The Boy Who Never Grew Up (24 page)

We kept walking. Took a turn through Homewood, which almost seemed like a real place in the night. Its business district all buttoned up. Its residents tucked safely into their beds, dreaming nothing but sweet dreams. It gave me the creeps walking through there. Lulu seemed to like it.

We moseyed by Stage One on our way back. I hadn’t thought Shadow was being totally straight with me, and I wasn’t wrong. Johnny’s big white Fat Boy was parked there at the stage door. He was inside visiting Matthew. I thought about going in. I thought about phoning Lamp like I said I would. I didn’t do either of those things. I went back to my bungalow and poured myself two fingers of Glenmorangie and put on some Garner. I stretched out on the bed and listened to him play “Body and Soul” like no one else ever has or ever will. I lay there a long time, listening. And remembering how Pennyroyal Brim had felt in my arms.

T
HE HEAT WAVE DIDN’T BREAK. IT WAS EIGHTY-SIX
degrees by eight
A.M.,
the weatherman promising it would top a hundred for the fifth day in a row. Pennyroyal’s pictures did. The
Enquirer
hit the stands that morning with all of her plastered tastefully across the front page—the headline, “SAY CHEESECAKE, PRETTY PENNY,” also serving as a bikini of black ink. She was standing beside a potted plant, wearing a top hat and no tails. She had a dreamy expression on her face, lips parted, as if in rapture. Her face was a bit fuller, but otherwise she hadn’t changed much over the past eight years.
Penthouse
, it was announced, had won the bidding war with
Playboy
and would be showing us the X-rated Penny in a few short weeks.

The House of Wax story got plenty of play that morning, what with the murder of Abel Zorch, high-powered Hollywood attorney and former ranking official of the Committee to Reelect the President. There were expressions of great sadness from the likes of Norbert Schlom, noted paper eater, who called Zorch “a man of vision and clarity who looked into the future and saw how to get there.” Executives of the Murakami Corporation of Japan noted him as one “who paid scrupulous attention to the difficult demands of business without ever sacrificing his honor.” G. Gordon Liddy, former CRP general counsel turned lecture circuiteer, lauded him as “one tough son of a bleep. Abel took no prisoners.” There were no new leads on the killer of Zorch and Geoffrey Brand, age twenty-three, of West Hollywood. Film star Johnny Forget, who had been observed at the scene shortly before the crime, was wanted for questioning but was not considered a suspect, according to Detective Lieutenant Emil Lamp of the L.A.P.D.

I was up early, stropping Grandfather’s razor. Time to get out my mukluks. I wore them when I wrote the first novel. I’ve worn them at the typewriter ever since. There’s not much holding them together anymore. In that respect, they’re a lot like me. I spent the morning roughing out Matthew’s childhood, Lulu dozing under my chair with her head on my foot. I gave him a boyish, earnest voice. I focused on the latchkey kid angle, contrasting the warm, caring family and community life of his Badger movies with Matthew’s own solitary childhood of safe places and imaginary gunfights played out in the backyard of his bland suburban ranch house. I wasn’t overly happy with it. There was still too much I didn’t know. About his father. About the basketball team. But I did cover some ground, and that’s what mattered right now—the pressure was on. My drum banger called me that morning from New York in a major dither. Cassandra was already delivering pages to her publisher. Why wasn’t I? Cassandra was going to be done by January first. Why wasn’t I? Penny’s book would be in the stores by the summer. Ours wouldn’t be out until fall. Why? Calmly, I pointed out that our deal called for me to deliver in April, not January. Not so calmly, he pointed out that we had to get into the stores while this story was so hot. He suggested this wasn’t publishing—this was war. I suggested he find a different, faster warrior, which made him even more agitated. Then I hung up on him. I don’t think that made him feel any better, but it worked for me.

Mrs. Shelley called me that morning, too, right after she got off the phone with the Monroe High Alumni Association. The Class of ’72 twentieth reunion dinner dance was this coming Saturday night at the Sheraton Panorama City. She had made us a reservation for two. Mona Thayer, née Schaffer, would indeed be in attendance. Mona was a registered nurse, divorced, and the mother of an eight-year-old daughter. She lived in Canoga Park.

Merilee Nash did not call me that morning.

My name was stenciled on my parking space now. I was somebody. It was obvious. Martin Short, who was writing a script in the bungalow next door, said hello when I passed him on my way to Stage One. Leonard Nimoy smiled at me when he rode by on his bike, and he doesn’t even know me. Former angry playwright turned boring director David Mamet rode by me too, only he didn’t smile. He does know me. I also saw six little boys dressed up like bumblebees. I couldn’t tell you if they were smiling or not.

I ran into Sarge on the way, striding regally along in shorts and running shoes, clipboard clutched to her breast, calves glistening in the sunlight.

