower lip. Betty and Bob blabbered on.
"Knock knock," said Sophie.
"Who's there?"
"Shelby."
"Shelby who?"
"Shelby coming around the mountain when she comes," sang
Sophie.
"That's pretty funny."
"Yeah. Do you know any jokes?"
"I don't think so."
"Danny?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you mind if... I sat closer to you?"
I was a little surprised, but said: "No. Of course not."
Then she nestled up against me, and I lifted up my arm and put
it around her shoulders, and she put her arm across my chest. I could
feel her heart tapping fast against her ribs. There seemed to be nothing
to her. When you hold a baby bird in the palm of your hand it
seems to have no weight, it's like a handful of feathery air, and it felt
kind of that way to hold Sophie.
"You remember that brush you gave me?" she asked.
"The pink one?"
"No, the polkadot one, you dummy. How many brushes have you
given me? Yes, the pink one."
"What about it?"
"Every night before I go to bed, I brush my hair with it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." And then:"I like you so much."
"Well, I like you too."
"A lot?"
"A whole lot."

She sighed; then her grubby-fingernailed hand began to rub my
chest, then it slid down to the front of my pants, and she started feeling
around for my you-know-what.
I was shocked. I shoved her hand away. I said: "What the hell are
you doing?!"
We both sat bolt upright, and stared at each other, both aghast.
"But--I thought--you wanted me to."
"Are you nuts? You're just a kid!"
"Okay. Quit yelling at me.You bastard."
Eyes aglitter with tears, she jumped up and ran out the door. Mrs.
Dean had recently replaced the old slack rusted spring on the screen
door with a brand-new shiny tightly coiled spring, and it yanked the
door shut with a sound like a pistol shot.
10

I DREAMT KID McCoy and I were at Custer's Last Stand.We could
see the Indians attacking the soldiers on a grassy hill a couple of hundred
yards away, but the Indians hadn't spotted us yet.
I saw a phone booth. I went in it and tried to call home, but nobody
answered. Then I saw some of the Indians leaving the scene of
the massacre and riding our way. They were nearly naked and covered
in blue paint with yellow, lightning-like zigzags and white spots like
hail and they were making terrifying war whoops.
I stepped out of the phone booth. "Run, Kid!" I yelled, and the
old champ took off in a scampering, monkey-like fashion as spears
and arrows whizzed past and barely missed him. I turned and ran
too as the Indians bore down upon me, the grass was up around my
knees, it was like running through water, then I woke up. It was ten
past ten in the morning.
I sat at the kitchen table in my underwear for a while, brooding
over a cup of Folgers; then I called up Wendell Nuffer.
He seemed surprised, but glad, to hear from me. He agreed to
meet me at one o'clock for lunch at Jack's Steak House.
It was on Santa Monica Boulevard, on the corner of Formosa.
We sat in a red leather booth, and drank ice-cold martinis while we
waited for our steaks.
Nuffer had been a wreck the last time I'd seen him, but today he
seemed relaxed and happy
"You're looking good, Mr. Nuffer."
"Why, thank you, kind sir." He patted his stomach. "I've lost some
weight, on doctor's orders. I've cut down considerably on my drinking,
the present martini notwithstanding. In short, I'm feeling, as they
say,'in the pink,' for the first time in many years."
"Why the change?"
He musingly fingered his martini glass.
"When I came back from Lake Arrowhead, I thought about driving
to Pasadena and jumping off Suicide Bridge. But then I decided,
to hell with the scandalmongers, Nuffer's number wasn't yet up. Now
gradually I've come to realize it was all for the best. I'd set myself
upon a dark and shameful path. I was keeping company with known
criminals. I have a wonderful wife and four beautiful children, but I
was willing to risk everything for an alluring piece of tail. And I have
to tell you I find myself missing Miss Gilbertson not a whit. Well--
perhaps a whit."
He laughed ruefully, and lifted the martini to his lips.
"I plan to leave city government, Danny, in the very near future, and
go into some relatively honest line of work--say, graverobbing or safecracking.
Or have you heard of the Running Board Bandit? He's an enterprising
fellow who jumps on the running boards of cars with women
drivers in them and threatens them with a knife and steals their jewelry
and purses. I believe this town is big enough for two Running Board
Bandits. And I'm sure my doctor would approve; I'd be working all day
in the open air and getting plenty of exercise chasing down cars."
Our steaks arrived, carried by a cute little package named Latona.
"You fellas need anything else?" she said. "Another drink maybe?"
"I'm going to be virtuous, Latona," said Nuffer, "and just have a
glass of iced tea."
"Same for me," I said.
"Okey dokey," smiled Latona; now Nuffer watched her wiggle off
with a look of deep regret.
"It's hard to be virtuous, Danny. So very hard."
He knifed into his T-bone as I shook some ketchup out on my

french fries.
"Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Nuffer. I guess you're wondering

why I called."
He forked a juicy pink triangle of meat into his mouth.
"As far as I'm concerned, we're friends, Danny.You don't have to
have a reason to call me. But I assumed you had one."
"It's like this. A lot of things don't add up. With me, I mean."

"Like what, for example?"
"Well, like my nickname. Two Gun Danny Landon. I got it because
a few years ago myself and some of the other guys robbed this
gambling ship--"
"The Monfakone.Yes, I know the story. You jumped up on a table
and blazed away at your enemies with a gun in each hand."
"Of course I don't remember any of this. I don't remember anything
before I got beat up last year."
Nuffer wiped his mouth with his napkin, and gave me a careful,
appraising look.
"So what doesn't add up?"
"I've figured out that I don't like guns, Mr. Nuffer. They're loud,
and they're scary, and when I saw what a bullet did to Goodlooking
Tommy's head it just about made me sick. I can't imagine standing
on a table shooting at people like some kind of maniac, like Jimmy
Cagney or somebody."
Coincidentally, at just that moment I saw a movie star slide into a
nearby booth--except it wasn't Jimmy Cagney, it was Gene Autry, the
singing cowboy.
"What else doesn't add up?" said Nuffer.
"I keep getting this creepy feeling that everybody else knows something
that I don't. Like everybody's in on the joke but me. Dick Prettie,
for instance. Whenever I ask him something about my past, he always gets
kind of uncomfortable, and shifty-eyed, and tries to change the subject."
Latona came back with our iced teas. "Guess who just came in!"
she said in a loud excited whisper.
"Gene Autry?" I said.
"And he's sitting at one of my tables!" She stole a glance at Autry;
he was wearing a western shirt and a polkadot bandanna, and had a
soft, friendly face. "Isn't he a dreamboat?"
"Perhaps you'll ride off to old Santa Fe with him," said Nuffer. "As
he sings to you. On the back of his golden horse."
"That'd be swell," Latona giggled, then she smoothed her skirt
down over her hips and sauntered over to his table.
"Imagine the enormous amount of nookie Gene Autry must be
getting," sighed Nuffer. "But excuse me, Danny. Go on."
"I'm just looking for someone to level with me. To tell me the
truth about me. At least, as far as they know it."

Nuffer smiled faintly.
"You were kind to me that night, Danny. On the worst night of
my life, you were the only one who was kind. Ask me anything you
want."
"Is my name really Danny Landon?"
"I have no idea."
"What happened that night on the Monfakone?"
"My understanding is it sank after an accidental fire that started in
the kitchen."
"Was it robbed?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Was I on the ship that night?"
"I highly doubt it."
"So the story about me and the two guns is--?"
"Bullshit."
I felt greatly relieved; it was like I'd actually physically been holding
those heavy guns in my hands for month after month, and now
I'd tossed them down.
"Who started the story?"
"Our friend Mr. Seitz."
"Why?"
Nuffer hesitated.
"Danny, everything I'm telling you is obviously in the strictest
confidence. The consequences would be dire for me if this conversation
became known."
"Don't worry, Mr. Nuffer. I won't tell anybody."
"This is what I know, in a nutshell.
"A year or so ago, Bud suddenly left town. He was gone for several
weeks. When he came back, he came back with you.
"You were taken straightaway from the train station to the Cedars
of Lebanon Hospital. You were in very bad shape. You'd suffered a severe
beating.You were drifting in and out of consciousness, and you'd
lost your memory."
"So you saw me? In the hospital?"
"No. Nobody except Bud saw you until later. Bud said you were
alone in the world, and he'd decided to take care of you. He said he
was creating a fictitious identity for you--'making up a new life for
him,' is how he put it--Two Gun Danny Landon, a tough customer
who'd been part of his gang for years. He was expecting everybody
to play along with the story or he'd be very disappointed, he said.
And he had his reasons for doing what he was doing and they weren't
anybody's business but his.
"That's all I know for certain, Danny. Beyond that is just rumors,
speculation. It's believed that Bud brought you here from New York.
I've heard that you're the son of an old pal of his who once saved his
life and now he's taking you under his wing to pay off the debt. I've
also heard you're the son of his sister."
"Bud Seitz's nephew?"
"I wouldn't put much stock in that particular story. I don't see
much of a family resemblance myself," then he looked at my face more
closely. "I don't know. Perhaps the nose. And around the mouth."
I sat there in silence, trying to get my head around all this.
"Danny? Are you all right?"
I nodded. I noticed numbly that Gene Autry was drinking a glass
of milk--evidently as wholesome off-screen as on.
"Since I'm already speaking out of school here," said Nuffer, who
all the while had been speedily working his way through his steak,
and now was on the home stretch, "there's something else I think you
should know."
"What?"
"Have you heard of the Combination?"
I shook my head.
"It's simply the people that wield the real power in the Angel City.
Some are elected officials, some are businessmen, some are people like
your boss. Some might even consider me to be a modest part of the
Combination. So here's the word.
"Imagine rats. Imagine they're on a ship. Imagine the ship is sinking.
Now I'm not suggesting you're a rat, Danny, but I am suggesting
that the future of Bud Seitz in this town is limited, and the more distance
you put between yourself and him, the better for you."
"What are you saying? The Combination's gonna have Bud
killed?"
Nuffer shrugged. "They're in the midst of a reorganization, let's
put it that way." He eyed my plate. "You're not hungry?"
"No. Want my steak?"

"Well, it would be a shame to let something so delicious go to
waste."
He stuck in his fork and plopped the steak on his plate. Juice
splashed up on the starchy front of his white shirt.

"Damn it!" He started rubbing at the spots with his napkin. "It's
always something, isn't it? Now I'll have to go back to work looking
like a slovenly pig. Oh, to hell with virtue. Latona? Latona? Two more
martinis please!"

As I drove home from Jack's, a bit of song came into my head, I didn't
know how I knew it--

Mother of Christ,
Star of the sea,
Pray for the wanderer,
Pray for me.

11

BUD KILLED TOMMY at about three-thirty on a Thursday afternoon.
It was two days after my lunch with Nuffer. I was sitting around
the Peacock with Bud and Dick and Nello and Willie the Coon. The
club didn't open up till six, so we had it to ourselves. Everybody was
drinking coffee and smoking and making the usual numbskulled conversation
about nothing.
I looked across the table at Bud and thought: Could he really be
my uncle? He'd told me he didn't have any brothers and sisters but
he could have lied about that. I wanted to ask him directly who I was
but I'd also promised to protect Nuffer. What if I just told him I'd
heard a rumor that such and such was the case? Could he figure out
somehow Nuffer was the rat?
Bud was telling us about some suits he'd just bought at a new
men's store in Beverly Hills, then Nello said:" 'Member Wingy? And
them fucking shirts?"
"Oh yeah," Bud grinned, then he looked at me. "Before your time,
Danny. Wingy Nussbaum.They called him Wingy 'cause he had polio
or some kinda shit when he was a kid and he had this funny little
arm, it was like a little kid's arm stuck on this growed-up guy. So he
had to have all his coats and shirts made special. One time he ordered
fifty silk shirts at thirty bucks a pop. So he goes in to pick up the
shirts, and the tailor's fucked up. He's made the wrong sleeve short.
Well, the tailor's scared to death Wingy's gonna kill him or something,
but I guess Wingy's in a good mood 'cause he just says:'Don't worry
about it. Just make me some new shirts.' 'But what am I gonna do
with all these shirts?' says the tailor. Well Wingy scratches his chin a
minute, then says: 'Bring me some scissors.' So the tailor comes back
with some scissors, and asks Wingy what's he gonna do. 'I'm gonna
make you some short-sleeve shirts,' says Wingy, and he cuts the sleeves
off all fifty of them fucking thirty-dollar shirts."
Everybody laughed and started telling Wingy Nussbaum stories:
how he bought an oil well on La Cienega and whenever he went to
visit it he'd wear high leather boots and puffy pants and a pith helmet
like he was going on a safari, and how he once beat a guy to death
with the hand crank of an old Ford, and then I saw Tommy walk in.
When he saw us he got a look on his face like maybe he wasn't
expecting Bud to be here and he turned back around, but Bud saw
him and called out:"Hey,Tommy! Where you going? Come here!"
Tommy looked panicky for about a half a second then put a smile
on and walked toward us as carefully as a man walking on a tightrope;
of course, that very carefulness was a dead giveaway that he was
drunk, then he was at the table grinning and chuckling and blowing
out boozy breaths all over everybody.
"Hey, fellas. What's the good word?"
Bud started wiping his hands off on a Kleenex. He was very slow
about it. One finger at a time.
"Tell me something. Is the sun down yet?"
Tommy chuckled some more. "Nope. Not last time I looked."
"It's summertime, ain't it? The days last fucking forever, don't they?
It ain't even close to sundown, is it?"
Tommy was sweating, and swaying a little; he put out his hand and
touched the table to stop himself.
"No, Bud. It ain't close."
"Then what are you doing walking in here drunk at"--he
checked his watch--"three twenty-two in the afternoon? You know
it's against the rules. I don't want a bunch of lushes working for me.
And don't try and tell me you ain't plastered."
Tommy hung his head, like a little kid in front of the school principal.
"I'm sorry, Bud. It won't happen again."
"You're goddamn right it won't happen again."
Tommy looked as though he was about to cry.
"It's just that--nothing's been the same since Goodlooking
Tommy got it. Poor bastard. Just 'cause he was reaching for a piece of
bread."
"If he hadn't've been reaching for the bread, I woulda been the

one that got it."
"Better him than you, Bud, that's for fucking sure. But I miss the
son of a bitch. I can't help it."
"GoodlookingTommy was a prick," Dick said.
"I thought you guys hated each other anyway," said Nello. "You
was always fighting."
"Naw, Nello, we was like brothers. It was like brothers fighting."
Bud finished his last finger, and dumped the Kleenex on the

Kleenex pile.
"It ain't easy losing somebody you care about. I know that. But
that don't mean you just gotta fall to pieces. Right?"
Bud was speaking in such a kindly fashion that I could see in
Tommy's eyes he was thinking he was going to get away with it.
"Right."
"Now let's go over to the bar."
"What for?"
But Bud didn't answer as we all piled out of the booth and
followed Bud toward the bar. The little Chinaman that cleaned up
around the club was pushing a broom over the dance floor, and he
found himself in Bud's path. His name was Ching-wei, but everybody
called him Chink-wei. Bud said: "Outa the way, monkey!" and
Ching-wei jumped aside. His mouth hung open as he watched us
pass. He had nubby brown teeth and melancholy seen-it-all eyes.
Bud went behind the bar."Whatcha drinking, Tommy?"
"Nothing."
"I said what are you drinking."
"Scotch.That's what I was drinking."
"What kinda Scotch?"
"Glenfibbet."
Nello and Willie snickered as Bud grabbed a bottle of Glenlivet
and set it down on the bar in front of Tommy.
"Drink it."

Tommy eyed the bottle. It was about three-quarters full.
"All of it?"
"Yeah."
"I can't drink that much."
"You got a puppydog craps in the house, you rub its nose in it.
That's what I'm doing with you." He unscrewed the cap. "So let's go.
Drink."
Never taking his eyes off the bottle, like he was looking at a mountain
he had to climb, Tommy wiped off his mouth with the back of
his hand, then raised the bottle to his lips. He took a long drink then,
coughing, set the bottle back down. Nello and Willie were looking
on with amusement.
"You know what they say, Tommy," said Willie. "Don't buy booze
if the baby needs shoes."
"The baby don't need shoes," said Tommy hoarsely. "There ain't
no baby."
"Bottoms up, Tommy," said Nello.
"This ain't fair. I ain't the only one around here ever took a drink
during the day."
"Maybe so, but you're the one that got caught," said Bud. "So keep
drinking."
Tommy continued working his way through the bottle. He
coughed and gagged and mumbled and laughed and his eyes watered
and got glassier and glassier. He nearly made it too--only had about
a golden inch of booze to go when he suddenly threw up all over on
the bar. Some of it splashed on Bud's new suit.
Bud was enraged."You filthy pig!" He took the bottle by the neck
and swung it at Tommy's head. Tommy lifted up his left arm to block
the blow and the bottle shattered against his forearm as his right hand
dove into his pants pocket for his gun. But Nello and Willie were all
over him and easily wrested the gun away.
Now Bud was incredulous. "You fucking see that? Son of a bitch
was gonna shoot me!" His face was turning about eight shades of red.
He grabbed handfuls of Tommy's coat at the shoulders and yanked
him over the top of the bar.
Tommy's body went out of sight and I heard it thumping down
on the floor. From one of the shining rows of bottles behind the bar
that many a long summer afternoon Tommy had gazed at so longingly,
Bud snatched a quart of Wild Turkey and started swinging. I
heard a couple of dull-sounding thuds then peered over the bar just
in time to see the bottle break over the back of Tommy's head.
He was on his hands and knees trying to crawl away like Wendell
Nuffer. He was screaming and Bud was screaming. Bud was left with
the jagged neck of the bottle in his fist and he drove it in Tommy's
neck. Blood spurted and he grabbed one bottle after another and
pounded away on Tommy's back and shoulders and neck and head.
More puke came gushing out of Tommy's mouth. There were jets of
blood and explosions of glass and booze as Tommy crawled through
the tunnel-like space over the broken glass and the slippery floor.
I looked at Nello and Willie; they were leaning over the bar
watching, fascinated, smiling. When I looked for Dick, all I saw was
his back as he walked away.
"Stop it, Bud! Jesus Christ! Stop it!" I yelled, but Bud just shot me
a lunatic look and kept whaling away.
"Mother, help me! Mother, he's hurting me!" screamed Tommy.
It was a bottle of dark rum that finally did the trick. It crunched
into the back of Tommy's skull without breaking and Tommy
dropped on the floor. A croaky sound came out of his throat, and
then he was quiet.
The air stank of liquor. Bud was panting; for someone so particular
that even when he went in a fancy joint like Perino's he'd spend two
minutes wiping off the silverware with his napkin, it was interesting
how often Bud wound up covered with awful stuff. Some slivers of
The Kind One : 181

glass were caught and sparkled in the blood on his face. He took out
his handkerchief and began wiping at himself.
I saw the white hair and black-framed glasses of Stan Tinney He
was beholding with dismay the scene behind the bar; it looked like
somebody had thrown a bomb back there.
"We open in two and a half hours. Two and a half hours."
"More than enough time," said Bud, and he nudged the corpse of
Tommy with his toe. "We just need to get this sack of shit outa here,"
and then he looked at me.

12

FORTUNATELY I GOT Dick to help me out. We wrapped Tommy
up in a tablecloth first then rolled him up in a rug from Stan's office.
The rug was so if anybody happened to see us in the Peacock
parking lot cramming the body in the rumble seat of Dick's car they
wouldn't think anything about it. Just two guys with a rug. We
brought along a couple of shovels too. Just two guys with a rug and
a couple of shovels.
Dick had a Ford coupe painted a hideous orange. We went west
on Sunset till we got to Sepulveda where we turned north. Then
we crossed over the Sepulveda Pass and went down into the San
Fernando Valley. It was beautiful there. Kind of like the Garden of
Eden. Orange and walnut and avocado orchards, and wide green
well-watered fields, and white farm houses set back from the road
surrounded by shade trees. Three pretty teenage girls on horseback
gave us sunny smiles and waved at us as we passed. If only, I thought,
they knew what was riding in the rumble seat.
" 'Member Ginger Rogers?" said Dick wistfully. "When we seen
her on that horse?"
"Yeah."
That's all either of us said for a long time. We listened to the car
radio. Dick smoked. Every now and then he coughed. Finally he
went in his pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper, which
he handed to me.
"What's this?" I said.
"Something I found in my mailbox."
I unfolded it, and read aloud: '"My friend, you can have it
all . . . more money than you've ever dreamed of, and the time
and freedom to enjoy it! For a small initial fee, you can become a
licensed dealer of J. R. Brinkley's Goat Gland Extract. This amazing
new scientific discovery is GUARANTEED to restore sexual
vigor within 24 hours, or the purchase price is cheerfully refunded
in full!'"
"See, the deal is," said Dick, "you don't do none of the selling
yourself. You get a bunch of other guys to do the legwork, and you
get a cut of everything they make. While them poor slobs are walking
around in the hot sun lugging around suitcases full of this crap and
getting doors slammed in their pusses, you're drinking a beer in a bar
someplace and sticking your hand up the skirt of some broad." He
gave a cackling, triumphant laugh, as if he were already living such a
delightful life.
I looked over the handbill. "I dunno, Dick. You think anybody's
really gonna buy something like this?"
"You kidding me? Everybody ain't young and horny like you are,
Danny. There's plenty of guys out there that can't get it up no more,
and they got old ladies driving 'em nuts every night, just begging for it."
"I have a friend named George. He says he can't get it up."
"See?WhatdidI tell you?"
"He's glad about it though. He says women are more trouble than
they're worth."
"Well, most guys, you give 'em the choice, they'd rather be able
to get it up. Just so's they can jack off, if nothing else. So what do you
say? You wanna go in partners with me in this?"
"Maybe. But how would Bud figure in?"
"I dunno. We could cut him in too, I guess." Although at first I
heard: We could cut him in two.
"Lookit," said Dick, "I just want outa this racket. I don't wanna
end up wrapped in a fucking rug like Tommy."
We got on a highway that led us out of the valley. The green
fields and orchards gave way to brown, dried-up hills, and off to our
left the sun seemed to get bigger and bigger as it drifted down. I
didn't ask Dick where we were going. I just slumped down in the
seat and let the hot dry air gush in through the window and dry
the sweat off my face as fast as it formed and I tried not to think
about Tommy hollering for his ma. The road rose and then the land
began to flatten out, and I saw a few cactuses and knew we were
in the desert.
We saw only a few other cars, and one truck filled up with stoves; "STEVE'S STOVES" was painted on the side, and it was traveling
so fast you had to assume there was a desperate stove shortage somewhere.
After about half an hour, Dick slowed down and turned off
the highway onto a rutty dirt road.
We bumped and lurched along toward the setting sun. A wind had
kicked up, and dust was blowing across the road, and then a swirl of
white and brown feathers. Then I saw a dead chicken. Then I saw a
live one, stumbling along the side of the road like it was drunk. It had
blood on its feathers. Then we passed a chicken coop and a sagging
tarpaper shack, with more chickens wandering around and pecking
at the dust.
"Why would anybody," said Dick, "wanna live way out here and
raise fucking chickens?"
The road got increasingly rough, then suddenly ended, as if the
roadbuilders had come to their senses and realized the road was a bad
idea. We got out of the car. We looked around. You couldn't see the
highway from here. Off in the distance jumbles of bare mountains
rose up. I felt like Dick and I didn't belong here. Like the desert didn't
have the slightest use for us.
We took the shovels out of the car, then I followed Dick out into
the desert. We cast long thin shadows as we walked past cactuses and
scrubby bushes and strange little twisted trees.
"You been here before, I guess," I said.
He shrugged.
"Who's out here?"
"Well--Flumentino's around someplace."
"Emperatriz too?"
"I told you. She went back to Mexico, I think."
"I heard different."
He was silent; then he smiled a little.
"That Emperatriz was one cute dame. Did I tell you? She had a
name for me. El Flaco. The Skinny One. 'Why you ain't got no girlfriend, el FlacoV she'd say.'You are such a handsome man!'"
A couple of hundred feet from the car, Dick looked around and
said: "Guess this place is as good as any."
The ground was hard and dry. We'd already shed our coats in the
car, and now we rolled up our shirt sleeves. The sweat was pouring
off us, and I was unbearably thirsty. The wind blew over us, and dust
stung our eyes. This was the second burial job I'd done with Dick. I
remembered holding Doc's hand. The way he'd looked up at me so
trustingly as I led him out into the garden.
"Poor Doc," I said.
"Quit talking about him. I mean it.You're always bringing him up.
Just knock it off."
"Sorry."
"I guess that's deep enough," said Dick after a while.
It didn't look very deep, but I didn't argue with him. We went
back to the car, and opened up the rumble seat. While he'd been getting
murdered, Tommy had emptied his bladder and bowels. Add to
that an hour or two in a hot car, and the smell was like a punch in
the face.
Dick cursed as we took Tommy out. He wasn't a big guy, but we
struggled to carry him. He seemed all slack and looseygoosey inside
the tube of the rug and I was afraid he'd slither out one end or the
other.
"They're a lot easier to carry when they're stiff," said Dick, red
faced and gasping. "He ain't been dead long enough to get stiff yet."
We plopped him down in the hole and quickly began to cover
him up. When we finished, we leaned on our shovels and surveyed
our handiwork.
"Adios, you rotten bastard," said Dick.
"Was he right?"
"About what?"
"About that bouncer's name. Was it Cairo Mary?"
Dick smiled. "Yeah.Yeah, he was right about that."
Suddenly a gust of wind blew his hat off. It rolled and tumbled
along the ground as Dick chased after it. It finally came to rest
near the base of one of the weird-looking trees. Dick bent over to
get it, but then he yelled: "HOLY SHIT!" and came running back
my way.
"Dick, what's the matter?"
"Snake! One of them rattlesnakes!"

"Where?"
"Right there! By the tree!"
I looked toward where he was pointing, but didn't see anything. I
was willing to take his word for it though.
"Come on, let's get outa here."
"I can't leave without my hat! It cost me eight bucks!"
Dick pulled his gun out and began blazing away in the direction
of the tree.The bullets kicked up the dirt. I still couldn't see the snake.
Now the hat somersaulted as one of the bullets hit it.
"Dick, you just shot your hat! It's no good anymore! Now let's get

outa here!"
Dick was staring toward the tree, his eyes wide and wild and his

lower lip trembling.
"You seen it, didn't you, Danny? You seen the snake?"
"Yeah, I saw it. Now let's go."
We walked quickly back to the car with a mounting sense of
panic, as if we were being chased by the snake, or maybe the wrathful
ghosts of Emperatriz and Flumentino. We threw our shovels in the
coupe and jumped in and Dick got it turned around and headed back
toward the highway. Then we gave each other relieved we-made-it
looks.
"Fuck," said Dick.
"Yeah."

Pretty soon we saw feathers blowing across the road again.
"I'm thirsty as hell," I said. "You think maybe the chicken farmers
would give us some water?"
"Good idea, kid. I'm pretty dry myself."
We stopped the car in front of the shack and the chicken coop.
There were chickens everywhere, some alive, some dead, some somewhere
in between. The smell was awful, and the air was full of flies.
Now we saw a little kid sitting in the doorway of the shack with a
rifle across his knees.
The dust had turned the sun red, and the horizon had cut it in
half, and we walked Warily through the bloody light toward the kid,
who never took his eyes off us.
"What you fellers want?" he said.
He looked about nine or ten. All he was wearing was a filthy
pair of shorts. At first I'd thought he must be a Mexican he was
so brown, but now I saw the brown was a mixture of suntan and
dirt.
"Just some water," said Dick. "That okay?"
The kid looked us over. "It'll cost ya."
"How much?" I said.
"Two bits. Apiece."
"That's fine." I went in my pocket and pulled out a shiny new
half-dollar. I walked over and dropped it in the kid's grubby palm.
He had extraordinary light-green eyes, the color of an empty Coke
bottle.
"Water's over yunder," he said, nodding toward a rusting pump.
A bucket sat under the spout of the pump, and there was a tin cup
next to the bucket. Dick and I looked into the bucket: it was half
full of water, with a layer of feathers and dead flies floating on it. We
looked at each other, then Dick grabbed the pump handle and began
working it.
"I guess this is how you do it," he said.
At first the pump just made hoarse wheezing noises, but then
water began to well up and flow. I filled up the cup and drank it. The
water was very cool, with a mineral taste. I had another cup, then
pumped for Dick.
Now I saw a floppy-eared brown and white hound lying on its
stomach at the side of the shack. It was chomping on a live chicken
that it was holding down with it paws. The chicken feebly beat its
wings as the wind blew its feathers away.
The kid raised his rifle, pointed it at another chicken, and shot.
Except it wasn't a rifle after all but a BB gun. The BB made a snapping
noise as it hit the chicken, which jumped and squawked and
flapped and staggered off.
The kid guffawed, and slapped his knee. "Right in the dang

butt!"
Dick looked at me. "Want any more water?"
"Nah."
"Let's get outa here then."
The kid cocked his BB gun then shot another chicken.
"Why are you doing that?" I said. "Why are you shooting your
chickens?"
The kid leveled his green gaze at me.
"It's just something to do, mister.You got any better ideas?"
"But you need your chickens, don't you? To make a living?"
"Ain't no living to be made. The bottom's plumb fell out of the
fucking chicken market. We ain't even making enough money to buy
chicken feed. They's all starving to death. Can't you see that?" The
kid eyed us suspiciously. "What you fellers doing out cheer anyways?
How come you're asking all these questions? Y'all ain't G-men, are
ya? Daddy told me to keep a look-out for G-men."
"Naw, kid, we ain't G-men," said Dick. "We're just passing through.
Come on, Danny."
But then a little girl came walking around the side of the shack.
She was maybe six or seven, and was as filthy, and had the same bottle-green
eyes, as her brother. She was holding by one arm a pinkish
plastic baby doll missing a leg.
"Zeke, I seen a rabbit," she said. "A bunny rabbit. A-hopping
around."

