Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  She knows, thought Farrell.

  “After a while it gets complicated,” said Catherine. “It was pretty clear, then it got gray, then . . .”

  “Dark,” said Farrell.

  “And you’re in the darkness now . . .” said Catherine.

  He shrugged.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So, get out,” she said.

  In their glance Farrell saw that glassine clarity between them.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “I get it. You’ve become part of it. Is that it?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “If you say you are going to do something, and then you don’t do it, are you still the same person as when you said you would?”

  “No,” said Catherine. “You’re a punk. Especially if it’s a promise like the one you made to me.”

  “It’s not that kind of promise,” said Farrell.

  “So?” said Catherine.

  “What if the thing you said you were going to do has changed, or what you have to do to finish the job has changed? And that even though things have changed, other people might benefit if you keep the commitment.”

  “You mean like a lot more serious?” said Catherine.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “You are just trying not to be less of a person,” she said. “Is that it?”

  Rose Marie kept her eyes on Farrell.

  “Listen to this,” said Catherine. “We had some jackass in here the other day from UCLA philosophy. Like he wanted to talk philosophy with us. He talked about Hegel.”

  “I’ve read a little,” Farrell said. “A little heavy going sometimes.”

  “You might read what he has to say about tragic heroes,” Catherine said.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Look it up,” she said.

  “I haven’t got the time,” said Farrell.

  “I don’t want to show off,” she said. “But then, you know, you’re scared shitless. That’s something I know about.”

  “That’s right,” Farrell said. “I’m trying not to show it though.”

  “It’s like this,” said Catherine. “You want the heart of it? What the jackass from UCLA gave us? See, a man can have a lot of obligations. To his family, to his wife, to society, to himself. And mostly they work together.”

  “Do you remember what that was called . . .” said Rose Marie.

  “Apa . . . something,” said Jack.

  “Apollonian,” said Rose Marie.

  “Yeah, that’s it. When it all works together. But every now and then something goes wrong. The obligations are opposed to one another. Does that sound familiar?”

  “Yeah,” Farrell said.

  “The tragic hero, according to the UCLA jackass, will stick with only one. The other bonds pulled him down.”

  “Okay,” Farrell said.

  “All that shit is gone,” said Jack. “It’s like the stuntmen. Bunch of dead ducks.”

  They had that stare again, not at the walls, not at the window, not at each other.

  Catherine put her hand, so cool and white, on Farrell’s arm. Just for a moment, as though she wanted to take a temperature, or to feel the warmth of someone who was healthy.

  “I understand,” she said. “Just by touching you. I don’t want to go downstairs tomorrow and let them put some more of that poison into me. That chemotherapy. It’s cold when it goes in.”

  “Yes,” Farrell said. “I believe you.”

  “But I have to do it, to go on being me,” she said. “Because if I don’t, then I . . .”

  She shrugged.

  “I won’t be here anymore to give you shit,” she said.

  The others laughed. But not Rose Marie.

  “And you like that?” Farrell said. “Giving me shit?”

  “I love it,” said Catherine.

  “Well,” he said. “That’s a relief.”

  She smiled. But her eyes had that same dark light sweep, like the negative of a lighthouse.

  “So, tell me,” said Catherine. “Details.”

  “I can’t do that,” Farrell said.

  “I guess that means someone died,” said Catherine. “But I won’t push you.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake,” Farrell said.

  “Don’t you hope,” said Catherine. “You’re looking at a walking, talking mistake.” She shrugged in the direction of the others. “Them, too.”

  Rose Marie said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Catherine went on staring at Farrell.

  “You can run away,” she said. “But that’s not going to help, not long term. You’re like one of us. You’ve got something and you can’t fix it. Welcome to the club.”

  The sensation of this particular trap was at once soft as a cloud and yet like being caught in barbed wire, since Farrell’s constantly changing estimation of it left him aware that in addition to the facts, he was trapped by his mood.

