Kissing the Beehive (20 page)

There was a phone on the back wall of the place, next to the toilet. I called Durant and said I would write the book he needed.

While in the city there was one more thing I needed to do, thanks to Ms.

Lake and her hacksaw. I needed a new pen. There was only one place to go --

the Fountain Pen Hospital. I liked the store so much that I had taken Veronica there one day.

We had spent a long time mooning over the thousands of old and new pens. I had bought her a vintage Elmo-Montegrappa. More than anything, she loved the name of the company. Said it sounded like a rare tropical disease.

When I walked in this time, one of the owners brightened and said he had a surprise for me.

Sotheby's had recently had an auction of objects owned by famous writers. He brought out a worn black leather box and handed it to me.

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Inside was a plum colored Parker 51 Custom, complete with a broad nib. The same model Veronica had cut in half. But the one I was holding had belonged to Isaac Bashevis Singer! I was barely able to keep my tongue in my mouth. With a sinking feeling, I asked how much it cost, knowing full well I'd mortagage the house to own it.

"It's a gift from your friend. The one you were with the last time you came in? We have the provenance too. There's no question it belonged to

Singer."

"How did this happen?" I couldn't bear to put the pen down. A present from Veronica after everything that had happened made me uneasy but I couldn't let this one leave my hand.

"She came in a few days ago and asked if we had a mustard colored 51, but you know how rare those are. We told her about this one. She looked at it and said to hold it for you."

"She didn't take it with her?"

"She was sure you'd be in soon so we should hold it till you got here."

"How much did it cost?"

"We're not allowed to tell you."

It was remarkable, as great a gift as any I had ever received. But did it make up for the chaos and trouble Veronica kept causing? I took the pen but never used it. Mr. Singer had owned it, but Ms. Lake gave it to me. As far as

I was concerned, her juju was a lot more powerful than one of my favorite authors.

Fall arrived like a bully, wasting no time making nice-nice with pretty autumn leaves or crisp cold mornings. It shoved summer in the face and started sleeting in the middle of September.

McCabe and Durant went home from the hospital changed men. Durant knew the big clock was ticking an inch from his head. Like an artist inspired to do one last great work, he threw himself into gathering the details of his son's life and whatever he could do to help me.

I took to spending whole days with him, going over his research and discussing aspects of the book. His enthusiasm inspired and humbled me.

Despite a body full of healthy cells, I had been moping around for such a long time. Being with Edward Durant made me want to go fast again.

Never once did he try to sugarcoat his son or what the boy had done in his short life. "The only time you need to convince a jury is when your case is weak, or you _know_ your client is guilty.

Thank God we don't have that problem here. Edward's innocence needs no clever distortion."

He lit one of his atomic-bomb cigarettes and delicately plucked a piece of tobacco off his tongue.

"You know how you can tell if a woman is genuinely beautiful? See her when she wakes up in the morning. No makeup, no elaborate hairdo -- just her.

If she's got it, you'll see. Same thing applies here. Tell the truth about Edward and they'll see."

When he said that, I thought of Veronica in the morning. She liked to sleep in men's pajamas.

Opening her eyes, she'd see you and reach out her arms like a child. The only thing she ever said was "Come." We'd embrace and when our faces were touching, I could feel her smile against my cheek. _She_ was beautiful.

Inevitably, as he talked about Edward and Pauline, I found myself telling Durant about Veronica and what had happened between us.

He thought about it awhile and then said, "She sounds like a haunted house. We're all so optimistic and vain when it comes to romance. Always convinced _our_ love can exorcise their ghosts. But ghosts have forgotten about love. It's not part of their world. The only thing they know is how to make you miserable.

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"Veronica probably does love you, Sam. It's unfortunate you didn't meet years ago. You might have been able to save her then. But saving someone is not the same as loving them, is it?"

The doctors said McCabe would recover completely in time, but when he got out of the hospital, he took a leave of absence from his job and spent the time watching television or Hong Kong karate videos. Whenever I was there, he was in his robe and pajamas, watching the tube and rarely talking. We ate whatever I cooked or brought in from outside. When I was gone, Magda Ostrova came by at least once a day with something for him.

