to the genius of Anson Oliver.”
”
“For the love of God.”
Crawford laughed softly. “Yeah, for the love of God. And the fiancee,
mother of the heir-to-be, she says this movie’s going to put Anson
Oliver’s controversial career and his death in historical
perspective.”
“What historical perspective? He made movies, he wasn’t the leader of
the Western world–he just made movies.”
Crawford shrugged. “Well, by the time they’re done building him up, I
suspect he’ll have been an antidrug crusader, a tireless advocate for
the homeless–” Jack picked it up: “A devout Christian who once
considered dedicating his life to missionary work–” until Mother
Teresa told him to make movies instead–”
“–and because of his
effective efforts on behalf of justice, he was killed by a conspiracy
involving the CIA, the FBI–”
“–the British royal family, the
International Brotherhood of Boilermakers and Pipe Fitters–”
“–the
late Joseph Stalin–”
“–Kermit the Frog–”
“–and a cabal of
pill-popping rabbis in New Jersey,” Jack finished.
They laughed because the situation was too ridiculous to respond to
with anything but laughter–and because, if they didn’t laugh at it,
they were admitting the power of these people to hurt them.
“They better not put me in this damn movie of theirs,” Jack said after
his laughter had devolved into a fit of coughing. “I’ll sue their
asses.”
“They’ll change your name, make you an Asian cop named Wong, ten years
older and six inches shorter, married to a redhead named Bertha, and
you won’t be able to sue for spit.”
“People are still gonna know it was me in real life.”
“Real life? What’s that? This is Lala Land.”
“Jesus, how can they make a hero out of this guy?”
Crawford said, “They made heroes out of Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Antiheroes.”
“Okay, then, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
“Still.” i
“They made heroes out of Jimmy Hoffa and Bugsy Siegel.
Anson Oliver’s a snap.”
That night, long after Lyle Crawford had gone, when Jack tried to
ignore his thousand discomforts and get some sleep, he couldn’t stop
thinking about the movie, the million dollars, the harassment Toby had
taken at school, the vile graffiti with which their house had been
covered, the inadequacy of their savings, his disability checks, Luther
in the grave, Alma alone with her arsenal, and Anson Oliver portrayed
on-screen by some young actor with chiseled features and melancholy
eyes, radiating an aura of saintly compassion and noble purpose
exceeded only by his sex appeal.
Jack was overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness far worse than anything
he had felt before. The cause of it was only partly the claustrophobic
confinement of the body cast and the bed. It arose, as well, from the
fact that he was tied to this City of Angels by a house that had
declined in value and was currently hard to sell in a recessionary
market, from the fact that he was a good cop in an age when the heroes
were gangsters, and from the fact that he was unable to imagine either
earning a living or finding meaning in life as anything but a cop. He
was as trapped as a rat in a giant laboratory maze. Unlike the rat, he
didn’t even have the illusion of freedom.
On June sixth the body cast came off. The spinal fracture was entirely
healed.
He had full feeling in both legs. Undoubtedly he would learn to walk
again.
Initially, however, he couldn’t stand without the assistance of either
two nurses or one nurse and a wheeled walker. His thighs had
withered.
Though his calf muscles had received some passive exercise, they were
atrophied to a degree. For the first time in his life, he was sore and
flabby in the middle, which was the only place he’d gained weight.
A single trip around the room, assisted by nurses and a walker, broke
him out in a sweat and made his stomach muscles flutter as if he had
attempted to benchpress five hundred pounds. Nevertheless, it was a
day of celebration. Life went on. He felt reborn.
He paused by the window that framed the crown of the tall palm tree,
and as if by the grace of an aware and benign universe, a trio of sea
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