  “Rose Marie wouldn’t think much of you if you ran away,” Catherine said.

  “You know what I’d like to be,” said Gerry. “I’d like to be a homicide detective.”

  He looked right at Farrell.

  “Good luck,” said Catherine.

  “We’ve got to go watch a movie downstairs,” said Jack. “A romantic comedy. Girl gets boy. Girl loses boy. Girl gets boy. Just like clockwork.”

  “Everything goes like clockwork here. Everything is figured in terms of time.”

  “Survival rates,” said Jack. “How many years, months, weeks?”

  Then the kids got up and went to the door, although Catherine looked back at Farrell. “It’s simple, really. Just do the right thing.”

  In the hall their footsteps were like those of a small herd of goats.

  In the elevator, when they were alone, Rose Marie said, “You can cry if you want. It’s only me.”

  “I’ll save it for later.”

  From the parking lot the aluminum and glass of the building were dull in the California light.

  “I thought you were going to save that for later,” she said.

  “Some things can’t wait,” he said. “They’re good kids.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They are. And they like you, too.”

  18

  FARRELL KNEW THAT THE MOST dangerous creature is a weak man who is terrified. And, as though he needed proof, as he sat at the long table in Philippe’s, he guessed that Terry would try to kill him soon. In the smell of Philippe’s French dip sandwiches, in the sawmill-like atmosphere of the sawdust on the floor and the white, ceramic pots of mustard on the tables, Farrell was more certain than ever that Terry would try to kill him soon. The restaurant had a counter where people ordered sandwiches, on French bread with roast beef or pork, and the patrons got a glass of water that was filled by pushing a tumbler against a black bumper beneath a spigot. Behind the counter tubs of potato salad had stripes of paprika on the top, orangish lines that were at once festive and comforting. The mustard in the pots was so hot it made Farrell’s eyes water, but he hadn’t had any today. He’d only had a cup of coffee, in a heavy ceramic cup, just like the pots for mustard. He waited, eyes on the door.

  Terry came in, his dark glasses round and stylish, his Armani T-shirt and his black jeans making him seem like someone who was posing as an actor not wanting to be seen. He stood next to Farrell and said, “So, what’s the big deal?”

  “I just wanted you to buy me a sandwich,” said Farrell. “Will you buy me lunch?”

  “I’ll buy you lunch,” said Terry. “What’s it going to be?”

  “A French dip sandwich,” said Farrell.

  Terry stood at the counter, where the women in brown uniforms with white aprons made sandwiches, their manner something like that of a nurse. As Terry waited, he picked at his fingernails, shifted his weight, looked around, and then tapped a toe, not with impatience but uneasiness. After he paid, Terry came back to the table and shoved the sandwich at Farrell. Terry had one for himself, too.

  Te
rry pulled up a stool, which made four lines, one from each leg, in the sawdust on the floor. Farrell put mustard on the sandwich with the tongue depressors that were in the pots of mustard. His eyes watered.

  “Hot, isn’t it?” said Terry.

  “Yes,” said Farrell.

  “So, what’s the big deal?”

  His eyes lingered over Farrell’s face, as though looking for a hint, a clue that the time had come.

  “So, Braumberg has got the lines,” Farrell said. “Profonde’s AD will call the girls and give them their lines. They’re going to have to show up tomorrow to get a costume and to see where they are going to work.”

  “Profonde’s assistant director knows more about movies than he does. She is really doing the work, you know that?” said Terry.

  “Yes,” said Farrell. “If you say so. But they’ve got their parts.”

  “So, that’s it, right?” said Terry. “We’re making progress, right?”

  Farrell took the postcard from his pocket and put it on the table next to the pot of hot mustard.

  “Yeah,” said Terry. “I’m glad to see that. I was going to ask for it back.”

  “I’d like to ask you about it,” said Farrell.

  “What’s to say?” said Terry.

  “Do you notice anything funny about it?”

