Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  “Yeah,” he says, “don’t I know. People want their stories.”

  That apparently isn’t enough to mollify Eddie. He inhales deeply, lets out his breath and looks pointedly at his watch. “Well, Ziggy,” he says, all business, “this has been fun, but I have a lot on my plate this morning.”

  “I was actually hoping to talk to your dad,” Ziggy says.

  Eddie isn’t wasting any energy trying to be charming. It’s obvious he’s already decided that Ziggy isn’t worth the time. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he says without a trace of visible regret, “but you can’t see my dad. You came here too late for that.”

  “Is he dead?” Ziggy asks.

  Not a muscle on Eddie’s face moves. He looks even more like a lizard. “No,” he says flatly. “Shortly after we came out here, he had a stroke. He’s been in a nursing home ever since then.”

  The news stuns Ziggy. A stroke—you wouldn’t want to wish that on your worst enemy. “I’d like to pay him a visit,” Ziggy says, still trying to grapple with this colossal piece of information.

  “There wouldn’t be much point to that,” Eddie says. “He’s pretty much a vegetable. He wouldn’t understand a word you said, he wouldn’t even recognize you.” In his description of his father’s condition there’s no trace of concern or compassion. In fact, Ziggy could almost convince himself he hears a tinge of satisfaction in the man’s voice. Jesus, Ziggy thinks, this guy’s turned into a real monster.

  Ziggy doesn’t know what he’s feeling at the moment. Even his hatred of Eddie has faded before his recognition that his old nemesis has been lying in a vegetative state in some bed in California all these years. “I . . .” he gropes, “I guess I’d like to see him if I could.”

  “That won’t be possible,” Eddie says.

  “Why not?” Ziggy asks.

  Eddie’s voice is level. “My father’s condition is unchanged. There’s no reason to disturb him.”

  “But . . .” Ziggy wants to say that if the old man’s so out of it that he wouldn’t recognize his former neighbor, what chance would there be of his being disturbed by a visit? But he knows that isn’t the reason for Eddie’s opposition to a visit: the younger Przybylski’s been crossed and he doesn’t like it. He understands this is something Ziggy wants and it must give him a real jolt of satisfaction to withhold it from him. So when Ziggy asks the next question, he already expects the answer. “I don’t suppose then that you’d be willing to tell me where he is?”

  Eddie shakes his head slowly. “I’m not obliged to tell you,” he says.

  Ziggy sits there a few seconds waiting for more, watching Eddie try to hide the faintest trace of a smile.

  “Well,” Eddie says after a while, straightening in his chair, “as I said, I have a lot to do this morning. If you want to look around the place, I’m sure Peter will be more than glad to oblige.”

  “Thanks,” Ziggy says, “but I have to get somewhere too. Say hi to your father from me next time you see him.” Though, he thinks, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be the old guy waiting for a visit from this prick.

  Back outside the funeral home, Lennie says, “That guy Crane followed me around like a shadow. He was awfully pleasant but you could see he was very suspicious. Maybe he thought I had a hidden camera or something. Anyway, once he was called away for a couple of minutes by this gorilla in a brown suit who either had muscles in strange places or was packing heat. Crane was very deferential to the guy, but then, so would I be. So, did you find out what you wanted?”

  “I found out little Eddie Przybylski is an asshole. Back in Detroit he was a nobody. Now he’s a somebody and that somebody has turned out to be a shit. Going west didn’t improve him.”

  “But what did you find out about the old guy?”

  Ziggy tells him what he learned from Eddie.

  “Wow,” Lennie says, “what a letdown that has to be: to come all the way out here to find out that the guy you’re looking for is a vegetable.”

  “Yeah,” Ziggy says, “and a vegetable that his son doesn’t want me to see.”

  After a moment, Lennie says, “If he won’t tell you where the guy is, it does seem to be a dead end, doesn’t it?”