He lost interest in my book or investigating what had happened to Pauline and Edward. Whenever I spoke about it, I could see him tune out, his eyes flickering back and forth between me and the TV set.

I knew Frannie was trying to find his way out of the trauma of being shot, but knowing that didn't make it any easier to be around him. A vital part of McCabe had closed down and he didn't seem to be much bothered by the loss.

One day after work at the town library, I pulled up in front of his house and was amazed to see Durant and McCabe sitting together on the porch.

It was not particularly cold out, but both were wearing winter overcoats. I had told Edward about Frannie being shot and though he expressed great concern, he seemed so physically weak that I never would have imagined him coming to visit.

"Edward! What are you doing here?"

"Frannie just showed me a Jackie Chan film that held me spellbound. I was tired of sitting around my house, dying. Decided to take a drive."

I climbed the porch steps, sitting down on the top one. A guy on a motorcycle passed by and for a moment its roar was all the noise in the world.

We spent half an hour shooting the breeze. They were easy and relaxed with each other. Durant was a man who could captivate any audience with no trouble. I was touched to see him, sick as he was, trying to tickle McCabe back to life.

"Did you hear the Cindy Crawford joke? A man's been marooned on a desert island for five years. Alone the whole time, it's finally driving him nuts.

He's sitting there on the beach, crying his heart out 'cause he's so sad and lonely.

"Suddenly he looks up and sees someone swimming in toward shore. It's Cindy Crawford, and she's buck naked! She reaches land and they stare at each other. It's love at first sight. They jump into each other's arms and start making love like wild animals. They do it on the beach, in the water, hanging from the coconut trees . . . They're at it seven hours straight.

"Afterward they're lying there, absolutely exhausted. The guy turns to Cindy and says, 'Could you do me a favor?'

"She says, '_Anything_, darling. I'd do anything for you!'

"'Would you put on my clothes and call yourself Bob?'

"Cindy looks at him like he's crazy, but says okay. So she puts on his running shoes, khakis, T-shirt and baseball cap. She sticks out a hand and says in a very masculine voice, 'Hi, I'm Bob!'

"The guy says, 'Bob, you'll never _believe_ who I've been fucking!' "

We all laughed. Frannie shook his head. "That's a Hollywood joke: Nothing's real unless there's an audience!"

Sitting in a companionable silence with the others, watching cars pass by, I thought about the joke and how it applied to most of the people I was hanging around with. Pauline had cheated on her high school English essays so she'd be seen as the best student in class. Durant was obsessed with showing the world who his son really was. Veronica tried so many different ways to make me want her, including becoming one of my fictional creations. And nothing was more important to me than telling this story accurately and with integrity to an unknown bunch of
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readers. Nothing is real unless there's an audience.

The day began to cool down toward night. I got up and asked if anyone wanted a drink. They put in their orders. As I was walking into the house, I stopped and said, "I'm really glad I know both of you. I know everything's fucked-up these days, but all that aside, I'm very happy to know you."

While I was in the house fixing our drinks, I heard a car pull up in front and a door slam. Paying it no mind, I finished what I was doing and walked back outside.

There were three boxes from Pizza Hut stacked in the middle of the porch floor. Both men looked at me and smiled.

"When'd you order these, Sam?"

I looked at Frannie and shook my head. "I didn't order anything."

"Well, neither did I. Edward and I've been sitting out here the whole time."

We looked at Durant, who shrugged. "Not me."

McCabe reached forward and pulled the top box onto his lap. Opening the lid, he peered in and made a face. "_Anchovies_! I hate anchovies. Jesus, I'm not eating this. Just smell it!"

I opened the second. Inside was another topped off with a whole school of those vile little fish.

Durant's arm shook as he reached for the last box. I knew it wasn't fear that caused it. What strength and courage it must have taken him to come to the house today. Now something odd was going on and he didn't have any reserves left to deal with it.

He lifted the box top, looked inside, closed it again. "This one has pineapple. There's a note that says, 'Hi, boys! Dig in.'