  “No,” said Terry. “A card from a dippy girl from Alaska.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Farrell. “She hasn’t contacted you has she? No calls, no more cards, no letter from Alaska?”

  “No,” said Terry. He sat perfectly still, his fingers holding his sandwich but not moving. Alert, looking around, then back at Farrell. “She’s not trying to put the bite on me, too, is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Farrell.

  “Do you think she might?” said Terry.

  Farrell thumbed the edge of the card, flipped it over so the hearts and smiley faces for the i’s were visible. Then back to the picture of the bear.

  “No,” said Farrell. “After thinking about it, no, I don’t.”

  “What’s to think about?” said Terry. “She got tired of LA, went back to fish land, the Land of the Midnight Sun, and that’s it. Hasta la vista.”

  Farrell put the card back in his pocket.

  “I think I’d like to have that,” said Terry.

  “I’ll keep it for a while,” said Farrell.

  “It was sent to me,” said Terry.

  “I’ll keep it,” said Farrell. “For safety’s sake.”

  “For safety’s sake?” said Terry. “No. I want it.”

  “What’s the big deal?” said Farrell. “It’s just a card from a girl who went home to Alaska.”

  “Let me decide about that,” Terry said.

  “It’s supposed to be proof that she got home, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Terry. He swallowed, looked around, picked at his face, then at his fingers. “Give.”

  “Let’s talk about the British girl,” said Farrell.

  “I told you about that,” said Terry. “That’s gone and done with. Ancient history. Why are you harping on that?”

  “You haven’t heard anything from her? No telephone calls?” said Farrell.

  “No,” said Terry. “Why would she call me?”

  Farrell nodded. “No postcards?”

  Farrell didn’t wait for an answer.

  “No. I wouldn’t think so. How could she?” he said.

  “Give me the card,” said Terry.

  “You know, in California, they still have the gas chamber,” said Farrell.

  “For the people dumb enough to get caught,” said Terry. “But they are talking about a moratorium.”

  “That’s a lucky break,” said Farrell. “For those stupid enough to get caught.”

  “Listen,” said Terry. “I didn’t have anything to do with that British twit. Nothing. If she got into trouble it wasn’t me. I’m telling you the truth. No ifs, ands, or buts. That’s the way it is.”

  “You’re sure?” said Farrell.

  “I don’t like your tone,” said Terry. “First you were supposed to help me with a small problem and now you are pushing me around. Just who are you working for?”

  Farrell shrugged.

  “Me? I’m working for me,” Farrell said.

  “Well, you better snap out of it,” said Terry.

  “Here’s the message,” said Farrell. “You make your early calls, finish the picture, keep your nose clean, and then I’ll finish with the trouble. The girls will get their lines. They aren’t going to do anything . . . not for a while.”

  “I want the card,” said Terry.

  “Just make your morning calls,” said Farrell. “Then we’ll talk.”

  Terry rocked back and forth his stool, pushed his sandwich, on a paper plate, one way and then another. He looked in a mustard pot as though something important was there and turned a look of rage on Farrell. But he didn’t do anything about it. He smiled, nodded, and said, “People always underestimate me. How could a fluffer ever get where I am, right?”

  “Right,” said Farrell.

  “I don’t give warnings,” said Terry.

  “I know,” said Farrell.

  “And you are going to keep that card?”

  “That’s right,” said Farrell. “Just make your calls and finish your job.”

  “And all that talk about the gas chamber is just to scare me. Well, I don’t scare easily.”

  “I know,” said Farrell. “They’re talking about a moratorium.”

  Terry looked at his hands.

  “No one is going to take anything away from me.”

  “Sure,” said Farrell. “Just make your calls in the morning.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Terry.

  “Thanks for the lunch.”

  “I hope you enjoyed it,” said Terry. “I really do.”

  “Just make your calls. There aren’t that many shooting days left.”

  “Yeah,” said Terry. “Not many days left to do the shooting.”