“Just the person I was looking for,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow at me, amused—I was dribbling the basketball that I’d bought. Today’s gift. “Ain’t you, like, the wrong color, man?”

“I thought Matthew could show me a few of his moves.”

“He hasn’t got any.” She laughed. “Suffers bad from White Man’s Disease—vertical leap’s maybe four inches. Pathetic. Why you looking for me?”

“I lost my Waterman pen. Thought maybe I left it in your Land Cruiser.”

It was parked nearby in the executive lot. She unlocked it for me and waited while I pretended to search under the seat. A secretary stopped and said hi to her. That’s when I snuck a look in the glove compartment.

Her Glock was still in there. She was clear.

Unless, of course, she happened to own two.

“No luck,” I reported. “Must have left it at the hotel.” We resumed walking. “On your way to see Matthew?”

She nodded. “Got some locations for him to approve. Bachelor pads for Badger. I checked them out yesterday.”

“That’s where you were at the time of the shooting?”

“Uh-huh.” She eyed me coldly. “What, they thinking I did it?”

“I doubt it. But they’ll want to know where you were and how well you can handle a gun.”

“Why?”

“You have a motive.”

“Me? Why’d I want to kill that gee and his little boy?”

“To protect the fort,” I replied. “Can you?”

“Can I what, man?” she demanded, flaring her nostrils at me.

“Handle a gun.”

“I can handle anything,” she said, matter-of-factly.

I don’t know about you but I believed her.

The Fat Boy was gone from outside the stage door. Bunny was busy preparing Matthew some Aunt Jemima frozen toaster waffles in the Hayes’s kitchen. She wore a
Dennis the Dinosaur
apron over her white designer sweats, and seemed bothered. Matthew was slumped at the table, glumly watching a rerun of
Gilligan’s Island
on a portable TV. The one where Gilligan starts picking up radio broadcasts with his teeth. Bunny poured him a glass of milk and placed his waffles before him. Carefully, he cut them into tiny bite-sized pieces. He poured a quart of syrup on them, then began to eat. Bunny watched him, crinkling her nose as he chewed. Lulu watched her warily, afraid she might try to feed her again.

Sarge turned down the TV. “Okay, show ’n’ tell time,” she declared, all business. She arrayed Polaroid snapshots of houses on the table before Matthew. “We got three possibilities for Badger’s home base. One on the left is a beach house in Malibu that—”

“No beach house,” said Matthew peevishly. “Badger wouldn’t live in one. No.”

“Okay, that one’s out,” she agreed readily, turning over the beach house shots. “This here one’s at the top of Laurel Canyon. All glass. Very modern, outstanding views in three directions. Valerie Bertinelli once lived there …” She watched him, waiting for his reaction. He had none. She plowed ahead. “Third one’s on Stanley Hills Drive, also Laurel Canyon. Spanish-style. Dig, it has a two-story living room with a vaulted ceiling, and this totally outrageous, like, tower, with a room up there. Funky, the realtor called it, if you can believe that. It’s a bank foreclosure. Belonged to a network executive. We can rent it for two months, cheap. Want to see it?” She waited for some kind of reaction, any kind of reaction. Nothing. Just glum silence. “Well, I’ll go ahead and set something up for this afternoon, in case you do. And don’t forget we got more actors coming in at lunch to read for the part of his agent. Okay, I’m outta here.” She gathered up her pictures, watching him. “You okay, darling?” she asked him.

“Fine,” he grumbled, munching on his waffle. “Why?”

“No reason.” She shot a look over at Bunny.

Bunny hastily removed her apron. “We’ll leave you two boys to your work. Don’t forget to put your plate in the sink, Matty.” She hesitated. “You sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine!” he erupted. “Why does everybody keep asking me how I am!”

“Because you seem a little cranky this morning,” Bunny replied soothingly. “What time did you get to sleep last—?”

“Stop babying me, will ya?!” cried Matthew. “I hate being babied!”

Bunny whirled and gave me the evil eye, somehow certain this was all my doing. It was an impressive one. I could practically feel the boils forming all over my body.

“We girls seem to be in the way, Charmaine,” she said icily. “Come, the boys wish to talk.”

Out she bustled, Sarge in tow. Lulu curled up under the table, relieved to see her go.

I tossed Matthew the basketball and poured myself some coffee. “What’s going on, Matthew?”

“Been thinking about the script.” He began spinning the ball on the tip of his upraised index finger. “You may be right about Debbie Dale. We
do
need to see that she and Badger once had a good thing. Maybe some flashbacks would help …” He trailed off, looked up at me, clearing his throat uneasily. “I don’t know what it is, Meat. Everybody treats me like a little kid around here. And it bothers me sometimes. Especially since you got here. I don’t know why.”

“Johnny stay the whole night?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, startled.