"Looky here, Ruby, at what I got!" said Zeke. "A fifty-cent
piece!"
Ruby looked wonderingly at the bright coin. Green snot was oozing
out of her nostrils, and she had a harsh, croupy cough.
"Golly, Zeke. Is that morn a nickel?"
"Damn right it is."
"Zeke, you better hurry up."
"Hurry up and what?"
"Shoot the bunny rabbit. 'Fore it goes a-hopping off. Hippity
hop."
"Where's your daddy?" I said.
"Around," said Zeke, suspicious again. "What you wanna know
fer?"
"I just want to make sure there's somebody to take care of you
guys. Do you have enough to eat?"
"Sure, mister. We eat chickens."
"And aigs," said Ruby.
"But we ain't been eating aigs lately. They don't lay aigs lessun you
feed 'em."
"I hate chickens," said Ruby. "They're mean. I had a pet bug once
and the chicken et it."
Zeke shot another chicken. Through the neck this time. It went
down in the dirt in a flurry of feathers and squawks.
"Kid, you're a hell of a shot," said Dick. "Let's go, Danny."
We turned and walked toward the road. I felt the luminous green
eyes of the siblings on our backs. I braced myself for a BB popping
me in the butt.
We passed by a handsome red rooster. He was stalking around
arrogantly, like he wasn't aware of the unfolding catastrophe, didn't
know or care all his wives were starving and being shot.
"What you limping fer, mister," Zeke called out, "you some kinda
cripple?"
"Some kinda cripple!" Ruby shouted, then I heard her giggle and
cough.
We walked through the dusty red feather-filled light, away from
the stench of dead chickens and chicken shit. Got in the car and got
to the highway and headed south toward the city, lickety split.
"I don't think I'll be eating chicken for a while," said Dick.
"Me neither."

13



IT WAS THE middle of July, and it was hot. I sat on the black davenport
wearing only my undershorts. The sun was shining through the
shrubbery outside my window, and throwing shadows on the hardwood
floor.

I imagined taking my new yellow broom and briskly sweeping up
all the shadows. They ended up in a tidy little heap of darkness in the
corner, while the floor was filled with nothing but light.

14

"I DON'T GET it," I said.
"Don't get what?" said Darla.
"Why you're moving in with him. I thought you wanted to get
away from him."
"This doesn't have anything to do with what I want. I don't pay for
my apartment, he does. And he doesn't want to pay for it anymore."
We were on our way to her apartment. She wanted me to help
her pack a few things. She took out a Lucky Strike, leaned toward the
dashboard, and pushed in the electric lighter.
"But that doesn't mean you have to move in with him," I said.
"Oh, it doesn't? Tell him that."
The lighter popped back out, and she applied it to her cigarette.
"What's up with Tommy?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I heard Teddy and Nucky talking about him, but they clammed
up when I walked in the room.Then I asked Bud about him, and he
said he'd gone off to take care of his sick aunt in San Francisco."
"Yeah.That's what I heard."
"Hey, Danny? It'd be nice to have one person in my life I knew
would never lie to me."
I thought about it a minute.
"Okay. I know where he's at. And it's not San Francisco."
She sighed out some smoke, said: "I get the picture," then stayed
silent the rest of the way to her apartment house.
We took the elevator to the top floor.
When we got in her apartment, Darla said: "Whew! It's like an
oven in here. Danny, would you be a darling and open some windows?
I'm going to make a drink. Like one?"
"No thanks."
She went in the kitchen, as I spread out the curtains and lifted the
front window. I had a pretty good view up and down the street. The
red Buick was parked not too far off. I couldn't see inside, but I could
see some smoke drifting up from the driver's-side window.
I'd never been in Darla's apartment before. I looked around the
living room. Everything was nice enough, but except for a stack of
unopened mail on a side table, there were no indications a particular
person lived here. It was kind of a high-class version of where I lived.
I went in her bedroom and opened the window there.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught some movement, but then
saw the movement was me: my reflection in a mirror over a bureau.
A few weeks ago I'd gone out to Venice Beach with Dick, and we
went to one of those places where you try to knock over wooden
milk bottles with a baseball. There was this guy whose job it was to
scurry around and re-set the milk bottles after they'd been knocked
over. He looked like a monster. His skin wasn't anything but slick
pink scars. I asked the guy that ran the game what had happened to
him, and he said he'd been burned up in an oil-well fire in Signal
Hill a few years back. So then I started wondering what he used
to look like, and who he really was under the scars. And now, as
I looked at myself in the mirror, I started wondering who I really
was under Danny Landon.
Darla's reflection joined mine. She was holding a stubby tunabler
full of ice and vodka. She looked at me, smiling a little.
"In love with your own reflection?"
"No."
Now her eyes moved to herself.
"I stand in front of the mirror sometimes. I take off all my clothes,
and I look at every inch of myself, and I wonder how long it's going
to last. 'Cause that's all I've got, is what I look like."
She took a gulp of her drink, and walked over to a closet. She
started taking out pairs of shoes and putting them in a cardboard

box.
"Need any help?" I said.
"No. Just relax."
I saw a stuffed lamb sitting on the bed. It had blue glass eyes and a
simpering smile and a red bow around its neck.
"Where'd you get the lamb?"
"Mr. Bruff gave it to me. For Christmas." And then, after a moment:
"He wants to marry me."
"Bud?"
"Yeah."
"But he's already married."
"He says that situation will be taken care of very soon."
"Just tell him no." "You just tell him no."
"I heard a rumor. That there's some important people that aren't
happy with him, and his future in this town is limited."
"What do you mean? They're gonna send him to visit his sick
aunt in San Francisco?"
"I guess so. So maybe if you can just hold out a little longer, your
problem will be solved for you."
"Just my luck, somebody'll plant a bomb in his car, and I'll be with
him when it blows up."
"That's not gonna happen."
She finished off the vodka, then held out the glass to me.
"Danny, would you be a dear and get me some water?"
I was glad she wasn't asking for more vodka. In the kitchen, as I
held the glass under the tap, I thought about her standing in front of
the mirror without any clothes on. I thought about every inch of her.
When I went back in the bedroom, she was standing by the
bureau, taking a medicine bottle out of her purse. She unscrewed the
cap and tipped out three tablets into her palm.
"What's that?" I said.
"Veronal."
She took the glass from me and popped the tablets in her mouth.
"What's it for?"
"It's just a calmative. And don't give me that look. My doctor gives
them to me. It's medicine. I'm not a dope fiend."
"Didn't say you were."
She started taking stuff out of the bureau drawers. Frilly, silky,
filmy fascinating stuff.
"Damn," she said. "I left my cigarettes in the car. Would you be a
dear?"
Of course I would. I took the elevator down. The street was lined
with palm trees, and a hot, dry wind rattled above me through the
fronds.
The red Buick was still waiting, still spying. I suddenly felt mad.
Like I'd had enough. I started walking toward it. I was behind it.
Smoke was floating out of both sides. A shirt-sleeved elbow was sticking
out of the passenger window. When I got to within about twenty
feet, the engine started up, and the car took off, its tires making a
brief screech.
I was surprised to find myself chasing it down the street and
yelling: "Fuck you, you fucking bastards! Quit spying on me, goddamn
it!"
The Buick sped away and was gone. Sweating and panting, I
headed back toward my Packard. On the other side of the street, a
woman and her two kids were looking at me fearfully; now they
averted their eyes and hurried on.
I fetched the Lucky Strikes and went back up.
Darla was curled up on the bed, hugging the lamb, her eyes
closed.
"I got your cigarettes."
"Oh thanks, honey," she said, not opening her eyes, and then:
"Vodka andVeronal are tw-o-onderful together."
I stood above her, holding the pack of cigarettes she didn't seem to
want now, not knowing what to do next.
"Did I hear you yelling at somebody?" she asked.

"No."
"I thought I heard you."
"No."
"You wanna lay down with me?"
Yes. I took off my hat and shoes. Her back was to me. I laid my
head on the pillow right next to hers.
I breathed in her scent.
"Mitsouko?"
"Yeah.You still like it?"
"Uh huh."
I eased my nose tentatively into her golden hair.
"Jean Harlow hasn't got anything on you."
She laughed. "Oh, stop it."
"I mean it.You're ten times more beautiful than she is. No. Twenty

times."
I lifted my head and with a finger pushed some damp locks of
hair away from her neck and put my mouth there. Her flesh was very
warm and was moist with perspiration. I slid my lips slowly back and

forth.
She made a gentle, negative noise in her throat, and murmured:
"Not now, Danny."
My head sagged back onto the pillow, and I sighed. She reached
back and gave my knee an understanding pat.
"Imagine what he'd do to us if we did it and he found out."
"How would he find out?"
"Maybe I talk in nay sleep."
So I lay there in the perfumy heat within inches of Darla. We were
both quiet for a moment; and then Darla said: "I had a dream. About
you and him."
"What happened?"
"We were on a ship. This big ocean liner, like the Queen Mary. We
were on deck playing shuffleboard.We were all dressed in white, and
we were all laughing, and having a good time, especially Bud, because
he was winning. But then he turned his back on you, and you started
hitting him with the shuffleboard stick. You hit him over the head,
and he started staggering away, and there was blood everywhere, all
over our white clothes, and you followed him and kept hitting him
and hitting him. Bud was pleading with you, but your face, it was like
a mask; it had no feeling in it."
"You know, Darla--I'm not a killer."
"Yes you are. You just don't remember. And I'll bet it's like riding a
bicycle.You never forget how."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to say ... I wouldn't ask you to do it just for me.You'd
be doing it for yourself too. You're his prisoner too. Anybody that gets
close to him becomes his prisoner." Now she turned over, and looked
at me. She moved some hair away from my forehead, and her fingers
brushed over the dent in my skull; it seemed like such an intimate
thing, as if she were touching nay private parts. "And then you and
me--we could go away together."
"Go away where?"
"Wherever you want." She was wearing her charm bracelet, and
now she fingered the crescent moon. "How about the moon? Everything
would be very clear and bright and clean and glowing. And
nobody would ever bother us."
I could tell the vodka and Veronal were like a giant wave washing
over her. Her eyes were becoming all dina and dreamy. She turned
away from me, and snuggled up to the lamb.
"Life's so funny," she whispered to the lamb, and then, as her eyes
closed: "Nobody's ever loved me like Mr. Bruff."

15

THAT NIGHT I was unpeeling one of the extraordinarily tasty oranges
I'd plucked from the dwarf orange trees in the courtyard, when I
heard from outside:"No,Jerry! Please!"
It was Sophie's voice. I went to the door.
Sophie and Jerry were on the sidewalk in front of Sophie's bungalow.
Jerry was bending over something, and Sophie was yelling: "I'm
sorry! Honest I am! Don't do it,Jerry!"
Then Sophie's trampish mother Lois came out the door, wearing
only a full slip which her big sloppy breasts were in danger of spilling
out of. "Go ahead, Jerry!" she slurred, obviously loaded."Do it! Show
the little bitch who's boss!"
I headed out the door and across the courtyard. To my left I
saw Dulwich, wearing his many-colored silk smoking jacket and
tasseled slippers, going in the same direction. Sophie was still yelling
and she was pulling at Jerry's elbow and now I could see what
he was up to: he was squirting a can of lighter fluid over Sophie's
tap-dance shoes.
"Don't do it, old man!" said Dulwich, but Jerry already had his
lighter out and now the red shoes went up in a whoosh of blue
flame.
Sophie screamed.
Lois slapped her face and said: "Shut up!"
"Leave her alone, you bitch!" I yelled.
"I'll ask you to mind your tongue, Danny, especially where Lois
is concerned," said Jerry haughtily; he was wearing pin-striped gray
trousers and a stained undershirt. "This here is none of your affair.
Nor yours neither, Mr. Dulwich, with all due respect. It's a family
matter. Sophie is being punished because she was a bad girl."
"The filthy names she called us," said Lois. "I don't know where
she ever learned such language."
"From you, you cunt!" said Sophie.
"Now that's enough!" said Jerry as he roughly seized her upper
arm.
Sophie tried to jerk and twist out of his grasp. "Let go of me, you
ugly ape! You're not my father! You're just some bum that lives off my
mother!"
"You're gonna pay for that, Sophie!" said Jerry and now he started
to drag her inside.
Dulwich stepped over the burning shoes and dispatched an elegant
left cross into Jerry's ribcage and then a whistling right cross
into Jerry's jaw right below his ear. His head snapped sideways and his
knees buckled and he fell on his butt.
Dulwich stood over him, rubbing his knuckles and waiting for
him to get up. Jerry massaged his jaw and gave Dulwich a look of
bleary reproach.
"I'm surprised at you, Mr. Dulwich. I thought you was a gentleman."
"Assuming
for the nonce that I am a gentleman, my only regret is
to have sullied my knuckles with a man like you."
Sophie took the opportunity to dart inside and slam the door.
Her mother was right behind her; she rattled the doorknob
futilely.
"She locked us out, the little brat!" She began to pound on the
door and shout: "Sophie, open the door! Sophie! Unlock the door now!"
Some of our neighbors had drifted out of their bungalows and
were watching from a safe distance. Now Mrs. Dean came charging
toward us, her pinched face furious and the dying flames from the
tap-dancing shoes flashing in her glasses.
"Good gracious heavens alive! What on earth is going on here?!"
She was wearing a ratty sky-blue quilted housecoat over a pink
nightgown. "This is the Orange Blossom Bungalow Court, not some
slum!"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dean," said Lois, who seemed to be sobering up
fast. "It was just a little family spat. Sophie locked us out."
Jerry climbed back to his feet, and stuck his hand in his pocket.
"I've got a key."
"Oh, that's swell, sugar." Lois took the key and unlocked the door.
"Sorry again, Mrs. Dean. We won't be any more trouble."
"Well, you better not be. This is a respectable place, Lois. You're
practically naked. I'll call the police if I have to."
Lois and Jerry headed inside.
"Jerry?" I said. "Keep your hands off Sophie."
Jerry stopped and looked back at me. "I know who you are,
Danny. I know you're supposed to be some kinda hooligan or
gangster. But you don't scare me none, Danny. I grew up in a pretty
tough neighborhood. I can take care of myself."
"Keep your hands off her," I said, my voice rising, "or I'll tie you
to a slot machine and throw you in the ocean!"
His attempt at a defiant sneer collapsed into a grimace of panic.
He and Lois hurried inside and shut the door.
Mrs. Dean looked down at the charred, smoking remains of
Sophie's shoes, and sadly shook her head.
"Look at the burn marks on the sidewalk! Well, I'll get Matilda
over here to clean it up. Matilda can clean up anything."

"You're pretty good," I said. "With the fists."
Dulwich looked pleased. "Well, I did do a bit of boxing in my
youth."
I was sipping scotch, while Dulwich was puffing on his opium
pipe; now he looked at the photograph of Aubrey Joyce.
"Aubrey and I were actually the best boxers in our school. I could
never beat Aubrey, however. I think it may have been because his features
were so beautiful I would unconsciously hold back a little for
fear of marring them. He obviously had no such compunctions in
regards to me. He probably felt that any rearrangement of my features
could only be for the better."
I laughed, and Dulwich grinned. His cat was on his lap; he
scratched her head, and peered at her as if he'd never quite seen her
before.
"What's it like to be Tinker,Tinker?"
"The day we gave the shoes to her? Something happened. With
her and me, I mean."
Dulwich looked at me, and waited for me to go on.
"She came over later, and she was--very affectionate, I guess you
could say. And then she put her hand on my crotch."
He took the pipe out of his mouth. "You don't say."
"So naturally I was pretty shocked. She told me she thought that's
what I wanted; then I guess her feelings were hurt and she ran away. I
haven't talked to her since."
Dulwich looked gloomy. "I wonder where she picked up that little
trick."
"Jerry?"
"Perhaps. But there have been any number of Jerrys. Who knows
what sorts of lascivious doings she's been exposed to?"

"What can we do about it?"
"I'm not sure there's anything we can do, Danny. Beyond being her
friend." He smiled. "And making bloodcurdling threats against Jerry.
Did that business with the slot machine ever really happen?"
"Yeah. To a guy named SalTagnoli."
"Were you there?"
I shook my head. "I just heard about it," then I added: "I just heard
about everything that happened before about a year ago."
"What do you mean?"
"I've found out I wasn't here before a year ago. I didn't get beat up
in Ocean Park. I got beat up somewhere else. Probably New York. I
was taken here on a train."
If Dulwich was surprised by any of this, he didn't show it.
"Taken by whom?"
"Bud Seitz. I'm supposedly the son of an old friend of his or
maybe even his nephew. My name's probably not Danny Landon.
I'm probably not a gangster. Bud just made up all that stuff about me
sinking the ship and everything and told everybody else to go along
with it."
"To what purpose?"
"I don't know. But the thing is, I'm kind of like Steve Harrison."
"Who?"
"The
guy in that story you read us. In Super Detective Stories."
"Oh yes. But how are you like him?"
"I don't really exist."
"Well, it's clear you exist. Otherwise, to whom am I talking?"
"I don't know.That's my point."
"How did you find out all this?"

"A guy close to Bud told me. But I can't tell you his name."
"Is his version of events to be trusted?"
"I think so. But listen to this. I saw Darla today. She wants to
get away from Bud, but thinks if she tries, Bud will kill her. So
she wants me to kill him for her; then she says she'll run away
with me."
"My God."
"Of course she thinks it's no big deal for me to kill somebody--
that I'm this dangerous gangster that's bumped off all these people in
the past."
"Why don't you tell her the truth?"
"I thought about it. But what would it change? Darla would still
want to escape from Bud, and she'd still think the only way to do that
is for me to kill him. And I think she might be right."

"And you still fancy yourself in love with this girl."
I nodded. Dulwich gave me a keen look, as though he'd just
figured out the solution to my problem. He leaned toward me, and
tapped my knee.

"I'd say you're in a pickle, old boy. A definite pickle."
"Yeah, no kidding."
16

I WAS WALKING with no destination in mind. The sun was going
down, and the pavement was giving up the heat of the day. I went
through an alley. Two tramps were squatting on their heels against a
wall, sharing a bottle. They looked at me as I passed like they were
thinking about knifing me and taking my wallet then spitting on my
body as they walked away. Farther down the alley, amid a cluster of
overflowing garbage cans, was the corpse of a dog. Flies were crawling
around on a sore on its leg; now I recognized it as the forlorn beagle
I'd given my ice cream cone to a couple of weeks ago.
I found myself on Vine Street in front of Healy's Bar; maybe this
was where I'd been heading all along. Inside at their usual spots in
front of the Custer massacre were George, Sonny, and Kid McCoy.
"You arrived at an opportune moment," said George. "The Kid is
buying."
"He's rolling in dough," said Sonny. "Just filthy with it."
The Kid nodded with an air of solemn pride.
"Congratulations, Kid," I said. "What happened?"
"Won a hunnerd fifty bucks in a Chinese lottery."
"Ain't you heard?" mumbled an old man a few stools down; he
was looking at us with eyes every bit as full of life as the boiled eggs
floating in the jar on the bar.
"Ain't I heard what?" McCoy said.
"They're tearing down Chinatown! Getting rid of the Chinks!
They're running away like shithouse rats! High time, if you ask me.
Polluting white women with their little yellow peckers. And I've
heard they eat cats! Boil 'em alive like lobsters! No, I'll be crying no
tears for the poor Chinee."
"Oh, shut up, you old hooch-hister," said the Kid. "Nobody asked
you a goddamn thing. What are you drinking, Danny?"
"Scotch. On the rocks."
"You heard him, Henry," he said to the bartender. "Glad to see
you ain't still drinking that horse piss. That Russian crap. You get rid
of that girl?"
"Nah."
"Why the hell not?"
"I don't know."
"Is she purty?" asked Sonny.
"Beautiful."
"Be you tee full," sighed Sonny.
"I was in love with a Jap girl once," said George. "She was beautiful.
Just like Danny's girl. She was the daughter of my gardener.
This was back when I had a big house on a hill in Echo Park, and I
was still vice-president of the South Basin Oil Company. I told her
I'd divorce my wife and marry her if she had eyelid surgery so she
wouldn't look like a Jap. She agreed to it. I found her a doctor and
paid for the operation."
George stopped, like the story was over.
"Well what the hell happened?" said McCoy.
"Didn't work. She still looked like a Jap. She ended up marrying
a Jap. A fisherman. The last I heard, she was living on Terminal Island,
eating raw fish and mending nets and raising a bunch of slanty-eyed
Jap children."
"What ever happened to your wife?" I asked.
"She took it pretty hard when we lost everything. I had to put her
in the state insanitarium."
"She went insane?"
"I'm afraid so. But she wasn't alone. Did you know there's twenty
nine private insanitariums in Southern California?" He gestured with
the stem of his pipe as he talked. "Did you know that Los Angeles
leads the nation in suicides, drug addiction, and bank robberies?
People come here from all over to escape America, the nightmare of
America. What they don't understand is that Los Angeles is the most
American city in the world. They bask in the sinister sunlight and
peel their oranges and grow golden and die."
"Oranges!" snarled Sonny. "Mountains of fat, juicy oranges!
They spray 'em with tar so can't nobody eat 'em. Just to keep the
dadblamed prices up when folks are sending their babies to bed hungry-"
"Oh
don't start that shit again," grumped Kid McCoy.
"The Kid's right," said George. "I think the Fish Committee
should investigate this bar for possible Communist activity."
"Well, I ain't a Communist, but I'll tell you what I am. I just joined
up with a outfit called Mankind United. Pretty soon, everybody that
wants one is gonna have a job, and it's gonna pay at least 3000 bucks
a year. And get this! Nobody's gonna have to work morn four hours a
day and four days a week!"
"And how, pray tell," said George, "is this economic miracle going
to come to pass?"
"Well, there's this race of all-powerful midgets that live in the
middle of the earth. They got metal heads, and they got ray machines
that knock out people's eyeballs a thousand miles away. We're in contact
with 'em, and they're gonna help us out."
Kid McCoy began to laugh. He laughed so hard he started slapping
the bar like he just couldn't stand it.
Sonny glared at him. "Yeah, Kid, you just go on and laugh. Let's
see if you're still laughing one of these days when a ray machine
knocks your fucking eyeballs out."
The Kid kept buying, and I circled down and down into a radiant
whirlpool of cheap whiskey. Once I closed my eyes, and I saw a nurse
dressed all in white with a lovely but cold face bending over me, and
I could feel the vibrations of the train, and George said: "I got a new
job."
I opened my eyes. "Yeah? Doing what?"
"Selling oil leases. I even have an office. Not much of an office.
I share it with some other fellows. Some real estate salesmen. Plus a
fortune teller. And a mail-order faith healer. But it's a start."
"Don't give him any money, kid," said the Kid. "Not a dime."
George looked hurt. "I wasn't going to ask him for money. Did I
ask you for any of your Chinese lottery winnings?"
"No. 'Cause you knew I'd tell you to go fuck yourself."
"No, that's not the reason. It was because I knew you'd been hit
in the head too many times to recognize a real opportunity when it
came your way. In Santa Fe Springs the oil comes practically bubbling
unbidden out of the ground. But no, I don't want Danny's money
unless he's in the mood to double it in no time. All I wanted was to
share with Danny the fact I've put one tentative foot on the bottom
rung of a shaky ladder that I trust will lead me back to the man
I used to be. Before I became a desperate drunk living in a retired
RE. streetcar without power or indoor plumbing or faith or hope or
love."
Sonny was looking at George with tears in his eyes. "You can do
it, George. I know you can. If I had any money I'd give it to you. Every
red cent of it."
"I'm deeply touched.You're a good man, Sonny."
"I'm deeply touched too," said Sonny.
He pulled a harmonica out of his pocket, blew a few experimental
notes.
"This here song is called 'Run, Nigger, Run.'"
He launched into a rollicking tune. The old man down the bar
grinned and started clapping along.
Custer, surrounded by howling red Indians and dying blue-coated
soldiers, brandished his sword over his head. He was dressed in golden
buckskins, and a long red scarf streamed from his neck. He didn't
look the least bit scared. Just defiant. In the foreground, one of his
soldiers was getting his scalp peeled off by a terrifying Indian with a
knife between his teeth.
"What if somebody saw somebody kill somebody?" I said. "He
didn't have anything to do with the killing, but afterwards, he helped
get rid of the body. Would he be guilty of a crime?"
George and Kid McCoy were both staring at me. Finally George
said: "I believe he would be guilty, yes. 'Accessory to murder after the
fact'--something of that nature." Then he laid a gentle hand on my
shoulder. "What's the matter, Danny? You in some kind of trouble?"
"I don't even think I know my own name. Would you call that
trouble?"
"You know, George isn't my real name. It's just a name I use in
here."
"George ain't your real name?" McCoy said.
"Nope."
"What is it then?"
"Not telling."
"What other shit have you lied about?"
"Practically everything."
"Well, don't feel so bad, kid," said McCoy. "When I was your age,
the whole world knew my name. And where'd it get me?" He addressed
his ravaged reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Bright
lights go out the quickest. Kid McCoy knows."


17

DULWICH APPEARED AT my door with the morning paper.
"There's something in here that might be of interest to you," he
said as he handed it to me.
Above a photo of a lopsidedly smiling guy who looked like Humphrey
Bogart was a huge headline: "DILLINGER SHOT DEAD BY
FEDS OUTSIDE CHICAGO MOVIE THEATER."
"So they got Dillinger, huh?"
"No, I wasn't talking about that. Look at the bottom of the
page."
A nattily dressed guy was walking out of a brick building. It took
a moment to sink in that I was looking at Bud Seitz. Trailing a little
behind him was his lawyer Arnold Dublinski.
"UNDERWORLD BOSS BUD SEITZ ARRESTED BY L.A.
POLICE," read the headline.
"Did you know about this?" asked Dulwich.
I shook my head. He left the paper with me, and I sat down on
the davenport and read the story.
"The Gangster Squad caught reputed crime kingpin Reuben
'Bud' Seitz not only with his pants down Sunday morning, but all the
way off. Members of the elite crimebusting unit of the Los Angeles
Police Department arrested Seitz in the steamroom of the Hollywood
Y.M.C.A. Seitz was wearing only a towel at the time.'He was mild as
a kitten when we put the cuffs on him,' said Lt.Jack Otay, head of the
Gangster Squad.'He knew the jig was up.'
"Seitz was arrested for running a bookmaking operation that Los
Angeles County District Attorney Buron Fitts called 'the biggest on
the west coast. It's just the tip of the iceberg,' continued Fitts. 'Seitz
has his fingers in every dirty pie in this part of the country, prostitution,
gambling, drugs, you name it. This is just the latest example of
how myself, Mayor Shaw, and Chief of Police Davis are taking our
community back from those racketeers and crooked politicans that
have preyed on the public for far too long.'
"Fitts also said he'd like to talk to Seitz about several unsolved
homicides, including that of Clarence 'Doc' Travis, a bootlegger and
known associate of Seitz's. The decapitated head of Travis was found
in the waters of Lake Arrowhead in 1929 by a troop of Girl Scouts
on a nature hike.'I know some of those innocent young ladies are still
having nightmares about their terrible discovery to this very day,' said
Fitts, his voice filled with indignation.
"Seitz was released later in the day on $10,000 bail. When asked by
reporters on the steps of the Central Police Station about the charges
against him, he said, 'It's all a big frame job. I'm a businessman and
sportsman, not a mobster. Fitts is barking up the wrong tree.' Queried
about his involvement in the murder of Travis, Seitz answered, 'They
say I killed everybody but Cock Robin. Doc Travis was a friend of
mine. I don't kill my friends.'
'"Or anybody else, for that matter,' his lawyer, well-known mob
mouthpiece Arnold 'Blinky' Dublinski, quickly added."
I called Bud's house. Dick Prettie picked up.
"Dick, what's going on? I just read in the paper Bud got

arrested."
"Yeah. LouieVachaboski made a deal with the D.A. and ratted Bud

out."
"Fay Wray?"
"Hey, I just remembered. I ain't supposed to be talking about none
of this shit on the phone. Bud's scared it's being tapped. Anyway, I was
just about to call you. Come on over. Bud wants to see you."
I drove to Bud's. Beeped my horn at the front gate. A grotesque,
unfamiliar face glared out at me through the bars.
"Yeah? What do you want?"
He was young, probably even younger than me. It was like a giant
raspberry had been smashed against one side of his face, and his nose
was nothing but a big red lump. He was holding a shotgun, pointing
it not quite at the ground and not quite at me.
"Who the fuck are you?" I said.
Now the shotgun began to point a little more definitely toward
me. The side of his face that was normal started turning red like it was
trying to catch up with the other side.
"Who the fuck are you?" he said.
Willie the Coon strolled up. "Take it easy, Bo. That's Danny. He's
with us."
Bo lowered his shotgun with a look of deep regret. Willie hit a
button and the gate opened.
I drove up to the house. Dick and Nello were standing outside,
smoking.
"Who's the asshole with the thing on his face?" I said as I got out
of the car.

