“Tony? He mafia or something?”
“Daniel, I have to go.”
“Wait. Are you saying I can’t see Aurora? Ever?”
“Don’t you think that’s best?”
“What if I don’t think that’s best?”
“It is, Daniel. She’s at a very vulnerable stage — ”
“Does she ever ask about me?”
“This isn’t doing us any good,” Athena said. “I would like you to honor my request that you don’t contact us anymore.”
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“I don’t want to have to take steps.”
“What steps?”
“I don’t know, whatever the law — ”
“I’m her father. I have rights.”
“You waived those when you went in, remember? You signed off — ”
“I can go back and try to get them.”
“Please don’t,” Athena said. “I have to go.”
“Wait — ”
She didn’t. The line went dead.
No classical music. Only silence.
Mac put the phone down, barely aware of the action. He didn’t so much walk as drift toward the back door. He knew at some level of consciousness he was moving. But he also felt trapped, almost as if he were back in prison. It was a terrible and familiar feeling, one he would often get upon waking in his cell. A relentless despondency would form just below the ribs, where all the nerves came together in a knot, then spread upward, filling his thoughts.
Then he was outside and facing the hill behind the church. Studded with rocks, flowing down to the edges of what Mac hoped someday would be a flower garden, the hill now looked like the dead end of the world. Or a giant’s grave.
Mac sat on the back steps and looked at the dirt and rocks, seeing and not seeing.
11:15 a.m.
“Don’t be nervous, don’t be nervous,” Geena said.
“You’re making me more nervous,” Rocky said.
“Get in touch with your bliss,” Geena said.
“Please be quiet — ”
“Just try it!”
Rocky stopped and faced her. They were on Hollywood Boulevard, outside the Mashed Potato Lounge. “Geena, I love you, but I am not going to touch my bliss, center my spirit, or walk the Navajo way. I don’t want to find any bliss, all right? My brother is dead, my father hates me, and my ex-boyfriend is psycho, and all I want to do is kick a baby seal, okay?”
“Rocky . . .”
“And I have to sing for a guy. I have one shot to get this gig, and I have to sing Cole Porter and look like I’m enjoying it. So don’t talk to me about bliss right now.”
Geena looked at her feet.
“Oh gee,” Rocky said, and hugged her friend. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The only good feeling Rocky had about this was that she and Geena were about the same build. And Geena had one good dress for this occasion. Red, lacy, with spaghetti straps and a sweetheart neckline. Retro-looking. Sequin accents.
Luck. A little of it. Maybe it would rub off for the audition.
The manager of the lounge was a short, florid man with Moe Howard hair and a Sicilian accent. “Hey, you made it,” he said. The lounge was done up in fifties nightclub style, with tables and a small stage area. Not very big, but some of the best jazz in the city was played here.
She was aware he was studying her face. And frowning. “I’m Ermano Militi,” the man said.
“Roxanne Towne.”
He glanced at Geena.
“My name’s Geena. I’m just here for support.”
“You sing?” he asked.
“No.”
“You ever try?”
Geena shook her head. Militi winked at her. “You should,” he said. He looked at Rocky. “So you got nice pipes?”
Rocky swallowed. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You got some music?”
She handed him a sheet. He looked at it. “ ‘Anything Goes.’ Lenny?”
A black man in his forties came over from the bar. Militi handed him the sheet, and Lenny took it to the piano. Militi took Geena’s arm and walked her to a table with a couple of chairs. They sat.
“You’re on,” he said to Rocky.
She was more nervous than she thought she’d be. This audition felt like the last audition on earth, her final shot.
Make it like Keely, she told herself. Like Peggy Lee.
She nodded at Lenny, who started playing.
Rocky leaned against the piano and sang.
In olden days a glimpse of stocking
Was looked on as something shocking.
Now heaven knows,
Anything goes!
A little rough. Rocky gave a quick look at the audience, such as it was. Militi’s face was stoic, Geena’s encouraging.
Good authors too who once knew better words
Now only use four letter words
Writing prose,
Anything goes!
And then she was into it. Feeling it. Shaping it, she thought. This is one thing I can do.
The world has gone mad today
And good’s bad today
And black’s white today
And day’s night today
When most guys today
That women prize today
Are just silly gigolos.
Take it home now.
So though I’m not a great romancer
I know that I’m bound to answer
When you propose,
Anything goes!
Lenny gave a little flourish at the end. Then the place was dead silent. Not that Rocky expected applause.
But the applause came. Geena clapped heartily and shouted, “Yes!”
Good old Geena.
Ermano Militi nodded a couple of times. He appeared to be studying her.
“You were right about the pipes,” he said. “You got good ones. Good style.”
Good isn’t good enough, though, is it?
“I got your card,” Militi said. “I’ll call you.”
What did she expect? To get the job right then?
Yes.
