The ambience was different now: black felt walls, murderous looking bouncers with ponytails and steroid complexions. Calcutta level density, stale smoke, and hostility. Tables crowded with heavy-eyed night-crawlers and their significant others, coming down from one trip or another, demanding an entertainment-fix or else.
The first few acts were raw meat for that crowd mumblemouthed novice stand-ups reciting the stuff that had always cracked up their friends but didn't make the transition to Sunset Boulevard.
Sad clowns veering wildly, like drunks on ice skates-staggering between silences more painful than any I'd encountered doing therapy and stutter-bursts of manic word salad. Just before midnight, things got more polished but no more friendly: slick, trendily dressed young men and women who'd been shaped on the late night talk show lathe, spitting out the four-letter wit they couldn't get away with on TV Rage-laced relationship humor. Ugly-spirited ethnic jokes.
Screaming scatology.
Had the city gotten meaner, or had I just lost my edge?
I looked over at Robin. She shook her head. We left. This time she allowed me to open her door. Pressed herself against it the moment she was inside and stayed that way.
I began driving. Reached for her hand. She squeezed mine a couple of times and let go.
"Sleepy?" I said.
"No, not at all."
"Everything okay?"
"Uh-huh."
"So Where to?"
"Do you mind just driving for a while?"
"Not at all."
I was on Fountain going west. Turning right on La Cienega, I crossed Sunset up into the Hollywood Hills, climbing slowly and steadily until I found myself on a series of narrow, hairpin residential streets named after birds.
Robin remained tight against the door, like a nervous hitchhiker. Eyes shut, not talking, her face directed away from me. She crossed her legs and placed one hand on her belly, as if it ached.
A few moments later she put her head back and straightened her legs.
Despite her denial of fatigue, I wondered if she'd fallen asleep.
But when I switched on the radio and found a late night jazz show, she said, "That's nice."
I kept driving, with no idea where I was going, ended up somehow on Coldwater Canyon, took it all the way to Mulholland Drive, and turned left.
A bit of forest, then clearings that revealed sheer cliff above the incandescent grid of the San Fernando Valley. Fifty square miles of lights and motion, leering through night-haze and treetops.
Bright lights, pseudo city.
Being up here felt strangely adolescent. Mulholland was the quintessential parking spot, as consecrated by Hollywood. How many make-out scenes had been filmed here? How many splatter flicks?
I lowered my speed, enjoying the view, keeping my eyes out for drag-racers and other nuisances. Robin opened her eyes. "Why don't you pull over somewhere?"
The first few turnoffs were occupied by other vehicles. I found a eucalyptus-shaded spot several miles from the Coldwater junction, parked, and killed my lights. Not far from Beverly Glen; just a quick southward dip and we'd be home at least I would.
She was still up against the door, looking out at the Valley.
"Nice," I said, setting the emergency brake and stretching.
She smiled. "The stuff of picture postcards."
"It's good being with you." I made another reach for her hand.
No return squeeze this time. Her skin was warm but inert.
"So," she said, "how's your friend in Texas?"
"Her dad took a turn for the worse. He's in the hospital."
"I'm so sorry.
She cranked open her window. Stuck her head out.
"Are you okay?"
"Guess so," she said, pulling her head back in. "Why'd you call me, Alex?"
"I was lonely," I said, without thinking. Not liking the pitiful sound of it. But it seemed to cheer her. She took my hand and played with my fingers.
"I could use a friend, too," she said.
"You've got one.
"Things have been rough. I don't want to whine-I know I have a tendency to do that and I'm fighting it."
"I never thought of you as a whiner."
She smiled.
"What is it?" I said.
"Dennis. He used to complain that I whined."
"Well, fuck him, the churl."
"He didn't just leave. I kicked him out."
I said nothing.
"I got pregnant and had an abortion. It took me a week to decide that was what I was going to do. When I told him, he agreed right away.
Offered to pay for it. That made me angry-that he had no conflict about it. That it was so simple for him. So I kicked him out."
Suddenly she was out of the car, walking around to the front and standing by the grille. I got out and stood next to her. The ground was thick with dead eucalyptus leaves. The air smelled like cough drops. A couple of cars drove by, then silence, then another headlight parade.
Finally, a stillness that endured.
"When I found out," she said, "I felt so strange. Disgusted at myself for being so careless. Happy that I was able to-biologically.
And scared."
I remained silent, dealing with my own feelings. Anger: all the years we'd been together. The care we'd taken. Sadness "You hate me," she said.
"Of course I don't."
"I don't blame you.
"Robin, it happens."
"To other people," she said.
She stepped toward the cliff. I put both arms around her waist.
