that? Speedster’s Law.”
“Right. What’s this about witches?”
“I dunno, I think I’ve uncovered a coven of witches who sell their children’s souls to the devil to get even more of the things they sold their own souls to get. Am I making sense?”
“That’s an old joke professor.”
“What joke?”
“You mean you’ve never heard the one about the agent who’s sitting in the Polo Lounge and the devil walks up to him and buys him a drink?”
“No.”
“Well, the devil buys the agent a drink and tells him, ‘I can get you Cher, Meryl Streep, Robert DeNiro and Jack Nicholson, all on exclusive contract but I want your soul, your wife’s soul and your children’s souls.’ The agent looks around the bar then turns back to the devil and says, ‘Okay, but what’s the catch?’”
For some reason the joke seemed hysterical to me. When I’d stopped laughing I told Speedster that I really needed a shower and a cup of coffee before I would be in any kind of shape to discuss the events that had my life so uncharacteristically morbid. He agreed to call back in an hour.
I spent half that time in the shower trying to get Halloween off my body. Images from my dream kept buzzing in and out of my head. First the blackness that was pierced by this strange pinhole of light and the sound of voices chanting—Then a severed arm with a knife in its hand floating down a tunnel of dark clouds toward a candle—Then a circle of naked people wearing strange masks gathered around that candle passing a photograph from my book of Rabbit, Goat and the iron horse, from one to the other, taking turns stabbing the picture with a ceremonial blade. Then Jimmy, in the hot Texas night, with the file through his head, staggering around in his death rage as his attackers laughed and shouted, “Toro, Toro!” and slashed him again and again with their knives. Then the photograph again, being held over the candle and burned. Then Jimmy again, but this time all clean and glowing and smiling with his wounds turned to jewels. He’s sitting in the blackness with the pinhole of light behind him. He raises a finger to his lips then touches the pinhole sealing it over and leaving me alone in that silent night.
I was having my third cup of coffee when the Speedster called back. I told him about Paps and Burns Sawyer, Big Ed and Chris Boone, and about my Halloween dream. He listened patiently and made only five or six wisecracks during my whole spiel, which must have been a real record for the Speedster, who usually has a field day with other people’s problems. He did let me know right away when I’d finished that he thought everything I’d told him was a crock of shit.
“You’ve been in Hollywood too long. Your imagination is dying of starvation. Is this the best you can do? This is B movie stuff.”
“Yeah, well believe me, I’d love to get out of this town. Are you inviting me to Sag Harbor?”
“Speedster’s Law number two: no house guests, sorry. But there is a young actress who’s wintering in the neighborhood—all I can do is introduce you, and she won’t be back in town here for a month.”
“I could be dead in a month.”
“Bullshit. You want my advice?”
“I’d rather have the young actress.”
“Listen, stay in L.A. Face these fantasies you’re having. If you need help there’s a friend of mine who teaches at U.C.L.A. who’s got a Doctor’s degree in this occult stuff. I could turn you on to him; he’s a great character, face like an elephant and the mind of a poet. He’ll straighten your young ass out. Then, in a month, if you still want to come up, you can rent a room at that motel on the backside of town and I’ll introduce you to Sharon. That’s the best I can do. But seriously, what are you gonna’ do in Sag Harbor, the place is dead in the winter and a tourist trap in the summer.”
“Well, I thought I’d sell my car, buy a boat, then sit in that boat with a rod in my hand and a line in the water till my pecker hair turned gray.”
Well, Professor, I can tell you from experience, that’s a long time to fish without getting a bite.”
“Well, sometimes fishing ain’t about catching anything.”
“True enough, Professor.”
I took the name and number of Speedster’s friend and hung up. It was already dark outside. Dark. The word was starting to have too many meanings for me. I knew a Mexican restaurant down in Venice where a few dollars still went a long way and where the booths were dimly lit and quiet. I could feel the puzzle coming together in my head, growling like the emptiness in my stomach, demanding to be satisfied.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BACKFIRE
THE DRIVE BACK TO VENICE is easy—just straight down Pico. It was, however, an ugly drive and tonight the fog started getting thick about halfway to Culver City. We called the fog “the fat woman” because in L.A. the air is bad and when it mixes with the sea mist it has that distinct aroma you smell when a fat woman sits down next to you on a bus in the dog days of August. So the fat woman was sitting heavy on the town of Venice, blurring the streetlights and slicking the streets.
Don Pedro’s was loud and crowded when I walked in, carrying the armload of papers and photos I had gathered for the night’s work. I convinced the waitress to give me a booth in the back and I set my paperwork up on one side and sat down on the other. I ordered the combination plate with extra corn tortilla on the side and a Corona. I also ordered a little cobweb burner shot of tequila to burn out the last of the cobwebs still hanging from the corners of my head, which it did with admirable precision. I was clear as a bell when the food arrived. Good Mexican food was my favorite fuel for thought. Something about the sticky piles of refried beans and yellow rice that brought out the wily Yaqui Indian in my mongrel blood. It was peasant food and peasants endure.
From what I knew of my family tree, the Irish side had been pirates, the Hoodoo Italian side had been magic artists and the Indian side had been Indians. There is a definite strength and grace here, I thought; Indians need no occupational title to establish their identity. I had always felt my lack of occupation was more a part of my sacred heritage than a social stigma. I also realized that the expression “the only good Indian is a dead Indian” was part of this sacred heritage. I ordered another cobweb burner and moved around to the other side of the table where the pieces of my puzzle lay stacked and ready. I started with the Boone family album I had found among Paps’ things.
—To Nathan, our beloved son, on Christmas 1970.
From Mommy and Daddy—
I studied the inscription on the opening page. It was curious to me that Paps had somehow wound up with Goat’s family album. I took out my pad and pencil and began making notes. As I opened the first pages and looked at the pictures of little Chris Boone in his first sailor suit, I wondered why someone with such obviously loving parents would have a fantasy about being an orphan. I had been a “love child” and had grown up in a series of relatives’ homes, so I understood a little of the pain that an orphan suffers. Why such pain would become a fantasy for someone who had such a stable background bothered me, somehow it had to be a big piece of this puzzle. As I turned the page I noticed a change in Chris Boone’s face after the arrival of baby Nathan. Chris must have been about five when Nathan was born. He still smiled the
