Chapter 23

Only slightly stooped by his sixty-seven years, his white hair still full and thick, Jerry Robinson was comfortably retired, spending much of his time fishing at Lake Piru or playing pool with his cronies at this Lankershim Boulevard beer bar—icy cold this night from its aggressive air-conditioning—where he had brought Paul.

After considerable forced jollity with the bar habitues Jerry introduced him to, and after buying Jerry four beers, Paul judged him sufficiently relaxed, and led him to a corner table.

“Jerry,” Paul said, making rings with his beer mug on a table shiny with varnish, “you mind me asking what you’re getting for that guest house?”

Jerry blinked at Paul. “I don’t mind, Brother. Three hundred is what.”

Jerry addressed any man he liked as Brother. Paul detested the habit. But he smiled and nodded. “I figured you wouldn’t ask what it’s worth, Jerry. You’ve got a good heart. That Hunter woman, she a good tenant?”

“Keeps to herself.”

“That only lasts so long. You know women.” He chuckled along with Jerry and then asked, “What about the kid? He bother you or Dorothy?”

“Nah. I was worried at first to tell you the truth. Me and the wife don’t like being bothered, you know. But it was Dorothy that said to let them rent. They’ve been okay. He’s a good boy. Quiet, good manners. You don’t see much of that in kids today.”

“It’s a wonder.” Paul’s eyes were caught by the glint of silver, a religious medal visible in Jerry’s open-throat Hawaiian shirt. He emphasized his next words: “With a weirdo like that for a mother.”

“Weirdo?” Jerry looked at him in rheumy-eyed alarm.

“Well, we had them over for dinner—”

“Dorothy mentioned she’s seen Carolyn coming over quite a bit in the evenings.”

“Carolyn’s very fond of the boy.” With effort, he kept the defensiveness out of his voice. “I’m sure he could use some mothering.”

Jerry was looking at him, his watery blue eyes sympathetic; and with a rush of rage Paul realized that Jerry assumed he and Carolyn could not have children. He opened his mouth, then clamped his jaw shut.

Jerry said, “You don’t think he gets much mothering from Miz Hunter? She seems to take real good care of him.”

“Some people can put on a good show, I don’t have to tell you that. She says she’s been married but Carolyn—” He broke off and glanced apologetically at Jerry as if he had caught himself before revealing a confidence. He continued, “These artist types, well…”

Jerry nodded sagely.

“Even if she did have the kid under a mulberry bush, it doesn’t make him any less a good kid, right? But that Hunter woman, she’s full of strange ideas, Jerry. The night she was over to our house she said right in front of her son she didn’t believe in much of anything. Hardly a God-fearing woman, would you say? Ever see her take her kid to church on a Sunday morning?”

As Jerry gaped at him, Paul pressed his advantage. “She doesn’t need a man’s presence around for her son, she said that, too. God knows what kind of sissy that boy might grow into with a mother who thinks like that. A lot of these women nowadays, they think they don’t need men at all.”

Jerry nodded. “The wife and I were talking about that just the other night.”

“I’m glad Dorothy still agrees with you about things, Jerry. That Hunter woman gets hold of Dorothy, God knows what kind of stuff she’ll pump into her. It’d be terrible after all these years if Dorothy got dissatisfied with everything you’ve both had together.”

Jerry gaped at him again. “The wife—I know Dorothy, she could never feel like that.”

“Every day on my job I see women out to convert any woman they can get their hands on. More so now that we’ve got Reagan in and some sanity back in this country. But they’ve got this Ferraro woman up for vice president now. You sure as hell can’t keep Dorothy chained up while you’re here or gone fishing, now can you?”

Jerry swallowed beer and swirled his mug, agitating the remnants. Paul signaled the waitress, a hard-faced bleached blonde, for another round. They drank in silence, Jerry contemplating his beer, Paul content to let his words ferment. He felt heavy-headed from the beer.

“Wish I could think of a way to get rid of her,” Jerry finally said.

“Well,” Paul said carefully, hiding his elation, “there’s always a way. You need the house for some reason. Maybe a relative?”

“We don’t have any relatives, not close by.”

Paul smothered a snort of disgust. “She doesn’t need to know that.”

“I’m no good at making stuff up, lying to people, you know. They know it when I do.”

“Look, Jerry. Why do you need a reason? You’re just making one up to spare her feelings. It’s your house, man. Don’t we still have property rights in this country?”

“By God you’re right, Brother!” Jerry clinked Paul’s mug with his own and took a deep draught.

“You get three hundred for the place,” Paul said, his head thick from the beer, trying to sift through his thoughts and gauge Jerry. “Tell you what. You’re getting her out of my hair as well as yours—before she hurts either Carolyn or Dorothy. When the Hunter woman moves out I’ll give you a hundred for your trouble, pay the rent till you rent it again.”

“That’s crazy.” Jerry shook his head vigorously. “No way I need you to do that, Brother.”

They argued good-naturedly—comrades now—before Jerry agreed he would accept a case of Moosehead beer for his trouble, that Paul would take him to the next Raiders game. They sealed their bargain with a handshake and another round of beer.

“I really think you could get three-fifty for the place,” Paul told him. “I know you could get it.”

“I dunno. It’s awful small, Brother. No bathtub, carpets only so-so. And the kitchen—”

“Three and a quarter, then. Ask that much. You can always come down.”

“You’re one mighty smart fellow. Always told the wife that.”

Paul suggested, “I don’t think you ought to go into much detail about this with Dorothy.”

“Don’t worry about that. The Hunter woman doesn’t have much to do with Dorothy. Anyway, the wife always goes along with what I do.” Jerry rose, and with a belligerent swagger made his way to the men’s room.

Paul contemplated his wavery reflection in the shiny surface of the table. He raised his beer mug. He murmured, “Congratulations, Brother.”

Astounded, Carolyn was staring at Val.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 526