From the Corner of His Eye (27 page)

Chapter 42

THE SANDMAN WAS
powerless to cast a spell of sleep while Junior spent the night flushing away enough water to drain a reservoir.

By dawn, when the intestinal paroxysms finally passed, this bold new man of adventure felt as flat and limp as road-kill.

Finally sleeping, he had anxiety dreams of being in a public rest room, overcome by urgent need, only to find that every stall was occupied by someone he had killed, all of them vengefully determined to deny him a chance for dignified relief.

He woke at noon, eyes gummed shut with the effluence of sleep. He felt lousy, but he was in control of himself—and strong enough to fetch his suitcase, which he’d been unable to carry upon arrival.

Outside, he discovered that some worthless criminal wretch had broken into his Suburban during the night. The suitcase and Book-of-the-Month selections were gone. The creep even swiped the Kleenex, the chewing gum, and the breath mints from the glove compartment.

Incredibly, the thief left behind the most valuable items: the collection of hardcover first editions of Caesar Zedd’s complete body of work. The box stood open, its contents having been explored in haste, but not a single volume was missing.

Fortunately, he’d kept neither cash nor his checkbook in the suitcase. With Zedd intact, his losses were tolerable.

In the motel office, Junior paid for another night in advance. His preference in lodgings didn’t run to greasy carpeting, cigarette-scarred furniture, and the whispery scuttling of cockroaches in the dark, but though feeling better, he was too tired and shaky to drive.

The aging, fugitive Nazi had been replaced at the front desk by a woman with messily chopped blond hair, a brutish face, and arms that would dissuade Charles Atlas from challenging her. She changed a five-dollar bill into coins for the vending machines and snarled at him only once in strangely accented English.

Junior was starving, but he didn’t trust his bowels enough to risk dinner in a restaurant. The affliction seemed to have passed, but it might recur when he had food in his system again.

He bought cracker sandwiches, some filled with cheese and some with peanut butter, redskin peanuts, chocolate bars, and Coca-Cola. Although this was an unhealthy meal, cheese and peanut butter and chocolate shared a virtue: they were all binding.

In his room, he settled on the bed with his constipating snacks and the county telephone book. Because he had packed the directory with the Zedd collection, the thief hadn’t gotten it.

He had already reviewed twenty-four thousand names, finding no Bartholomew, putting red checks beside entries with the initial
B
instead of a first name. A slip of yellow paper marked his place.

Opening the directory to the marker, he found a card tucked between the pages. A joker, with BARTHOLOMEW in red block letters.

This was not the same card he’d found at his bedside, under two dimes and a nickel, on the night following Naomi’s funeral. He had torn that one and had thrown it away.

No mystery here. No reason to leap to the ceiling and cling upside down like a frightened cartoon cat.

Evidently, last evening, prior to keeping a dinner date with Victoria, when the taunting detective had illegally entered Junior’s house and placed another quarter on the nightstand, he had seen the directory open on the kitchen table. Deducing the meaning of the red check marks, he inserted this card and closed the book: another small assault in the psychological warfare that he’d been waging.

Junior had made a mistake when he smashed the pewter candlestick into Vanadium’s face after the cop was already unconscious. He should have bound the bastard and attempted to revive him for interrogation.

Applying enough pain, he could have gotten cooperation even from Vanadium. The detective had said he’d heard Junior fearfully repeat
Bartholomew
in his sleep, which Junior believed to be true, because the name
did
resonate with him; however, he wasn’t sure he believed the cop’s claim to be ignorant of the identity of this nemesis.

Too late for interrogation now, with Vanadium bludgeoned into eternal sleep and resting under many fathoms of cold bedding.

But, ah, the heft of the candlestick, the smooth arc it made, and the crack of contact had been as hugely satisfying as any home-run swing that had ever won a baseball World Series.

Munching an Almond Joy, Junior returned to the phone book, with no choice but to find Bartholomew the hard way.

Chapter 43

ONWARD THROUGH THIS
Monday, January 17, this momentous day, when the ending of one thing is the beginning of another.

Under a sullen afternoon sky, in the winter-drab hills, the yellow-and-white station wagon was a bright arrow, drawn and fired not from a hunter’s quiver but from that of a Samaritan.

Edom drove, happy to assist Agnes. He was happier still that he didn’t have to make the pie deliveries alone.

He wasn’t required to torture himself in search of pleasant conversation with those they visited. Agnes had virtually invented pleasant conversation.

In the passenger’s seat, Barty was cushioned in his mother’s arms. At times, the boy cooed or gurgled, or made a wet chortling sound.

