Part 8 (2/2)

I grab my purse, take a sip of my now-watery drink, and stand up. I am out the door before Lois slinks back into that murky red corner.

Later that night, I think about the postcard. Probably just a bitter old boyfriend of Alice's or a romantic rival trying for some measure of revenge. The image of sharkskinned Joe Avalon pa.s.ses through my head. Were he and Alice once lovers? One thing feels sure: The writer of the postcard didn't expect that I'd actually go to the Red Room Lounge, figured that the postcard would be enough to stir suspicion. I decide that I'd better forget it.

Three hours of c.o.c.ktails and crowded dancing in Bill and Alice's living room, their Labor Day party just kicking up at nearly eleven o'clock, a cutthroat game of canasta in the kitchen, an impromptu dance contest on the living room's wall-to-wall, a gang watching a boxing match on the Philco, a bawdy conversation spilling from the powder room into the hallway. And there's my brother standing to the side, looking like a wrung rag, s.h.i.+rtfront wet from crushed rumbas with tireless Alice. He is nearly a foot taller than Alice when she is in her stocking feet, but she exerts so much presence that you never think of the height difference. Bill is always receding into the background, leaning back on the couch, hanging back from the circle gathered in the middle of the party, while Alice looms forward, saucer eyes and manic energy, her red-ringed mouth huge, like a beautiful fish against the gla.s.s.

Finally, Mike, an hour late, arrives with an orchid as delicate as a doll wrist.

”My apologies, King. Budding starlet, too much dope, car tipped over half into the canyon. You didn't hear it from me.”

”Can I take your hat?” I hold my hand out.

He smiles, handing me both his hat and his attache. ”Girl's had a few?”

”It's just the atmosphere. It's like a sponge.”

I walk down the hall to the bedroom and deposit his things on the bed, where a small mound of ridiculously out-of-season fur chubbies and cowls sit. I set his hat on the bedside table and turn around to see Mike standing in the doorway.

”These bulls sure can swing,” he says, as he says many things, as though almost wanting to yawn.

”That they can.” I move toward the door. With a clean gesture, he steps in and shuts the door behind him.

”You are fooling yourself, sir,” I say, ”if you think I would kiss you in my brother's bedroom.”

”Any brother who throws parties like this could hardly care.” He nudges me backward with a thick forefinger. The backs of my legs brush up against the silk coverlet.

”It's Alice's party,” I say, knowing he is playing me.

”Is that how you frame it?” He places the heel of his hand on my collarbone and actually shoves me this time. I fall back onto the bed, the span of furs curling under me, bristling against my neck and arms.

”Tough guy now,” I say, waiting for him to break into his characteristic ironic grin.

”That's right.” He looks down at me, no grin.

I feel suddenly hot with shame. All the things that happen in Mike's cool, self-contained apartment start to flash before me.

”Don't-”

His mouth untwists and releases itself into a self-aware smile. ”I'm just kidding, King. You know I have your number. I wouldn't hold it against you.”

I manage a return smile, and take his hand. As I rise, my shoe hits something soft, and my ankle wrenches. We both look down to the floor and see a small steel-blue book slide out from under my foot.

I pick it up and set it back down on the bed.

”I don't think that was on the bed,” Mike says. ”More like under it.”

”No?” I pick it up again, running my finger along the gold edges of the pages.

”See if there's a name in it.”

I open it up and see pages and pages of what appear to be some kind of strange shorthand, all initials and numbers.

”Not another Red,” Mike says.

”It's an address book,” I say, gesturing to the small lettered tabs on the page edges. ”In code.” ”Lots of people don't want their numbers getting around.

Especially in this town,” Mike says offhandedly as he opens the door.

”Should I just leave it here?”

Mike shrugs, already halfway out the door, eyes thirsty for a drink.

Suddenly, Alice appears in the doorframe, almost as though she's been hovering just outside of view.

Without knowing why, my heart jumps and I find myself gripping Mike's arm. On instinct, I tuck the address book between the folds of my skirt.

”Look who I find in my bedroom My, my,” Alice says, shaking her head.

”I was dropping off Mike's hat,” I say.

Alice nods with a teasing smirk. But something in her eyes- ”Where's these drinks I keep hearing about?” Mike says, dropping an arm around each of our shoulders.

”Oh, I see ...” Alice laughs with low, raw tones.

Mike laughs too, and we walk together down the hall. We walk with the address book sliding, as if not by my own hand, into my pocket.

Later that night, back at my apartment, I try to steady my party-clogged, smoke-drenched head by lying down. The address book slips out of my pocket onto the bedspread. I pick it up. On the inside cover are the words ”Deau Stationers.” And the tiny address: ”312 Hill Street, Los Angeles.” I think about the postcard, trying to see any possible connection.

It isn't the next day, but the day after that I find myself at a small shop with old-fas.h.i.+oned green shutters just around the corner from the funicular railway that creeps up and down a yellow clay bank from Hill Street. The store looks the part of a once-grand remnant of the sagging, s.h.a.ggy Bunker Hill neighborhood.

As I walk toward it, I wonder what exactly I am doing. Isn't this likely just some party guest's item, fallen from a coat? But the code is so strange, and the book so fancy, fancier than a schoolteacher or a policeman or any other likely party guest would have. Too ornate for any of those men and too masculine for the women.

I open the door and see a horseshoe gla.s.s counter filled with b.u.t.tery leather-bound books, pale-hued stationery blocks, and sterling silver fountain pens.

A young woman with cat's-eye gla.s.ses looks up from her sales sheet.

”Yes?”

I move closer to her, suddenly very self-conscious. What is my plan here? ”I'm wondering if you could help me,” I all but whisper.

”A diary?”

”Pardon?”

She pulls a small, cream-colored leather book from the gla.s.s case to her left.

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