"Bo Spiller," said Dick. "Some punk from Detroit."
"What's he doing here?"
"Bud brung him in," said Nello. "He's supposed to be some kinda
mad-dog shotgun killer or something."
"What's he need with a mad-dog killer?"
"He's beefing up his pertection. He thinks everybody's out to get
him."
"You hear about Teddy?" said Dick.
I shook my head. "What about him?"
"He went to work for Stutter."
"No kidding. How come?"
"Maybe Shitter's giving him more dough. Or maybe he's thinking
it ain't healthy working for Bud Seitz no more."
"There ain't many of us old guys left," said Nello. "Me, and you,
and Nucky, and Mo--"
"And me," I said.
Dick and Nello exchanged a look.
"That's right, kid," said Dick. "And you."
I went inside. Anatoly led me into the dining room. Bud was having
lunch with Darla. He looked glad to see me.
"You hungry, Danny? We're having pheasants. Anatoly, get Danny

a plate."
Darla gave me a searching look but didn't greet me as I sat down
at the table. Anatoly brought me a plate with a honey-brown pheasant
on it and roasted potatoes and green peas. I was starved, and I dug in.
Bud watched me eat. "How is it?"

"Delicious."
"I hadn't never even heard of a fucking pheasant when I was a kid.
Now I can eat as many pheasants as I wanna. I could eat a dozen, two
dozen a day if I didn't mind looking like Moe Davis. That's why this
kinda shit really pisses me off." He held up the same newspaper Dulwich
had shown me, and slapped the photo of himself with the back
of his fingers. "You see this?"
"Yeah."
"You can't eat pheasants in prison.You can only eat the worst kind
of slop. And that's what these sons of bitches wanna do to me. They
wanna make it where I can't eat no more pheasants. It says here I got
arrested for running a bookmaking operation that was 'the biggest
on the west coast.' That's some joke. I'm only small potatoes in that
racket, and everybody knows it. And the fucking Gangster Squad's 'an
elite crimebusting unit'?!"
He pronounced elite "uh light." He laughed incredulously.
"I'm a law-abiding citizen compared to them crumbs. And that
fuckingjack Otay I made that prick.When I met up with him he was
just a dumb detective in a cheap suit that couldn't have found a bull
fiddle in a phone booth. Now he's driving around town in a sixteen
cylinder Cadillac and he's got a house in Palm Springs and he's fucking
some movie star that don't speak any English. And him saying I
was 'mild as a kitten'! All I know is his face went white as this fucking
tablecloth when I told him what I was gonna do to him when this is
all over with."
"Did Girl Scouts really find Doc Travis's head?"
"Buron Fitts deserves some kinda prize for being the biggest liar
in America. It wasn't fucking Girl Scouts, it was this buncha whores
from this cathouse in Big Bear. This old dame named Flo ran the cathouse.
It was her seventieth birthday or some kinda shit, so her and
all her whores got drunk and drove down to Arrowhead and stripped
naked and took a midnight dip. That's when they found poor old
Doc's head bobbing around. I heard they all run outa that lake and
drove back to Big Bear so fucking fast they didn't even take the time
to put their clothes back on."
He continued to eat as he looked over the story. "Now this ten G bail's an interesting thing. Ten G's is nothing. Maybe they want me to
take it on the lam. Maybe that'd solve all their fucking problems for
'em. Maybe they don't want me going up on the stand and yapping
about everything I know 'cause I'd take a lotta them down with me.
I'd be like that blind guy in the Bible, Goliath. He brung down the
temple on his fucking head but killed everybody else too."
"Samson," said Darla. We both looked at her; she wasn't really eating,
just pushing around the peas.
"Samson brought down the temple. Goliath was this big giant that
David killed."
"Oh yeah. With a fucking slingshot, right? How come you ain't
eating nothing? You don't like pheasants?"
Darla shrugged. "It's not that. I just don't feel so hot."
"Whatsamatter?"
"I'm kinda sick at my stomach."
"You want I should call a doctor?"
"Nah." She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table and
stood up. "I'm gonna go sit out by the swimming pool. If anybody
wants to join me later," and she meaningfully caught my eye as she
walked past, "I'd love the company."
Bud waited till she was out of the room.
"You know what kinda doctor that dame needs? One of them
head doctors. She's getting screwier ever day. She nearly killed me the
other night."
"Oh yeah? How?"
Bud laughed. "With fucking perfume bottles. You know she's got
about a million bottles of the same kind of perfume. She was throwing
'em at me and I was ducking and dodging and they was busting
against the walls. It looked like there'd been an explosion in a fucking
perfume factory when she got finished up."
"How come she was throwing them at you?"
"Same old story. She thinks the greatest thing in the world's singing
in some saloon in front of a buncha drunks trying to imagine
what she looks like without no clothes on. I keep telling her all she's
gotta do is lift up one little pinkie and she can have anything she
wants. She don't need to sing."
"Maybe it makes her happy."
"One thing I've learned, Danny, there ain't nothing ever gonna
make a broad like that happy. I let her sing then two weeks later she's
gonna be throwing perfume bottles at my head again 'cause of some
other damn thing. Anyway.What was we talking about?"
"Taking it on the lam?"
"Yeah. I did that when I was a kid. I ain't doing it again. I like my
life here," and he gestured to the room; it was a beautiful room, with a
high ceiling and a crystal chandelier and a breeze coming in through
the French doors that opened out on a patio and the green, blossoming
garden. "I ain't gonna just walk away from it. I just gotta figure
out how to turn the tables on these sons of bitches."
Anatoly came in and re-filled our water glasses. I stared as always at
his three-fingered hand. When he left, I said: "There's this red Buick.
It's been following me."
"Yeah?"
"It always has two guys in it, but I've never been able to get a
good look at them. And they only follow me when I'm driving Darla
around."
Bud nodded, put some peas in his mouth, and chewed.
"You don't seem too concerned about it," I said.
"That's 'cause I ain't concerned.They're my guys."
"But how come? You don't trust me with Darla?"
"That ain't it. This town's full of people with blood in their eye. I
got you guarding Darla 'cause I don't want her to get hurt. And when
you're guarding her, I got them two guys guarding you for the same reason."
"So have you got two more guys guarding those two guys?"
Bud laughed. "Naw, them two are on their own. If somebody was
to knock 'em off, I wouldn't mind a bit.The world would be a better
place without 'em."
I finally worked up the nerve to say what I'd been dying to say.
"I know all that Two Gun Danny Landon stuff is made up. I know
you brought me here on a train about a year ago."
Bud wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin.
"Yeah? How do you know that?"
"Somebody told me."
"Who?"
"Tommy."
"Tommy told you? When?"
"A couple days before . . ."
I let my voice trail off discreetly. Bud smiled a little.
"He was playing a rib on you. That's how Tommy was. Always
with the jokes. I can't believe you fell for it. You want another pheasant?
Hey, Anatoly!" he yelled. "Get Danny another pheasant!"
As we were finishing lunch, Blinky showed up, lugging a thick
briefcase; he was out of breath and mopping his face with a handkerchieflike
he'd come over here from his office on foot and at a dead
run. I left him with Bud, and walked out to the swimming pool.
The seagull was sitting quietly on the sand under the shade of an
umbrella. It cocked its head and watched me as I walked by it toward
Darla.
She was sitting in a lounge chair, reading House and Home. She was
wearing a light-green bathing suit and a white floppy hat and sunglasses.
One leg was straight, the other bent; they were smooth and
golden and a-shine with sweat and lotion.
"Feeling better?"
She lowered her magazine and peered up at me over her sunglasses.
"I
always feel better as soon as I leave a room that has Bud in it."
I dragged over another lounge chair and sat down.
"What did you guys talk about?" she said. "After I left."
"About how you tried to kill him with Mitsouko bottles."
She didn't deny it. She seemed amused. She picked up a tall glass
of lemonade with a straw sticking out of it. The glass probably had
more than just lemonade in it. She took a suck on the straw, then said
delicately: "You thought any more about, uh . .. ?"
"What?"
"What we talked about. In my apartment."
"Darla, if he goes to prison, everything's gonna be okay."
"Maybe he won't go to prison. And even if he does, that won't
change anything. He'll have his spies. They'll tell him everything I
do."
"Look, I'm not gonna kill him for you.You can forget that."
She looked at me without saying anything. She jabbed at the ice
in the glass with the straw. Finally she said: "Okay."
Now she returned to her magazine. She was doing her Danny'svanished-into-thin-air
act.
"Darla?"
She continued slowly turning the pages. "What?"
But I didn't know what. I heard voices. Willie the Coon and Bo
Spiller were walking by. They were ogling Darla and giggling. Then
Bo socked Willie in the arm and took off. Willie ran after him. Bo
got behind the trunk of a palm tree and jumped this way and that
as Willie tried to grab him. They were showing off for Darla like
schoolboys.
"I've got a gun," she said.
"You've got a gun?"
"Yeah." '
"Where?"
"Hidden someplace. For when I need it."
The seagull started screeching. Darla and I looked over, and saw
Anatoly approaching. He had a plateful of table scraps. The gull was
beside itself with excitement, it flapped its wings and rose into the air
as Anatoly started tossing it chunks of potato and crusts of bread and
pieces of pheasant. Anatoly spoke softly to the gull in Russian.
"He sure loves that bird," I said.
"That's good," said Darla. "It's good to love something."

18

ALL I REALLY wanted to do was sleep. Over the next several days I
would go to bed early and sleep late and then during the middle of
the afternoon take a long nap. It was like my consciousness was an
island in a sea of sleep and the waters were rising and threatening to
overwhelm the island altogether.
I woke up from one nap, and saw Sophie standing at the dresser
with her back to me, stealthily pulling a drawer open. She looked
through it quickly, shut it, then eased the next drawer open.
She glanced over her shoulder at me. I snapped my eyes shut. Then
I opened my eyes a crack, and peered out at her through the trembling
shroud of my eyelashes.
She was counting the money in my wallet. Now she took out a
few bills, and stuffed them in the pocket of her shorts. Then she put
the wallet back in the drawer, and closed it.
She looked at me again, then tiptoed out of the room. I gave her
enough time to get out of the house before I got up.
I remembered having a hundred fifty bucks or so in my wallet.
Now I had about half that. I was glad for her to have the money if she
felt like she needed it that bad, but I was sorry she hadn't just asked
me for it.
It felt like there was another shoe that needed to drop, and it did
so that night. I was in the kitchen making a sandwich when I heard a
woman yelling for help out in the courtyard.
I ran outside. Mrs. Dean was in front of Sophie's bungalow.
"Fire!" she screamed. "Oh my Lord! Fire!"
The front door was closed and no lights were on inside, but I
could see an orange flickering glow through the window, and smoke
was drifting out.
"Where's Sophie?" I said.
Mrs. Dean looked blankly at me, like I was a stranger. She
Screamed: "Fire!"
The door wasn't locked. I stepped into the smoky dark and called
for Sophie. No answer. The bungalow was laid out just like mine. I
saw the fire was in the back, in the bedroom. The door was half open,
and I pushed through it.
A ferocious fire was consuming the bed.
"Sophie! Are you in here?"
I fumbled for the light switch, turned on the overhead light. The
air was thick with acrid smoke. I started to cough. My eyes were
burning and watering and I could hardly see.
I was afraid she was in here someplace. Maybe lying on the floor,
overcome by the smoke. Maybe cowering in the closet.
I stumbled around the room, coughing and calling for her. I
opened the closet and thrust my arms into a thicket of clothes.
Someone grabbed my elbow.
"She's not in there, old boy. Come on. Let's get out of here."
Dulwich was holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. I
let him pull me out of the house.
The usual crowd of bungalow dwellers had gathered around to
gawk. Mrs. Dean was still going nuts. Tears were streaming out of
the eyes of Dulwich and me. Suddenly five red-hatted firemen came
running up the seven steps from the street. They dragged a big brown
hose into the house and had the fire put out in short order.
Mrs. Dean, who I never knew was so religious, repeatedly thanked
the Lord when she found out the fire hadn't spread beyond the bed,
and her bungalow, though smoky and scorched and waterlogged, was
intact. The firemen were leaving as Lois and Jerry showed up. They
were dressed up and drunk and seemed to be returning from a night

on the town.
"Where's Sophie?" yelled Lois when she figured out the center of
all the excitement was her own home. "Where's my little girl?"
But nobody knew. Mrs. Dean wanted to know how the fire had
started. Had one of them been smoking in bed?
"We been gone for hours," said Lois, "how could we have been
smoking in bed?"
"When was the last time you saw Sophie?" I said.
"Well, it was when we left here, what time was that, Jerry, a little

after six?"
"It was her that done it!" said Jerry. "The little brat!"
"Oh, Jerry, you don't mean that--"
"The hell I don't! And now she's run away, to escape her proper

punishment!"
"But why would she set the bed on fire?" said Dulwich.
Jerry glowered furiously at Dulwich, at the same time taking a step
backwards.
"I'm not talking to you no more, Mr. Dulwich. Not after being
the innocent victim of your fisticuffs. You caught me by surprise that
time, Mr. Dulwich, but maybe next time you won't be so lucky!"
"Jerry," said Mrs. Dean, "I hope you understand that you and Lois
will have to pay for the damages to my unit."
Jerry looked taken aback. "But don't you have insurance?"
"Not for this sort of thing."
"That little monster don't belong to me. I'm not responsible for

what she does."
"Don't call her that! Don't call my daughter a monster!" said Lois,
and then she took a swing at Jerry. It popped him right on the ear.
He yowled in pain. "Jumping Jesus! I think you broke my goddamn
eardrum!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean to," and she reached for his ear,
but he batted her hand away.
"I've had it, Lois! You and your little brat haven't been nothing but
trouble for me! I'm getting my stuff and I'm moving out! And don't
try and stop me!"
Jerry stormed toward the bungalow as Lois wailingly tried to
stop him. Their neighbors looked on, slackjawed with satisfaction, as
though this had all been an especially good episode of The Shadow or Amos 'n'Andy.
I turned to Dulwich and said: "Where's the nearest bus station?"

19

THE GREYHOUND DEPOT was downtown, on South Los Angeles
Street. A terrible beggar with some kind of shiny steel contraption
in place of a lower jaw sat out front; he had a straw boater with a
few pennies and nickels in it. Inside, in the waiting area, several
sailors were sitting around chewing gum and drinking sodas and
smoking cigarettes and reading magazines. A shabbily dressed
woman in a Gilligan hat was stretched out on a bench asleep, using
her suitcase as a hard pillow. A guy with thinning, slicked-back
hair and a checkered vest was sitting with his legs stuck out and his
fingers interlaced over a plump belly. He had a smug smile, and was
gazing with beady, barely open eyes at Sophie, who was sitting directly
across from him.
A little suitcase sat by her feet. She was reading a book. She looked
up at me as I walked over. She seemed surprised.
"Hi, Sophie."
"Hi."
I gave the guy in the vest a hard look.
"I think your bus is about to leave."
He kept the smug smile. He checked his watch, said: "You're right,
friend. Thanks," then stood up and sauntered away, taking his sweet
time about it, melodiously whistling "Beautiful Dreamer."
"Can I sit down?"
She nodded.
"What are you reading?"
She showed me the cover of the book: Kidnapped! by Robert
Louis Stevenson.
"Is it good?"
"Yeah. How'd you know I was here?"
"Lucky guess."
"Well--I'm not going back."
"Don't you wanna know if your house burned down?"
She looked away. "I didn't do it."
"You scared me to death, Sophie. I thought you were in there. I
couldn't see anything because of the smoke."

She looked back at me."You ran into a burning house . . .just to
look for me?"
"Dulwich did too. It didn't burn down though. Just the bed."
Sophie gave me a sniff. "So that's what you smell like. Smoke."
"You already got your ticket?"
"Yeah."
"For New York?"
"Uh huh."
"Where'd you get the money?"
"I been saving up for it."

"I woke up today. When you were taking the money out of my
wallet."
She regarded me with a mixture of guilt and puzzlement. "Then
why didn't you stop me?"
I shrugged.
"Well, don't worry, I'll pay you back. When I get a job. Every
penny."
"Look. Here's the deal. I can't let you go off to New York. Not
now. Not by yourself."
"How you gonna stop me?"
"I'm bigger than you."
"But I can run faster."
"Sophie, you're just too young. I have a friend, she ran away from
home when she was about your age. She couldn't protect herself.
Horrible things happened to her on the road."
"Horrible things happen to me at home."
"I know. But Dulwich and me, we live right across the courtyard.
From now on, anything happens, you just come to us. And anyway,
Jerry said he's moving out."
"When did he say that?"
"Tonight. When he and your mom came home, and found out
about the fire.They got in a big fight, and your mother punched him
in the ear, then he said he was leaving."
"He always says that. Any time they fight. But he never does."
"Like I said. We're just across the courtyard. So what do you
say we try and get a refund on your ticket? Then we'll see if we
can find a drugstore that's still open, and I'll buy you a chocolate
soda."
Sudden angry tears filled Sophie's eyes. "I'm not five years old!
You think you can bribe me with a chocolate soda? Why should I go
anywhere with you? You were so . .. wean.You made me feel .. . dirty.
No good."
"Sophie, listen, I'm sorry. You're the last person in the world I'd
ever want to hurt. I mean that."
Sophie's knuckles were pressed against her mouth, as she fought
back tears and stared off bitterly at nothing.
I offered her my handkerchief. She wiped her nose with it,
then handed it back to me. Then she stood up, and picked up her
suitcase.
"Okay. Let's go."
The nice man at the ticket counter gave her back the thirty-two
fifty with no problem. She made me put five bucks in the straw hat of
the jawless beggar. As we walked to my car, a Greyhound bus moved
past, its engine growling as it picked up speed, and I too felt the lure
of leaving, of sitting in the rumbling dark with dozens of strangers, of
venturing forth into the dreaming, star-lit nation, of breaking with
the present and embracing the unknown--and then I felt Sophie's
hand slip into mine.

"I'm glad you found me," she said.
"Yeah. Me too."

20

TURNED OUT SOPHIE was wrong about Jerry. The next day the
population of our bungalow court was minus one unemployed plaidsports-coated
door-to-door salesman.
To celebrate, Dulwich and I took Sophie to Capezio's and
bought her some new tap-dancing shoes, then we wandered down
Hollywood Boulevard. A store had signs in the window that said:
"SOUVENIRS. PRACTICAL JOKES. LIVE BABY TURTLES."
We declined to get her a baby turtle, but we agreed to buy her green
trick dice that only rolled sevens and a metal ashtray in the shape of
the state of Louisiana.
When we returned to La Vista Lane, a pair of workmen were taking
a mattress out of a truck under the scrutiny of the grim eyeglasses of
Mrs. Dean. Matilda was in Sophie's bungalow helping Sophie's mother
clean things up, and Sophie got recruited to help; she pitched in immediately
with all the cheerful enthusiasm of a shanghaied sailor.
"How about a nice glass of plonk?" said Dulwich, and though I
didn't know what plonk was, I said sure. He took a bottle of French
red wine out of the cupboard. We sat in his living room sipping the
plonk, and Dulwich smoked some opium; then he said it was beastly
hot in here and suggested we go outside.
It was late afternoon, and the courtyard was mostly in shadow. We
sat cross-legged like Indians on the grass in front of his flower bed.
Tinker sat with us. Dulwich absently scratched the back of her neck.
Suddenly she began producing a strange clicky kind of sound in her
throat.
Her tail twitched. Her emerald eyes were fixed on a flock of sparrows
that had descended on Mrs. Dean's birdseed.
"Careful, Miss Tink," said Dulwich. "The redoubtable Mrs. Dean
is about."
"Have you finished your story yet?"
"No. I gave it up."
"Why?"
"Because it wasn't any good. I really need to face the simple fact
that I am not a writer. I'm not much of anything, really. I'm fortunate
enough to have a modest monthly income that lets me live a
very pleasant, very little sort of life. I thought when I was young that
I was destined for some kind of greatness. Obviously I was absurdly
mistaken."
I felt bad for Dulwich, but didn't know what to say. We sat there
silently for a while. A cooling breeze blew across the grass.Then Dulwich
said softly:

"You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go."

"What's that?" I said.
"A poem. By a soldier named Sassoon." A pause, and then: "I was
reminded of the war."
I looked around the courtyard. "Reminded by what?"
"The sparrows. I used to watch flocks of sparrows and starlings
feeding on the Turkish corpses hanging in the barbed wire. Outside
the mud fort at Kut."
"What's Kut?"
"You don't really want to hear a lot of old war stories, do you?"
"Sure I would. If you wouldn't mind telling me."
"No. I wouldn't mind."
He took a thoughtful sip of plonk.
"Kut was a dreary little mud town on the banks of the Tigris
River in Mesopotamia. We had come to Mesopotamia because the
Turks had seized the facilities of the Anglo-Persian Oil Company at
the port of Basra. The British Navy was in dire need of that oil, we
were told, and by George we were the ones that would get it back!
"Well, Danny, the Turks made such a poor show of it at Basra that
our brilliant brass hats decided it would be a good idea to push inland
and capture Baghdad. So an army of 10,000 went marching forth
from Basra, and the cry was:'Baghdad by Christmas!'
"Mesopotamia was a featureless brown immensity, and we were
10,000 specks crawling across it, and it swallowed us up. We actually
made it to within sight of the fabled city of Sinbad; I can see as
though they were in front of me now its turquoise minarets shining
in the sun. But then we were met by a force of 20,000 Turks, they
had yellow uniforms and barbarically long bayonets, whereupon the
brass hats decided it would be a good idea for the British Indian Expeditionary
Force to retrace its steps.
"We fell back on Kut. There it was decided we would make a
stand, and await reinforcements. We were swiftly encircled by the
Turks.
"A mud fort was erected northeast of the town, to serve as an
observation post for our guns. I was a lieutenant in the 17th Brigade,
which was given the task of defending the fort.
"The Turks shelled the fort relentlessly day after day. And then at
8:30, on Christmas Eve morning, the biggest bombardment to date
began. It lasted for three hours, then all became silent.Then we began
to hear something outside the fort. We looked through the loopholes
in the walls, we could see nothing through the smoke and dust, but
we heard the thudding of boots, and then we saw the glint of the
long bayonets through the smoke and then we could see clearly the
Turkish infantry running toward us.
"Our machine guns shot them down and they became tangled in
the barbed wire and the future food of birds but they were wonderfully
brave and they kept coming, kept coming. The bombardment
had blown a hole in the northeast wall, and finally the Turks fought
through the breach and were inside the fort and amongst us.

"It was quite terrifying, Danny, fighting your enemy face to face
like that, but it was also exhilarating. For as long as it lasted, I don't
think I ever had a thought in my head, it was all animal instinct and
action.There was no time to reload your rifle or pistol, your weapons
were bombs and bayonets and rifle butts; I even bashed in a man's
head with a cooking pot! So much for any lingering schoolboy notions
I might have had about the nobility of man, his supposed superiority
to the rest of the creation. By far, Homo sapiens is the most
violent species. As a lamb is to a lion, so a lion is to a man.
"Eventually the Turks withdrew, but that night they came back.
Again they entered the fort through the breach in the northeast wall. Fighting by night is a different experience than fighting by day. The
infernal flashes of light leaping out of the darkness, the silhouettes and
shadows, the confusion of friend and foe, the clawing lunatic flames.
Even the shouts and the screams of the combatants sounded different
at night, more mysterious, more terrible.
"During the early hours of Christmas Day, the Turks retired for
good. They left behind hundreds of their dead and wounded in and
around the fort. Most of my men, too, had been either killed or
wounded. Astonishingly, though, I'd made it through unscathed.
"General Townshend sent word from his headquarters in the town
that the defense of the fort by the 17th Brigade would be remembered
in the annals of British military history for as long as the et
cetera et-cetera'd and the so on so-on'd, but he was wrong, of course.
The siege of Kut is only an obscure and embarrassing footnote now.
The Middle East was always just a sideshow next to France."
"When were you taken prisoner?"
"Not for several months. The Relief Force was perpetually expected
but it never arrived, for it, too, was attacked by the Turks. Our
rations dwindled rapidly. I discovered that mules are better to eat than
horses. But I drew the line at dogs and, of course," and he glanced at
Tinker and whispered, "cats. Most of our Indian troops refused to eat
horse flesh for religious reasons, and so the poor devils calmly settled
in to starve to death.
"Several thousand Arabs were trapped in the town with us. It was
just their unlucky fate we had chosen their town to make our stand.
Some tried to escape across the river by boat or raft, but they were
shot by the Turks, and their bodies floated away down the river or
washed up on the banks.
"The river became a place of horror. During the winter it was
cold and rainy, and the banks of the river turned into mud. By April
it had become extremely hot again, and steam curled up from the
mud. The banks were littered with the rotting bodies of Turks and
Arabs.The decaying flesh and the mud seemed to merge into a single
substance, a corrupt slime which sucked at your boots, which wanted
you to join it, to become slime yourself.
"Our position became untenable. We were starving, and racked
with diseases. What was left of us surrendered on April 29, 1916.
"The Arabs were in a panic. They feared the Turks would wreak a
gruesome revenge on them for cooperating with us, and they were
right. The Turks immediately set up makeshift gibbets by the river,
and began hanging people; others were murdered by firing squads.
"We officers were separated from our men. We were put aboard
a river steamer, which would take us up the Tigris to Baghdad and
beyond. A column of our soldiers were walking along the bank
under Turkish guard. I heard someone calling my name. It was Private
Pilditch, one of my favorites. A cheerful, rosy-cheeked lad, and a
stalwart soldier. He was barely literate, and I used to help him write
letters to his fiancee, Mary. 'Mr. Dulwich!' he called. 'Ow in 'oly 'ell
did we lose the 'ole blooming army?!' I didn't have an answer for him.
He wasn't cheerful or rosy-cheeked any longer; he was skeletally thin;
he had pneumonia, and an oozing, festering sore on his leg. I waved
farewell to Pilditch, and he waved forlornly back, and I watched him
limp away up the river.
"So we all went into our captivity. As it turned out, the officers
were treated tolerably well, but our men suffered abominably. Few
returned. Pilditch didn't.
"My men meant so much to me, Danny. I call them men, but they
were boys, really. I was in love with them, collectively. I loved them
as if they were one soldier, handsome, smiling, sturdy, youthful, brave,
and afraid. And I wanted to protect my soldier, do my best for my
soldier, for my brave lad, my smiling lad. But he was shot, bayonetted,
blown to bits, bludgeoned, starved, drowned in irrigation ditches,
blinded, emasculated, tortured, made mad. And of course Dulwich
never got a scratch. Lieutenants in the Great War were expected to
lead ephemeral lives, like insects hatching and mating and dying all in
a day. But Dulwich just went on and on. On and on . . ."
Something startled the sparrows, and they whooshed away. Dulwich
gave me a wan smile.
"More plonk?"

21

"I'll take the three on the left," said Dick.
"Okay."
Dick took his own pistol out of his waistband, then we took turns
firing. The noise disturbed a crow that flapped away, peevishly cawing,
and I didn't blame it a bit. It would've been ideal to have three arms so I could've put a finger in each ear as we blazed away.
It took Dick four shots to shatter his three bottles, but after I'd
emptied my gun of bullets my three bottles still stood sassily upright,
gleaming in the sun.
"Hard to believe I was ever any good at this," I said as I reloaded.
Dick coughed, and lit up a cigarette.
"You're right, kid. It is hard to believe."