  But Ziggy’s still fuming. “I’m not going to let that little prick keep me from seeing his old man,” he says. “I didn’t come all this distance to find my way blocked by that . . . that lizard.” He lights up a cigarette. “I’m still going to find Przybylski, one way or the other.” As he inhales the tobacco in the shadow of Prince’s opulent parlor, he remembers the naked fear he glimpsed on little Eddie’s face when he made a reference to the article that called him the Prince of Darkness. The guy’s afraid, Ziggy knows, he realizes that this palace of his is standing on very shaky ground. If he’s really taking dirty money, between the guys who own him and the people who are trying to bring him down, little Eddie may realize that he’s in over his head, and the chapters to come are likely to bring him anything but a fairy tale ending.

  “But how are you going to find the guy?” Lennie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Ziggy answers. “But while I’m here I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  On the gloomy ride back to Burbank, Ziggy keeps thinking, he stiffed me, the little shit stiffed me. He looks down at his clenched fists, disappointed in himself. The rage that’s overcome him is something he thought he’d learned to control. There were all those years of feeling sorry for himself, after all, looking for sympathy in the bottle, when what was in front of his face was a blur, while he kept trying to call up those days when he was somebody—when he might be in his little office on a warm summer afternoon studying the figures on the roll of paper coming from the adding machine, his white sports jacket draped over the chair as he leaned back and took a drag on his cigarette, wondering when the monsignor was going to call and offer him the presidency of the East Side Homeowners’ Association.

  It took him a while to accept that none of that would be coming back. He almost killed himself with his grieving over what he’d lost; but when things cleared up at last, he came round to realizing it was a hell of a lot better to be alive than dead, even if you no longer had flunkies who’d cheerfully run errands for you, you weren’t getting visits from big-shots who wanted everyone to know they knew you, people who were trying hard not to look too obvious when they were desperately hoping to get some favor from you. Even when all that was gone, it was still a pretty damned good thing to wake up in the morning, make yourself a cup of coffee and, while the refrigerator hummed dependably in the background, read the paper in your kitchen, watching the world go by while you were still a part of it. All that other stuff didn’t seem to matter much anymore. The secret, he’d learned, was to do like the people in AA and take one day at a time. One hour at a time, actually. But back in that palace of a funeral home this morning, in less than a minute he blew it.

  Still, he’s not going to apologize for the way he feels. Even when he should know better, it makes his stomach churn to think that the little punk just brushed him off and wouldn’t pay him the courtesy of telling him where his old man was. It’s all well and good to have left that place convinced that little Eddie Prince is headed for a big fall someday soon when either the good guys or the bad guys catch up with him. Still, it rankles Ziggy that Przybylski’s son showed him so little respect.

  It would be nice if he could put all the blame on that smug bastard who reminded him of a lizard, but the truth is that’s not what he’s feeling now. Sure, he’s mad at Eddie for his stonewalling, but he’s madder at himself. Because he knows there’s a very good chance that Eddie might have handed Ziggy the information he wanted—after all, what threat would a visit be to him if his father really is the vegetable he described? All Ziggy had to do was hold his tongue while little Eddie sat there smirking and basking. But something snapped for him, and what happened is his own fault.

  “What are you going to do now?” Lennie asks as he
directs the big car smoothly along the sunny streets of Pasadena.

  Ziggy shakes his head. “I don’t really know.” He won’t say it out loud, but, in spite of his frustrations to this point, he can’t really let go of the idea of somehow getting to see Przybylski, in spite of everything. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

  “That sure was a tough break,” Lennie says, “after coming all that way.”

  Ziggy says nothing. Lennie, taking his cue, responds in kind.

  In front of Charlie’s place, the former bus passengers take leave of each other, possibly for the last time. “Good luck with your career,” Ziggy says, “and surviving in that canyon. I’ll be watching the news more carefully now for stories of wolf attacks in Los Angeles.”