Felt resistance and let go.
"The procedure itself was nothing. My OB-GYN did it, right in the office. She said we'd caught it real early-as if it were a disease.
Vacuum pump and a receipt for insurance as a routine D and C. Later, I had cramps, but nothing terrible. The old Castagna pain threshold.
Couple of days of Tylenol, then cold turkey."
She'd slipped into a flat voice that unnerved me.
I said, "The main thing is you're okay," and felt as if I were reading from a script. Melodrama at Make-out Mountain. Check your theater listings..
"Afterward," she said, "I got paranoid. What if the pump had done damage and I could never conceive again? What if God punished me for killing what was inside me?"
She took several steps to the side. "Everyone talks about it so abstractly," she said. "The paranoia lasted for a month. I developed a rash, convinced myself I was going to get cancer. The doctor said I was fine and I believed her, was okay for a few days. Then the feelings came back. I fought them and won. Convinced myself I was going to live. Then I cried nonstop for another month. Wondering what might have been... Eventually, that stopped, too. But some of that sadness stuck around in the background. It's still there. Sometimes, when I smile, I feel as if I'm really crying. It's like a hole, in here."
Prodding her abdomen. "Right here."
I took hold of her shoulders and managed to turn her around.
Pressed her face into my jacket.
"With him, dammit," she said, muffled by fabric. Then she drew away and forced herself to look at me. "He was fast-food something to fill space. Kind of obscene that it would happen with him, huh? Like one of those horrible jokes they were telling tonight."
She was dry-eyed. My eyes began to hurt.
"Sometimes, Alex, I still lie awake at night. Wondering. It's as if I've been sentenced to wondering."
We stood staring at each other. Another caravan of cars zoomed by.
"Some date, huh?" she said. Whine, whine, whine."
"Stop," I said. "I'm glad you told me."
"Are you?"
"Yes- I- Yes, I am."
"If you hate me, I understand."
"Why should I hate you?" I said, with sudden anger. "I had no claim on you. It had nothing to do with me."
"True," she said.
I let go of her shoulders. Threw up my arms and let them fall.
"I should have
kept my mouth shut," she said.
"No," I said. "It's all right- No, it's not. Not right at the moment.
I feel lousy. Mostly for what you've been through."
"Mostly?"
"Okay. For myseli, too. For not being a part of your life when it happened."
She nodded mournfully, embracing that bit of gloom. "You would have wanted me to keep it, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know what I would have wanted. It's too theoreticaland there's no sense flogging yourself over it. You didn't commit any crime.
"Didn't I?"
"No," I said, taking hold of her shoulders again. "I've seen the real item. I know the difference. People being deliberately cruelbeing bestial to one another. God knows how many times it's happening right now-down in that light show."
I pointed her toward the valley view. She allowed herself to be molded.
"The hell of it is," I said, "the ones who should feel guilty-the really bad ones-never do. It's the good ones who torture themselves.
Don't get sucked into that. You're not doing anyone any favors by not drawing distinctions.
She looked up at me, seemed to be listening.
I said, "You made a mistake-and not an earthshaking one in the greater scheme of things. You'll recover. You'll go on. If you want babies, you'll have them. Meanwhile, try to enjoy life a little bit."
"Do you enjoy life, Alex?"
"I sure try. That's why I ask good-looking women out on dates."
She smiled. A tear rolled down her cheek.
I put my arms around her, from behind. Felt her belly. Toned muscle under a layer of softness. I stroked it.
She cried.
"When you called I was glad," she said, "and worried."
"About what?"
"That it would be just like a few days ago. Not that I didn't enjoy it God, it was great. First real pleasure I'd had in so long.
But afterwards, I " She put her hand over mine and pressed. "I guess what I'm saying is I could really use a friend right now. More than a lover."
"Like I said, you've got one.
"I know," she said. "Hearing you-seeing you like this. I know I do."
She turned and we held each other.
A car sped by, trapping us momentarily in its high-beams. A teenage face appeared in the open window and shouted, "Go for it, dude!"
We looked at each other. And laughed.
She came back to the house with me and I ran her a hot bath. She soaked for half an hour, came out looking pink and drowsy. We got into bed and played gin while absently attending to a one-star western on TV By 2:00 A.M. we'd finished a dozen games six wins each. It seemed as good a time as any to go to sleep.
No callback from Milo on Saturday. No news from San Labrador. I phoned, got Madeleine again, and was told Melissa was still sleeping.
Robin and I spent most of the day together. Brunch and groceryshopping at Farmer's Market, a drive out to the Self-Realization Fellowship in Pacific Palisades to look at the lake and the swans. Light dinner at a seafood place near Sunset Beach, then back to her place by seven, where I called in for messages and she played the tape on her machine.