DICK AND I drove out Sunset to the ocean then up the Coast Highway
to Malibu then onto a little dirt road that took us up into the
brown hills. It was hot but we were drinking cold beers and listening
to the radio and it was a pleasant ride. We passed some dilapidated
cottages and a couple of house trailers and a viciously barking dog
chased us for a while till Dick threw his bottle of beer at it, then he
pulled over and parked in the shade of a stunted oak tree.
You had some view from up there; the ocean was wrinkled near
the shore then got smoother and smoother and you wished you were
an arrow shot from the bow of an infinitely strong archer and you
were flying away from Malibu into the endless blue.
We walked away from the road and up a little draw. We took some
beer with us plus a paper sack filled with empty beer bottles.
Dick unzipped his fly then delivered himself of such a massive
amount of piss it was a wonder his skinny frame had had the space to
store it. Then he took six of the beer bottles and lined them up in a
row. Then we took a position about twenty-five feet away.
I'd gone to a store on Alvarado called Andy's Guns & Ammo and
got a new Smith & Wesson .38 to replace the one the Mexicans stole;
we'd come up here so I could try it out.
LU
LU


1


BUD CALLED. HE said Darla had a pain in her back, and he wanted
me to pick her up in the morning and take her to a chiropractor.

"Okay," I said. "What time?"

"Her appointment's at six-thirty. Address is 418 Grand. The doc's
name is Brunder."

It seemed like a strange time to see a chiropractor, but I didn't ask
any questions. I was at Bud's house about a quarter to six. Bo Spiller's
shotgun and smashed-raspberry face greeted me at the gate.

Darla came out of the house, a scarf over her hair and her eyes
hidden behind her sunglasses. She managed to look pale even through
her tan. She didn't say anything to me when I said good morning. As
he opened the gate for us, Spiller gave her his best imitation of a
suave grin, but unfortunately it turned into the leer of a maniac.

We drove south on La Brea through the slowly awakening city.
Darla lit up a cigarette. I said: "How's your back?"

"It's fine," she sighed. "There's nothing wrong with my back."

"But—Bud said—"

"Oh Danny, can you really be that dumb? Maybe the fellas are right
about you." She was silent, and then: "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean
that. I feel lousy.This is a lousy day. I'm having a baby. Except I'm not."
She looked at me for the first time; at least I assumed that behind
the black glasses pointing at me her eyes were looking at me.
"Well--say something."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm a cheap tramp and I'm going to hell."
"Whose idea is this? His?"
"It's mine too. We agree on something for once. He doesn't want
a kid 'cause he says two's company and three's a crowd. And I don't
want a kid 'cause, well, what girl in her right mind would wanna have
Bud Seitz's baby? It'd probably be a monster, just like him. It'd probably
have two heads."
"But Darla, isn't it wrong? Isn't it just like killing?"
"You are a killer, Danny. That's what you do. So you don't get to

judge me."
I checked my rearview mirror. Didn't see any sign of my buddies
in the red Buick.

"Look, let's just go. Now. You and me. I'll be its father. It won't
have two heads. We'll be happy."
Darla exhaled a weary plume of smoke.
"We'd be lucky to make it to the city limits."
"This car goes fast. Real fast."
"Forget it. I told you. He's gotta be dead first."
"What do you expect me to do? Turn around and go back to the
house and kill him? What about all the guys he's always got all around
him? You expect me to kill Nucky and Nello and Willie the Coon
and that new guy with the thing on his face too?"
"I don't expect you to do anything anymore, Danny. Except to
shut up. And leave me alone."
Grand was downtown. It wasn't much of a downtown; none of the
buildings were more than ten or twelve stories high. The directory in
the lobby of 418 Grand said Dr. Rudolph Brunder's office was on the
eighth floor. The eighth-floor hallway was empty. The pebbled-glass
door to Brunder's office was locked. I looked at my watch.We were a
few minutes early.
There wasn't any place to sit down. Darla smoked. I leaned against
the wall with my hands in my trouser pockets--rattled the change
there until Darla gave me a dirty look and stopped me.
In a little while the elevator down the hall opened, and a short,
dark man headed our way. He had a carefully trimmed red moustache
and was wearing a black homburg hat. He glanced at us as he unlocked
the door and his mouth twitched in a smile-like fashion.
"Good morning," he said, with some kind of foreign accent. "I
hope I am not late?"
I didn't like him. I shrugged. He ushered us into a small, stuffy
waiting room; there was a sofa in a putrid-green color and a coffee
table with some magazines and a glass jar of lollipops on it and a tall
potted plant in the corner that looked like it was hanging on to life
by its fingernails.
"Please have a seat," said Dr. Brunder. "Help yourself to the lollipops.
My assistant should be here shortly, and then we will get
started."
Brunder twitched his lips at us again then disappeared through
another door. We neither had a seat nor helped ourselves to the lollipops.
Darla lit up another cigarette and walked over to the window,
while I just stood there in the middle of the room, a sort of human
version of the potted plant.
The door to the hallway opened, and a woman came in. She was
very fat in a particular kind of way, fairly normal at the top but getting
fatter the farther down you went. Either one of her thighs was
bigger around than all of Dick Prettie.
"Hi, I'm Polly," she said with a warm smile. She waddled over to
the window Darla was standing at and lifted it open. "It's going to be
another hot one," then she looked at Darla.
"You ready, honey?"
I saw Dark's gaze move from Polly back to the open window, and
my heart gave a sickening lurch as for a fraction of a second I thought
she was about to jump, but all she did was toss out her cigarette; then
she followed Polly.
Polly held the door open for her, and she passed through it and
out of sight. Now Polly smiled back at me.
"Help yourself to those lollipops, honey. That's what they're there
for."
I wanted to say who cares about your fucking lollipops and you
oughta be in a circus you're so fat but I didn't say anything and
went over to the sofa and sat down; it was very soft, and I sank
down into its putrid-green embrace and closed my eyes. It wasn't
that I was sleepy; I just wanted to block from sight the dog-eared
magazines from last year and the year before that and the poisonously
orange and yellow and red and green lollipops and the dying
plant. But the problem with closing your eyes is, it tends to awaken
your mind's eye. I saw Doc Travis standing on the balcony during
a rain storm and sticking his hand out and watching the rain patter
into his wrinkled black palm, and Sophie waiting all by herself to
board a bus to nowhere, and Vera Vermillion's glowing blue moon,
and Bud killing Tommy with a bottle of Bacardi rum, and Dulwich's
gappy grin under his Mexican hat, and the cold eyes of the
nurse on the train, and Darla standing by the lake under the moon
and looking up at me as I thought we were about to kiss, like any
regular guy and girl might kiss in such circumstances. By a lake.
Under the moon.
I heard a pleasant soft burbling--opened my eyes and saw two
pigeons on the ledge outside the window. I wondered if the pigeons
ever flew inside, then I had a sudden memory: a panicked bird flying
around inside a room, and my mother laughingly chasing it with a
broom. She wasn't trying to hurt it, was just trying to guide it back
toward the window it had come in through. Lacy curtains hung in
the window, they billowed in a luminous breeze--
The door to the hallway opened a foot or two, and a girl peered
in. She saw me--looked alarmed--but came in anyway.
She sat down on the sofa as far away from me as possible. I suppose
to her I was just part of the awfulness of it all. She had a small,
turned-up nose, and looked sweet and pretty and not more than
eighteen. I wondered who the cad was who got her in trouble and
why he wasn't here with her.
I tried to get back to the memory of my mother with the broom,
but it was all gone now, as if it had escaped back out the window
with the bird.
I'd heard that when women got abortions it was like torture and
they screamed like damned souls and I was straining my ears for any
sign of that but, except for the cooing of the pigeons and the crinkling
of the cellophane that the girl removed from one of the lollipops,
everything was quiet as a tomb.
At last the door opened and Polly came out. She beamed at us.
"Susannah? We're ready for you now."
Susannah put down her magazine and left the sofa.
"What about Darla?" I said.
"She's doing just fine, honey. It's all over. She's resting now. She'll
be out soon."
I tried reading one of the magazines, but the world it described
of movie stars and politicians and sports heroes and kings and queens
seemed unreal and boring. I went over to the window. The pigeons,
heads bobbing, walked away from me down the ledge. Traffic noise
floated up. The building across the street was being increasingly lit up
by the rising sun.
I had one of my headaches, for the first time in a while. I went
out to a water fountain in the hallway, but then discovered I hadn't
brought my aspirins. I was about to drink some water anyway, but
only the barest trickle was coming out. I thought of all the germy
horrible mouths that must have been down there. I hesitated.
"Danny?"
Darla was standing just outside the chiropractor's office, leaning
against the door frame.
"I thought you'd left," she said. "Without me."
I hurried down the hallway to her.
"Course not. How do you feel?"

"Like shit."
She looked like it too. We walked slowly toward the elevator. She
seemed a little woozy.Then she put her hand over her mouth.
"I think I'm gonna be sick."
"I saw a ladies' room. Down this way."
We started moving fast. We got to the ladies' room and she tried
the door. It was locked. She rattled the glass doorknob and wailed:
"Oh fuck!"Then she leaned over and threw up.
I watched her helplessly as spasm followed spasm. The elevator
opened, and two well-dressed guys with briefcases came out. They
stopped and gaped at the sight of the beautiful vomiting girl.
"Get the fuck outa here!" I yelled.
They looked scared, and headed the other way.
Darla seemed through now. I handed her my handkerchief, and
she wiped her mouth off.
"You okay?" I said. "You wanna go back and see Dr. Brunder?"
"You kidding me? Just get me outa here."
We took the elevator down. It was already hot, even down at the
bottom of the shady canyon between the tall buildings. As I helped
her in the car, she winced and sucked her breath in.
"You okay?"
"Quit asking me that."
I got in the car and drove her out of downtown. She curled up in
the seat with her back to me. I was wondering what Dr. Brunder had
done to her. I saw other people in their cars on their way to work
and I envied them because their faces seemed normal and calm like
this was just another morning and their lives weren't all screwed up
and everything wasn't falling apart.
"It hurts," said Darla in a small, tight voice, and then I saw the
blood. It was very red against the black leather of the seat. It was like
somebody had tossed a bucket of it on Darla's lap.
Darla sat up and took off her sunglasses and looked at her lap and

then looked at me.
"Oh God!" she screamed. "Am I dying?"

2

WE WEREN'T FAR from Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. I drove up Vermont
honking my horn and running red lights then turned left on
Fountain and went a couple of blocks and we were there.
By now, Darla's head was lolling around and her eyes were rolling
up and showing white. "I'll be right back," I said, but she didn't
answer me; she'd passed out or was on the verge of it. I jumped out
of the car and ran inside the hospital, yelling for help. Two orderlies
grabbed a stretcher on wheels and rolled it out. A Polly-sized nurse
lumbered along behind them.
A black Pontiac had pulled up behind my Packard. Two guys were
inside. They watched as the nurse and the orderlies got Darla out of
the car and on the stretcher. Their white uniforms got splotched by
Darla's blood; it occurred to me people in their line of work should
dress in red. As they trundled her inside, the nurse asked me what had
happened to her. I figured the best thing for Darla was just to tell the
truth.
Darla disappeared behind swinging double doors. The nurse
wouldn't let me go with her. I realized I was shaking all over; I tried
to stop myself, but couldn't.
The two guys from the Pontiac came in. Both squat, blubbery
lipped, and ugly. They walked up to me like they knew me.
"What's going on?" said one of them.
"What's going on with what?"
"The broad. Darla. What's the matter with her?"
"What's it to you?"
"We work for Seitz," the other said. "Like you. So what's up with

the broad?"
"You guys must be the assholes in the red Buick."
"We're in a black Pontiac, moron."
I walked away.
"Hey!" said the first guy. "Where you going?"
I ignored him. They followed me. I found a phone booth and
called Bud. He came walking in fast ten minutes later, with Nucky
and Willie hurrying along with him.
"Where is she?" he said.
"They took her through there," and I pointed toward the swinging
doors.
Bud headed that way.
"I don't think we're allowed back there," I said.
"Fuck that," and he shoved through the doors. Nucky and Willie
and I were right behind him.
We moved down a short hallway then into a room with a lot of
beds with curtains around them. Bud went over to the first bed and
jerked the curtains back. A nurse was putting a thermometer in the
mouth of an old lady. They stared at us in surprise and horror like
they thought we were about to murder them.
"Who are you?" said the nurse. "What do you want?"
"Sorry," muttered Bud, "I'm looking for somebody," then the
nurse with Darla's blood on her uniform came running up.
"You're not allowed back here! Not allowed!"
"I'm allowed any fucking place I wanna go, you fat cunt! You
know how much dough I give this joint?"
"Nurse! Nurse! Everything's all right. I'll take care of it."
A middle-aged doctor came walking up. He was short, with broad
shoulders, an unnaturally large head, and a handsome mass of wavy,
prematurely gray hair. He looked familiar.
"Dr. Swan," said Bud. He seemed relieved to see him. He even
shook his hand.
"Good morning, Mr. Seitz. I know why you're here. I recognized
your friend as soon as they brought her in. I saw her sing once at
your club. She was unforgettable."
"Yeah, doc, that's great, but how's she doing?"
"Dr. Zamsky has located the source of the bleeding and stopped it.
You remember Bernie Zamsky, don't you? She couldn't be in better
hands."

"So she's gonna be okay?"
"Barring infection, which is always a risk in this kind of case, she
ought to be just fine."
Bud let loose a big sigh. "Thank God, doc. That's great news. See
that she gets anything she needs. The best of everything."
Dr. Swan was looking at me curiously. "Don't I know you?"
Bud laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder.
"That's Danny, doc. Remember? He got beat up by them guys at
Ocean Park last year."
"Danny. Of course. Well, you've certainly changed. What a tremendous
recovery."
"That's 'cause of the great doctoring you guys gave him. So when
can I see her?"
"It shouldn't be too long. Why don't you wait in the lobby? I'll
come get you when it's time."
Out in the lobby, I filled Bud in on what had happened with
Darla.
"I don't get it," he said. "I've sent girls to this Brunder guy before
and there hadn't ever been no problems. Then when I send him over
a girl I really give a shit about, he carves her up like a Thanksgiving
turkey."
"You want me and Willie to pay him a visit?" said Nucky.
"Yeah," said Willie. "We'll get you a fucking refund."
"That's a good idea," said Bud.
I watched Willie and Nucky strut their way out the door.
"What are they gonna do to him? Throw him out the window?"
Bud laughed. "I gotta be careful these days, Danny. They'll throw
me in the sleazer for spitting on the sidewalk. Nah, they'll just do like
Willie said. Get a refund."
He took out a Kleenex and wiped his hands off.
"I hate hospitals. Full of fucking germs."
"You really give money to this place?"
"Sure. Jews make the best damn doctors in the world. A joint
like this makes you proud to be a Jew. I give money to a lot of Jewish
stuff. The Jewish Home for the Aged. The Hamburger Home for
Young Women. Things like that."
"I didn't know that."
"Yeah, you see, I ain't a total crumb."
I saw my shadows in the red Buick/black Pontiac standing on the
other side of the lobby, smoking and casting sheepish looks in our

direction.
"Who are those guys?" I said.
"Them? That's Freddie Kornblum on the left. The other guy's his
brother Mousie.They call him that 'cause of the way he eats. Kinda
nibbles his food real fast, like a mouse. I'm really scraping the bottom
of the barrel when I got dumb cocksuckers like the Kornblum
brothers working for me, but I ain't got no choice. All my best guys is
getting killed or going over to work for my enemies. That's why I'm
lucky I got you. When you called me up and told me about Darla, I
felt like my balls had turned into lead and they was dropping right
through the fucking floor. I'm so stuck on that broad it ain't even
funny. But I can see now everything's gonna be okay. You handled
things real good, Danny.You took care of Darla. I can always count on
you."
Now he put his hand on my shoulder.
"Hey, you look beat. Why don't you go on home. Get a little shuteye.
Take the rest of the day off."
I was reluctant to leave Darla.
"I'll be glad to stick around, Bud. Keep you company."
"Beat it, kid," he said, taking out a Kleenex to wipe his fingers off
after touching me. "That's an order."
My car looked like a crime scene. I drove into the nearest gas station.
The owner, looking disgusted, said it was gonna cost me. I said
fine. While they cleaned up the car I drank a Coke, and watched the
traffic go by.
3

THE NEXT MORNING I went to a building in the shape of a flower
pot on Melrose Avenue that sold plants and flowers. I bought a bouquet
of white and red and yellow snapdragons, then went to the
hospital.
Nucky Williams was out in the hallway guarding Darla's room. He
grinned at the flowers.
"Aw, how'd you know it was my birthday?"
I reached for the doorknob. He stepped in between the door and
me. His mashed-in face and flat chicken eyes were just a few inches

away.
"Get outa my way, Nucky."
But he didn't budge.
"All us guys been trying to figure out what your secret is.You got
one of them foot-long peckers? Or maybe it's just that Darla's hot for
gimps. What do you say, Limpy? If I was to shoot myself in the foot,
would Darla let me fuck her too?"
I grabbed his right shoulder with my right hand and forearmed
him out of the way. He pretended to stumble and be afraid.
"Easy there, Danny! Don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me!"
Darla looked up from a magazine as I came in. She was lying in
bed in a white hospital gown with her blue-eyed, red-bowed lamb
beside her. She smiled faintly.
"Hi, Danny."
"Hi. How you feeling?"
She shrugged. I handed her the flowers. She sniffed them dutifully.
"They're nice. Thanks."
"They're snapdragons."
"I like snapdragons."
The room was filled with flowers, red roses mostly. It was big and
airy, with nice furniture, and watercolors of sailboats and sunsets and
misty mountain ranges on the wall. I dropped my hat on a gleaming
mahogany table.
"This is a pretty ritzy room for a hospital," I said.
"You know who stayed in this room?"
"Who?"
Guess.
"Eleanor Roosevelt?"
"Clark Gable."
"Yeah? When?"
"Last summer. He got his gallbladder taken out."

"No kidding."
"This nurse told me about it. And she said this other nurse was
such a big fan of Clark Gable that she didn't throw his gallbladder
away like she was supposed to."
"What did she do with it?"
"She put it in a jar filled with formaldehyde. She keeps it in a
drawer at home. Every now and then she takes it out of the drawer
just to look at it."
"Jesus. What a nut."
"Yeah."
We both laughed a little. Then it became quiet. The room smelled
like roses and disinfectant. Darla looked at the lamb. Plucked at the
red bow around its neck. Her eyes filled up with tears.

"Dark?"
I sat down on the bed and she leaned into me and I put my arms

around her and she began to cry.
"It was so awful," she whispered.

"I know."
"He gave me laughing gas. I don't know why they call it that. I
didn't laugh. The light from the window started spinning around. It
got smaller and smaller till it was just this teensy little point of light,
and I knew that when that little bit of light disappeared, I would
disappear, and I ripped the mask off. The doctor said, 'Calm down,
you stupid girl,' and he put the mask back on and he held it there.
And then it was like I went on this trip through the universe, and this
voice was telling me that everything you've ever been told is a pack
of lies. And the voice was saying, look, this is how things really are!
And it was like I was passing from one hell to another, from hell to
hell to hell to hell. And everything was hopelessness and pain. Anger
and evil. And then it was like I was falling into a giant volcano. I saw
the lava below me, it was red and bubbling, and I could feel the heat
and my skin started burning, then I heard the doctor say, 'You can
stop squirming, you stupid girl, I'm done now.'"
The door opened. I looked around and saw Bud. He said: "What's

going on?"
I stood up. I could see Nucky in the hallway behind Bud; he
grinned at me then shut the door. Bud walked toward us, as Darla
looked at him, sniffling and wiping her swollen eyes.
"Whatsamatter?" he said.
"I'm just feeling kinda blue, Bud."
"Aw, baby, I'm sorry. Maybe this'U make you feel better."
He handed her a heart-shaped box of Whitman's chocolates.

"Thanks."
"How you doing, Danny?"
"Okay."
"Lookit, I got a thing or two to talk over with Darla. You mind,

uh . . . ?"
"Sure, Bud," I said, and picked up my hat.
"But don't go far. I wanna talk to you too," then he turned to
Darla. "Hey baby, open the box up. Give Danny some candy before
he goes."
Still sniffling, Darla glanced at me, then pulled the ribbon off the
box. She took its top off reluctantly, like it might be filled with spiders
or dead mice.
Not that I really wanted one, but I selected a dark rectangular
chocolate, and bit it in half. Bud watched me chew.
"What kind you get?"
I showed him the half I was still holding. "Kind of an orange
cream."

Bud looked pleased. "You're lucky, kid. That's a good one."

4

BUD AND I sat in the back of his black Lincoln as it glided down
Santa Monica Boulevard. Nello and Bo Spiller were up front. I had
no idea where we were going. All Bud had said when we left the hospital
was he wanted to show me something.
He was very quiet, and kept casting thoughtful glances at me.
Maybe he'd finally caught on to how I really felt about Darla, and
seeing me hugging her was just the last straw. Maybe they were taking
me out in the desert like I took Doc out in the garden.
Nello and Bo weren't saying a word either. I stared at the blank
backs of their heads and hats, and wondered which one would do it.
Bo, probably.The mad-dog killer.
To break the silence, I said: "You know when your trial's gonna

be?"
"I got a hearing next week.That's when they'll set the date for the
trial. Blinky's feeling pretty good about it He says the D.A. ain't got a
leg to stand on but Fay Wray, and he'll tear him to pieces once he gets
him up on the stand."
"You shoulda put both his fucking eyes out," said Nello.
"Maybe I still will."
Bo laughed loudly. Now Nello slowed down and turned off Santa
Monica, and I saw a sign that said: HOLLYWOOD MEMORIAL
PARK. We passed through a gate. It was a pretty place to spend forever. Acres of well-tended green lawns with gray and brown tombstones
sprouting out of them. A little lake. Palm trees and evergreens.
Nello drove down a blacktopped lane that took us along the western
edge of the cemetery. "Stop here," said Bud. He and I got out,
while Nello and Bo stayed in the car.
We strolled along the lane. I started feeling more relaxed, since it
was clear I wasn't about to be knocked off.
"This here's for Jews," said Bud. "It's called the Beth Olam Cemetery."
I
looked at the names on some of the stones. Laskowitz. Rosen.
Meltzer. Bloom.
"Why'd you bring me here?"
"Like I said. To show you something."
The sun was nearly straight overhead in another cloudless sky. I
could feel sweat trickling down the middle of my back.
"I been thinking about my ma a lot lately," said Bud. "She had
a cancer. It started in her mouth and then it started eating up her
whole face. So here she is dying at the end of a lousy, fucked-up life,
but all she keeps saying is:'I just want to live.'At the end she couldn't
talk no more, all she could do was write notes. And the last note she
wrote was:'I just want to live.'"
I saw that his eyes had welled up. I'd never seen that before.
"So the city took her body off and buried it where they bury
winos and bums and other people without no money. I tried visiting
her once, but I couldn't find no tombstone, no nothing. She shoulda
had a nice grave, with lots of flowers. But instead she just got dumped
in some hole in the ground like she was some kinda animal.
"Then I didn't have nobody. Now I'm starting to realize how
much I've missed not having a family. Who can you count on but
your own family? It's more important than anything. I believe in God,
but I think He ain't as important as your family is. It's like that story
in the Bible, where God tells that guy to sacrifice his son. He was just
testing his faith and shit, seeing if that guy would really go through
w
with it. And when God seen the guy was actually gonna do it, He
called it off, right at the last second. Well, I never woulda gone along
with it. If God ever told me to sacrifice my son, I'd just tell God to go
fuck Hisself."
"But I don't get it," I said, then stopped myself.
"You don't get what?"
"Well, if you want a family, I don't get how come you sent Darla
to that chiropractor."
"That was all her idea. I told her I was all for having a kid with
her, but she said if I didn't help her get rid of it she was gonna throw
herself down the stairs and get rid of it that way. So what's the deal,
Danny? She tell you it was my idea? Broads," he snorted. "They're just
good for two things: fucking, and fucking things up."
At the end of the lane, in the southwest corner of the cemetery,
was a long, low mausoleum. A row of thin cypress trees stood in front
of it. Behind it rose the huge sound stages of Paramount Pictures.
We went inside. You might think of mausoleums as being dark
creepy places, but this one was bright and beautiful.We walked slowly
down a polished marble floor between rows of crypts that went all
the way up to the ceiling. Sunlight poured in through stained-glass
skylights.
"Nice, huh?" said Bud. I nodded. We passed Glasbands, Schinagels,
Ginsburgs, and Fishes.
"Hey, here's a guy named Hamburger," I said. "You think maybe
he had something to do with the Home for Young Women?"
"I dunno. Maybe." After a while we stopped, and Bud pointed up
at a crypt with no name on it on the top row.
"That's gonna be mine. Number 656."
We craned our necks as we stared up at it.
"Not that I'm planning on kicking the bucket any time soon. But
a guy in my line of business, you never know."
"How come you wanna be in here and not outside? With the
grass and the trees and everything?"
"I hate dirt. Why would I wanna be buried in the fucking dirt?"
"Why so high?"
"When I was a kid, I loved climbing on fire escapes and up on the
roofs of buildings and looking down at everybody. So I guess it's the
same kinda thing.
"The one next to it," he said, pointing. "Six fifty-four. I bought
that one too."
"For somebody in particular?"
"Well, at first I was thinking I'd put Darla in it. But that's not
gonna work 'cause she ain't Jewish. They won't let you in a Jew cemetery
if you ain't a Jew. But now I'm thinking," and then he stopped.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"I'm thinking now--I mean, if you wanna--you can have it."

I was taken aback.
"You're saying I'm Jewish?"
He nodded.
"But Danny Landon's not a Jewish name, is it?"
"No. But that ain't your name."

5

BUD AND I turned away from 656 and 654, and started walking back
the way we had come. Over the polished marble, under the radiant
glass.
"I figure the time has come to level with you. I don't know why
he done it, but Tommy told you the straight truth. I did bring you
back here on a train. I brung you back from New York.That was after
your ma wrote me a letter and told me how you'd got beat up. How
your head was hurt."
"Who was she? My mother?"