My bowels froze. _He_ was here, somewhere near enough to see us. He was here. I looked up and down the street and saw no one. Was he the guy zooming by on the motorcycle, or the thin man driving the red Dodge truck?

I grabbed all of the still-warm boxes and threw them as hard as I could toward the street. Cheese, tomato paste, pineapple and anchovies flew everywhere.

"Fuck you, asshole!" None of the stuff had made it to the street.

McCabe's small front yard was suddenly a mess of color. I kicked one of the pizza boxes, then anything nearby. I kept kicking and I didn't know what I was doing and kicking didn't make me feel any better but I had to do something.

Anything.

The fax was humming away when I walked into my office in Connecticut a day later. Sheet after warm sheet dropped into the basket. I looked at one. It was part of a rap sheet on Herman Ranftl. I picked up all the papers and shuffled them into order. The fax was from Ivan and had everything about

Herman Ranftl, Bradley Erskine _and_ Francis McCabe and Edward Durant Sr.

He'd already given me the rundown on Veronica, so this completed the cast of characters in my life at that point. I was awed by his thoroughness.

Where he got all of his information was a mystery to me, but he was as meticulous as a tax collector. I already knew much of what he had gathered, but Ivan's research filled in certain important blanks. I started with Ranftl and Erskine.

By the time I was finished reading about them, my head was filled with the filthy lives of two very bad men. Bradley Erskine, murderer, was a shit as a kid and went downhill from there. Ranftl was a lot smarter and an even greater monster. McCabe had once given me his argument for capital punishment.

"All the studies say it doesn't stop criminals from killing people and that's probably right. But you know something? Gas these criminals and _they_ won't kill anyone again." Thinking about Ranftl and Erskine, I knew the chief of police had a point.

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To my dismay, Frannie's biography revealed something new and disturbing.

While serving in Vietnam, McCabe had undergone drug rehabilitation twice. When he got out, he'd been treated two more times. Did he still do drugs? Was that why he was so thin and pale? I wanted to talk with him about it, but knew it was none of my business. Especially while he lay around all day in his pajamas, hypnotized by karate kicks on television. The only thing I could do for him now was keep him company and be his friend in whatever ways he needed.

In contrast to the others, Edward Durant's biography read like an Eagle Scout's. Awards, honorary degrees, an adviser to governors . . . success after success, but when you spoke with the man, he saw himself as a failure who had only one hope left -- to "save" his son.

Pete the postman came up the walk and I opened the door. "How're you doing, Pete?"

"Fifty-fifty. Not much for you today, Sam. Only one big envelope. Here she is." A brown manila envelope, my name and address written in her unforgettable script. I noticed at the top left corner she had written only

"Veronica Lake."

"Austria, huh? Always wanted to go to Vienna and see those white horses.

You know, the ones that dance around on their back legs?"

I looked at him questioningly.

"The postmark. Austria?" He pointed to the package in my hands. What the hell was Veronica doing in Austria?

When he left, I continued standing there, looking at the package. I gave it a gingerly squeeze and shake. Felt like a book or a video. The last two videotapes I'd watched had sent my life into serious fibrillations: The first had introduced me to Veronica's porno career, the second had documented the end of David Cadmus's life. I wasn't sure I wanted to see what was on this one.

But Veronica in Austria was too intriguing and I knew I had to look.

I opened the envelope and took out the tape. There was no label, nothing describing what was on it. Wrapped around it was a handwritten letter in the emerald green ink she liked so much.

Sam,

There are over five hundred people named Bayer in the Vienna phone book, but I found who I was looking for. You'll understand if you watch this. I hope you do. It's only the rough cut, but it'll give you an idea of what I'm trying to do. Working on it made me miss you so much I sometimes couldn't breathe.

But I've done so many things wrong that this separation now is the best thing.

I hope your book is going well. I treasure the memory of that sunny morning in Seattle when you told me the idea for the first time. I kept saying to myself, "He is telling me the story of his new book. The one he _hasn't even begun yet_!"