“Lacy trees?”
Nod.
“What kind?”
She frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Just that they were lacy.”
“And pretty. It’s like”—her eyes opened—“I guess what you said was true. I didn’t have the word “lacy’ when I was four, so I couldn’t put it into words. But now that I’m an adult again, it came back to me. Pretty, lacy trees. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Lacy trees. That’s all I can say. Do you have time for me tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Any time. I’ve got nothing to do but read old magazines and watch TV. Being alone in a big house is a lot more solitude than I’m used to.”
“Ken’s not around much?”
“Hardly at all. We’re planning to spend some time together over the weekend, maybe take a drive somewhere.”
Her hands were busy, fingers rubbing against one another.
“The third man,” she said. “He keeps his back to me the whole time. It’s frustrating. And all I can really see of the other one is the mustache.”
I went and got the copy of Terry Trafficant’s book, opened it to the rear flap, and showed her the author photo.
“No, definitely not. Sorry. His mustache is wimpy. Hairy Lip’s was big and dark and thick.”
She put the book down.
I said, “Could you describe him so someone could draw him?”
Her eyes closed again. Her squint looked painful. “I can see him but I can’t really describe his features—it’s as if I’m . . . handicapped. As if part of my brain is working, but I can’t translate what I see into words.”
She opened her eyes.
“I think I’d know him if I saw him, but I just can’t tell you anything more about him other than the mustache. I’m sorry—it’s not like actually seeing. More like images making their way into my mind. That sounds flaky, doesn’t it? Maybe I’m totally off base on all of it.”
“We’ll just take it as far as it goes, Lucy.”
“But I want to find out—for Karen’s sake.”
“It’s possible Karen has nothing to do with the dream.”
“She does,” she said quickly. “I feel it. I know that sounds as if I’m letting my imagination get out of control. But I’m not. I didn’t wish this upon myself. Why would I want to be dreaming about him?”
I didn’t answer.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll just take it as it comes. Is today the day you go up to see him?”
“Today at one.”
She scratched her knee.
“Has that been on your mind?” I said.
“A bit.”
“Any change of heart about my meeting him?”
“No. . . . I guess I’m a little nervous—though why should I be? You’ll be dealing with it, not me.”
I left the house at twelve-thirty, turned off PCH at the red clapboard buildings of the Malibu Feed Bin, and headed up Topanga Canyon Road, cutting through the palisades.
The drought had stripped the mountains down to the chapparal, but last month’s freak rains had brought back some tender buds and the granite was freckled with weeds and wildflowers. Randomly planted eucalyptus appeared on the west side of the road. To the east was a gorge that deepened and darkened as I gained altitude.
There was little to break up the scenery for the first few miles other than an occasional shack or abandoned car. Then a scattering of small businesses appeared among dry, yellow clearings: a lumberyard, a general store and post office, a lean-to advertising magic crystals at discount.
At the top of the road was a fork that separated Old Topanga Road from the newer highway that led into the Valley. Both routes were empty.
The original Topanga settlers had been Californio homesteaders and New England gold panners, asking for little but beauty and riches and privacy. Their descendants still owned land in the canyon, and individualism remained the Topanga way.
During the sixties and seventies—the time of the Sanctum party—the hippies had invaded in giddy droves, living in caves, scrounging for food, and eliciting outrage the natives hadn’t known they had in them. Gary Hinman had a house in Topanga back then, as did lots of other musicians, and he was recording rock ’n’ roll tracks in his home studio when the Manson family murdered him.