" 'Member me telling you about heistmg them anchovies? And
how I got hot and had to get outa town? And how I had a girlfriend
and she gave me some dough and then I never seen her again? Well,
that was your ma. I didn't know she was gonna have a baby when I
left. She didn't know neither. I didn't know nothing about you until
last summer.
"You coulda knocked me over with a fucking feather when I
opened up that letter and it was from her. She said she'd read about
me in the papers, that's how she tracked me down. She was in a real
jam, she said. They was trying to throw you outa the hospital 'cause
you didn't have any dough. And she was real sick and she couldn't
work no more and she didn't have any money neither. And so she
didn't have no place else to turn to but me. The next train to New
York, I was on it."
"What happened to me? How'd I wind up in the hospital?"
"Well, you got beat up by some guys, just like I always told you.
'Cept it happened in New York. There was this old Greek guy, he had
a dry cleaners. One day these guys jumped him, they was beating him
up and was gonna rob him, but then you happened along. You tried
to help him out. That's when you got knocked in the head with a
lead pipe."
We came to the mausoleum entrance, and went out. Looking directly
down the lane you could see in the hills the Hollywoodland
sign. We turned right, and walked along the southern edge of the
cemetery.
"Your ma said that trying to help out that old man, that was just
the kinda guy you was. You was the prince of the neighborhood, she
said. Everybody liked you, everybody looked up to you. Everybody
thought you was really gonna go places .You was going to college, you
was planning on being a lawyer.You talked about being the mayor of
New York someday. But then when your mother got sick you had to
quit college and get a job."
"You know what kind of job?"
"Yeah. In a shoe-polish factory."
I was quiet a moment, letting it all sink in. The prince of the
neighborhood. A shoe-polish factory.
"Did she have any family? I mean, besides me?"
Bud shook his head.
"Her mother and father, when she told 'em she was having a
baby, they wanted her to go to one of them home for unwed mother
places. You woulda ended up in an orphanage. But she wanted to
keep you. So they just threw her out on her fucking ear.
"No telling what woulda happened to her, but she ran into this
guy.This little mick. He was eating a hot dog in the park. He seen her
watching him, and seen how hungry she was, so he bought her a hot
dog too.
"He was a lot older than her. He was a bookkeeper. When he
found out what the deal was, he said he'd marry her and he'd raise
the kid as his own. And that's what happened.
"Your ma said he treated her like gold, and he was a real good father
to you. She said you never knew the truth about who your real
pa was. She said the three of yuz was all real happy together. But then
when you was five or six, he was just walking down the street and
this big chunk of limestone fell off a fucking building and killed him.
"So it was just your ma and you. She got a job working as a salesgirl
in a ladies' hat store. And she stayed there till she got sick."
"What was the matter with her?"
"Consumption. Her lungs was rotting out. When we was both
kids and she was my girl she was gorgeous. But when I first seen her
last summer I didn't hardly recognize her. She was so skinny she was
like a skeleton."
"What did she look like? When she was young."
"Well, she had blue eyes. Light-brown hair. A little nose. She didn't
really look like a Jew, if you know what I mean." He smiled a little.
"You look like her, not me. Lucky for you."
"Did she have a scar?" I said, and I touched my left cheek. "About
here?"
"Yeah. She said she got hit in the face with a seesaw or something
when she was a kid." He eyed me curiously. "So you're starting to
remember stuff?"
"Some stuff." And then I said: "She's dead, isn't she?"
"Yeah, kid. Sorry. Couple weeks after I got there she started
coughing up blood. Lots of blood. Then she passed out. She never did
wake up again. She died that night. I was there with her. Then it was
just you and me.
"The first time I seen you, you was like a baby in the body of a
growed-up man.You couldn't talk, you couldn't feed yourself, you had
to wear diapers.You was in that same crummy hospital I was in after I
got plugged heisting the anchovies. So I got you outa there and into a
real good hospital and I got you the best fucking doctors in New York.
Then after your mother died I decided to bring you out here.
"I think you musta liked California.You started getting better real
fast. But you couldn't remember nothing.You had that amnesia thing.
So I figured I'd just give you a fresh start. I used to know this guy in
the old days, Danny Landon. He was a real good friend of mine. He
got drunk one night and fell asleep on the trolley tracks and a trolley
run over him. Cut him right in half. So anyway, I named you after
him."
"Did you ever hear of a girl named Gwynnie?"
He frowned. "Yeah.Your ma told me about her."
"Who was she?"
"Her and you was gonna get married.Your ma said after you got
hurt, she come to the hospital a few times, then she quit coming
around. Your ma said she'd heard she took up with this other guy
that'd been your best pal. She was a cunt.You shouldn't worry about
her. All them people in that neighborhood of yours, you shouldn't
worry about 'em. When you and your ma needed help, none of'em
lifted a fucking finger.Your ma tried to make excuses for 'em, she said
it was 'cause of the Depression, nobody had any extra dough, but that
ain't no excuse.You helped that old man out, but nobody helped you.
Even the old man didn't help you! Fuck all of 'em.
"See, that's why I thought it'd be better if you just started over out
here. I told all the boys to just act like you was one of them.That way
you wouldn't have to lose any sleep over all that shit that happened in
New York that didn't matter no more."
"What was my mother's name?"
"Rachel."
"What's my name? My real name?"
"I'll tell you someday. Now ain't the time,"
"Why not?"
"Danny's good enough for now."
"Why couldn't you have just told me who you really were? Right
from the beginning?"
"I dunno." He thought about it. "It's a big thing telling somebody
that. That you're their father. I thought I'd see how it went with us.
And in my book, it's gone pretty damn good."
I noticed Bud's Lincoln behind us, creeping along, keeping its
distance. We were approaching the lake. Next to it was another mausoleum,
which Bud gestured at.
"Guess who's in there."
"Who?"
"Rudolph Valentino. We're gonna have a pretty famous neighbor,
huh?"
I felt terribly tired all of a sudden. It was hard to walk, as if the asphalt
of the road were melting and sticking to my shoes.
"Lots of famous people buried here," said Bud.
A black crow winged over the blue lake, its shadow skimming
along beneath it.
"It's great to finally get that off my fucking chest," said Bud.
He regarded the world with a relieved smile. He slapped me on
the back.
"Well, how you feel, now you know I'm your old man?"
As often happened when I was talking with Bud, I couldn't think
of a thing to say.

6

BUD DROPPED ME off at my car in the hospital parking lot, but I
didn't feel like going home. So I went to the movies.
Mickey Rooney was an orphan named Blackie Gallagher and he
became best pals with another orphan and then he grew up to become
Clark Gable. And Clark Gable was a charming gangster and the
other orphan was the DA. but even though they were on opposite
sides of the law they were still best pals but then they both fell in love
with Myrna Loy.
It was a good movie, but I had trouble keeping my mind on it. I
started thinking about Clark Gable and his gallbladder, and how we
must have been at Cedars of Lebanon at about the same time. Maybe
we'd even encountered each other at some point; maybe buried somewhere
in my battered brain was a memory of his big ears and cocky
grin as he wisecracked with a nurse, and maybe he remembered how
the sight of me being rolled down a hallway, drooling and glassy-eyed,
had made him feel lucky all he had was a bum gallbladder.
I sat there in the theater's semi-dark, and thought about how I'd
been practically kidnapped by Bud Seitz. He hadn't created a fictitious
life for me because he wanted to spare me any troubling truths
about my real life, but because he knew the natural thing for me, as
soon as I was well enough to travel, would be just to go back home.
To try to pick the pieces up of who I used to be.
"Young man?" I heard, then I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
I turned around. A middle-aged woman was sitting behind me.
The gigantic images of Clark Gable and William Powell were miniaturized
in her spectacles. She and her husband were looking at me
with concern, and I realized, to my embarrassment, that I was crying.

"I'm okay. Sorry."
I turned back around, and tried to stop crying, and tried to figure
out why I was crying. Because my mother was dead? Because my
fiancee was lost? Or because he was dead, he was lost? That absurd
young man working in the shoe-polish factory who thought he
might be the mayor of New York someday.
I got up and stumbled toward the aisle, stepping on the toes of a
sailor who had his arm around the shoulders of a girl. "Hey, watch it,
mac!" he said, as up on the screen Blackie Gallagher said: "Say, everything's
just hotsy totsy!"
It was all too much. As I'd gotten out of Bud's car back at the hospital,
he had said to me: "By the way, them guys? That beat you up?
There was four of'em. Now there ain't any of'em."

7

THAT NIGHT I barely slept.When occasionally I did begin to drift off,
it was like the air around me became filled with swirling whispering
ghosts that would vanish when I opened my eyes. About two a.m.
a violent-sounding cat fight broke out right under my window. I
hoped Dulwich's cat wasn't involved.
Finally daylight began to filter into my bedroom. I felt a little hungry.
All I'd eaten yesterday was the chocolate at the hospital. I went
in the kitchen and had a bowl of stale cornflakes. Then I went in the
living room and sat down on the davenport and turned on the radio.

At some point Mrs. Dean came over with a slice of coconut
cream pie. I asked her how she knew it was my favorite, but all she
did was smile at me. She wasn't wearing her false teeth, so it was a
gaping empty jack-o'-lantern kind of smile. I felt bad that I hadn't
ever played checkers with her housebound husband, and I tried to
apologize, but she just kept smiling bigger and bigger, she was scaring
me to death, and then I woke up.
I was soaked in sweat. I got up to turn on the fan. The radio was
still playing and the news came on. The newscaster announced that
Bernice Seitz, wife of mobster Bud Seitz, had drowned in the swimming
pool of her house on Bedford Drive in Beverly Hills.
"According to Captain Chuck McCumber of the Beverly Hills
Police Department," said the newscaster, "the body was discovered
last night by the maid. It was her night off. When she came back
to the house at about eleven o'clock, she found Mrs. Seitz's body
floating facedown in the swimming pool, clad in a bathing suit. McCumber
said the death appeared to be accidental. When asked if foul
play was a possibility, he replied: 'Are you talking about murder? This
is Beverly Hills. We don't have murders in Beverly Hills.'"
I knew I had to see Darla. I got dressed and got in my car and
drove to the hospital.
Her room was empty. A Negro woman with a polka-dot scarf over
her hair was mopping the floor. I asked her if she knew where Darla
was.
"Who?"
"Darla. She's a blonde girl.This is her room."
She shook her head and kept mopping. "Don't know nothing
about no blonde girl."
I went to the nurses' desk. They told me Darla had checked out

that morning.
I headed up La Brea toward Bud's house. I tried to fight down
the panicked sense that Darla was slipping beyond my grasp. That she
had fallen through the ice, or was dispersing like smoke, or had never
been real to begin with.
I tooted my horn at the front gate. I was relieved to see Dick Prettie
in his usual cheap suit and silly tie waving at me and opening the

gate.
"Hi ya, Danny," he coughed.
"Is Darla here?"
"Yeah. Bud brung her back this morning."
"How is she?"
"She wasn't doing so hot when I seen her. Nello and me nearly
had to carry her up the stairs."
"Is Bud here?"
Dick shook his head. "He had to go and make plans for the funeral.
For his wife.You heard about that, right?"
"Yeah. So what happened to her?"
"She drowneded to death."
"Yeah, I know. But the radio said it was an accident. Is that what
you think?"
Dick took a drag on his cigarette.
"I dunno.What do you think?"
"Probably same as you."
"Lookit. Here's all I know. Around eight last night, Willie and
Nucky and Bo come driving through here. Nucky and Bo was
soaked to the skin. There was puddles around their fucking shoes.
And Nucky's face was all scratched up."
"How come you think Willie wasn't wet?"
"Maybe he was the lookout. While Nucky and Bo drowneded
that poor bitch to death." He flicked his cigarette through the gate.
Watched it roll down the drive. "I've had it, Danny. I'm getting out
for sure. I'm just looking for the right time."
I drove up to the house. Anatoly met me at the front door.
"The boss, he is not here, Danny."
"I know. I came to see Darla."
"Sorry.The boss says no visitors."
"I just want to see her a minute."
Bo Spiller appeared behind Anatoly.
"You heard him, Danny. Get outa here."
"Please, Danny," said Anatoly. "She is very tired. She is sleeping. Let
her rest."
Now Anatoly closed the door.
I went back to my car. Started to get in.Then changed my mind,
and walked around to the back of the house.
The sun wasn't far from setting; it was flooding the garden with
golden light. I looked up at the second-story balconied bedroom of
Bud and Darla. The curtains were drawn. She seemed like a princess
imprisoned in a tower.
"What are you doing, Danny?"
It was Nucky.
"Nothing."
Four vivid scratches diagonally crossed his cheek. He strolled up
beside me then put his hands on his hips and gazed up at the bedroom,
as though we were trying to puzzle through a common problem.
"I
seen this movie once.This guy was gonna elope with this dame.
So it's the middle of the night, right? And he's throwing little rocks up
at the dame's window to let her know he's there." He giggled. "But
he's got the wrong fucking window! Her old man sticks his head
out and gets a fucking rock right in the eye. I'm telling you, Danny, I
nearly laughed myself sick." Then he looked me over with his lifeless
eyes. "Now beat it, kid. Before I fucking kill you."

I stopped off at Healy's Bar on the way home. I always found something
comforting in the befuddled company of George and Sonny
and the Kid; maybe it was the feeling they gave you that life was
something that had happened to them a long time ago and thus was
no longer a source of fear or worry. But they weren't here tonight.
Neither was Henry, the regular bartender.
I climbed on my usual stool and ordered a beer from the new bartender,
a skinny guy with a nervous, rabbity mouth.
"Where is everybody?" I said.
He looked around and sniffed: "I don't know who you mean
by 'everybody,'" like I was belittling both him and his two or three
seedy-looking customers.
I drank that beer and then, as I pondered the lessons of the Custer
massacre, had a couple more. When I went back out on Vine Street it

was dark.
Searchlights swept the sky, advertising the grand opening of a hot
dog stand.
I drove down La Vista Lane, and parked. Went up the seven steps.
As I opened my door and reached for the light switch, I smelled cigarette
smoke.
Teddy Bump was sitting on the davenport, blinking mildly at me
in the sudden light. He was holding a gun in his lap, which he didn't
bother to point at me.
Beside Teddy was Vic Lester. The guy I saw at the lake with Teddy's
dick in his mouth. Vic was obviously just waking up. He looked confused.
"What's going on?" he mumbled.
"Asshole's here."
Vic yawned at me. "Hello, asshole."
"You got a piece?"Teddy said to me.
I nodded.
"Get rid of it."
His gun drifted in my direction now. I took my gun out and
placed it on the coffee table in front of them.
They stood up.
"Okay, Danny-boy," said Teddy. "Let's go."

"Where we going?"
"No place special."

8

MY HEAD BANGED on the roof as I was shoved into a maroon Hudson.
Teddy got behind the wheel. I was jammed in between him and
Vic as we pulled away from the curb.
The headlights lit up Dulwich walking down the sidewalk. He
wasn't paying any attention to us. I wanted to yell out to him but
didn't, and he was swiftly left behind in the darkness.
Vic pushed in the electric lighter on the dashboard. Teddy started
fiddling with the radio dial. The lighter popped back out, and Vic
puffed a cigarette into life.
"What's this all about?" I said.
I didn't get an answer. I wondered if Teddy knew it was me that
had ripped his false eyebrow off and dropped it in his mouth and
now he was about to get even with me.
"I've saved up some money. A whole lot of money. If you guys let
me go, it's yours."
"Shut up," said Teddy. "I love this song."
It was "The Carioca." He started singing along with it in a cracked
falsetto--

"Now that you've done the Carioca
You'll never care to do the Polka ..."
We went south then headed east on Beverly.Vic put his hand on
my knee. I stared at it. Now it started sliding up my thigh. When it
neared my crotch, I jerked my leg away and slapped at it. He giggled,
and blew some smoke in my face. He put his hand back on my knee.
I slapped it away again.
"Give it up, kid," said Teddy. "Trying to keep this guy away from
your dick's like trying to keep a mouse away from a piece of cheese."
Then he let loose with his hyena laugh and Vic joined in.

I considered making a desperate lunge for the door handle and
throwing myself out of the car. But then Teddy turned onto Alvarado
then a short distance later pulled off the street. In the sweep of the
headlights I saw THE PINK RAT painted in peeling pink letters on
the side of a deserted-looking brick building.
Behind the building in a small parking lot two fancy cars were
parked: a sky-blue Cadillac and some kind of long black limousine.
Teddy stopped his car. He and Vic got out. I stayed put. Teddy reached
in and grabbed my arm and dragged me out.
The night was loud with crickets. There was a vacant lot behind
the parking lot filled with high weeds, and I wondered if I was about
to be marched into it and murdered, but Teddy led me over to the
limousine instead. The windows were tinted and I couldn't see inside.
He opened the back door and said: "Get in."
I ducked my head and entered. Teddy shut the door behind me. I
found myself in a spacious rear compartment with seats facing each
other at either end. I saw two shadowy shapes on the back seat and
one on the front. I crouched in the middle like a captured, frightened
animal. Nobody said anything. Somebody coughed. Then a dome
light came on.
On the back seat were Max Schnitter and Loy Hanley; on the front
was Jack Otay. Past Otay, on the other side of a glass partition, I could
see the backs of the heads of two guys in the driver's compartment.
Everybody was looking at me in a friendly, interested fashion.
"Come on over here, Danny," said Otay.
I sat down beside him on the gleaming red leather seat; the whole
interior of the car was red.
"Would you like a drink?" asked Schnitter.
"Yeah. I could use one."
Schnitter smiled, showing his sharp eye teeth. "Jack, pour Danny
a drink."
"Scotch all right?" said Otay.
I nodded. He poured some scotch out of a crystal decanter into
a glass. I saw they all had their own glasses of scotch already. They
watched me as I took a drink. They noticed how my hand was shaking.
Schnitter
and Loy Hanley were like Mutt and Jeff sitting together.
Schnitter's little two-toned shoes barely reached the floor, while Hanley's
long, cowboy-booted legs were stuck out straight in front of him.
Hanley started handrolling a Bull Durham cigarette.
"So how's life been treating you, son?"
"Fine. And you?"
"Got no complaints."
"How's Violet?"
He gave a disgusted snort. "That crazy bitch. I kicked her out on
her fat ass. And I do mean kicked."
Schnitter gestured vaguely out the window. "Is this your first visit
to the Pink Rat?"
"Yes sir."
"It was a wonderful place, before they closed it down. A Presbyterian
minister named Gustave Briegleb led a campaign against it. He
called it a 'den of iniquity' A place that had been given over to 'the
world, the flesh, and the devil.'All true, of course. That's why it was so
wonderful. But now Loy and I are making plans to re-open it. Restore
it to its former glory."
"Yeah," said Hanley, "the Pink Rat'll be giving the Peacock Club a
run for its fucking money."
"But I thought you guys weren't getting along," I said.
Schnitter raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Well--that's what I heard up at the lake."
"Hell, Max and me are like dadgum blood brothers," said Hanley.
"Ain't that right, Max?"
Hanley slapped Schnitter's knee; Schnitter winced a little through
his smile.
"That's true, Loy. We had our differences, but they're in the past.
Just like my friendship with Bud Seitz is in the past."
"Mr. Schnitter, what happened with that girl at your birthday
party--I hope you don't think it was some kind of practical
joke or something. It was an accident. I know Bud felt really bad
about it."
"Loyalty's a virtue, Danny. Up to a point." Then he said, very
slowly: "And then self-preservation begins to set in."
I took another gulp of whiskey. Hanley lit his cigarette with a
kitchen match that he struck off the bottom of his boot. Looked at
me through the smoke with his hard, gunmetal gray eyes as he waved
the match out.
"We're offering you a job."
"Doing what?"
"Helping us get rid of your boss."
"But in a strictly legit kinda way," said Otay. "Like they done in
Chicago with Capone."
"That's how the mayor wants it," said Schnitter. "He's been getting
a lot of heat from the Reverend Briegleb and some of the papers to
'clean up the city.' And so Seitz becomes our sacrificial lamb. It was an
easy choice to make. Repeal changed everything, Danny. The competition
for new business is ferocious. But Seitz is stuck in the past. In
the old ways of doing things."
With its windows closed, the car was already smotheringly hot,
and now it was filling up with Hanley s smoke. I could barely breathe,
but the others seemed like creatures that loved the smoke and the
heat. I resolved that I would say or do anything that would contribute
to me getting out of the parking lot of the Pink Rat alive.
"I see what you mean. But what do you need me for? You already
got Louie Vachaboski."
Schnitter frowned. "Not anymore."
"Louie's skedaddled," said Hanley.
"To Old Mexico," said Otay.
"Which means," said Schnitter, "we have to start over. With a new

case.
"What do you know about Bud's wife?" said Otay.
"Nothing. I never even met her."
"But you know Bud had her knocked off, right?"
"I don't really know anything about it."
"Everybody knows Bud wanted a divorce and she wouldn't give it
to him. So don't it stand to reason that he knocked her off?"
"I don't know. Maybe it was an accident. Or suicide."
Schnitter tugged pensively at the lobe of one of his pointy elfin

ears.
"I've never quite understood the relationship between you and
Bud. You show up out of nowhere, and suddenly you're his best
friend. But it's none of my business. I have secrets too. We all have
secrets. We're just hoping you can find out the truth about his wife.
After all, if she was murdered, her killer should be brought to justice.
Wouldn't that be the right thing to do?"
I nodded. I started to take a drink of scotch, but my glass was already
empty. Otay obligingly refilled it.
"Look," he said, "we're setting things up all sweet and pretty for
you. Everybody knows you got the hot nuts for his girlfriend. Everybody
but him, anyways. Help us put him away and you'll have her all
to yourself."
"Of course, we'll also pay you well," said Schnitter.
"So what do you say, boy?" said Hanley. "You on board?"
"Sure. Sure I'm on board."
Schnitter cocked his head a little to the side and gave me a quizzical
look.
"Why am I not convinced you're sincere?"
"I don't know why. I'm very sincere."
"Used to know this feller named Herbert Stittmatter from up
around San Joaquin," said Hanley. "I thought he might be stealing
from me, but he swore up and down he wasn't doing no such of a
thing. So I buttered up the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun and
shoved it up his ass. Told him I was pulling the trigger if he didn't
convince me he was sincere."
"What happened?" I said.
Hanley shrugged. "Son of a bitch didn't convince me."
"Danny?" said Schnitter. "Finish your drink."
"Why?"
"Just do it," he said gently.
The glass was nearly full. I swallowed it all down. It burned my
gullet. I coughed and shuddered.
Now Schnitter said to Otay: "Danny has a nice face. Leave it
alone."

9

THE LIMOUSINE PULLED out of the parking lot, leaving me alone
with Otay, Teddy, and Vic. My head was spinning with the whiskey. It
was very dark. The crickets sounded about twice as loud as when we


arrived.
Otay walked over to the edge of the weedy lot and unzipped his
pants. In a moment we heard the patter of pee, and Otay making
noises like: "Arrrg! Oohhh! Ooook!"
"What's the matter with him?" saidVic.
"He's got the clap," said Teddy. "Said he got it from that movie star
he's been screwing."
"Poor bastard," saidVic, and they both snickered.
Otay zipped up, and came back. In the starlight I could see a sheen
of sweat on his ugly-handsome face. "Let's go," he said weakly.
We walked to the back door of the Pink Rat. There was a padlock.
Teddy had a key. "What are you gonna do?" I said.
Nobody answered. Teddy lifted the padlock out of the hasp. Then
he opened the door, and Vic shoved me into a foul-smelling darkness.
Somebody
turned on a light. I was in what used to be the kitchen.
It was empty now, except for a few panicky roaches running for cover
and a dried-up pile of human shit in the corner near the mummified
corpse of a mouse in a trap. Swinging doors on the other side of the
room led into the public part of the Pink Rat.
I heard the door shutting behind me, and I turned around and saw
the three of them standing together and looking at me. Otay took out
a pair of handcuffs from under his jacket. I took a few faltering backward
steps. Otay said: "Grab him, boys."
I turned and broke for the swinging doors, but Teddy and Vic
caught up with me easily and, each taking an arm, they dragged me
back.
"Poor old Limpy," laughed Teddy. "He just can't run worth a shit."
Otay cuffed my hands behind my back; then he took a pair of soft
brown gloves out of his pocket and began to tug them on.
"Jack," I said, talking fast, "I don't know why you're doing this. It's not necessary. I meant it when I said I'd go along with you guys.
Bud's a bad guy. He needs to be put away. And you're right, I want his
girlfriend.You nailed it, Jack. I'll be sitting pretty--"
Otay's fist whumped into my stomach. My shoulders hunched and
my knees sagged and my eyes scrunched shut and out of my mouth
came an explosive moan. He might as well have been Kid McCoy in
his prime and myself his canvas punching bag as he alternated lefts
and rights into my stomach and ribs and sternum. Once he hit me
smack on my heart and darkness flashed in my eyes and I was like
a tiny barrel tumbling over some vast black waterfall. When I came
back to my senses and the Pink Rat, Teddy and Vic were still holding
me up, and Otay was standing in front of me, red-faced and sweating,
catching his breath, one gloved hand rubbing the knuckles of his
other.
"Stop it," I said. "Please."
"Turn him around," he said to Vic and Teddy.
Now he went to work on my back. Rabbit-punched me until I
blacked out.
When I came to, I was sitting on the filthy floor in a little puddle
of my pee. My back was against a cabinet and my legs were splayed
out in front of me. The three of them were looking down at me. Otay
was peeling his gloves off like a weary surgeon who'd finished an
operation.
"This isn't nothing personal, Danny. Far as I can tell, you're a nice
enough kid, and I hadn't got nothing against you. This is just so's
you'll know what'll happen if you ever fuck with us. 'Cept it'll be
about a hundred times worse. And you won't live through it."
"Anything you want," I gasped. "I'll do anything."
"Your turn," Otay said to Teddy.
I'd thought it was over.
"Wait," I said.
But Otay walked away. Teddy grinned down at me.
"Wait," I said. "Wait."
Teddy pulled out of his pocket a pair of wire pliers.
"Wait!"

10

"DRINK THIS."
It was a murky brown liquid steaming in a teacup.
"What's in it?" I said.
"A drop of dragon's blood," said Dulwich. "A pinch of dirt from
the Lone Sod. A sprinkling of dust from the dark side of the moon."
I took a sip. It tasted lousy. I coughed, which hurt my ribs. I
winced.
Dulwich frowned down at me.
"Perhaps we should take you to the hospital, and have your ribs
X-rayed. Make certain there aren't any fractures."
"I hate hospitals. I wanna stay here."
I was in Dulwich's bed, wearing a pair of his pajamas. I'd stumbled
to his door after Teddy and Vic had brought me back. He'd already
cleaned me up and bandaged my toes and wrapped my ribs, all without
asking a single question.
I choked down some more of the vile stuff in the cup.
"No kidding. What is this?"
"A tea I got from an herb doctor in Chinatown. It will help you
sleep."
It did, though I didn't realize it till I found myself waking up. The
bedside lamp was still on. I heard the rustle of a turning page. Dulwich
had pulled up a chair beside the bed. He was reading a book
called The Well at the World's End.
He didn't notice I had awaked. He seemed a fatherly, reassuring
presence. It felt safe to go back to sleep.
It wasn't, though. I found myself being tortured back at the
Pink Rat. But everything looked different, there was a big picture
window with tatters of fog floating past it, and my torturers were
different too. Tommy and Goodlooking Tommy were holding me
down, and Ching-wei, the Chinaman who worked at the Peacock
Club, was wielding the pliers. He seemed to want me to confess
to something, but since he was questioning me in Chinese, I didn't
know how to reply.
At a table in the corner, Darla was playing cards with Vera Vermillion.
"You
got any elevens?" said Darla.
Vera was naked, and her skin was turning blue.
"No way, honey. Go fish."
Neither paid any attention to my screaming.
"Wake up, Danny. Everything is all right."
I opened my eyes. Dulwich was bending over me.
"They can't hurt you now."
My, Dulwich's, pajamas were soaked in sweat, and my mouth was
bone-dry. "I'm thirsty," I croaked.
He was back a moment later with a glass of water. With one hand
he supported the back of my head, and with the other he held the
glass to my lips.
I drank my fill; then I started getting drowsy again. As my eyelids
drooped, I saw Dulwich looking down at me.
"Poor boy," he murmured, then he bent and kissed my forehead.
"Dear boy.
Sleep.

