Part 9 (2/2)

Davalos is on his way out. He wants you to bring the car around.”

The boy jumps up, suddenly fl.u.s.tered.

”On it,” he shouts, dancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet for a second before nodding his head toward me and heading to the door.

Mr. Davalos. Suddenly, I see the arched brow of the woman at Deau Stationers as if she were right before my eyes. Mr. Davalos. Could this be the owner of the address book in my sister-in-law's bed? No. I must have misheard. The name has occupied my thoughts so much in the last few days that I must have imagined hearing it aloud.

I take the opportunity to pick up a Modem Screen, in case the boy returns and wants to continue the conversation. Burying my head behind it, I wonder how long Mike will be and if I should really keep waiting.

A few minutes pa.s.s before I hear a quiet, faintly familiar voice. ”Is Teddy out there?”

”Yes, Mr. Davalos. He should be waiting for you.”

”Thank you.”

As the voice trails away, I glance up from the magazine just in time to see Joe Avalon, resplendent in sharkskin, pa.s.sing the reception desk and through the office doors.

He doesn't see me.

I rise as he steps out. Walking to the window, my heart jumping a bit, I look out. Tugging his hat down, he opens the door of a sleek black roadster. I see a flash of deep maroon interior as he pulls the door shut behind him and the car leaps to life and drives off.

Joe Avalon is John Davalos.

Shaken out of my shock by the nervous buzzing at the reception desk, I turn around on my heel, almost losing my balance.

Foamy-head is watching me. ”Mr. Standish says he's coming.

”Fine,” I say. Ticking my finger lightly on the window, I ask, ”Who was that man? I think I know him.”

She pauses and looks at me for a moment. ”That's Mr. Davalos.”

”Does he work for the studio?”

She pauses again. ”He's not a casting agent, if that's what you mean.”

”No, no.” I smile. ”I'm not an actress. I just think I've met him before.” I then add, ”Maybe through Mr. Standish.”

”He doesn't work here. He's a business a.s.sociate of Mr. Schor's.”

”I see,” I say, just as Mike pushes open the gla.s.s doors.

”Let's go, doll,” he says, tipping the hat in his hand to Foamy-head. ”Before the gray fellows call me back. I gotta talk to a few columnists at Sugie's.”

Joe Avalon. What more do you need, I ask myself. What more do you need to know you must do something? The next morning, as Alice gathers her sewing samples for our first day back to school, I grab her phone book and pa.s.s through it as quickly as I can. I'm not sure which number is his. There is nothing under A or D that fits. I end up looking under J, and there is a number without a name attached. In my haste, I end up scribbling it on the inside of my wrist.

That afternoon, during my prep period, I call the operator, who tells me that the name listed with the number is J. Devlin. Given the multiplying names, I feel sure that it's Joe Avalon. And then, she actually gives me the address. As I write it down, I wonder what exactly I think I'm going to do. But something keeps telling me I've waited long enough, let enough strange glimmers acc.u.mulate in the corners of my eyes. It's time to stop blinking.

After dropping off Alice after school, I drive into Los Angeles and find the house on Flower Street. I sit in my car for three hours, and he never appears.

I go back the following evening. I sit and watch. I think about Bill. I think about Joe Avalon in my brother's bedroom. I think about Alice and what she has brought with her, what she's carried into my brother's world. Our world.

At a little past ten, a car pulls up his driveway. I duck down in my seat and then wait, watch.

Joe Avalon, in a s.h.i.+ny raincoat, emerges and heads for his front door. I ask myself, Could this man really be Alice's lover? And if not that, what? He is alone. Here is the opportunity. There is no reason to wait. I banish the strumming refrain in my head. The one that keeps asking what I think I'm doing here, after all.

As he unlocks his door and walks inside, I slide out of my car and walk to his house. There is no use thinking about it, I just have to do it, without thinking, just go ...

I am suddenly there, knuckles rapping the pine door.

And it's a long minute before he opens it, coat off, collar open, blast of cologne in my face. He doesn't know what to make of it.

”Miss King, right?”

He opens the door wider. ”Come in,” he says. He says, ”Come in.”

I step past him and into the darkly paneled hallway of the pristine, cocoa-colored bungalow.

”I can't guess why I'm so lucky,” he says softly. He always speaks softly, and low, so you have to lean in to hear. A trick like a southern belle's.

The hallway spills into a living room, Oriental rug, teak-colored blinds, amber lamps, and a large, plush sofa in deep rose.

”Have a seat.” He b.u.t.tons his collar, twisting his neck. ”Can I get you a drink?”

I shake my head, but he begins pouring two gla.s.ses from the mahogany bar cart. Whiskey and two quick sprays of soda from a smooth green bottle.

He hands the drink to me and gestures for me to sit on one of the damask chairs. Opposite me, he settles on the sofa.

My hand curls around the gla.s.s, and I'm suddenly glad I have it to hold on to. I finally look at him straight on. I can't avoid it. His eyes, glossy dark like brine, fixed and waiting.

”I couldn't be more surprised, Miss King. I'm sitting here thinking that I don't even know how you know where I live. Is this about our mutual friend Alice?” He says this all nearly tonelessly, only the vague lilt of someone very conscious of how he speaks, the words he wants to use.

”I have something of yours.” This is what I say. I just say it, and that's it.

”Is that right?” he shoots back more quickly than I antic.i.p.ated.

”I have something of yours.” I look him straight in the eye this time, and his right lid twitches for just a second.

”And what is that, Miss King?”

”You can't guess?” I watch his face. I want him to admit something, confess to something, betray something.

”Miss King, I really can't imagine.” He smiles vaguely, unreadably. ”But I'd really like to know.”

”I bet you would.” How I manage to say this, I don't know. It's like a movie scene. This is what they say in the movies.

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