him. Downstairs, only a few lights were on, in the main foyer. He slipped back into the parlor where they’d first met Farringworth and was immediately at the armoire. Bottles clinked as he withdrew the Johnny Blue. He poured himself two fingers, then hunted for whatever that thing was that Bryant said wasn’t really an ashtray.
A clock ticked somewhere deeper in the house. He was looking out the Lexan panels of the French doors, into the garden. Thinking, thinking.
What was this place? What was Farringworth really all about? And that British guy? The first drink went fast, yet left him keenly focused. Why doesn’t he want pictures? Why would he even consent to an interview? He never had in the past. And what about that—
A car motor started outside, lights popped on. Another one of those panel vans drove out of the cul-de-sac: DAYE PHARMACEUTICALS, LTD.
What’s with that shit? What’s with drug company vans driving around this ritzy joint at three in the morning?
The van’s red taillights faded, then winked out. The silence now seemed to amplify; Westmore could hear things beyond it: house noises, the a/c whispering. The clock—wherever it was—sounded louder, its tick more crisp. Then he stiffened. Had he heard a moan? A voice? From somewhere—deep, deep in the house. A door clicked opened and closed. Footsteps. Then nothing.
The vibes were raging.
Bad vibes.
Westmore smoked in the dark, had another scotch. The booze and cigarettes were wearing him out. Life was wearing him out. Wear me out some more, he pleaded. Just fuckin’ take me. Wear me out till there’s nothing left…
He was getting drunk again. Was it God he was pleading to, the God he claimed to believe in? God doesn’t do shit for me, but…why should He? I don’t deserve it. But what about Bryant? What about that kook Farringworth and that fruitcake Michaels? Did God have different conceptions of different people? He must. Everyone truly wasn’t the same, and no culture was the same. There were too many variables. Therefore one god could not save all. God must have many faces, Westmore considered, the scotch heating his insides.
Let’s have one more drink, just you and me, okay, God?
Tipsiness urged him to walk more carefully back to the armoire, but not carefully enough because—
Smack!
— he’d forgotten than he’d left the armoire’s teakwood door hanging open, and he walked right into it, forehead to edge. Pain seemed to bite him like a lunging animal. He had time to think, What a drunken asshole, then brought his hands to his head and collapsed.
He blacked in and out. Blood from the gash leaked into his eyes; now the pain was like a piton driven into his forehead. He lay there for a moment, head beating. Was he seriously hurt? Wasn’t that how William Holden had died? Hit his head drunk, then bled to death because the alcohol thinned his blood. Fuck, Westmore managed to think. At least his was on par. When he tried to lean up, the pain slammed him back down, like a foot to his chest.
Squinting, dizzy, he saw a shadow before him. Must be the shadow of the armoire door, he thought. But it wasn’t.
The shadow leaned over.
“ Michaels?” he murmured. It must be Michaels.
“ No,” the shadow said. A man’s voice but…strange. The voice seemed echoic and dark yet radiant at the same time—an impossible description. The shadow was…
What the fuck is he doing? Mugging me?
The shadow’s hand was on his shirt. It withdrew his pack of cigarettes and lighter.
A snap, a brief flame. The shadow was standing upright again, looking around; Westmore could tell where the person was looking by the lit end of the cigarette.
Smoke creamed before its face, and the strange voice resounded again: “How would I know that your birth mother walked out of the hospital the day you were born? How would I know you almost got run down by Mrs. Korella, in her VW bug, on Stonybrook drive, the day after Kennedy was shot, and you shit
A clock ticked somewhere deeper in the house. He was looking out the Lexan panels of the French doors, into the garden. Thinking, thinking.
What was this place? What was Farringworth really all about? And that British guy? The first drink went fast, yet left him keenly focused. Why doesn’t he want pictures? Why would he even consent to an interview? He never had in the past. And what about that—
A car motor started outside, lights popped on. Another one of those panel vans drove out of the cul-de-sac: DAYE PHARMACEUTICALS, LTD.
What’s with that shit? What’s with drug company vans driving around this ritzy joint at three in the morning?
The van’s red taillights faded, then winked out. The silence now seemed to amplify; Westmore could hear things beyond it: house noises, the a/c whispering. The clock—wherever it was—sounded louder, its tick more crisp. Then he stiffened. Had he heard a moan? A voice? From somewhere—deep, deep in the house. A door clicked opened and closed. Footsteps. Then nothing.
The vibes were raging.
Bad vibes.
Westmore smoked in the dark, had another scotch. The booze and cigarettes were wearing him out. Life was wearing him out. Wear me out some more, he pleaded. Just fuckin’ take me. Wear me out till there’s nothing left…
He was getting drunk again. Was it God he was pleading to, the God he claimed to believe in? God doesn’t do shit for me, but…why should He? I don’t deserve it. But what about Bryant? What about that kook Farringworth and that fruitcake Michaels? Did God have different conceptions of different people? He must. Everyone truly wasn’t the same, and no culture was the same. There were too many variables. Therefore one god could not save all. God must have many faces, Westmore considered, the scotch heating his insides.
Let’s have one more drink, just you and me, okay, God?
Tipsiness urged him to walk more carefully back to the armoire, but not carefully enough because—
Smack!
— he’d forgotten than he’d left the armoire’s teakwood door hanging open, and he walked right into it, forehead to edge. Pain seemed to bite him like a lunging animal. He had time to think, What a drunken asshole, then brought his hands to his head and collapsed.
He blacked in and out. Blood from the gash leaked into his eyes; now the pain was like a piton driven into his forehead. He lay there for a moment, head beating. Was he seriously hurt? Wasn’t that how William Holden had died? Hit his head drunk, then bled to death because the alcohol thinned his blood. Fuck, Westmore managed to think. At least his was on par. When he tried to lean up, the pain slammed him back down, like a foot to his chest.
Squinting, dizzy, he saw a shadow before him. Must be the shadow of the armoire door, he thought. But it wasn’t.
The shadow leaned over.
“ Michaels?” he murmured. It must be Michaels.
“ No,” the shadow said. A man’s voice but…strange. The voice seemed echoic and dark yet radiant at the same time—an impossible description. The shadow was…
What the fuck is he doing? Mugging me?
The shadow’s hand was on his shirt. It withdrew his pack of cigarettes and lighter.
A snap, a brief flame. The shadow was standing upright again, looking around; Westmore could tell where the person was looking by the lit end of the cigarette.
Smoke creamed before its face, and the strange voice resounded again: “How would I know that your birth mother walked out of the hospital the day you were born? How would I know you almost got run down by Mrs. Korella, in her VW bug, on Stonybrook drive, the day after Kennedy was shot, and you shit
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