Over breakfast in bed the next morning--scrambled eggs, buttered
toast, raspberry jam, and orange juice--I told Dulwich everything.
"I always wondered how I would stand up to torture," Dulwich
said as he munched on his toast. "Fortunately, I was never in a position
to find out."
"I was pathetic. I cried. I yelled. I begged."
"But Danny, you're not giving yourself enough credit. You
already had the information about Mr. Seitz and his late wife that
they wanted you to obtain. And yet you withheld it from them. The
question, of course, is: why? Why did you protect him?"
"Well--he is my father. And he's always been nice to me. Even
though everybody says he's a monster."
Dulwich wiped a glistening smear of jam off his thick lips with his
napkin.
"I suppose," he said, "if you were to rake over the ashes of what
remains of Seitz s soul, and you were to find a few glowing embers of
decency left, probably those embers would have to do with you."
After breakfast, Dulwich put his cat in a wire cage, then left in his
ancient, barely running Franklin convertible for the dog and cat hospital.
It turned out it had been Tinker that had been involved in the
fight the other night; she'd suffered a nasty scratch behind her ear, and
Dulwich was concerned it was getting infected.
He left me with the morning paper. The first story my eyes fell
on began: "Out of work for months, W E. Main, 50, engineer, ended
his life yesterday in a rooming house at 142 West Jefferson Street by
sending a bullet through his heart." I sighed, and tossed the paper
down.Thought about W E. Main for a while. It seemed like a curtain
of crumminess was descending on the whole world.
I got out of bed, and tottered to the bathroom. I was appalled to
see what looked like strawberry Kool-Aid streaming into the toilet. I
finished up and flushed; then I heard somebody knocking at the front
door.
It was Sophie.
"I just ran into Mr. Dulwich, and he said you were here. Can I
come in?"
"Maybe now's not the best time."
"Please? There's something I have to tell you."
I let her in, then limped over to the sofa. She watched me ease
myself down like an old man.
"Mr. Dulwich said you'd been in some kind of accident, but you
were going to be fine and I shouldn't ask you about it."
"He's a smart fella, Mr. Dulwich.You should always listen to him."
Sophie perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, her hands
clasped in her lap.
"So what did you want to tell me?"
She looked away, toward the door, like somebody had suddenly
arrived there. Her eyes filled up with tears.
"Sophie? What's the matter?"
"My mom's sending me away. To some kind of reform school."
"You're kidding.When?"
"Next week."
"But--how come? When did all this happen?"
"My mom lost her job at the department store. She said it was
because her boss didn't like her, but I think it was because she was
drinking. She drinks all the time now. Anyway, Jerry's been coming
around again. He's got some kind of job now, selling carpet cleaner or
something. And one night, they thought I was asleep, but I could hear
them talking. And she was trying to talk him into coming back, but
he said he wouldn't as long as she had that little brat living with her.
Me--I'm the brat. And she said don't worry, they've got places for
crazy kids like her, kids that try to burn down houses.
"Then a few days later a policeman came to see me, and he had a
man and woman with him. Mr. McNamara and Miss Hazeltine. Mr.
McNamara seemed kind of like a preacher, he was dressed in black
and he was really old and he wore glasses. Miss Hazeltine was younger
and kind of fat, but she wore glasses too. They said they were from the
Sonoma State Home in Eldridge. They said they'd come to see me
because they'd heard I was a troubled little girl and they thought they
could help me. I said I wasn't a troubled little girl, and they asked me
then why did I set fire to the house, and I said I didn't. Then they
gave me a written test with a lot of crazy questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"Well, like, how many boys have you kissed, and have you ever
dreamed you went to school in your underwear, and if you were an
animal, what kind of animal would you like to be, and why? I wrote
I'd like to be a bat, 'cause if I was a bat I'd be blind, and I wouldn't be
able to take this dumb test.
"I don't know whether I passed the test or not. All I know is Mr.
McNamara called my mother yesterday and said they'd be coming
back on Monday. To take me to Eldridge."
She sniffled, and swiped at her nose with the back of her hand.
"I've seen lots of movies about reform schools. They make you
wear dopey uniforms and they feed you something called 'gruel' and
they make you stand out in the rain for punishment. You should've
just let me run away."
"Oh, it might not be so bad," I said without much conviction.
"I'll probably never see you again."
"You'll see me again. I'll come visit. Dulwich and I both will."
"Promise?"
"Promise." Then I tapped the tip of her nose with my finger and
said: "Did you know you have exactly eleven freckles?"
The droopy corners of her mouth turned up in a smile, and then
we heard: "I'm gonna have to put you on a leash, honey!"
Lois Gubler barged through the door, looking awfully happy for
ten o'clock in the morning. Her platinum-blonde hair looked as stiff
and dry as straw. She didn't seem to be wearing any underwear under
her sloppy dress; I could see her nipples, along with some sort of yellow
substance dripping down the front.
"I made us some breakfast. French toast.Your favorite!"
"So that's why you got egg all over you," said Sophie.
"Where?" she said, then she saw the yolk and laughed. "Oops!
Betty Crocker I ain't! Come on, Sophie. It's gonna get cold."
"I'm not hungry."
"But I made it just the way you like it."
"She said she's not hungry," I said.
Lois turned her unsteady attention on me and my red silk
pajamas.
"Nice peejays," she sneered. "So you living here now?"
"He had an accident," said Sophie, "and Mr. Dulwich is taking
care of him."
"What kinda accident?"
"None of your business," I said.
"You know,Jerry always thought there was something funny about
Mr. Dulwich. Maybe there's something funny about you too. I've got
a good mind to call the cops.They got laws against guys like you."
"They oughta have laws against mothers like you."
"Yeah? What do you mean by that?"
"A mother oughta raise her kid--not ship her off someplace just
so she can shack up with a bum like Jerry."
Lois was looming over us now, her different scents billowing over
us like a cloud: booze and perfume, tobacco and B.O.
"Oh, I get the picture. Sophie's been giving you an earful. But she
probably didn't tell you this is all for her own good. See, my daughter's
got this problem. I mean, besides being a firebug. She's boy-crazy.
Just can't control herself. She's always shaking her skinny little fanny
in the faces of my fellers. But probably I ain't telling you nothing
you don't already know. No telling what you two have been up to.
But this new place she's going, they're gonna take care of all that. She
won't be acting like a little whore no more 'cause they won't put up

with it."
Sophie stood up indignantly. "I hate you! You're the whore!"
Lois slapped her. She lifted her arm to slap her again, but I lunged
up off the sofa and grabbed her by the wrist. She spit in my face.
I felt the warm sticky wetness oozing down.
"If you weren't a girl, I'd deck you."
"And if you weren't a crummy little cripple, I'd be scared of ya!"
Sophie had had enough. She ran out the door. Lois stumbled after
her, yelling: "Sophie Gubler, you come back here! You run away again,
I'll call the cops!"
I went in the bathroom to wash off my face. Needed to wash it

several times before I was satisfied.

11

"SOME OF THESE state places can be pretty bad," I said.
"Unfortunately," said Dulwich, "I don't think there's anything we
can do. Except, as you promised, visit her. Write her. Remain her
friend."
I'd slept most of the day; now I was having dinner with Dulwich.
Spaghetti and tomato sauce, broccoli, French bread, and plonk.
"This is great," I said. "I didn't know you were such a good cook."
"Spaghetti's easy. But thank you. I do enjoy cooking, I admit."
Tinker Bell walked over to the table. The veterinarian had given
her some medicine to put on her battle wounds and said she ought to

be fine. Now she meowed up at us.
"There's nothing here you'd like, old girl. Sorry."
"How come you've never been married, Dulwich?"
"Oh, I'm a confirmed bachelor, Danny. I've discovered that romance
roils my soul intolerably."
"Maybe I oughta be a confirmed bachelor," I said gloomily.
"So let's talk about this."
"About what?"
"About what on earth you plan to do?"

I pushed at a strand of spaghetti with a tine of my fork.
"I plan to live a long, happy life. And to pass away peacefully in my
sleep in the year 1999."
"Do you have any interest in what I think?"
"Sure."
"You're a decent young man who has fallen into a nest of vipers.
Your position's becoming increasingly untenable. I've grown quite
fond of you, Danny, and for selfish reasons, I would hate to see you
leave. But I do think it would be for the best."
"Not without Darla."
"Then take her with you."
"But Bud'll hunt us down. And those other guys, Schnitter and
them--they said they'd hunt me down too if I took off. Guys like
that, they never give up."
"Oh, that's just a lot of rot. That's what they want you to think. In
reality, they're just stupid, brutal thugs who aren't half as smart as you. They're the dull-witted hounds. You're the sly, quick fox."
"You make it sound easy."
"No. I think it will be desperately difficult. And I think you have

no choice."
It was dusk. Outside, we could hear a noisy cawing of crows. Every
day about this time, dozens of them would pass overhead, in a hurry
to find a place to roost before night fell.
'"Crows make wing to the rooky wood,'" said Dulwich.

12

BY THE NEXT morning, I was peeing yellow again, and I felt well
enough to go back to my own bungalow. I took a long hot bath, then
inspected myself in the mirror. It was fascinating to look at the blue
and black imprints of Otay's pigskinned knuckles that covered my
torso, front and back.Then I got dressed, went out in the living room,
and called Wendell Nuffer.
I told him I was trying to find out some information about a reform
school: the Sonoma State Home in Eldridge.

"I believe I've heard of it, Danny, but that's all. Why are you interested?"
"There's
this little girl I know, she's a neighbor of mine. She's
being sent there."
"For what reason?"
"Her mother's a bitch and wants to get rid of her. Anyway, she's a
good kid, and I'm concerned about her."
"Tell you what. I'll make some calls, find out what I can, and call
you back."
"Thanks, Mr. Nuffer. I appreciate it."
"Always glad to do whatever I can for a friend, my boy."
Nuffer was acting as happy as if I'd called him up to tell him he'd
just won a million dollar jackpot.
"Sounds like you're in a good mood," I said.
Nuffer laughed. "I'm in the best of all moods in the best of all possible
worlds."
"How come?"
"My Violet has come back to me. It's been eleven magical days
now. She told me she'd only been with Loy Hanley a short time
when she realized she'd made a dreadful mistake. That it was me that
she loved. When she told Hanley she was leaving him, he wept, he
pleaded, he begged her to stay. All to no avail. But don't think I was
just a pushover when she came back, my boy, oh no! I was hard as
stone. Cold as ice. But gradually I melted in the warmth of her obvious
repentance and affection."
"I'm glad you're happy, Mr. NufFer, but--are you sure this is a
good idea? I mean, the last time things didn't work out so great."
"Time will tell, time will tell. But think of it this way. I'm sure
you've had the bittersweet experience of seeing some unbearably beautiful
girl in a crowd, and watching her for a few moments, and knowing
you're never going to see her again. But I am going to see that girl
again, Danny! In a little less than three hours, I'll be in her adorable
arms again! No joy matches that! It's worth risking everything for!"
After I hung up with Nuffer, I called Bud's house. Anatoly picked
up. I asked to speak to Darla.
"She is resting now, Danny. Probably better not to disturb her."
I heard somebody in the background say: "Hey, is that Danny?,"
then suddenly I found myself on the phone with Bud.
"Hi ya, kid! How's things?"
"I'm fine. I was just calling to see how Darla was doing."
"Well, that's real thoughtful of you, Danny. She's been kinda down
in the dumps, but she'll be okay. It's funny, I was just thinking about
you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.You and me, we need to get together. We gotta make some
plans. Wait a minute. Maybe you ain't heard the news."
"What news?"
"Fay Wray went on the lam. They dropped the fucking charges. I
beat the bastards!"
"Gee, that's great, Bud."
"I'm gonna be busy all day, but why don't you come over tonight.
Maybe around eight o'clock."

My cretinous shadows, the Kornblum brothers, were manning the
front gate.
"What do you want, kid?" said either Freddie or Mousie; I wasn't
sure which was which.
"It's okay," said the other one, Mousie or Freddie. "The boss is
suspecting him."
I assumed he meant expecting. I headed up the driveway. Several
'powerful floodlamps had been installed since I was last here at night,
and the grounds were awash in harsh light. I parked and got out. Anatoly
in his red velvet vest was standing in front of the house, staring
toward the swimming pool.
Bo Spiller and Willie the Coon were there, laughing and clowning
around. Bo had his shotgun. He pointed it at the seagull, then yelled:
"BLAM!"The gull squawked and flapped at the end of its tether, as
Bo and Willie yukked it up.
Anatoly's lips curled in contempt.
"Muzjiki," he said.
"What's that mean?"
"Peasants." He looked at me, and sighed. "This job is not any good
anymore. I think I am leaving soon. I take the bird and go. To Papeete,
maybe."
"Would you tell me something, Anatoly? What happened to your
fingers? Did you really get them shot off in the Russian Revolution?"
He
nodded.
"How did it happen?"
"It was cavalry charge. Across open field. The Bolsheviks were
waiting for us in the trees. I was holding sword, I was waving it like
this," and he circled his three-fingered hand over his head. "I feel very
happy at that moment, Danny. I feel like I am Cossack. I feel like I am Bog. God! But the Bolsheviks have machine guns. They shoot sword
out of my hand, shoot my fingers away. Shoot my horse. My poor
horse. Horses no good against machine guns.
"He is waiting for you, Danny. In billiard room."
He and Dick were playing eight ball. Dick was lining up a shot, a
cigarette with an inch of ash hanging from his lips. Bud was puffing
on a cigar. His face lit up when he saw me.
"Hey, Danny! How's it going? Want a drink? You take over for
Dick. Dick, get outa here. Give Danny your stick. Scotch all right?"
"Sure."
"Beat his ass, kid," said Dick as he handed me his stick and sauntered
toward the door.
Bud brought over a glass of scotch. He had one too. "Here's mud
in your eye," he said, and we both took a drink.
I eyed the table. There were five stripes left and three solids.
"What am I?"
"Stripes."
I decided to knock the nine in the side, which ought to set me
up for the fourteen in the corner. But as I leaned over the table, pain
ripped through my ribs. I sucked in my breath and winced.

"Jesus Christ, Danny. What's the matter?"
"I was moving some furniture around and threw my back out. It's
no big deal."
I took the shot, and missed. Bud was looking at me with concern.
"I got a bum back too, it's nothing to fuck around with. I got a
great chiropractor. Why don't you go and see him tomorrow?"
"Dr. Brunder?"
Bud grinned. "Nah, not Brunder. I hear he just went outa business."
He
sank the three, but missed the six. I put the twelve into the
corner.
"So how come Darla's down in the dumps?"
"Aw, it's always something with that broad. Now she's acting sorry
about what she done. So the stork ain't gonna be paying her a visit
after all. Well, that's life.You make a choice, you gotta live with it."
Evidently I'd misspent a significant part of my youth in pool halls,
because I was a pretty good player. Now as I chalked my stick, I saw I
could run the table on Bud if I didn't screw up.
"Sorry to hear about your wife."
"Yeah.What a terrible accident."
He said it with a straight face.
"You really think it was an accident?"
"Who the hell knows? All I know is, some people deserve what
happens to 'em. Bernice deserved to drown like a rat in a fucking
sewer.You don't know what kinda hell she put me through. Aw, nice
shot. Hey, I got good news for you. I'm giving you another raise.To a
yard and a half a week. How does that sound?"
A yard and a half was a hundred fifty bucks.
"It sounds great, Bud.Thanks."
I lined up another shot. A tricky bank.
"Ten bucks says you miss it."
"You're on."
"Shit! You're on fucking fire, kid. So I'm gonna have a party. It's
been a while since I throwed one. But since things is starting to look
up for me again, it seems like a good time. And I'm gonna make a
couple of announcements."
"What kind of announcements?"
"That I'm your old man, for one thing. That way, people'll start
treating you with the proper respect."
I knocked in the ten.
"What's the other announcement?"
"That Darla and me's getting married." He went in his pocket,
pulled out a little box. Opened it to reveal a diamond ring, one big
stone set in a twinkling constellation of smaller ones."Wait'U she gets
a gander at this, huh? I got it today at Lackritz. That's the fanciest
jewelry joint in Beverly Hills."
"It's some ring, all right."
"So Darla's gonna be your stepmom.What do you think of that?"
I tapped the thirteen, watched its orange stripe wobbling across
the table till it dropped into a pocket. I'd left myself an easy shot on
the eight.
"Geez, kid.You oughta have some mercy on your old man."
But there was a glint in his eye of paternal pride as I finished him
off.
"Double or nothing on the sawbuck?"
"Sure."
I got the balls out of the pockets and rolled them to Bud as he
racked them up. I sensed Darla's presence in the house. Something
more fundamental than my physical body could see the glow of her
golden hair, could smell her Jean Harlow perfume. I had my gun on
me. I could break my cue stick over Bud's head and knock him out
and rush upstairs and grab Darla and we'd run outside and jump in
my car and I'd gun down anybody that got in my way. We'd highball it
out of this insane city into freedom, into the future. And then in a little
cabin in a tourist camp out in the desert we'd do what Adam and Eve
did, what guys and girls do. And she'd murmur and grow sad over my
bruises and my tortured toes and the dent in my head and I'd say are
you kidding? No man could be happier than I am at this moment.
"I want you to go out to Palm Springs with me this weekend. I
got a very important business meeting."
"Yeah? Who with?"

"Some guys I know from Chicago. I'm looking for 'em to be my
new partners. Since my old partners stabbed me in the fucking back.
But I want you right there with me in the meeting. From now on
I'm including you in everything."
He positioned the balls properly then lifted up the rack.
"Break."
I exploded the bumpy bright pyramid of balls. The two and eleven
dropped in.
Bud drank some scotch and shook his head. "Geez. I might never
get another shot."
But I missed the next shot, even though it was easy. Bud looked at
me suspiciously. "You do that on purpose?"
"Course not."
" 'Cause when you got your foot on somebody's neck, you don't
ever let 'em up."
He walked around the table, cleaning his cue with a Kleenex as he
examined the angles.
"You know, I had the goddamnest thing happen to me the other
night."
"What?"
"I was in here by myself just knocking the balls around. I do that
sometimes when I can't sleep. And guess who comes strolling in the
door."
I shrugged.
"Doc Travis! That's who."
"The bootlegger or the monkey?"
"The bootlegger!"
"Did he still have his head?"
"Oh yeah. I woulda fucking fainted if he'd come walking in here
without a head. He was just like he always was. But he was real mad
at me 'cause he thought I had something to do with what happened
to him. He said when that stripper died up at the lake, what was her
name?"
"Vera."
"Yeah. He said it wasn't no accident. He killed her 'cause he knew
it'd make trouble for me."
"Doc said he murdered Vera?"
"Yeah. And you know ever since I come back from the lake I been
feeling fucking hoodooed."
"Then what happened?"
"Nothing. He just turned around and walked back out the door.
So either I'm losing my marbles or I seen a ghost."
"Well, I don't believe in ghosts."
"So you're saying I'm losing my marbles."
"No." I stared down into my glass, swishing the scotch around in
it. "Maybe you were dreaming."
"Danny, I was as wide awake as I am right now."
I couldn't help but jump a little as out of the corner of my eye I
saw somebody walking through the door. But it wasn't a ghost, it was
just Darla.Though she looked a little like a ghost.
She was wearing a fluffy white robe over a pink nightgown. One
hand clutched the robe shut over her throat. The strange thing was, she had on sunglasses, which stood out starkly against the pallor of
her face.
Bud started toward her.
"Baby, what are you doing out of bed?"
"Don't touch me!" she hissed.
"Why are you wearing sunglasses?" I said.
She took them off. I expected to see that one or both of her eyes
had been blackened, but that wasn't it. They were blue and red. The
irises blue, the whites shockingly blood-red.
"What happened to your eyes?"
"They turned this way last night. After he tried to choke me to
death. See?"
She let her robe fall open so I could see her throat. It was covered
with bruises.
I turned to Bud.
"You bastard."
He looked at me warily. "This ain't none of your business,
Danny."
"Why'd you do it?"
"I'll say it again. It ain't none of your business."
"I'll tell you why he did it," said Darla. " 'Cause I told him I
couldn't stand him anymore. That I'd rather be dead than stay with
him."
"It didn't happen like she said. I wasn't trying to choke her to
death. I just flew off the handle a little bit, that's all. I told her already
I was sorry."
Darla was looking at me with her unsettling blue and red eyes.
"Can she leave if she wants to?" I said. "Is she a prisoner here?"
Bud gave an exasperated sigh, ran his fingers through his thinning
Grey-Goned hair.
"Come on, Danny. What are you talking about 'prisoner'? Can't
you see she's a fucking basketcase? She don't know what she's doing.
I'm looking after her, that's all. So she don't hurt herself.
"Hey, let's don't fight no more," he said to Darla, then he went in
his pocket and pulled the little box back out.
"Lookit, baby. Look at what I bought you."
He took the ring out and held it out to her.
"It's from Lackritz, baby. Seven and a half carats! And that ain't
even counting all the little ones."
She slapped it out of his hand. It bounced across the red carpet
and rolled under the pool table.
Something changed instantly in his eyes, like a light going on or
a light going off. He bent down and reached under the table and got
the ring, then he grabbed Darla's wrist and tried to force the ring on
her finger.
"Put it on, you bitch!" he shouted, and she tried to jerk her hand
free then slapped at his face then dug her fingernails into his cheek.
He yelled then whacked her across the side of her face and sent
her reeling and stumbling over the carpet. He never saw the punch
I launched; it caught him in the left temple, and he grunted and
dropped to all fours. He swung his head groggily back and forth, a
glistening string of saliva dangling from his jaws. I took Darla by the
elbow and said: "Come on, let's get outa here." We started toward the
door, and then my fantasy of whacking Bud with my pool cue came
true except in reverse: the stick came down where my neck met my
right shoulder, and broke in half. The pain was paralyzing, and I fell to
my knees.Then Bud knocked me on my face, and his knee was in my
back as he crouched atop me and shoved the broken end of the pool
cue against the back of my neck. He roared hoarsely: "I'M GONNA
KILLYOU,YOU BASTARD!"
"Bud, don't!" screamed Darla as she tried to pull him off, then
Dick and Anatoly came running into the room.
"Bud, are you nuts? That's Danny! said Dick. Since they both
knew the kind of man Bud Seitz was, it took a lot of guts for Dick
and Anatoly to drag him off of me.
I sat up slowly, rubbing my neck and trying to catch my breath. I
saw that a smidgen of sanity seemed to be returning to Bud's eyes.
"Get him outa here," he said. "Get him outa my fucking sight."
"Come on, Danny," said Dick as he helped me up, and then Willie
and Bo Spiller joined the party. They weren't as gentle as Dick. They
grabbed me under the arms and proceeded to give me the bum's rush
out of the house. I was looking around for Darla but she'd already
disappeared.

I hadn't been home long when the phone rang. It was Bud.
"What the hell happened, Danny?"
His voice sounded different than I'd ever heard it before: kind of
shaky, and small, and baffled.
"You need to let Darla go, Bud. She doesn't wanna be with you
anymore."
"I guess it's true, then."
"What?"
"What I heard about you two. About her sucking your dick by the
lake."
"No.That's not true."
"You swear?"
"Yeah. But there's something you need to know. I love Darla. I
wanna be with her. I wanna marry her."
"Aw, shit," he said, and then came silence.
"You still there?"
"Yeah, kid. I'm still here. Listen. If you and her think you're gonna
go skipping off hand in hand into the sunset together, well it ain't
gonna happen. I mean, what kinda example would I be setting for
you if I let you push me around over some broad?"
"I can't help the way I feel. And Darla can't help the way she
feels."
Bud gave a humorless laugh.
"She's using you, kid.You ain't her type.You're too nice. She likes
crumbs. Like me. Rich crumbs. Then when she gets sick of one rich
crumb she goes on to the next one. If they don't get sick of her first."
"I don't think you really understand her."
"Aw, I understand her all right. Believe me, I'm doing you a favor
by keeping her away from you."
"If you think she's such a rotten person, why do you even wanna
be with her?"
"Broads are like a disease. It's like in the movies, where Clark
Gable or somebody's going into the fucking jungle. And then he gets
bit by a mosquito, and he gets real sick, and he's laying in some fucking
hut sweating and moaning and talking out of his head, and the
jungle drums are beating, and the cannibals are getting ready to come
get him and cook him in a big pot, and it's all 'cause that fucking
little mosquito bit him."
"I guess I got bit too, Bud."
Silence, and then a sigh.
"This stinks."
"Yeah."
"You know, I'd sooner cut off my right fucking arm than hurt you.
And to think about what I almost done tonight ... I got plans for us,
kid. Big plans. But Darla's standing in the way. She's got in between
us. So what are we gonna do?"
"I don't know."
"It ain't gonna work, you going to Palm Springs with me. But
we'll talk when I get back. All right?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"See ya around, kid."
"See ya."
Then his end of the line went dead.


13

ABOUT ELEVEN THE next morning, Nuffer called.
"I've found out some information about the Sonoma State Home.
I don't think you're going to like it, Danny."
"Let's hear it."
"To begin with, it's not a reform school at all. It's a mental hospital."
"But--that
doesn't make any sense, Mr. Nuffer. There's nothing
wrong with Sophie."
"I'm afraid there's more. The doctors there work hand in glove
with an organization called the Human Betterment Foundation. It's
based in Pasadena. A lot of prominent scientists and educators are
members. My good friend Harry Chandler, the publisher of the Los
Angeles Times--he's on the board. Their purpose is the betterment of
the human race through the science of eugenics."
"What does that mean?"
"It means keeping the unfit from breeding excessively. According
to California law, the state can sterilize the feebleminded and insane."
"Wait a second. You're not saying they might sterilize Sophie, are
your
'No, Danny, I'm not saying they might. I'm saying they will. All
patients, male and female, who are committed to the Sonoma State
Home are sterilized as a matter of course."
I thanked Nuffer, hung up, and crossed the courtyard to Sophie's
house. I had to knock awhile before Lois finally opened the door.
She looked at me blearily "Yeah? What do you want?"
"Is Sophie here?"
"Unh unh."
"Where is she?"
"How the hell should I know? Out running wild, probably. Now
get outa here. 'Fore I call the cops."
She shut the door. Her smell lingered. I walked out to the street.
Looked up and down it. No sign of Sophie running wild, or doing
anything else. I half hoped she had run away.
I sat down on the steps to wait for her. It was a hot day, and the
sun was shining nearly straight down, and there wasn't any shade. I
was sick of the sunlight and wished I was sitting here cold and shivering
in the rain. I knew for a fact that I was living my final few days
in sunny California. I wanted to get away from here like Darla had
wanted to get away from Nebraska City, Nebraska, and Elwood, Indiana.
Tinker
Bell joined me for a while, but the sun became too much
for her and she retired to the shade of a nearby bush. She lay on her
side and gazed at me with her calm green eyes.
After a while I checked my watch. I had to leave. I had to meet
Dick at noon.

"I love fucking fried oysters," said Dick.
He was on his second plate of them. He could eat a lot for a
skinny person.
We were at a restaurant called Eddie's on the Santa Monica Pier. I
was having the seafood platter. A melancholy-looking stork was sitting
on a railing outside the window watching us eat.
"Has Bud said anything about me?" I asked.
"Yeah. He said if you was to come around again, not to let you in.
But not to rough you up or nothing." Dick shook his head. "Geez,
Danny. You and Darla. What was in your fucking head? You must
wanna die young or something."
"Are you going to Palm Springs with him?"
"Nah. He wants me and the Kornblum brothers to stay at his
house."
"And guard Darla?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
Camilla, our slinky, sloe-eyed waitress, brought us over two more
mugs of beer. Dick slurped some down, getting foam on his moustache,
as he watched her sway away.
"When's he leaving?"
"Tomorrow."
Which was Saturday.
"And when's he coming back?"
"Sunday.You're making me nervous, kid. What's with all the questions?"
"Don't
you think it's time?"
"Time for what?"
"To get outa this racket. Like you're always talking about. And sell
goat-gland extract. Or whatever."
"Yeah, it's probably about time."
"How about tomorrow night? Around midnight. Or whenever
the Kornblum brothers fall asleep."
Dick chewed grimly on a french fry. "I don't think I wanna hear
this."
"All you gotta do is get a message to Darla. Tell her I'll be waiting
outside the gate for her at midnight. And then she sneaks outa
the house, and you open the gate for us, and then we all get outa
town."
"And then they catch us, and then we wind up keeping Tommy
company. Out in the desert, by that fucking chicken ranch."
"They're not gonna catch us. The Bud Seitz gang's a sinking ship,
Dick. It's like the Monfalcone. Everybody's ganging up on Bud. He's
gonna be too busy trying to save his own neck to worry about what
we're doing."
"Even if I was thinking about maybe going along with this, I only
got about fifty bucks. How far's that gonna take me?"
I went in my pocket and pulled out a wad of bills and put them
on the table between us.
"That's 500 dollars. It's yours now. And I'll give you another grand
tomorrow night."
Dick gave a soft whistle. "That's a lotta jack," he said. But the
money remained on the table at the end of the meal. I re-pocketed it,
and we left Eddie's.
Dick lit up a cigarette, and we walked down the pier. The ocean
breeze felt nice after the relentless heat of Hollywood. Far to the
north I could see Point Dume. I remembered being there with Darla.
Watching the sea lion on the rock as she told me about Beau Jack. All
of a sudden it struck me that, though I had lost my past, I was building
up a new past. Every day I was becoming more solid, less ghostlike.
And I felt a surge of energy, an optimistic tingle down my spine,
a conviction that I'd be able to pull everything off, make the world
right for Darla and Sophie and me.
We reached the amusement-park part of the pier. It was aswarm
with kids. We stopped in front of the Ferris wheel. It was taking on
new passengers.
Dick blew out some smoke, and smiled a little.
"Fucking Ferris wheel," he said.
"Yeah."
"I loved going to Coney Island when I was a kid. There was this
place called Dreamland. It was only open a few years, and then it
burned down.They had the greatest rides.The Shoot-the-Chutes.The
Fighting Flames.The fucking Haunted Swing.The Giant Racer Roller
Coaster. I met this girl there once. Her name was Mildred Beasley. She
was real pretty, and she wore real nice clothes. She said her old man was
a watchmaker. I didn't wanna tell her my old man was dead, so I said
he was a shoemaker, and owned his own shop. Then I seen her looking
down at my shoes. Well, my shoes was fucking falling offa my feet,
they was so old, and I could tell she knew I was lying, but she didn't say
nothing about it. She just smiled. She was always smiling.
"Anyway. I end up spending every fucking cent I got on her. I'm
buying her cotton candy, and hot dogs, and teddy bears, and then we
go for a ride on the Ferris wheel. So we're going around and around
together, and she tells me I'm the nicest boy she's met all summer, and
she kisses me right on the cheek. I'm telling you, Danny, I ain't never
been so happy before or since.
"We made plans to meet up again exactly one week later, right
there at the Ferris wheel." He smiled again, a little bitterly this time.
"I'll give you three guesses whether she showed up or not. I'm still
waiting for fucking Mildred Beasley."
It was quiet a minute, and then I said: "Wanna get on?"
"The Ferris wheel?"
"Yeah."
"With you?"
"Yeah."
He seemed to consider it for a moment, then: "Nah. People'd

think we was fairies."
We walked on, toward the rumbling roller coaster. Kids screamed
as they were swept past us, as though caught up in a catastrophe. "You
really good for another G?" said Dick.
I nodded. Took the roll of bills out of my pocket and handed it

over to him.
"I ain't never been to Florida," he said. "I hear you can pick oranges
right off the fucking trees."