Outside, Geena said, “You nailed it.”
“Sure.”
“You’ll get this thing.”
“There’s probably a hundred others who are up for it.”
“They got nothing,” Geena said. “You got the magic. You have to believe it. You can make your own reality, did you know that?”
Rocky found herself wanting to believe it. Who knew? She’d never talked to this Swami guy. Maybe he had something right.
“You think I can make this happen just by believing it?” Rocky said.
Geena perked up. “Yes!”
“So what do I do, just close my eyes and wish?”
“Yes!”
“Like it’s my birthday and I have a cake?”
“You have to really believe it,” Geena said. “If you don’t believe it, the flow doesn’t work.”
Rocky closed her eyes. I want this, she told herself. I want, want, want this. I want something to go right for a change, be positive, vibrate, here I go, I want, want, want this.
She waited for something to click in her brain, an answer, a feeling, anything.
What she got was a big silent nothing.
She opened her eyes.
“Well?” Geena said. “How do you feel?”
“Like the biggest idiot in the world,” Rocky said.
12:47 p.m.
When Mac walked through the door, the woman at the reception desk smiled and said, “May I help you?” and he thought, If anyone could really help me, I’d like to know. I’d really like to know who that person is.
“Can I see Mr. Newberry?” Mac said.
Her smile began to wane. She was about twenty-five and had short dark hair and a sharp chin. The chin reminded Mac of a prison guard he ran afoul of a couple times in the joint. What was it about the Department of Corrections anyway?
“I used to be a client.”
“Oh. Your name?”
“Daniel MacDonald.”
“One moment.”
She picked up a phone, and Mac looked around the office. New-berry had come a long way since his days as a public defender. Now he had a receptionist, a ficus tree, a framed painting of Lady Justice on the wall, and classical music piped in from hidden speakers.
He heard the receptionist say that a Mr. MacDonald was here who says he’s a former client. She paused and listened, looked at Mac, said Daniel MacDonald, listened again, and looked at Mac again. Then she said, “All right,” and put the phone back.
“He’ll be right out, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Thanks.”
They looked at each other. Said nothing.
The phone rang and the receptionist answered. “Mr. Newberry’s office, may I help you?”
She was good with the offer of help, that was for sure. Maybe it was a good sign. Maybe the legal system would work in his favor for a change.
Yeah, and maybe the pope would do handsprings on Oprah.
The interior door opened and Michael Newberry entered. He was thicker than the last time Mac saw him, six years ago. His hair was still black but he was styling it in a sleeker style now. It almost glistened under the lights.
“Mr. MacDonald.” Newberry extended his hand.
“Howdy.”
“Been a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re out.”
“Yep.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“Yeah,” Mac said, “it’s good to be out.”
Newberry took a breath and nodded. “How much you end up doing?”
“A nickel.”
“That’s right,” Newberry said. “So it worked out.”
Yeah, the deal had worked out. Mac copped to robbery. They dropped the firearm count, which could have gotten him another ten years. He got five instead, and Newberry got rid of a file.
“How you getting on?” Newberry asked. He did not offer to have Mac step into his office.
“That’s sort of why I’m here,” Mac said.
Newberry nodded.
“Can we talk?” Mac said.
Newberry looked at his watch. “I have someone coming in — ” He looked at Mac. “I’ve got a couple of minutes.”
He led Mac into the office. It had several stacks of files on the floor, tucked up against the walls. Newberry’s desk was cluttered in a workmanlike way.
They sat.
“Looks like you’re doing pretty well,” Mac said.
“A little here, a little there,” Newberry said.
“Just doing criminal?”
“Mostly. You got something come up?”
“I’m being hassled by my PO. I don’t know why, but he’s got a jones for making my life miserable.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I know he’s got a right to search, but all the time? Pushing me? He wants me to snap.”
“Why would he do that?”
“No idea.”
“No witnesses to anything, I presume.” Newberry tapped his fingertips together.
“No.”
Newberry pursed his lips, said nothing.
“So what can I do?” Mac said.
“You want the truth? Not much. You take it until you’re termed out.”
“That’s it? That’s all?”
“Reality.”
Mac swallowed. It felt like a rock going down. “Can’t I sue or something?”
“For what?”
“Harassment.”
With a sigh, Newberry said, “Look, you know what it’s like for a felon. You got a search condition, you waived your Fourth Amendment rights. He can stop you, search you, search your place, whenever he wants. And he can be a real jerk about it, too. Not supposed to be, but there you go.”
“Can’t I get an injunction or something?”
Newberry shook his head. “Only thing you can do is 602 him.”
“What’s a 602?”
“It’s a form from the Department of Corrections for prisoners and parolees to file a complaint.”
“I have to send it to the people who employ this guy?”