As yet, Edom had never heard him cry or even fuss.

Barty wore elfin-size, knitted blue pajamas complete with feet, white rickrack at the cuffs and neckline, and a matching cap. His white blanket was decorated with blue and yellow bunnies.

The baby had been an unqualified hit at their first four stops. His bright, smiling presence was a bridge that helped everyone cross over the dark waters of Joey’s death.

Edom would have judged this a perfect day—except for the earthquake weather. He was convinced that the Big One would bring the coastal cities to ruin before twilight.

This was different earthquake weather from that of ten days ago, when he’d made the pie deliveries alone. Then: blue sky, unseasonable warmth, low humidity. Now: low gray clouds, cool air, high humidity.

One of the most unnerving aspects of life in southern California was that earthquake weather came in so many varieties. As many days as not, you got out of bed, checked the sky and the barometer, and realized with dismay that conditions were indicative of catastrophe.

With the earth still tenuously stable beneath them, they arrived at their fifth destination, a new address on Agnes’s mercy list.

They were in the eastern hills, a mile from Jolene and Bill Klefton’s place, where ten days ago, Edom had delivered blueberry pie along with the grisly details of the Tokyo-Yokohama quake of 1923.

This house was similar to the Kleftons’. Though stucco rather than clapboard, it had gone a long time without fresh paint. A crack in one of the front windows had been sealed with strapping tape.

Agnes added this stop to her route at the request of Reverend Tom Collins, the local Baptist minister whose folks unthinkingly gave him the name of a cocktail. She was friendly with all the clergymen in Bright Beach, and her pie deliveries favored no one creed.

Edom carried the honey-raisin pear pie, and Agnes toted Barty across the neatly cropped yard, to the front door. The bell push triggered chimes that played the first ten notes of “That Old Black Magic,” which they heard distinctly through the glass in the door.

This humble house wasn’t where you expected to hear an elaborate custom doorbell—or even any doorbell at all, since knuckles on wood were the cheapest announcement of a visitor.

Edom glanced at Agnes and said uneasily, “Strange.”

“No. Charming,” she disagreed. “There’s a meaning to it. Everything has a meaning, dear.”

An elderly Negro gentleman answered the door. His hair was such a pure white that in contrast to his plum-dark skin, it appeared to glow like a nimbus around his head. With his equally radiant goatee, his kindly features, and his compelling black eyes, he seemed to have stepped out of a movie about a jazz musician who, having died, was on earth once more as someone’s angelic guardian.

“Mr. Sepharad?” Agnes asked. “Obadiah Sepharad?”

Glancing at the plump pie in Edom’s hands, the gentleman replied to Agnes in a musical yet gravelly voice worthy of Louis Armstrong: “You must be the lady Reverend Collins told me about.”

The voice reinforced Edom’s image of a bebop celestial being.

Turning his attention to Barty, Obadiah broke into a smile, revealing a gold upper tooth. “Something here is sweeter than that lovely pie. What’s the child’s name?”

“Bartholomew,” said Agnes.

“Well, of course it is.”

Edom observed, amazed, as Agnes chatted up their host, going from
Mr. Sepharad
to
Obadiah,
from the doorstep to the living room, the pie delivered and accepted, coffee offered and served, the two of them pleased and easy with each other, all in the time that it would have taken Edom himself to get up the nerve to cross the threshold and to think of something interesting to say about the Galveston hurricane of 1900, in which six thousand had died.

As Obadiah lowered himself into a well-worn armchair, he said to Edom, “Son, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Having settled on the sofa with Agnes and Barty, prepared to serve comfortably in the role of quiet observer, Edom was alarmed to have suddenly become the subject of conversation. He was also alarmed to be called “son,” because in his thirty-six years, the only person ever to have addressed him in that fashion had been his father, dead for a decade yet still a terror in Edom’s dreams.

Shaking his head, his coffee cup rattling against the saucer, Edom said, “Uh, no, sir, no, I don’t think we’ve ever met till now.”

“Maybe. You sure do look familiar, though.”

“I’ve got one of those faces so ordinary you see it everywhere,” said Edom, and decided to tell the story of the Tri-State Tornado of 1925.

Perhaps his sister intuited what Edom was about to say, because she didn’t let him get started.

Somehow, Agnes knew that in his younger days, Obadiah had been a stage magician. Artlessly, she drew him out on the subject.

Professional magic was not a field in which many Negroes could find their way to success. Obadiah was one of a rare brotherhood.

A music tradition was deeply rooted in the Negro community. No similar tradition in magic existed.

“Maybe because we didn’t want to be called witches,” said Obadiah with a smile, “and give folks one more reason to hang us.”