I was still a few blocks away from the bungalow court when I saw Sophie
roller-skating down the sidewalk. I pulled up beside her, tooted
my horn. She looked over and smiled and waved.
"You're just the person I wanted to see," I said.
She seemed delighted. "Really?"
"Yeah. Get in."
She clomped on her roller skates over to the car and climbed in.
Her cheeks were flushed, and her face and her skinny arms were
filmed with sweat. She was working on a big wad of bubble gum. She
looked up at me expectantly.
"I want to have a very serious talk with you, Sophie."
"Okay."
"I've found out some things about the Sonoma State Home. It's
not a very nice place. In fact, it's a really bad place. I don't think you
oughta go there."
"I don't think I oughta go either. But Mom says I have to."
"No.You don't."
"But what should I do? You mean I should run away again?"
"I'm leaving Los Angeles. Tomorrow night. I'm going to New
York. You wanna come?"
Sophie looked as though she could barely believe her ears. Her
jaws worked even faster on her gum.
"Come to New York?"
I nodded.
"With you?"
I nodded again. Now she nodded too.Vigorously.
"Now this is gonna have to be a big secret. We're gonna have to
sneak away.You can't tell anybody."
"It's a secret," she said solemnly. "I promise," and she crossed her
heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Somebody else'll be going with us."
"Who?"
"Her name's Darla."
"Is she your girlfriend?"
I shrugged. "She's nice.You'll like her."
She blew a pink bubble till it popped.
"I doubt it."

14


AS I TOLD Dulwich my plan that night, he listened quietly, puffing on
his pipe.Tobacco tonight, not opium.Tinker, on his lap, seemed to be
listening too.When I finished, all Dulwich did was murmur: "Good
old Danny." His pipe had gone out, and he began fiddling around
with it, trying to get it re-lit. Tinker jumped off his lap, walked over
to the front door, and began lovingly licking herself
"Well," I said. "What do you think?"
"Morally, I think you're on solid ground in taking Sophie away
with you. Legally, I think it's possible you could be charged with
kidnapping, and if apprehended, could spend a very long time in
prison. As for Darla . . ." His eyes wandered up to the painting--the
yellow-haired girl on the windy cliff. "I would like to see you and
your Darla be happy together. But I wonder if getting her out of the
house might not prove trickier than you think. For instance, how far
can you trust this Dick fellow? How do you know, after taking your
money, he might not simply shoot you in the back?"
"I trust Dick. He'd never do that."
"And what about the charmingly named Mousie Kornblum and

his brother?"
"Everybody says they're morons. I'm not worried about them."
"They may be morons, but they're morons with guns, which
makes them dangerous. It's a common, and often fatal mistake to underestimate
your enemy. Let me give you some advice, Danny: Worry
about everything. Expect things to go wrong. Bring extra ammunition.
Prepare to adjust."
"Okay."
Dulwich smiled sadly at me.
"Can it really be you're leaving tomorrow?"
"I'll miss you, Dulwich. It's been great knowing you.You've been
a real friend."
Dulwich set down his pipe and walked over to his desk and
opened a drawer. He pulled out a small silver cross attached to a short
white ribbon with a purple stripe.
"What's that?" I said.
* "It's the Military Cross. I'd forgotten all about it till I ran across it
recently at the bottom of a dusty box. A forgotten medal awarded to a
forgotten soldier for a forgotten action in a forgotten war."
"What happened?"
"It had to do with a bridge. Over the Tigris River, at Kut. It had
just been built by our engineers, for obscure reasons; but when the
Turks arrived, the brass hats, in their infinite wisdom, realized it could
be used as easily by them as by us, and ordered it destroyed. It was
one of those death-or-glory jobs. One would have had to have been a
fool to volunteer for it. I volunteered."

Dulwich picked up the photograph of the noble-chinned Aubrey
Joyce off the cabinet radio, looked fondly at it.
"I was in competition with Aubrey, you see. I knew he had already
won the Victoria Cross in France. And even as I was volunteering I
was already imagining telling him about my exploit after the war. In a
wry, self-deprecating manner, of course, where he would have to read
my bravery between the lines.
"In the event, it was a nasty business. It went off a little after midnight.
I led a small raiding party across the bridge. I had to kill a Turkish
sentry with my knife. A dear friend, Tall Bickerton, was killed.
Poor Bickerton. He was such a gentle soul. He had no business being
in a war. But the dual mission was accomplished: the bridge was
blown up, and I won my medal. My glittering bit of metal."
"So did you tell Aubrey all about it? After the war?"
Dulwich smiled, as he sat back down. "Oh yes. It was all more or
less as I imagined. He wasn't the type to say so, you know, but--I
could tell that he was proud of me." He looked at the medal, then
held it out to me. "I'd like for you to have it."
"Oh no. I couldn't take it--"
"Please.To remember me by."
I was surprised to see tears in Dulwich's eyes. I took it.
"Consider it a talisman of good luck," he said. "To keep you safe
tomorrow night, and in the days to come."
"Thanks, Dulwich.This means a lot to me."
"I rather envy you, really."
"Oh yeah? Why?"
"Off on an adventure! I've done a bit of tramping about in my
time. I recall the pleasures of wandering in a new place without
a penny in your pockets. Not knowing what's to become of you.
Knowing only that each step is a step into the new."
"Come with us."
"Oh, I think four would be a crowd, Danny. Five, counting Miss
Tinker. But we'll come visit you when you're settled. Unlike most
cats, Miss Tinker loves to travel."
"Okay. I'd like that."
Dulwich picked his pipe back up, struck a match, and put it to the
bowl. "It's interesting. I've been having traveling dreams lately. Just last
night, for instance. I was in a motorcar with Aubrey. We were traveling
across a lush green countryside. Neither of us said anything; it was
perfectly pleasurable just being together."
We heard a soft thud at the front door.
Tinker Bell was swatting at a pale-white moth fluttering against
the other side of the screen.

15

THE NEXT MORNING, I drove to Drucker's Barbershop in Beverly
Hills. Bud had introduced me to it. I got a haircut, a shave, a neck and
shoulder rub, and a shoeshine.
Traffic was light for a Saturday as I drove back. The city seemed
exhausted, like it had had enough of summer. I stopped at a filling
station and got a full tank of gas, and had the oil, water, and air in my
tires checked.
While I'd been gone the postman had come. I had one piece of
mail. It began: "Dear Friend: To become independent you MUST
invest! Line up with a REAL professional for REAL profits in the
REAL ESTATE business!!!"
I wasn't hungry, but I forced myself to eat a bowl of Campbell's
tomato soup with some crackers crumbled up in it.
Around two Dick called. Everything was set. Bud and the boys had
left for Palm Springs. He'd talked to Darla, and she was eagerly awaiting
my arrival. He suggested I show up around one in the morning.
That would give Mousie and Freddie plenty of time to get drunk and
pass out as was their habit.
I went outside around three and sat on the stoop and drank a

lemon soda. The day was passing with agonizing slowness. It felt like
I'd gone to get a haircut last Saturday instead of this morning.
For five minutes I watched a single strand of a spider's web moving
a little in a breeze, the sunlight running up and down it. Then
Lois and Jerry came out of Sophie's bungalow. Lois looked a little soberer
and more presentable than she had recently. They gave me dirty
looks as they walked toward the street but didn't say anything. Then a
couple of minutes later Sophie came out.
"Are we still going?" she asked in a whisper.
I nodded. "I gotta go pick up Darla first. So I'll meet you out front

a little after one."
"Can't I go with you to pick up Darla?"
"No, it's better we do it this way."
She couldn't keep the grin off her face.
"I'm so excited. I couldn't hardly sleep last night."
"You're not worried about missing your mom?"
She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way.
"Oh, brother. You got any other funny jokes? Well, I better go
pack. Before Mom and the creep get back. Hey, that rhymes!"
"Don't let her see the suitcase."
"Don't worry, I got a good hiding place. That rhymes too! See ya


later!"
I finished my soda, then also went in and packed.
I wrote a note to Mrs. Dean apologizing for my sudden departure
and put it in an envelope, accompanied by an extra month's rent.
I got another soda from the fridge, turned on the radio, and sat
down on the davenport.
At dusk, the crows passed over.
Then I awoke with a start to darkness. I was sure that many hours had
to have passed, that everyone was waiting, that everything was lost, and I
groped in panic for the light switch, but it was only about ten fifteen.
I went in the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Looked
at myself in the mirror. Felt for a half of a half of a second that I was
about to remember my real name.
I was in the kitchen spooning Folgers coffee into my coffee pot
when I heard somebody knocking at the front door, and hulloing
softly.
Dulwich was standing there with a crooked, half-apologetic grin.
"Hope I'm not disturbing you."
"No, come in."
As he walked in past me, I caught a whiff of cologne. He was
wearing a light-brown linen jacket and matching trousers and a crisp
white shirt. His hair was carefully combed, agleam with oil.
"You look like you're going out," I said.
"I am, Danny. I'm going out with you."
"Thanks, Dulwich. I appreciate the offer. But I'll be fine."
"But what if you're not fine? What if something goes wrong?
Have you ever even been hunting, Danny? Have you ever killed even
an animal with a gun?"
"I don't know. I don't think so."
"This is my kind of show, old boy. And besides--I know if I don't
go with you, I shan't sleep a wink all night for worrying about you."
Dulwich and I looked at each other. I think a part of me had been
hoping that he would come. Had somehow known that he would
come.
"You got a gun?" I said.

He pulled back his coat to reveal a pistol stuck in his belt.
"I have a Smith & Wesson, like you. But mine's a semiautomatic,
as you see. I prefer it to a revolver. One can both fire and reload more
quickly. Which, in a tight spot, can make all the difference."
"I'm making coffee. Want some?"
"I'd love some."

16

EVEN ON SATURDAY night, Los Angeles wasn't a town that stayed
up late, so we pretty much had the streets to ourselves as we drove
north toward Bud's. We saw a few bums and drunks and unappealing
hookers and a very fat Negro man on a tiny bicycle kicking at a stray
dog that was trying to bite him. Ahead of us, neon signs glowed atop
hotels and stores on Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, and beyond
the signs, the dark mass of the Hollywood hills rose up, with pinpricks
of lonely light scattered across them.
A police prowl car pulled up next to us at a red light. The two
cops inside looked us over as if they sensed we were up to something
questionable, but when the light went green they pulled away.
I reached Franklin then drove across it and up the little hill. I was
hoping to see in the glare of the headlights Darla standing there with
her suitcase waiting for me but there wasn't any Darla, or Dick either,
just the stark iron bars of the gate.
I switched the engine off and turned off the lights. Dulwich and I
looked at each other, then I looked at my watch.
"We're a little early," I said. "I'm sure she'll be along any minute now."
The first minute was okay, the second uncomfortable, the third
intolerable.
"I say," said Dulwich, "I'm feeling a bit exposed here. Like a sitting
duck."
"What should we do?"
"Why don't we just hop out and have a squint at things?"
We shut the car doors as quietly as we could. Walked up to the
gate, peered through.
The grounds of the house were lit up by the floodlamps. The
driveway curved up and around and disappeared behind some trees.
I could see only a small part of the second story of the house from
here; it was dark and still.
"Whose car is that?" said Dulwich.
Now I saw the orange Ford coupe off to the side of the driveway,
parked close to the wall.
"Dick's."
'"And he was supposed to meet you here? With Darla?"
"Yeah."
"Could there have been a misunderstanding about the time?"
"I don't think so."
Then we heard the crisp sounds of footsteps. Someone was walking
rapidly toward us down the driveway.
Dulwich put a finger to his lips, motioned that we should step
away from the gate. We concealed ourselves behind the stone wall.
I noticed Dulwich had his pistol out. The footsteps were getting
louder. We peeked around the wall.
Dick emerged from behind the trees, swinging his arms briskly as
he came down the drive.
"It's okay," I said. "It's Dick."

I stepped out and Dick saw me and waved. "Hey, kid. So you're
here already." He hit the gate button, and it rattled open.
But he got suspicious when he saw Dulwich. "Who's that?"
"Relax, it's Dulwich, he's a friend of mine. Where's Darla?"
Dick shook his head and coughed and lit an Old Gold.
"Ah, it's all fucked up, Danny. They got her locked up in her fucking
room."
Expect things to go wrong, Dulwich had said. I tried to stay calm.
"So what happened?"
"Well, Mousie and Freddie was glad to let me guard the gate,
'cause nobody likes staying down here the whole fucking night. So
I'm expecting Darla to show but she don't never show. So I go up
there. Mousie's got drunk and passed out all right, just like he was
supposed to. But he's passed out in a chair right in front of her fucking
door. So I wonder where Freddie's at. I walk around looking for
him, then I hear music coming from outside. This Guy Lombardo
kinda shit. I go around the house, and I find Freddie camping out
like some fucking cowboy under the room where Darla's at. He's
drug one of them lounging chairs over from the swimming pool and
he's hooked up a radio to an extension cord and he's sitting out there drinking a beer and eating some kinda big fucking sandwich. Bud
musta told 'em to do that. Maybe he smelled a rat or something."
Sweat was pouring down Dick's face, even though the night was
cooling off; now he took a rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket
and mopped his forehead.
"I don't know, kid. Maybe tonight ain't the night. Maybe we
oughta take a raincheck."
"I think Dick may be right," said Dulwich. "No point in taking
unnecessary risks."
"But what about Sophie?" I said. "They're coming for her on
Monday. I need to get her out of town. And tomorrow night'U be
worse 'cause Bud and the guys'U be back."
"I don't know who this Sophie broad is," said Dick, "and I don't
fucking care. All I know is it's making me nervous, us all just standing
around here flapping our yaps."
"Is the door to the house unlocked?" asked Dulwich.
"Yeah.You can just walk in like you own the joint."
"If we can deal with Mousie quietly," Dulwich said to me, "we
probably won't have to deal with his brother at all."
I reached inside my jacket, pulled out an envelope. "Here's the G,"
I said, handing it over to Dick.
He opened it up and glanced at its contents, then stuck it in his
pocket.
"Thanks, kid. Well--it's been nice knowing you. I mean that."
We shook hands.
"I feel the same way, Dick. I'll miss you."
Dick slapped me on the shoulder, then walked over to his car. Got
in, started it up, hit the headlights, and rolled out the gate.
"Send me a postcard from Florida," I said to Dick as he passed by.
He waved and went down the hill and was gone.
Dulwich was biting his lower lip thoughtfully as he gazed through
the gate.
"We should move your car, Danny. To an inconspicuous spot inside
the walls."
I got in my Packard and drove through the gate and off the driveway
thirty or so feet over the grass and behind some azalea bushes,
where I parked and got out.
Dulwich had hit the gate button, and it was sliding shut as I
walked back to him.
He smiled faintly at me.
"So how do you feel, old boy?"
Sick inside. Like my soul was melting and flowing out of my body
through the soles of my feet.
"I feel fine. Let's go get Darla."



17

WE CAST LONG shadows in the light of the floodlamps as we
walked up the driveway. The bushes and trees and flowers we
passed seemed unreal somehow, as if they were made of plastic or
wax. The shaggy heads of the palm trees were perfectly still in the
breezeless air.
The Kornblum brothers' black Pontiac was parked in front of the
house. All the windows in the house were dark. Dulwich and I paused
at the front door, then took our Smith & Wessons out from under our
jackets. I opened the door, and we slipped in.
Dulwich eased the door shut behind us. Enough light came in
the windows to make a dark twilight within the house. We passed
through an anteroom.To our right was the room where in April we'd
had the party, where Darla had eaten a cupcake and worn a gold
lame gown and Nuffer's face had got redder and redder as he looked
at Violet Gilbertson. Straight ahead was the living room. We went
straight and I led Dulwich to the bottom of the staircase that led up
to the second floor. There was a glow at the top of the stairs indicating
a light was on up there.
"Listen," whispered Dulwich.
I heard it too now: the rough rhythm of snoring rumbling down
the stairs. Now Dulwich whispered: "Let's locate Freddie. Just to make
certain he's where he's supposed to be."
We went into the dining room. The crystal chandelier was an icy
glistening above us in the half-dark. As we approached the French
doors we could hear the smooth dance music Dick had talked about.
Freddie Kornblum was stretched out on the lounge chair under
the balcony of Bud and Darla's room, his chin on his chest, his hat
tilted down over his eyes, and his fingers interlaced over his stomach.
Taking a little nap, it looked like, after his big sandwich.
We retraced our steps to the foot of the stairs. Listened to the
snores and looked up at the glow.
"I don't suppose you have a knife on you, do you?" Dulwich
whispered.
"No. Why?"
"Why do you think? We could get a knife from the kitchen.
Where is it?"
"Do we really have to kill him?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well--sneak up on him. Get the drop on him. Take his gun
away."
"And what if he decides to try to shoot us with his gun before we
can take it away? Or what if he cries out for his brother? No, Danny.
The safest thing is to silence him while he sleeps."
"Can't we just hit him over the head with something? Knock him
out?"
I could see a hint of exasperation on his face; then he looked
around.
Across the room was a fireplace. Next to it a shovel, a broom, coal
tongs, and a poker hung off an iron stand. I followed Dulwich over
there. He picked the poker up. Hefted it. "This should do," he said,
and then the light came on.
It was like the light switch was hooked up to my heart too and had
sent an electric surge through it. I looked around. Anatoly was standing
near the arched entranceway, barechested and barefooted, wearing only
a pair of white trousers. We stared at each other in mutual surprise.
I saw Dulwich had his pistol pointed at him, and I put a hand on

his arm. "It's okay," I said.
Anatoly blinked at us. Smiled tentatively. "I think I hear something,
Danny," he said in a soft voice. "But I see nothing here. Only empty
room. Maybe it is mice. I am going back to bed now. Okay?"
I nodded. Anatoly turned the light off, and left.
"Who the devil was that?" said Dulwich.

"Anatoly.The butler."
"How do you know he won't give us away?"
"He won't. He likes me."
"Are there any other occupants of the house I should know
about? Cooks? Maids? Filipino houseboys?"
"No. Only Anatoly."
"This is the point of no return, Danny. Shall we continue?"

I nodded.
We stole up the stairs. Peeked around the corner, down a long

hallway.
Twenty-five feet or so of creaky hardwood floor separated us from
Mousie Kornblum. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, in front
of Darla's door, his feet propped up on a footstool. His posture was
nearly identical to his brother's, except his head was leaning back
instead of forward and his mouth was open. He continued to snore
heavily, his chest rising and falling. A tan fedora sat on the floor near a
half-empty quart of Old Log Cabin bourbon.
Dulwich started to take off his shoes, and indicated I should do
the same. Then: "Ready?" he asked in the faintest of whispers, and I
gave him the slightest of nods, then we were gliding down the hallway
in our stocking feet toward Mousie. Dulwich, in the lead, had
his pistol in his left hand and the poker in his right. Mousie seemed
so profoundly lost in drunken slumber you'd have thought he would
sleep through an earthquake but when the floor beneath my right
foot emitted a tiny squeak, he awoke with a startled wide-eyed snort.
Dulwich closed the remaining distance in a rush, lifting the poker
above his head. Mousie saw him coming out of the corner of his eye,
and his head started turning as he raised his left arm, the arm closest
to Dulwich, but the poker came in over it and struck the top of his
head. It made a terrible sound, like a squishy crunch, like the sound
the lead pipe must have made when it connected with my head.
He grunted and began to slump sideways as blood began to squirt
through his hair and Dulwich hit him again, on the side of his head
this time. He toppled off the chair and the chair fell over too. He lay
on the floor with one leg twisted under him and the other still up on
the footstool and a pool of blood growing around his head and then,
horribly, he began to snore again.
I tried the door but it was locked. Now I heard Darla through the
door. "Who's out there? What's going on?"
"It's me. Danny."
"Danny? Open the door!"
"I will. Just hold on."
'Dulwich was bent over Mousie and going through his pockets. He
found a revolver and put it in his own pocket then held up a key and
I unlocked the door then Darla was in my arms.
"Oh Danny," she said, "I was scared you weren't coming."
"Darla, this is Dulwich--"
"Hello," said Dulwich. "I suggest we move rather quickly now."
As Darla grabbed a suitcase and her purse the sock on my left foot
became wet and warm, and I looked down and saw I was standing in
Mousie's blood. It seemed like the poker had been hardly less lethal
than a knife, though he was still snoring as we hurried away. I left a
fading trail of bloody sockprints down the hall.

I was hoping the racket we'd made silencing Mousie hadn't awakened
his brother under the balcony. Dulwich and I put our shoes
back on and I took the suitcase from Darla and then the three of us
scurried down the staircase then through the dark house. I felt elated.
In a moment we would be out the door, then nothing remained but
a breathless dash down the driveway to my Packard and then out the
gate.
Dulwich moved to a window and twitched back the curtain and
checked out front. Then he went out the door, and Darla and I followed.
We'd taken only a few steps away from the house when I saw
down the hill through the foliage the glitter of headlights.
"Somebody's coming!" I said.
"Go back!" said Dulwich, and we raced back into the house and

shut the door.
We went to the window.Two cars were pulling up out front: Bud's

black Lincoln and Bo Spiller's red Ford.
"Shit," I said.
"Who are they?" said Dulwich.
"Bud. And the guys."
"What are they doing back already?" wailed Darla.
Bud and Nucky and Nello got out of the Lincoln, and Bo and
Willie got out of the Ford. They began removing some luggage; I saw
Bo taking his shotgun out.
"Let's go out the back," said Darla.
"No, Freddie's there," I said.
"Oh God," said Darla,"we're trapped!"
Dulwich was regarding the Bud Seitz gang with a look of no
more than mild concern, as if they were rowdy interlopers at a genteel
family picnic.
"We're not trapped, Darla," he said. "But it's important that we all
keep a cool head and that you and Danny do exactly as I say."
Bud was looking especially spiffy tonight, in a silvery three-piece
suit with a red carnation in his buttonhole. His face was scratched up
like Nucky's. He was looking unhappily at the house. "Where the
fuck is everybody?" he said, then he leaned inside the Lincoln and
started honking the horn. "Dick! Freddie! Mousie!" he yelled.
In a few moments, Freddie came wandering around the side of the
house with a confused look on his face.
"Hey, fellas," he said.
"Let's go," I said.
Dulwich shook his head. "Not yet. As they enter the house, we'll
exit.That way we can proceed unobserved down the hill to the car.'
"What are you doing back already?" said Freddie, yawning and
scratching his neck.
"Ah, them Chicago cocksuckers was coming in like they was
trying to take over," said Nucky. "So Bud told 'em to go fuck their
selves."
"How come there ain't nobody down by the gate?" said Bud.
"What the hell's going on here, Freddie?"
"Dick ain't down there? He was down there just a minute ago."
"Yeah, and I don't see his car no place neither," said Nello.
"That's funny. It was here a minute ago."

Bud glowered at Freddie. Took a Kleenex out of his pocket and
wiped off his hands. "Where's Mousie?"
"Upstairs. Outside Darla's room. Just like you said."
I saw Bud looking at the house suspiciously again; in fact, he
seemed to be looking through the crack in the curtains right into my
own blinking, terrified eye.
"Let's go check on Darla," he said, as Dulwich announced cheerfully:
"All right, chums. It's time to leg it!"


18

WE MADE FOR the back of the house, for the dining room, for the
French doors beyond the glimmering chandelier. The house seemed
to have gotten twice as big and twice as dark, and then in the living
room I tripped over a footstool and took a tumble and Darla's suitcase
went sliding over the floor. Dulwich grabbed the suitcase and
Darla helped me up. "Hurry, Danny!" hissed Dulwich, then we were
through the dining room door and moving around the big mahogany
table.
We could see the floodlamped patio through the glass panes of the
doors. Dulwich opened one of the doors and started to step through
it then suddenly slammed it shut and flung himself backwards into
Darla and me as the door exploded in front of us, glass shattering and
wood splintering. Darla screamed, and as we fell back into the darkness
of the dining room, I saw Bo Spiller and Willie the Coon out on
the patio. Spiller's disfigured face was smiling as he pumped his shotgun,
ejecting a red shell casing, and then there was a flash of orange
light as he fired again into the room. Dulwich and I dived behind the
table. I heard Darla screaming no, stop, then Spiller and Willie were
advancing into the room like unstoppable forces of nature, Spiller
pumping and firing his shotgun and Willie shooting his pistol. I could
see under the table through the legs of the chairs their legs coming
toward us, silhouetted against the outer brightness. Dulwich saw
them too. He fired twice, and one of the bullets struck Willie in the
kneecap. He hollered and clutched his knee and fell down as Dulwich
popped up and put four quick slugs into Spiller's chest. As he was
going down, virtually dead already, his finger jerked the trigger again;
unfortunately for Willie, he was on the floor in front of the barrel and
took the blast in his stomach. It didn't kill him outright. He howled
and moaned and blabbered. Till Dulwich walked around the table
and, as casually as if he were stubbing out a cigarette under his shoe,
shot him in the head.
My ears were ringing, and the air smelt of gunsmoke. Dulwich
took a fresh clip out of his jacket and shoved it in his .38. It wasn't
necessary for me to reload since I hadn't fired a shot.
"You all right, Danny?"
"Yeah."
"Where's Darla?"
I looked around.
"I don't know. I guess she ran out."
"Oh bloody hell," he growled, then he raised his gun and seeming
to point it directly at my head as if he'd had enough of my incompetence,
he fired. I heard the bullet whistle past my ear like the time
I'd nearly been killed by Janet Van der Eb, although it wasn't really a
whistle, it was more like the air was being ripped. Then I heard a second
bang and another bullet zipped past, but this time headed in the
opposite direction.
I dove once more to my friend the floor. I saw a shadowy form
in the doorway firing at Dulwich, Dulwich continued to fire back,
then the guy at the door began to stumble forward like a man who
was trying to keep his balance on ice, his arms swinging more and
more wildly, till finally he took a nosedive and skidded to a stop just a
couple of feet from me.
It was Freddie Kornblum. Blood, black in the dark, was pouring
out of his mouth.
"Mousie," he croaked. "Where's Mousie?"
Then that Vera Vermillion stillness settled down upon him.
"I'm afraid I'm hit, old man."
Dulwich was holding his left side. I hurried around the table, stepping
over Bo's body and slipping in Willie's blood. I helped Dulwich
sit down on one of the dining room chairs. I saw a spreading dark
blotch on his white shirt.
"Is it bad?" I said.
"I rather think not. Perhaps a broken rib. But it hurts a bit."
"I have to go find Darla."
"Yes."
"I'll be right back."
"Beware, Danny.Three are left."
Bud, Nucky, and Nello. I didn't know whether they were creeping
around in the dark like me, or were still outside, waiting for us to
leave so they could cut us down.
I felt like I knew what had happened to Darla. I felt like she had
run away from the guns as she'd run away as a kid from her lunatic father
in frozen Nebraska, and now she'd hid herself away in some nook
or cranny of the big house. But how should I find her? Should I call
out to her? But then mightn't someone other than Darla hear me calling
out? And then shoot me dead as a doornail? Dead as a Willie, a Bo,
or a Freddie? Their corpses stank and I knew now that's how it was,
you pissed and shat yourself and squealed like a pig and died. The truth
was, I had no idea what I was doing. The unshot gun hung heavy in
my hand, and I was shaking all over and my heart was beating violently
and I couldn't catch my breath. But whatever I was doing, I needed to
do it fast, before Dulwich bled to death in the dining room.
I moved down a narrow hallway that led to the kitchen. I passed
a closed door. It was Anatoly's room. I supposed he was in there now,
listening to the madness, hoping it would pass him by.
I entered the kitchen. It was spacious, with lots of cabinets and
cupboards, and a long counter in the middle, with pots and pans
hanging above it on hooks.
"Darla?" I whispered.
Light jumped out of the darkness and there was the thunderous
clang of a bullet striking a copper pot not far from my head. I crouched
behind the counter, fired toward where the light had been. Now by
the flashes of their pistols I saw two dark shapes near the door on
the other side of the room. Their bullets ripped and whipped and
whanged all around me, and one plucked at the sleeve of my jacket as
if trying to get my attention, and it was like I was walking through a
hailstorm but not getting hit by any of the hail. I emptied my revolver
at them, and must have got lucky with one of my shots as the shooter
on the left cried out and crumpled.
I ducked out of the kitchen and ran back down the hall. I shouted:
"Darla, goddamn you, come out!"
I'd followed Dulwich's advice and brought extra ammo, and I
could feel the cartridges rattling in my pocket like loose change. I
reached the end of the hall and turned toward the front of the house,
yelling: "Darla, come on!"
I saw the door to the billiard room and dodged through it. I
shut the door and moved over to the pool table so I was facing the
door and popped out the cylinder of my revolver and shook out the
empty brass casings and went in my pocket and dropped a handful of
cartridges on the table and then tried to reload. But my hands were
shaking and as in a banal nightmare I couldn't seem to get the bullets
into the gun, then the door opened and the light came on.
It was Nucky. He had his gun pointed at me. He was splattered
with blood but didn't seem to be hit himself. "Put it down on the
table," he said, talking about my gun. I did so.
Nucky edged down the room, keeping his gun on me, till he was
standing across the table. He was smiling at me in a way I didn't completely
like.
"I been waiting for this, asshole. I been waiting a long time."
And then I saw Bud. He had his own gun up as he came through
the door. But when he saw me he stopped dead in his tracks and his
gun dropped to his side. On his face was a look of shock, and it was
clear he hadn't known till now who it was that had been rampaging
through his house shooting down his men and clobbering them with
pokers.
"Danny," he said.
"Yeah, fucking Danny," sneered Nucky. "I could hear him running
around hollering for Darla. I told you you couldn't fucking trust
him."
Bud saw the look on Nucky's face.
"Take it easy, Nucky."
"You kidding me? He just killed Nello. Plugged him right through
the fucking heart."
"I said take it easy," Bud said more sharply.
I was looking back and forth between them, a fascinated spectator
at my own life or death. Nucky seemed to waver a little, his gun lowering;
then suddenly and swiftly he lifted the gun back up.
"Fuck it," he said.
Bud shot Nucky through the cheek.The bullet went out the other
cheek in a spray of blood and flesh and a couple of Nucky's teeth
went tumbling over the floor. It didn't knock Nucky down though,
he was swinging his gun around toward Bud, but now Bud shot him
several times, the bullets hitting him all over.
Nucky lay quivering on the floor; then a long, poignant-sounding
sigh came out of him, and the story of Nucky Williams ended.
Bud turned back toward me. He gave me a puzzled half smile.
"Danny?" he said softly. "What's the deal?"
Out of the shadows of the hallway, Darla appeared in the doorway
behind him. Something gleamed in her hand as she lifted it up. There
was maybe one second where I could have said something like Bud
look out but instead Darla fired and he pitched forward facedown on
the red carpet, blood spurting up out of the back of his skull.
She was holding a little silver gun hardly bigger than the palm of
her hand. She was looking blankly down at Bud. Now she looked
blankly up at me.
We went to get Dulwich. Found him outside the dining room
leaning against the wall.
"It's us," I said so he wouldn't shoot us. I turned on a light. I didn't
like the way he looked. Chalk white, with bluish lips.
"I was trying to come, Danny. What happened?"
"They're all dead. Let's get you to a hospital. Can you walk?"
"I'll give it a go."
I took his gun from him and pocketed it as Darla retrieved her
suitcase. Then he walked along slowly like a very old man as Darla
and I guided him along by his elbows like his two grown grandchildren.
We passed through the carnage we'd made and out the front
door of the house.
I saw Anatoly by the swimming pool. He was fully dressed now.
He was untethering the seagull. It perched on his arm and flapped its
wings as he talked to it.
We walked by the Pontiac and the Lincoln and the Ford, all in
need of new owners now.
"Why don't you wait here?" I said to Dulwich. "I'll walk down
and get the car and drive back up."
"All right, Danny" he said, then a bullet hit the back of his neck
and passed through and blew a hole in his throat.