“It’s called administrative appeal, and you can’t go to court unless you do this first, and even after you do it your chances in court are about the same as you and me playing first base for the Dodgers.”
Mac thought about it a moment. “I have to do something. Let’s go for it.”
“You can get the form online.”
“Can you file it for me?”
“You want to hire me?”
“I guess, I thought . . .” What had he thought? That his old PD would rep him for free?
Newberry said, “You working?”
“I got a little thing with a church. Not much luck anywhere else. When I apply, I have to check the felony box, and that’s that.”
Newberry nodded. “They say they want to help guys get back into society, then they do everything to make it impossible. Including random searches. Doesn’t make sense to me.”
“I got a couple hundred I can give you,” Mac said.
“It’s not really something — ”
“I can get more.”
“I’m not going to be able to help you with this one, I’m afraid.”
Mac laughed. “What if I got you two thousand dollars?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Of course,” Mac said. “Where’m I gonna get two grand?”
“I really wish there was something — ”
“My daughter,” Mac said.
“Right, right. How is she?”
“I don’t know. I need a court order to see her. I’m trying to keep my nose clean, but this Slezak keeps rubbing mud in my face. So I have to file a — ”
“I don’t do family law.”
“ — I need help.”
“I can give you a referral,” Newberry said.
“Yeah?” Mac said. “To a lawyer who’ll charge me two grand?”
“Daniel, we do have to make a living.”
“Oh sure, yes, you all have to make a living,” Mac said. “You all have to sit back with wives and families and . . .” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry.”
Newberry nodded. “Hang in there,” he said.
2:15 p.m.
“My dear, you look fabulous!” Toby Gray came out from behind his mess of a desk, arms out, and pulled Liz in for a hug. Then he pushed her outward, holding her shoulders, looking at her. “You know my standing offer. Anytime you want to come back.”
“Thanks,” Liz said. Toby himself looked fabulous. Thick black hair in a fifties pompadour, his chosen look ever since she first met him. His thin body held clothes well, and Toby knew how to dress. He was one of the few men she knew who could wear pastels and make them seem dangerous and sexy. To other men . . . of a certain kind. Toby was thoroughly and openly gay.
“Now then, you simply must tell me the story of your life since you stopped being Veronica Lake.”
“You remembered.”
“Remember! Dear, every new recruit, I show them this.” He went to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, which was completely stuffed with movie books and Hollywood biographies, and pulled down a large photo album. He shoved some papers on his desk so he could lay the album down. He opened the cover.
There was an eight-by-ten color photo of Liz as Veronica Lake on the first page.
“This is what I show them, my sweet. You are the cover girl. The glam shot. The one that hooks ’em.”
Hooks ’em. Yes, she and Toby were very much alike indeed.
That’s why she was here.
“I’m in trouble, Toby.”
He closed the photo album. “That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
Toby went to the office door, closed it. Then he guided Liz into a wooden chair, the kind a lawyer might ha
ve used in the 1950s, and had her sit. He parked himself on the edge of his desk and said, “Tell Uncle Toby what’s wrong.”
“I don’t know where to start,” Liz said.
“The beginning, dear.”
Liz smiled. “That would be here. The Veronica Lake party, the first time I went out.”
“It is emblazoned on my mind like Apollo’s chariot. A magical night.”
“The night I met Arty, my husband.”
“Ah, yes. The whiz kid businessman who convinced you to abandon me.”
“He’s dead, Toby.”
Toby put his right index finger on his lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s complicated,” Liz said. “An accident. We were hiking, I got mad, he fell — ”
“Fell?”
“Off a small cliff. Enough to hit his head on the rocks.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Toby touched her arm.
“It was an accident. A terrible accident. But there are some questions, a sheriff’s detective with questions.”
Toby nodded. “They tend to do that, don’t they? Horrible people. Tell me, do the questions have any basis? And before you answer, please remember it’s Uncle Toby here.”
“Barely,” Liz said. “I don’t want to go into it, please. The thing is, they are going to do an autopsy, and I need to have them . . .”
“Not find anything?”
Liz nodded.
Toby put his hand on her cheek. “You knew the right person to come to,” he said.
“Can you really do it?”
He put his right hand on his chest, fingers spread. “Dear, this is Toby . Already the cogs and wheels are spinning in my well-connected head. Now, the county morgue, that’s a good thing. That’s going to work for us. The place is absolutely nuts. However . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s not going to come without cost. We have to spread some money around.”
“I have money.”
“That’s good enough for me. You let me take it from here. I forgot your married name.”
“Towne. Husband, Arthur.”
“And he died when?”
“Saturday.”
“Wow. Not long.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Probably good. Call me here tonight, but use a pay phone. And sweetie . . .”
“Yes?”
“Try not to worry, okay? Remember. This is Toby.”
8:05 p.m.
Rocky tried not to yell into the phone. “I want to have a say in this.”
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