Brubaker didn’t answer. He just sobbed out the window, his head wedged tightly against the doorjamb. He was still sobbing when I left him at his bar in Venice.
25
I staked out the apartment building on Beverly Boulevard for three days. Huddled low in the seat of my car, I watched Michael read comic books on his front lawn, noting that he wore thick glasses to read. I watched him throw a tennis ball against the wall of the building and usually blow the catch when it returned to him. I watched him pick at his acne, and I watched him thrash at the tennis ball with an old rusted putter. I watched him lie on the dead grass and dream. I noted that the other kids in the neighborhood avoided him like the plague. I noted that by the time he was twelve he would be far taller than I am.
At the end of those three days I knew that I loved him.
He just stared at me when he flung the door open in answer to my knock. I stared back for a moment, then broke the silence.
“Hi, Mike. May I come in?”
“Sure.”
I moved my way through the modest little apartment, looking for something to give me something to say. “Where’s your puppy?” I asked finally.
“She ran away,” Michael said.
It was obviously my cue. “Your father is dead, Mike.”
Michael said, “I figured he was,” then looked out the window to the stream of ears moving along Beverly Boulevard. “I knew he had to die–because of the stories. He thought I was a smart kid, but he didn’t know how smart. He used to think he was fooling me. He used to think I didn’t know that the stories were real.”
“What stories, Mike?”
Michael turned his gaze from the street to me. “I won’t tell you. Not ever. Okay?”
“Okay. Do you miss your dog?”
“Yes, she was my friend.”
“I’ve got a dog. A hell of a good dog.”
“What kind?”
“A big black Labrador. He loves people, but he hates eats.”
“I don’t like cats either. They’re slimy. What’s going to happen, Fred?”
“You’re going to come and live with me. Do you want to?”
“Are you married?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“What’s your wife like?”
“She’s very smart and strong and very beautiful.”
“Will the Lab be my dog, too?”
“Yes.”
“Then okay.”
“Pack your stuff. Leave your father’s things, I’ll get rid of them later.”
Ten minutes later the backseat of my car was packed with a meager collection of clothes and assorted other stuff–and a huge collection of books. I drove to a pay phone and called Big Sid at home and told him I had a guest for him to look after for a few days. The monster mogul was bewildered, but ecstatic when I told him it was a bright young boy who loved horror movies.
Sid was there on the front lawn of the huge house on Canon Drive waiting for us when we pulled up. I introduced Michael to him, and Sid double-taked on the huge youngster and offered him a cigar. Michael fell on the lawn in his laughter, then got up and hugged me before running off in the direction of the house.
From a pay phone I called Lorna’s office. Her secretary told me she was down in San Diego for a convention. She was staying at the El Cortez Hotel and would be returning in two or three days. I couldn’t wait. I got a tank of gas and highballed it south on the San Diego Freeway.
It was turning dusk when I got to Dago. A drunken sailor gave me directions to the El Cortez, a pink Spanish-style building with an outside elevator enclosed in glass.
I ditched my ear in the parking lot and tore through the lobby to the front desk. The clerk told me that the guests who were here for the American Bar Association convention were at the banquet in the Galleon Room. He pointed to a large banquet hall off to his left. I ran in, catching glimpses of a stern-looking man at the podium, who was speaking ambiguously about something called justice.