Nothing for me, but a famous singer had called her three times an hour or the past three hours. Famous raspy baritone tight with panic.
"Emergency, Rob. Sunday concert in Long Beach. Just got back from a gig in Miami. Humidity popped Patty's bridge. Call me at the Sunset Marquis, Rob. Please, Rob, I won't go anywhere."
She turned off the machine and said, "Wonderful."
"Sounds pretty serious."
"Oh, yeah. When he calls himself, instead of getting a roadie to do it, that means nervous breakdown time."
"Who's y "One of his guitars. Fifty-two Martin D-twenty-eight. He's got two others, Laverne and... I forgot the other. They're named after the Andrews sisters-who was the other Andrews sister?"
"Maxene."
"Right. Maxene. Patty and Laverne and Maxene. All fifty-twos, sequential serial numbers. I've never heard three instruments sound so similar. But of course he has to play Patty tomorrow."
She shook her head and walked into the kitchenette. "Something to drink?"
"Nothing right now, thanks."
"Sure?" Looking edgy. Glancing back at the phone.
"Positive. Aren't you going to call him back?"
"You don't mind?"
I shook my head. "Actually, I'm a little tired. You're wearing an old man out.
She was about to respond when the phone rang. She answered it and said, "Yes, I just got in No, it's better if you bring it here. I can do a better job here.... Okay, see you soon."
She hung up, smiled, and shrugged.
She walked me to the car, we kissed lightly, avoiding conversation, and I left her to her work. Left myself to enjoy life.
But I was into a preaching mode, not a practicing one, and after driving a few blocks, I pulled into a service station and used the pay phone to try Milo again.
This time Rick answered. "He just walked in, Alex, and went right out.
Said he'd be tied up for a while but that you should call him. He's got my car and the cellular phone. Here's the number."
I copied it down, thanked him, hung up, and dialed. Milo picked up after the first ring.
"Sturgis."
"It's me. What's up?"
"The car," he said. "It was found a couple of hours ago. Out near San Gabriel Canyon Morris Dam."
"What about-" "No trace of her. Just the car.
"Does Melissa know?"
"She's out here. I brought her myself."
"How's she doing?"
"She seems pretty shell-shocked. The paramedics looked at her, said she was okay physically, but to keep an eye on her. Any specific advice, dealing with her?"
"Just stay with her. Give me directions.
I shot onto the freeway at Lincoln. Traffic was gummy and hottempered all the way to the 134 east-weekend partyers and RV jockeys coming and going. But by Glendale it had started to thin, and by the time I reached the 210 transition, the highway was mine.
I drove faster than usual, speeding along the northern rim of Pasadena, passing the on-ramp Gina had probably taken two days ago.
Lonely road, made lonelier by the darkness, separating the city from the chalky, high desert at the base of the San Gabriel mountains.
Daylight would reveal budget housing developments, industrial outcroppings, an eventual decline to gravel pits and scrubby hills.
All of it hidden mercifully by a starless night. A bad night to be looking for someone.
A mile before the Highway 39 exit I slowed down to get a look at the spot where the highway patrolman had seen the Rolls-Royce.
The freeway was bisected by window-high cement sound-barriers.
The only thing that would have been visible even to a car fanatic's eye was the top of the unmistakable grille chased by a blur of lacquer.
Amazing he'd noticed anything.
But he'd been right.
I exited onto Azusa Boulevard and drove through the outskirts of a town that looked as if it had never forgotten the fifties: fullservice filling stations, lodge halls, small storefronts, all dark. Occasional streetlamps brightened some of the signs: TACK AND SADDLE, peared at the end of the third block. AM-PM mini-mart, open for business but no one was buying and the clerk looked asleep.
I crossed a railroad track and Route 39 turned into San Gabriel Canyon Road. The Seville bounced over old asphalt, speeding through a neighborhood of sad little stucco houses and trailer parks insulated from the street by cinder block walls.
No graffiti. Guess that made it the country. Cars and pickups were parked in peewee front yards. Old cars and pickups, nothing that would ever be a classic. The Rolls would have stuck out like frankness during election year.
As the road began to climb, the houses gave way to larger parcels-boarding stables and horse ranches behind stake-and-post fencing. A Park Service sign a hundred yards up was top-lit, announcing the entra
nce to Angeles Crest National Forest above smallprint fire and camping regulations. An information booth just off the road was boarded up. The air began to smell sweet. Before me was two-lane asphalt cutting through granite bulk. The rest, darkness.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 06 - Private Eyes Page 33