  Lennie snickers. “Thanks, it’ll be a comfort to know somebody’s paying attention. I’ve got your address,” he says. “I’ll let you know if anything happens to the Prince funeral home business.”

  “Who knows?” Ziggy says wistfully, “maybe I’ll have to call on you yet again before I leave. My son’s offered to pick up the cost of my flight back to Detroit, so if I should happen to need your services I can pay you this time.”

  Lennie shakes his head. “You got me out of jail back there in the wild west. Your money’s no good with me.”

  Back inside the expensive, air-conditioned spaces of his son’s house, Ziggy feels empty. For a while on the silent ride here he had a momentary surge of hope, thinking that, after all, Linda’s friend was able to track down Prince. There’s a way to find anyone, isn’t there? But then he remembered that the last time he talked to Ted and Linda they were planning some kind of a camping trip in the mountains, so he isn’t going to be able to use Linda’s services to find the old undertaker’s whereabouts. He’s on his own now and once more he’s boxed into a corner. Damn.

  He goes out into the backyard to smoke and look at the snowcapped San Gabriels. He wasn’t happy to learn that Gloria is at home—it’s one of the reasons he’s fled to the yard. Her proximity is enough to remind him of the possibility of trouble in his son’s marriage and, given his present state of mind, that’s the last thing he wants to have to deal with.

  But it looks like he’s going to have to deal with Gloria, who’s come out into the yard and approaches him with her quick steps. “Did you see Przybylski?” she asks brightly, and Ziggy can’t help thinking that she’s genuinely eager for this meeting to take place since she knows that her guest is committed to leaving once he’s seen the old undertaker.

  “No,” he has to admit. “I got to talk to his son, that’s all.” Having to mention Eddie brings up the anger he thought he’d been able to bury. “There’s a guy who’s . . .” He backs off. “He’s full of himself.” He remembers Eddie sitting there like an honest-to-God prince waiting for Ziggy to cross the carpet to him before he even stood up. “He told me that his father had a stroke and has been in a nursing home for years. The only thing is, he didn’t want to tell me where he was.”

  Gloria frowns. “Why did he do that?”

  Ziggy takes a drag on his cigarette. Because he’s a petty little prick, he wants to tell her. He settles for, “Just plain meanness, I’d say.”

  “So what are you going to do?” she asks after a while.

  The trees rustle in the breeze and Ziggy picks up the sharp smell of eucalyptus. “I still have a couple of days,” he says. “I might still be able to find him on my own.”

  Gloria looks at him skeptically. “How are you going to manage that?”

  “I thought I’d look in the Yellow Pages and just call up nursing homes and ask if they have anyone there named either Przybylski or Prince.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “There are plenty of nursing homes around the area and I’m not sure all of them are listed in the Yellow Pages. Some places may not want to give out that information, either. I don’t know. It could be tough trying to do it that way.”

  Good old Gloria. That’s just the kind of encouragement he needs. “Well,” he says, irritated, “I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?” Already, though, the prospect makes him feel as if he’s just signed on for a hike through ankle-deep mud.

  In the silence that follows, Gloria stands a couple of feet away, her head lowered, an unreadable expression on her face. She seems preternaturally alert, like a runner waiting for the starter’s gun.

  “Look,” she says abruptly, “you can’t spend all your time searching for Mr. Przybylski. I have a couple of free hours. I can show you a little of the area, as long as it’s someplace close by. Come on,” she urges, “you can’t be serious all the time. This is southern California, after all.”

  It’s true that Ziggy has no stomach just now for beginning the task of plowing through the Yellow Pages and phoning all those nursing homes, especially if Gloria’s going to be around here. But what’s he going to do while she’s here? It might be easier to be somewhere else looking at things, which would at least give them something to talk about. After his visit to Pasadena, he’s not all that keen on seeing the sights, but all at once he has an inspiration. “Actually,” he says, “there is one place Ted told me about that I’d like to go to: the Farmer’s Market in Hollywood.”

