She stepped away from him, and he caught a look of fear in her eyes. What was she afraid of? His voice, was it? Or his face? God help him if it was his face.
“Somebody open the blinds,” he said. “Let’s get some light in here. It’s not a fucking funeral.”
Maxine went to the switch, and flipped it. The mechanism hummed; the blind rose, showing him an expanse of rain-soaked deck, some furniture; and beyond the deck the beach. One solitary jogger — probably some famous fool like himself, determined to preserve his beauty even in the pouring rain-was trudging along the shore, followed by two bodyguards. Todd got up from his chair and went to the window. Then, despite the presence of strangers, he lay his hand against the cold glass and began to weep.
FOUR
Burrows had brought both painkillers and tranquilizers that Todd supplemented with a large order from Jerome Bunny, a ratty little Englishman who’d been his supplier of illicit pharmaceuticals for the last four years. Under their influence, Todd spent the next twenty-four hours in a semi-somnambulant state.
The rain was unrelenting. He sat in front of Maxine’s immense television screen and watched a succession of images of other people’s pain — houses gone, families divided — dreamily wondering if any of them would exchange their misery for his. Every now and then a memory of the visage he’d seen in the mirror — vaguely resembling somebody he’d known, but horribly wounded, filled with pus and blood — would swim up before him, and he’d take another pill, or two or three, and wash it down with a shot of single malt, and wait for the opiates to drive the horror off a little distance.
The new dressings Burrows had put on, though as promised they indeed left his eyes uncovered, were still oppressive, and more than once Todd’s hands went up to his face unbidden, and would have ripped the bandages off had he not governed himself in time. He felt grotesque, like something from a late-night horror movie, his face — which had been his glory — become some horrible secret, festering away beneath the bandages. He asked Maxine what movie it was — some Rock Hudson weepie — in which a man was covered up this way. She didn’t know.
“And stop thinking about yourself for a while,” she said. “Think about something else.”
Easily said; the trouble was thinking about himself came naturally to him. In fact, it had become second-nature to him over the years to put all other considerations out of sight: to care only about Todd Pickett, and (on occasion) Dempsey Not to have done so would have meant a diminution of his power in the world. After all, he’d been playing a game which only the truly self-obsessed had a chance of victory. All others were bound to fall by the wayside. Now, when it would have been healthier to direct his attention elsewhere, he’d simply lost the knack. And he had no dog by his side to love him for being the boss, whatever the hell he looked like.
Late in the day Maxine came back from her visit to the Hideaway, as she had now dubbed it, with some good news. The house in the hills was just as Jerry Brahms had advertised.
“It’s the only house in the canyon,” she said. “Which canyon?”
“I don’t even think it’s got a name.”
“They’ve all got names, for God’s sake.”
“All I can tell you is that it’s somewhere between Coldwater and Laurel. To be perfectly honest I got a little lost following Jerry up there. He drives like the Devil. And you know my sense of geography.”
“Who does the house belong to?”
“Right now it’s practically empty. There’s some old stuff in there — looks like it goes back to the fifties, maybe earlier — but nothing you’d want to use. I’ll have Marco choose some furniture from the Bel Air house and move it over. Get you comfortable. But really it’s ideal for what we need right now. By the way, Ms. Bosch has been calling my office. She got quite pushy with Sawyer. She’s absolutely certain you’re in Hawaii screwing some starlet.”