A pianist or saxophonist could go a long way on his talent and self-instruction, but a would-be stage magician eventually needed a mentor to reveal the most closely guarded secrets of illusion and to help him master the skills of deception needed for the highest-level prestidigitation. In a craft practiced almost exclusively by white men, a young man of color had to search for mentoring, especially in 1922, when twenty-year-old Obadiah dreamed of being the next Houdini.

Now, Obadiah produced a pack of playing cards as though from a secret pocket in an invisible coat. “Like to see a little something?”

“Yes, please,” Agnes said with evident delight.

Obadiah tossed the pack of cards to Edom, startling him. “Son, you’ll have to help me. My fingers have no finesse anymore.”

He raised his gnarled hands.

Edom had noticed them earlier. Now he saw they were in worse condition than he’d thought. Enlarged knuckles, fingers not entirely at natural angles to one another. Perhaps Obadiah had rheumatoid arthritis, like Bill Klefton, though a less crippling case.

“Please take the cards from the pack and put them on the coffee table in front of you,” Obadiah directed.

Edom did as asked. Then he cut the deck into two approximately equal stacks when requested to do so.

“Give them one shuffle,” the magician instructed.

Edom shuffled.

Leaning forward from his armchair, white hair as radiant as the wings of cherubim, Obadiah waved one misshapen hand over the deck, never closer than ten inches to the cards. “Now please spread them out in a fan on the table, facedown.”

Edom complied, and in the arc of red Bicycle patterns, one card revealed too much white corner, because it was the only one faceup.

“You might want to have a look,” Obadiah suggested.

Teasing out the card, Edom saw that it was an ace of diamonds—remarkable in light of Maria Gonzalez’s fortune-telling session last Friday evening. He was more astonished, however, by the name printed in black ink diagonally across the face of the card: BARTHOLOMEW.

Agnes’s sharp intake of breath caused Edom to look up from his nephew’s name. Pale, she was, her eyes as haunted as old mansions.

Chapter 44

WITH BRIGHT BEACH
under assault by one miserable flu and by an uncountable variety of common colds, business was brisk this Monday at Damascus Pharmacy.

The customers were in a mood, most of them grumbling about their ailments. Others complained about the dreary weather, the increasing number of kids zooming along sidewalks on these damn new skateboards, the recent tax increases, and the New York Jets paying Joe Namath the kingly sum of $427,000 a year to play football, which some saw as a sign that the country was money-crazy and going to Hell.

Paul Damascus remained busy, filling prescriptions, until he was finally able to take a lunch break at two-thirty.

He usually ate lunch alone in his office. The room was the size of an elevator, but of course didn’t go up or down. It went sideways, however, in the sense that herein Paul was transported into wondrous lands of adventure.

A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf was crammed with pulp magazines that had been published throughout the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s, before paperback books supplanted them.
The All-Story, Mammoth Adventure, Nickel Western, The Black Mask, Detective Fiction Weekly, Spicy Mystery, Weird Tales, Amazing Stories, Astounding Stories, The Shadow, Doc Savage, G-8 and His Battle Aces, Mysterious Wu Fang…

This was only a fraction of Paul’s collection. Thousands of additional issues filled rooms at home.

The magazine covers were colorful, lurid, full of violence and eeriness and the coy sexual suggestiveness of a more innocent time. Most days, he read a story while eating the two pieces of fruit that were his lunch, but sometimes he lost himself in a particularly vivid illustration, daydreaming about far places and great adventures.

Indeed, even the distinct fragrance of pulp paper, yellow with age, was alone sufficient to start him fantasizing.

With his startling combination of a Mediterranean complexion and rust-red hair, his good looks, and his fit physique, Paul had the exotic appearance of a pulp-fiction hero. In particular, he liked to imagine that he might pass for Doc Savage’s brother.

Doc was one of his favorites. Crime fighter extraordinaire. The Man of Bronze.

This Monday afternoon, he longed for the escape and solace of a half-hour pulp adventure. But he decided that he ought to at last compose the letter he’d been meaning to write for at least ten days.

After using a paring knife to section and core an apple, Paul withdrew a sheet of stationery from his desk and uncapped a fountain pen. His penmanship was old-fashioned in its neatness, as precise and appealing as fine calligraphy. He wrote:
Dear Reverend White…

He paused, not sure how to proceed. He was not accustomed to writing letters to total strangers.

Finally he began:
Greetings on this momentous day. I’m writing to you about an exceptional woman, Agnes Lampion, whose life you have touched without knowing, and whose story may interest you.