Both his hands went to his throat and he looked like he was trying
to choke himself.
I heard more shots, and looked around and saw Mousie Kornblum
staggering toward us. It looked like somebody had dumped a pail of
red paint over his head. Dulwich had taken his gun but now there
were plenty of other guns lying around that nobody was using anymore
and he must have picked up one of them. Or maybe he'd had
two guns all along. Two Gun Mousie Kornblum.
I fired at Mousie with Dulwich's gun. I fired as many times as
there were bullets in the clip and Mousie went down, for good this
time.
When I turned back around, Dulwich was sitting next to the
driveway with his back propped up against the trunk of a palm tree.
His hands were still on his throat, and he was making choking noises.
Darla was bending over him, looking as though she was about to
burst into hysterical screams.
"What do we do?" she said.

"Gotta stop the bleeding," and I knelt in front of him and pried
loose his hands. I was immediately hit by rhythmic jets of his blood.
I took out my handkerchief and tried to cram it into the hole in his
throat.
"You're gonna be all right, Dulwich," I said.
He couldn't talk. But I could feel his hazel eyes burning into me.
"We'll get the bleeding stopped. Then we'll call a hospital, and
they'll send an ambulance.You'll be all right."
But the bleeding wouldn't stop, and the handkerchief was soaked
through, and my fingers were slippery with the blood.
"You'll be all right," I said, and I could feel his burning eyes.Then
he smiled a little, and reached for my hand and squeezed it, and then
his eyes went dead and he was dead.
Darla said that we had to go. Said that we couldn't do Dulwich
any good by staying here any longer.
She was right. We went down the hill to my car.

19



I DROVE SOUTH through the empty dreamless streets. Darla said: "I
forgot something."
"What?"
"My lamb. The one Mr. Bruff gave me."
"Well, we're not going back."
After that, we could have been department store dummies for all
the talking we did to each other. It didn't take long to get to La Vista
Lane. I pulled over and parked. Darla looked around like she was
coming out of a trance.
"Why are we stopping? Where are we?"
"This is where I live."
Now I saw Sophie with a suitcase coming down the steps.
"Who's that?" said Darla.
"Sophie. She's my neighbor. She's coming with us."
Darla looked at me. "You're kidding."
"No."
I got out. Sophie's smile faded as I walked toward her.
"What's that on your clothes?" she said.
I put my hand on her shoulder.
"Sophie. Listen to me. Something terrible has happened."
Her eyes got scared. "What?"
"Mr. Dulwich went with me.To pick up Darla. Some men tried to
stop her from leaving. Bad men. They--they shot Mr. Dulwich."
"He's dead?"
"Yeah. But you and me and Darla--we're gonna be just fine. I
don't want you worrying about anything. Okay?"
Sophie looked over at Darla in the car, then back at me. She nodded.
"Here,
I'll put that in the trunk," I said, taking her suitcase. It was
little, and light. I took mine and Darla's suitcases out of the trunk.
"Darla? We need to wash up and change clothes."
Darla had blood on her too. She nodded, and got out. She and
Sophie looked each other over.
"Hello," said Darla.
"Hi."
"We'll be back in a few minutes," I said to Sophie. "You wanna
just wait here for us?"
"Okay." But then as Darla and I started away, she said: "Danny?"
"Yeah?"
"What about Tinker Bell?"
"Who's Tinker Bell?" said Darla.
"Dulwich's cat," I said.
"Who's gonna take care of her?" said Sophie. "What's gonna happen
to her?"
I thought about it a minute, then said: "We'll take her with us."

We left Los Angeles on Route 66--the same highway Dick Prettie
and I had taken to Lake Arrowhead.
Sophie was in the back seat with Dulwich's cat, who was in her
cage. Sophie had brought along her cat food and food dish and water
dish and cat toys, but understandably Tinker seemed pretty unhappy,
meowing loudly every second or two.
"Where are we going, by the way?" asked Darla.
"New York," I said.
"Is that cat going to be doing that all the way to New York?"
"She's just scared, is all," said Sophie. "She'll be better soon."
"You know, Darla," I said, somewhat coldly, "we wouldn't be here
right now if it wasn't for Dulwich. The least we can do is take care of
his cat."
"Okay, I'm sorry. Geez."
The rabbit ranches and avocado orchards Dick and I had seen
were lost in the darkness. There wasn't much traffic. I drove pretty
fast. We listened to the radio and Darla smoked and Tinker meowed
and Sophie talked.
"I made sandwiches for us, is anybody hungry?"
"I'm not," I said, and Darla shook her head.
"I'm not either. We can eat 'em later. See my lunchbox? It's a
Jackie Coogan lunchbox."
She handed it up to Darla. A picture of the adorable waif as "The
Kid" covered the front of it.
"Cute," said Darla, and handed it back.
"Jackie Coogan's gotten too old to play kid parts now. I don't even
think he's been in a movie since Huckleberry Finn. I was in the third
grade then. He played Tom Sawyer in Huckleberry Finn. He also played
Tom Sawyer in Tom Sawyer''
She wasn't acting all that downcast about what had happened to
Dulwich. It probably didn't seem real to her. I guessed it would sink
in later.
We passed the turn-off for Lake Arrowhead in San Bernardino and
the road jogged north and then we were in new territory as far as I was
concerned. In the back seat, Dulwich's cat had calmed down, or just
exhausted herself, and Sophie was finally running out of steam too.
"I think Tinker's sleeping," she said.
"Good," I said. "I think she'll be all right. Dulwich told me she
loved to travel."
A minute or two passed, then Sophie said: "It's kinda lonely back
here."
"Wanna come up here with us?"
Sophie eagerly scrambled over the seat, kicking me in the head in
the process.
"Oops! Sorry."
Now she settled down between Darla and me. Within five minutes,
she was asleep, her head on Darla's shoulder.
"What's her story?" said Darla quietly.
"Kind of like the story you told me about yourself. She's leaving
home because she has to."
"Poor kid."
And in a sort of flash I could see that it was all going to work out,
that we were going to become a family--man, woman, kid, and cat.
The road began to rise, then in a series of switchbacks it climbed
the face of the Sierra Madre Mountains. We passed over the mountain
range at the Cajon Pass, then began a winding descent through an
evergreen forest.
Darla had been silent for so long I thought she was asleep too. I
thought I had the night to myself. But then I heard her say: "Why are
you crying?"
"Dulwich, I guess. I guess I was crying about Dulwich."
"I'm sorry, Danny."

"You know, it was my fault."
"What was?"
"Him getting killed."
"How do you figure that?"
"He wanted to kill Mousie, but I talked him out of it. Then Mousie
wound up killing him."
"You're not to blame. Things just happen." She lit a cigarette, moving
carefully so as not to awake Sophie. "You shouldn't feel so bad. In
a way, I think Dulwich died happy."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the last word he ever said was 'Danny.'And the last thing he
ever saw was you."
"What are you talking about?"
"I think he was probably in love with you. From everything you
told me."
"In love with--? That's crazy."
She shrugged. "Is it?"
"Who turned off the bathwater?" Sophie mumbled fretfully in her
sleep, then her face began to twitch, then she turned over and leaned
against me and was quiet again. Headlights flared into the car, as a
vehicle came up fast behind us. When it pulled out in the other lane
to pass, I saw it was a truck. STEVE'S STOVES was painted on the
side. That Steve sure got around. The truck roared by, then its taillights
dwindled as it left us behind. Steve was in a hurry. As long as there
was anybody in the world that still needed a stove, Steve would be on
the job.
"How much money you got?" said Darla.
"About 400 bucks. How about you?"
"A lot less. Bud never liked me to have much cash. He wanted
me to have to depend on him for everything. But he gave me all this
jewelry that must be worth a mint." She opened her purse, dug into
it, pulled out her diamond engagement ring. "Like this," she said, and
then she pulled out her ruby ring. "And this. We can sell this stuff off
whenever we need to. We can live in style. For a while, anyway."
I liked the "we."
"And I'll get some kind of job."
"And I can start singing again," she said dreamily, then dropped
the rings back in her purse.
"Why'd you shoot him?" I said.

" 'Cause he was about to shoot you!'
"No he wasn't."
"Well, I thought he was."
"He wouldn't ever have shot me. Not in a million years."
"No? What makes you so special?"
I didn't answer. We passed through Victorville. It was starting to get
light.

20

JUST OUTSIDE BARSTOW, a billboard showed a picture of an evilly
smiling hobo holding up a sign that said: CALIFORNIA OR BUST.
Under the picture it said, in lurid black and red letters: "UPTON
SINCLAIR--AN EPIC FRAUD! HE'LL TURN CALIFORNIA
INTO A HAVEN FOR RADICALS, FLOATERS, AND BOXCAR
TOURISTS! VOTE FOR FRANK MERRIAM FOR GOVERNOR!"
We
stopped at a Standard Oil station to gas up and use the restrooms.
Sophie took Tinker around the back of the station to a weedy
area where she used the restroom too.
I went in the office to pay for the gas and buy a road map and
some bottles of soda. The owner had a pockmarked face and wispy
red hair that went every which way. He looked mean, but had a
kindly manner.
"Which way you folks headed?" he said.
"Towards Arizona."
"Well, sody pop's just fine and dandy, but if I was you, I'd buy me
some water too.You'll need it. It ain't gonna be no church picnic out
there. Not in August, it ain't."
I bought three gallons, and we got back on the road. Route 66
turned due east here, straight into the heart of the Mojave Desert.
The sun was floating up in front of us; I lowered the sun visor and
Darla donned her sunglasses.
We were all getting hungry. Sophie opened up her Jackie Coogan
lunchbox.
"I have three sandwiches. Delicious grape jelly and peanut butter,
scrumptious butter and sugar, and boring Spam. Who wants what?"
"What do you want, honey?" said Darla.
"Well--grape jelly and peanut butter's my favorite."
"Okay. I'll have the butter and sugar. Danny?"
"Guess I'll have the Spam."
Soon it got hotter than I thought it possible to get. Heat mirages
lay like puddles of water on the shimmering road. The landscape was
unearthly and blasted-looking. What vegetation there was seemed
primitive and savage: thorny cacti and twisted little trees with clumps
of spiky leaves. You couldn't imagine even bugs or lizards living out
here. Off in the molten-blue distance, mountain ranges jutted up like
giant slag heaps. It was hard to see how the pioneers in the olden days
had ever made it.
A railroad ran parallel to 66. Sophie leaned out the window and
waved wildly at a freight train coming toward us. The red-capped engineer
saw her and waved back and, much to her delight, gave a long,
mournful toot on his whistle.
About an hour out of Barstow I saw an old jalopy pulled off on
the side of the road, its radiator geysering steam. Two guys in shabby
clothes were standing by it, one fanning forlornly at the steam with
his hat. When I suggested that maybe we ought to pull over and give
them some of our water, Darla said: "Keep driving, Danny. We need
that water for us."
We did need it.We drank and drank it and still it didn't seem to be
enough, it was like it was evaporating right out of us without even taking
the time to turn into sweat first. Our lips burnt and cracked. I felt
like I was drying up, becoming a mummy.
 The tongue of Dulwich's cat
hung out as she panted like a dog. I wondered what she thought about
all this. Snatched away from her peaceful, bird-filled bungalow court,
encaged now in a baking Packard speeding over a dismal wasteland.
We passed through towns. It wasn't like the desert didn't have
any towns.- But Daggett, Ludlow, Siberia, Bagdad, Amboy, Chambliss,
Summit, Danby, Essex, Java, were towns in name only, usually consisting
of no more than a gas station and cafe and some woebegone
tourist cabins, and sometimes not even that, just a deserted train station
by the railroad tracks. When the sun was at its highest and hottest,
we reached our first genuine town, Needles.
It felt like an oasis. Real trees were growing here, with actual green
leaves on them, not thorns or spines. We drove slowly down the main
street, looking for a place to eat, but everything seemed closed.
"How come nothing's open?" I said.
" 'Cause it's Sunday," said Darla.
It seemed strange, that it was Sunday. Days of the week, months of
the year, seemed so regular and normal; they oughtn't to exist in a world
that had lost its moorings, a world of murder and screaming, of shame
and grief. Where a man's teeth could roll across the floor like dice.
"Look!" said Sophie. "Indians!"
Indeed, four Indians, a man and a woman and two little ones, were
walking down the street. They were dressed gaily, in red and yellow
and blue.
"Maybe they'll know a place to eat," said Darla.
But when I slowed up beside them, they looked at us so sternly I
decided to drive on.
A little further along we found the Black Cat Cafe.
A sign over the lunch counter said: "CUP OF COFFEE, CIGARETTE,
& TOOTHPICK--60." It was kind of a dumpy joint, but
the food was okay. Darla had the fried chicken dinner and Sophie and
I had hamburgers and french fries, and all of us gulped down glass
after glass of iced tea.
A radio was playing; when the news came on, the announcer reported
that a sensational crime had occurred Saturday night in Los
Angeles. Eight people, including notorious gangster Bud Seitz, had
been naurdered at Seitz's home in Hollywood. Police said so far they
had no witnesses or suspects.
Darla and I locked eyes across the table. The waitress sighed and
shook her head as she poured us more tea. "Big cities! You can have
'em! Me, I like a place that's nice and slow. Like Needles."
We left the cafe and continued east. It was only a mile to the Colorado
River and the Arizona state line. The hell of the Mojave ended
at the green river. As we drove over the bridge, we could see a cluster
of tents and makeshift shacks and old cars and pickup trucks on the
river bank--a Hooverville in the middle of the desert.
Next we had to climb over the ominously named Black Mountains.
It was rough going for a while, in places the road wasn't even
paved, but when we came down the other side of the mountains it was
with the feeling that the worst part of the journey was behind us.

We were in Arizona now, and we could see a long way, and what
we saw was beautiful. Sophie suggested we ought to sing a song like
'the people traveling to New York on the bus did in the Clark Gable
movie.
"Did you know Darla's a professional singer?" I said.
Sophie looked at Darla, wide-eyed. "You are?"
"Yeah. Sometimes."
"I'm going to be a professional dancer someday. I've got swell
dancing shoes. They're in my suitcase. Danny and Mr. Dulwich gave
them to me."
It took awhile before we could settle on a song that we all more
or less knew the words to. It was "The Animal Fair"--

"/ went to the animal fair,
The birds and the beasts were there.
The big baboon by the light of the moon

Was combing his auburn hair.
The monkey bumped the skunk,
And sat on the elephant's trunk.
The elephant sneezed and fell to his knees,
And that was the end of the monk, the monk, the monk, the monk ..."

21

WE GASSED UP the car at Oatman (POP. 500), and Sophie took Dulwich's cat out again, and she scratched in the dirt and squatted
and peed, and then we kept going. There was plenty of light still left
in the day and though I'd hardly slept for the last two days I felt like I
was getting my second wind and could drive forever.
Sophie had the road map spread out, and it nearly covered her like
a tent. "If we stay on Route 66 all the way, we'll end up in Chicago.
Can we go to Chicago?"
"We can go anywhere we want," I said.
"But on the way to New York. We're still going to New York."
"Of course."
"Darla, have you ever been to New York?"
"Sure, I been there," Darla said, with little enthusiasm.
A billboard informed us the Tomahawk Trading Post and Restaurant
was just three miles down the road and one could see the Amazing
Indian Mummy there.
"Oh, I wanna see the mummy!" said Sophie.
"Wanna see the mummy?" I asked Darla.
She shrugged. "Why not?"
I parked in the shade at the side of the trading post, so Dulwich's
cat could stay cool while we were inside. There was a hitching post
out front; no horses were tied up to it, but several cars were parked
there, including a sleek silver Zephyr, which Sophie oohed and ahhed at.
The trading post sold all manner of things Indian: pottery and turquoise
jewelry and blankets and rugs and beadwork and baskets and
buffalo-hide shields and arrowheads and tomahawks. I asked the pimply
teenaged girl behind the cash register where the mummy was.
"Right over yonder," she said, pointing. "In that corner there."
It was a mummy, all right, in a glass case. A little mummy, curled
up on its side, its arms holding its legs and its face tucked into its
knees. Sophie began reading from a typewritten card scotchtaped
to the glass:'"The mummy of this little Indian girl'--oh, it's a little
girl!--'was found in a cave by Bill Miller on his ranch near Kingman
in 1912. She is believed to have been a member of the Walapai Indian
tribe, and to have lived many hundreds of years ago.' Many hundreds
of years ago," Sophie repeated as she stared in awe at the grayish
brown brittle-looking thing behind the dusty glass.
We wandered awhile through the trading post with the other
tourists--Darla bought some postcards, Sophie an Indian doll called
a kachina--then we passed through a little hallway to the restaurant.
We sat down at the counter, and a fat, jolly waitress named Ruthana
served us up ice cream sodas.
"I like your bracelet," said Sophie.
Darla was wearing her charm bracelet--the one Bud had given
her, with the star, the crescent moon, the heart, the man's hat, the
Scottish terrier, the owl, the mermaid, and the lightning bolt.
"Do you?" said Darla, looking at it; and then she began to take it
off.
"Here, honey. I want you to have it."

"Really? No kidding?"
"Really and no kidding. Hold your hand out."
She fastened the bracelet around Sophie's wrist. Sophie held her
arm up, and gazed blissfully at the dangling charnas. She tapped the
crescent moon with her fingertip, and it rocked back and forth.
"Gee, thanks, Darla."
"You're welcome."
Soon Sophie's straw was making slurping noises in the bottom of
her glass.
"Can I go back and look at the mummy?" she said.
"All right," I said. "But don't wander off."
"I won't."
She hopped off her stool and ran through the door, as Ruthana
watched her approvingly.
"You sure do have a cute daughter," she said to Darla and me.
Darla and I exchanged a look. She opened her purse, took out her
cigarettes. Lit up.
She looked exhausted. It seemed like a long time ago that she had
been butchered by Dr. Brunder, but it had actually only been a few
days.
"That was nice," I said. "Giving Sophie the bracelet."
She blew out a thin, fluttering stream of smoke.
"She's a good kid. A little trooper. She never once complained,
going across the desert. She deserves a lot more in life than just some
crummy bracelet."
"She'll get it. She'll get everything she deserves."
Darla looked at me musingly. "You'll see to it, huh?"
"Well--maybe we'll see to it."
She tapped her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, even though
she hadn't been smoking it long enough to make any ash. Then she
opened her purse again and took out her compact and looked at
herself in the little round mirror, tugging at her hair, fiddling with an
eyebrow.
"Jesus. I look a fright. I'm gonna go powder my nose."
"Okay."
She slid off her stool and walked off, toward the restrooms in
the hall. But then a moment or two later I felt a hand on my neck,
and looked around and Darla's face was just inches away, and she
smelled like Jean Harlow and then her lips were on mine. This was
a real kiss, a lingering kiss, a moist kiss. Then she pulled away a

little, and looked at my face all over, and smoothed out the hair
on the side of my head with her long fingers; then she turned and
walked away.
I wasn't sitting any longer on a red leather stool, but on Cloud
Number Nine.
I ordered a cup of coffee from Ruthana.
Haifa chocolate cake sat on the counter under a glass cover.A fly
landed on the cover, crawled around on it for a while, then just settled
down to stare at the cake.
Several minutes passed. Neither Darla nor Sophie came back. I got
a check from Ruthana, paid up, and went into the trading post.
Immediately, Sophie came running up to me with a can in her
hand.
"Could I get this?"
I looked at the label.
"Rattlesnake eggs? What do you need rattlesnake eggs for?"
She rolled her eyes as if the answer was obvious.
"Please?"
"Okay." I looked around. Didn't see Darla anywhere. "Do me a
favor? I think Darla's in the ladies' room. Would you go in there and
check on her? Just make sure she's all right? In the meantime, I'll pay
for .. . this."
"Okay."
Sophie took off. I gave the can to the pimply girl at the cash register.
"That'll
be fifty-nine cents."
I dug in my pocket for some change.
"The last place I got rattlesnake eggs, it wasn't nearly that much."
"Oh really?" and then she saw I was kidding and she laughed. She
took my money and gave me a penny back.
"That lady you was with?"
"Yeah?"
"She asked me to give you this."
She handed me a postcard. On it was a picture of the Petrified
Forest. I stared at it, mystified, then turned it over.
Dear Danny
The best thing I can do for you is just get out of your hair.
I mean it. I'm bad news for you. Take care of the kid. She's
swell. And the cat too.
I can't believe what you did for me. I'll always remember
you. But I hope you forget me.

Love,
Darla

"Did you see where she went?" I asked the girl.
"Yeah." She motioned toward the window. Toward the road. "She
went off with that fella that had the Zephyr."
"What fella?"
"He was in here earlier. When you was over there looking at the
mummy, he was looking at it too. Nearly standing right next to you.
You didn't see him?"
I shook my head. Sophie came back. "I can't find her anywhere,"
she said.
"I know." I handed her the rattlesnake eggs. "Let's go."
We walked outside. The spot where the Zephyr had been parked
was empty. I looked at Route 66. I wondered which way they had
gone. I could have asked the girl. But I decided not to.
"Darla's gone, Sophie. She's not coming back."
"Gone? What do you mean?"
"She got a ride with somebody. She's decided to go off on her
own. So it's just you and me now."
Sophie stood there, and thought about it, and then said: "And
Tinker."
"Right. And Tinker."
She was looking up at me very solemnly. I reached down, mussed
up her hair a little. "Ready?"
She nodded. We got in the car, and pulled back on the road. We
drove in silence. Sophie unwrapped some bubble gum.
It was late in the day, and the sun was low and behind us now. We
passed through a magical, mysterious landscape of vast vistas, of mesas
and buttes and faraway mountains. There were all kinds of colors in
the land and the sky, pinks and yellows and blues and browns and
grays and violets and greens, and the land seemed to reflect the sky
and the sky, the land.
Sophie had been letting Dulwich's cat out of her cage and she had
the run of the car. Now she curled up between Sophie and me, and
began to doze off.
After a while we saw dark clouds off to the north. Pretty soon
they produced gray dragging curtains of rain, and then a spectacular
lightning bolt that went all the way down to the ground. But here it
was still bright sunshine. It was like the desert was putting on a show
just for us.
I thought about Darla, and thought and thought about her, and
decided it was okay. After all, it was Gwynnie, whoever she was, that I
really loved. And when I got to New York I'd find her and try to win
her back from my best friend, whoever he was. Or maybe I wouldn't
bother. Maybe I didn't love anybody anymore, except Dulwich, who
was dead, and Sophie, who was blowing enormous pink bubbles of
gum right beside me.
But suddenly Sophie was covering her face with her hands, and
making sobbing, sniffling noises. I was appalled.
"Sophie! Sophie, what's the matter?"
"I miss my mummy!" she wailed.Then her hands dropped, and I
saw her dry eyes and sly grin.
"Fooled you."
"Hey," I said. "Don't get wise, BB eyes."
She giggled. The road stretched out before us. And that's about all
I've got to say.


Permissions

"The Carioca." Words and Music by (Jus Kahn, Edward Eliscu and Vincent Youmans. © 1933
(Renewed) T.B. Harms Co.; © 1933 (Renewed) LSQ Music (Company (used by permission).
Rights for the Extended Renewal Term in the United States controlled by WB Music Corp.,
Gilbert Keyes Music and LSQ Music Co. Rights outside the United States controlled by
WB Music Corp. and Polygram International Publishing Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by
Permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

"Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries" (From George While's Scandals). Words by Lew Brown. Music
by Ray Henderson. © 1931 (Renewed) by Desylva, Brown and Henderson, Inc. Rights for
the Extended Renewal Term in the U.S. controlled by Ray Henderson Music Company and
Chappell & Co. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc. Used
by Permission of Redwood Music Ltd. (Carlin) London NW1 813D for the Commonwealth of
Nations, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, South Africa and Spain.


"Forty Second Street" (from 42nd Street). Words by Al Dubin. Music by Harry Warren. © 1932
(Renewed) Warner Bros., Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of Alfred Publishing
Co., Inc. Reproduced by permission of B. Feldman and Co. Ltd, London, W8 5SW. Used by
permission of Albert Music for Australia and New Zealand.

"I Saw Stars." Words and music by Al Goodbart, Al Hoffman and Maurice Siglcr. © 1934
(Renewed) Robbins Catalogue Inc. and Al Hoffman Songs, Inc. Rights for EMI Robbins
Catalogue Inc. assigned to EMI Catalogue Partnership. All Rights Controlled and Administered
by EMI Robbins Catalogue Inc. and Al Hoffman Songs, Inc. All rights reserved. Used by
permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc. All Rights for Al Hoffman Songs, Inc., administered
by Music Sales Corporation. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted
by Permission.

"Stardust." Music by Hoagy Carmiehael. Words by Mitchell Parish. French translation byYvette
Baruch. © 1929 (Renewed) EMI Mills Music Inc. and Hoagy Publishing Company in the
USA. All rights outside the USA controlled by EMI Mills Music, Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred
Publishing Co., Inc. (Print) All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Publishing Co.,
Inc. "Stardust" by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish. © 1929, 1930 by Songs of Peer, Ltd.
Copyright Renewed. Used by Permission. For Australia and New Zealand: EMI Davis Music
Australia Pty Limited (ABN 37 000 006 799) PO Box 35, Pyrmont, NSW 2009, Australia.
International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

"One Night of Love." Words by Gus Kahn. Music by Victor Schertzinger. Copyright © 1934
by Bourne Co. Copyright Renewed. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured
ASCAP.

"Fight On" by Milo Sweet and Glen Grant. © 1928 (Renewed) Edwin H. Morris eV Company,
A Division ofMPL Music Publishing, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

The End.