  He stood and pulled his dark glasses down, which had been on his head like a knight’s visor, and then stood next to the table, the dark lens with a dot of light in them. He put his finger under the paper plate for Farrell’s sandwich, and began to tip it into Farrell’s lap.

  “I wouldn’t to that if I were you,” said Farrell.

  “Maybe some other time,” said Terry, who turned and went out the door, his shoes leaving prints in the sawdust as though it was a thin layer of new snow. Farrell took the two plates to the trash, threw them in, and then stood at the counter, where a woman in one of those brown dresses with a white apron stood, a fork in her hand as she was about to stab one of the roasts she carved for the sandwiches.

  “Can you do me a favor?” said Farrell. “My friend and I were having a business lunch. He forgot his receipt for his credit card. Can you give me a copy?”

  The woman had brown hair with streaks of gray, lines around her eyes and in the middle of her forehead from years of frowning at the people who came into Philippe’s.

  “What are you, an accountant?”

  “Yes,” said Farrell. “That’s right.”

  “That guy with the dark glasses who was trying to look like an actor who doesn’t want to be recognized.”

  “That’s the one,” said Farrell.

  “We keep a duplicate,” said the woman. She reached into the cash register and pulled one out.

  “Here,” she said.

  She passed it over and felt the folded hundred-dollar bill that Farrell had in his hand.

  “Well,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet? I didn’t think accountants were so generous.”

  “The world is filled with surprises,” he said.

  The traffic was as always, nonstop cars and buses, all jammed into a place that was too small, and so it took Farrell about a half hour to get to Cahuenga Boulevard and to the office of Charles Dent. Downstairs in the square plaza, with its Miracle-Gro palms and those hibiscus flow
ers that were so bright as to look like blooms in an animated cartoon, the sunlight fell with a mustard color.

  Farrell knocked on the door, and when Dent opened, Farrell said, “Don’t you ask first who’s at the door.”

  “I saw you on the surveillance camera,” said Dent. “So, you need something, right?”

  Farrell gave him the credit card receipt. The last four numbers were visible, and the bank it was drawn on.

  “And?” said Dent.

  “I’d like the charges on it for the last month,” said Farrell.

  “Sit down,” said Dent.

  Farrell sat on the sofa opposite the desk, which seemed like one you would find in the VIP lounge of an airport. Not really comfortable, not really new, but keenly anonymous. Dent typed and looked at his monitor.

  “What’s happening over there?” said Farrell. He gestured to the wall.

  “The shrink? Same old, same old, divorce, an emergency room visit with a strange object in a rectum, addiction, anxiety, worry about not being good enough looking, saying the wrong thing. The usual.”

  “What was in the rectum,” said Farrell.

  “A cue ball,” said Dent. “Won’t be long before I have the password. Hang on a minute.”

  “Okay,” said Farrell. “A couple of minutes?”

  “Yeah,” said Dent. “And they call this security. Jesus.”

  Uh-huh.

  Dent gestured to the wall behind him, the shrink’s office.

  “You know what the basic problem is?” said Dent.

  “No,” said Farrell. “What is it?”

  “People think they know what they want, but they don’t.”

  “Maybe it’s not enough,” said Farrell.

  “Sure,” said Dent. He was so anonymous it was difficult to look at him and think he was still there, as though he was going to vanish somehow into the paint behind him. “It’s like the baseball player, a pitcher, who was best friends with an outfielder.”

  “So?” said Farrell.

  “So, the outfielder dies and the pitcher is heartbroken. But one day, the pitcher is standing on the mound and he hears the voice of the outfielder. The pitcher says, ‘Wow, wow, great to hear from you. What’s heaven like?’ The outfielder says, ‘Just great. We play a doubleheader every day and the ball never takes a bad bounce.’ ‘That’s wonderful,’ says the pitcher. ‘Yeah,’ says the outfielder. ‘There’s only one problem. You’re pitching tomorrow night.’”