  Did she just flinch? He can’t be sure. “I thought you went to Hollywood the other day,” she says.

  “I just kind of passed through,” he says. “Got a look at some of the houses there.” He isn’t sure why he suggested this trip, but the prospect of returning to the scene of Gloria’s lunch with the mysterious Roger W. excites him; it lifts him out of the funk caused by his failure with Eddie, it gives him the sense that he isn’t just somebody to whom things happen, that he has a say in things.

  After her momentary surprise, Gloria resumes the role of tour guide. “Sure,” she says, “the Farmer’s Market is a good choice. Yeah, we can do that.”

  Ziggy learns quickly that his daughter-in-law is a skillful, confident driver who knows where she wants to go and moves decisively toward her goal; she drives like someone who’s really at home out here. Buzzing down the streets with the top down on her powder blue Buick convertible, they’re in Hollywood in a flash—Ziggy didn’t realize how close it is. Sitting beside her in the front seat, he keeps his eyes open for some sign that she’s nervous about going to the Farmer’s Market. It’s true that there’s a kind of edginess to her but it’s hard to tell what’s at the source, since she’s so hyper in general. When they arrive at their destination, Ziggy can’t help noticing that she parks in pretty much the same place where she parted company with Roger W.

  “The market is only a short walk from here,” she says after inserting the Buick into a tight space with a couple of efficient moves.

  “We’re lucky to find something so close on the street,” Ziggy says.

  Gloria smiles. “I never use the parking lots,” she says. “I can always get something in the street. So, of course,” she gives a little laugh, “I don’t consider it luck at all. I like to think it’s knowledge and persistence.”

  “You didn’t need to be very persistent this time,” he says. “You found it on the first pass.”

  “True enough, but you should see me when things are tough. I don’t give up easily.”

  Ziggy can believe that. “I’ll bet that’s something you need in the real estate business,” he offers.

  She cocks her head in his direction. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  So far she’s keeping up a good façade of finding her father-in-law tolerable, but he can’t help feeling it’s only because she hears a ticking clock. She knows Ziggy will be gone soon and then she can return to her own life, a life, he’s come to realize since he came out here, that she clearly likes to think she’s created.

  It’s cool and refreshing under the roofs of the market. Plants have recently been watered and there’s a smell of wet earth around them. As was the case on his earlier visit, there are plenty of other people who’ve come to this place. Once more Ziggy finds himself responding to th
e liveliness of the scene, the sights and smells, and he’s glad he suggested this visit. “Nice,” he says, trying to act as if he’s never been here. “Ted says that one of the reasons to come here is that you might see movie stars. Ever see any?”

  Gloria laughs. “The trick is to be able to tell the real ones from the people who want to look like them. Oh, yeah,” she says, “I did see Ernest Borgnine once. Does he count?”

  “Oh, sure.” Ziggy and Maggie used to watch him on TV. “I remember him from McHale’s Navy. Was he shopping?”

  She shakes her head. “He was having lunch.”

  “I’ll bet the food’s good here,” he says. “It should be fresh, anyway.”

  “Oh, yes,” Gloria says. “There’s quite a variety too. You can get all sorts of meals, from casual to gourmet.”

  “What about you?” he asks. “Do you ever have lunch here?”

  For a moment Gloria doesn’t answer and Ziggy senses some hesitation, a slight crack in her cool exterior. He’d swear their being here has rattled her just a little. “Yeah,” she says at last, “I’ve had lunch here occasionally.”

  In fact, to Ziggy’s surprise, they’ve come into the vicinity of the restaurant where he saw her the other day, and he stops so that Gloria has to stop as well. “This place looks expensive,” he says. “I’ll bet only the bigwigs eat here.”

  “Oh, no,” she says, “it’s a mixed crowd.” It’s clear she wants to move on. Standing beside him, she opens her purse and searches for something, then snaps it closed, her head still bent to the purse as if she can’t bring herself to look at the scene of the crime.