Only Ling, the majordomo, remained. Dylan had been at the deck railing with Jilly no more than two minutes when this man arrived. He brought cocktails on a small black-lacquered serving tray featuring a lily-pad design formed by inlaid mother-of-pearl. A pair of perfect dry martinis – stirred, not shaken.
Slender but well conditioned, moving with the grace of a maitre de ballet and with the quiet self-assurance of one who most likely had earned a black belt in tae kwon do, Ling might have been thirty-five years old, but in his ebony-black eyes could be glimpsed the wisdom of the ancients well distilled. As Jilly took her martini from the lily-pad tray, and again as Dylan accepted his, Ling bowed his head slightly and with a kind smile spoke one word of Chinese to each of them, the same word twice, which Jilly somehow knew was both a welcome and a wish for their good fortune. Then Ling departed almost as discreetly as a ghost dematerializing; had this been winter and had the deck been dusted with snow, he might have left no footprints either coming or going.
This, too, was uncannily as it should be.
While Jilly and Dylan enjoyed the perfect martinis and the view, Shepherd remained in the living room behind them. He’d found a corner to his liking, where he might stand for an hour or two, sensory input limited to the contemplation of wall meeting wall.
The French have a saying – Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose – which means ‘The more things change, the more they remain the same.’ Shepherd, as he stood now in the corner, embodied the comedy and the tragedy of that truth. He represented both the frustration and the graceful acceptance that it suggested, but defined as well the melancholy beauty in those words.
Considering that Parish’s nationally syndicated radio program was heard on over five hundred stations six nights a week, Monday through Saturday, he would ordinarily have been at work as twilight cast its purple veils across the lake. In a state-of-the-art studio in the basement of the house, he could take calls from some of his ten million listeners and from his interview subjects, and with the assistance of Ling and an engineer, he could conduct his show. The actual production facility remained in San Francisco, where call-ins were screened and patched through to him, and where the combined audio feeds were filtered and enhanced for all-but-instantaneous rebroadcast.
This Saturday night, however, as on the first night following injection with Proctor’s stuff, Parish would forego the usual live broadcast and run instead a best-of program from his archives.
Shortly before they were expected to join their host for dinner, Jilly said to Dylan, ‘I’m going to call my mom. I’ll be right back.’
Leaving her empty martini glass on the deck railing, she folded to a shadowy corner of the gardens at the back of the Peninsula hotel in Beverly Hills. Her arrival went unnoticed.
She could have folded anywhere to make the call, but she liked the Peninsula. This hotel was the five-star quality she had hoped one day to be able to afford if her career as a comedian had taken off.
At a pay phone inside, she fed change to the slot and keyed in the familiar number.
Her mother answered on the third ring. Recognizing Jilly’s voice, she blurted: ‘Are you all right, baby girl, are you hurt, what’s happened to you, sugar – Sweet Jesus keep you safe – where are you?’
‘Relax, Mom. I’m fine. I wanted to let you know that I’m not going to be able to see you for a week or two, but I’ll figure out a way for us to get together soon.’
‘Jilly girl, since the church, people been here from the TV, from the newspapers, all of them as rude as any welfare bureaucrat on a dry-cracker diet. Fact is, they’re out in the street right now, with all their noise and satellite trucks, littering with their filthy cigarettes and their granola-bar wrappers. Rude, rude, rude.’
‘Don’t talk to any of them, Mom. As far as you know, I’m dead.’
‘Don’t you say such a terrible thing!’