“I mean, did he stay or did he go?”

“He left about two-thirty. He was really upset about Zorch. He really loved the guy, I guess.”

“Is he going to talk to the police?”

“Today. He won’t go into the police station. He’s too paranoid. But he’s agreed to meet with that detective friend of yours, Lamp, at his agency. Joey Bam Bam is putting it together.” He put the ball down and flicked off the TV. “I’m all ready, Meat. Where do we start today?”

“With you telling me about Mona Schaffer.”

A weak whimper came from Matthew’s throat. He turned pale. Green, almost.

“You’re not going to barf again, are you?”

“N-No, I don’t think so,” he stammered weakly. His fingers found his forelock and started tugging at it.

“What happened to your Silly Putty?”

“It’s right here in my pocket.” He dug it out and began to work it, his rabbit nose twitching furiously. “She’s … Mona’s not anyone, really. Just this girl I had a crush on. She was … I mean, we never dated or anything. I don’t even know why you’re asking me about her. D-Did my sister mention her or something?”

“Showed me her yearbook picture as well.” I sipped my coffee. “Pennyroyal looks somewhat like her. More than somewhat, in fact.”

“Same basic type,” he admitted, offhanded. “Blond hair, blue eyes, all-American cheerleader. That’s my type. Guess that makes me an all-American boy.” He forced a chuckle. He sounded like a machine gun running out of zip.

I sat. “Tell me more about your relationship.”

“We didn’t have one, Meat. I just told you. I was … infatuated with her. I memorized her phone number. I followed her around campus. If we had a class together, gee, I’d just stare and stare at her. She was
so
pretty. When she started driving to school, I’d purposely pass through the student parking lot on my way in just so I could touch her car. It was a Skylark, powder blue.” He was starting to perspire. He swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is it getting warm in here or is it just me?”

“I’m cool as a cucumber.”

“I even saved her gum,” he blurted out.

“You saved her what?”

“She sat in front of me in Spanish one semester, and she’d stick her bubble gum up under her desk every day before class, and leave it there. I’d take it home. Kept it all in my dresser for months. Until I got ants.”

“I’m beginning to think less and less of you, Matthew.”

“I guess it does sound pretty pathetic,” he admitted.

“Did you ever talk to her about how you felt?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did you ever talk to her at all?”

“Not exactly. Well, once. Sort of.”

“Want to tell me about that?”

He sat there, sweating. His color was not good.

“Does this have anything to do with why you quit the basketball team?”

His mouth tightened. “Why do you keep harping on that?”

“If you’d rather, Matthew, I’ll ask her about it at the reunion. It’s up to you.”

His eyes widened. “She’ll be there?”

“She will. She’s a nurse now, divorced. Has a daughter.”

“Wow, that would be major strange seeing her again. Mona …”

“I imagine some of your former teammates will be there, too. I can ask them about why—”

“You’re really not going to let this thing go, are you?”

“I’m really not.”

He slumped in his chair and sighed. “All right, Meat,” he said with glum resignation. “But this does happen to be the single most traumatic moment of my entire life. We’re talking major, major wound here.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I was … I was trying really hard to be a part of the team. Coach, he encouraged me. Patted me on the back in practice and stuff. But the guys, they never accepted me in the locker room. They weren’t nasty to me or anything. They just ignored me. I wasn’t one of them. They were all tanned and good-looking and popular. They had girlfriends. Me, I was this pale, clumsy oaf. This goon … Our first game was with Taft. They beat us, 58-50. We didn’t play well. I only got in for a couple of minutes and didn’t do much. Afterward, in the locker room, the guys were pretty down about it. Kip London, who was our best player, and who went steady with Mona, he had a really bad game. Kip was looking to take it out on somebody, I guess. He chose me. Started picking on me when I took off my jersey. Teasing me about how pale I was. He called me Whitey. A bunch of ’em picked up on it. ‘Whitey’s never had any rays,’ they kept saying. ‘Let’s get Whitey some rays.’ And then they
descended
on me. Began stripping me. Playfully, at first. Only they wouldn’t stop. I fought them but that only seemed to egg them on. They were like wild animals who’d found a weakling to devour. They stripped me of my shorts, my jock, my shoes, socks. They stripped me naked. ‘Let’s get Whitey some rays!’ they chanted. ‘Rays! Rays! Rays!’ They started carrying me around the locker room over their heads, like a lynch mob. They carried me right out the door into the gym, stark naked. There were
girls
out there, Meat. Their girlfriends were waiting there for them.
Mona
was waiting for Kip in her little cheerleader costume. They … they dumped me right at her feet. Then they ran back inside, laughing. They left me there at the feet of my dream girl, stark naked. And … And that’s when she spoke to me. The only words she ever said to me in all of the years I loved her.”