Part 24 (1/2)
”You'll see. Meanwhile, I'm going to need you to take a little journey for me.”
”Sure.”
”You won't have to be away long. But there's a place down the coast where I left something important to me, a long time ago. I want you to get it back for me, while I dispatch Fletcher.”
”I want to be here for that.”
”You like the idea of death, don't you?”
Tommy-Ray grinned. ”Yeah. I do. My friend Andy, he had this neat tattoo, of a skull, right there.” Tommy-Ray pointed to his chest. ”Right over his heart. He used to say he'd die young. He said he'd go down to Bombora, the peaks are real dangerous there-waves just drop away, you know?- and he'd wait for one last wave, and when he was really travelling he'd just throw himself off the board. Just So it. Like that. Ride and die.”
”Did he?” asked the Jaff. ”Die, I mean?”
”Did he f.u.c.k,” said Tommy-Ray contemptuously. ”Didn't have the b.a.l.l.s.”
”But you could.”
”Right now? Sure as s.h.i.+t.”
”Well, don't be in too much of a hurry. There's going to be a party.”
”Yeah?”
”Oh yeah. A major party. This town never saw the likes of this party.”
”Who's invited?”
”Half of Hollywood. And the other half'll wish it had been.”
”And us?”
”Oh yes, we'll be there. You can be sure of that. We'll be there, ready and waiting.”
At last, William thought as he stood on Spilmont's doorstep on Peaseblossom Drive, at last a story I can tell. He'd escaped the horrors of the Jaff's court with a tale he could unburden himself of, and be dubbed a hero for the warning.
Spilmont was one of the many William had guided through a house purchase; two, in fact. They knew each other well enough to be on first name terms.
”Billy?” Spilmont said, looking William up and down. 'You don't look too good.”
”I'm not.”
”Come on in.”
”Something terrible's happened, Oscar,” William said, allowing himself to be ushered inside. ”I never saw anything worse.”
”Sit. Sit,” said Spilmont. ”Judith? It's Bill Witt. What do you need, Billy? Something to drink? Jeeze, you're shaking like a leaf.”
Judith Spilmont was a perfect earth mother, broad-hipped and big-breasted. She appeared from the kitchen, and repeated her husband's observations. William requested a gla.s.s of ice water, but couldn't hold off starting his story before it was in his hands. He knew even as he began how ludicrous it would sound. It was a campfire tale, not meant to be told in broad daylight while the listener's kids yelled as they danced in and out of the lawn sprinklers, just beyond the window. But Spilmont listened dutifully, shooing his wife away once she'd supplied the water. William persevered through his account, even remembering the names of those whom the Jaff had touched the night before, explaining once in a while that he knew all this sounded preposterous but it had really happened. It was with that observation he finished the telling: ”I know how this must sound,” he said.
”Can't say it's not some story,” Spilmont replied. ”If it came from anyone but you I think I'd be less willing to listen. But s.h.i.+t, Bill...Tommy-Ray McGuire? He's a nice kid.”
”I'll take you back up there,” William said. ”As long as we go armed.”
”No, you're in no state for that.”
”You mustn't go alone,” William said.
”Hey, neighbor, you're looking at a man who loves his kids. Think I'd leave 'em orphans?” Spilmont laughed. ”Listen, you go back home. Stay there. I'll call you when I've got some news. Deal?”
”Deal.”
”You sure you're fit to drive? I could get somebody-”
”I got this far.”
”Right.”
”I'll be OK.”
”Meanwhile, keep it to yourself, Bill, OK? I don't want anyone getting trigger-happy.”
”No. Sure. I understand.”
Spilmont watched while William downed the rest of his ice water then escorted him to the door, shook his hand, and waved him off. William did as instructed. He drove straight home, called in to Valerie and told her he wouldn't be coming back to the office, locked all the doors and windows, undressed, threw up, showered and waited by the telephone for further news of the depravity that had come to Palomo Grove.
VIII.
Suddenly dog-tired, Grillo had taken to his bed around three-fifteen, instructing the switchboard to hold all calls through to his suite until further notice. It was therefore a rapping on the door that woke him. He sat up, his head so light it almost floated off.
”Room Service,” a woman said.
”I didn't order anything,” he replied. Then he realized: ”Tesla?”
Tesla it was, looking good in her usual defiant fas.h.i.+on. Grillo had long ago concluded that it took a kind of genius to transform, in the wearing of certain clothes and items of jewelry, the tacky into the glamorous, and the tasteful into the kitsch. Tesla managed the transition in both directions without seeming to try. Today, she wore a man's white s.h.i.+rt, too big for her small, slim frame, with a cheap Mexican bola at the neck, bearing an image of the Madonna, slinky blue trousers, high heels (which still only brought her up to shoulder height on him), and silver snake earrings that lurked in red hair she'd had streaked with blonde, but only streaked because, as she'd explained, blondes did indeed have more fun but a whole head's worth was sheer indulgence.
”You were asleep,” she said.
”Yep.”
”Sorry.”
”I have to take a p.i.s.s.”
”Take it. Take it.”
”Will you check my calls?” he yelled back to her as he met his reflection in the mirror. He looked wretched, he thought: like the undernourished poet he'd given up trying to be the first time he went hungry. It was only as he swayed at the bowl, one hand on his d.i.c.k-which had never looked so far from him, or so small-the other holding on to the door frame to keep himself from keeling over, that he admitted to himself just how sick he was feeling.