with the auburn hair and the perfect cleft in her chin who hurried the little girl across Laurel Canyon Boulevard that day a year and a half before. Now the beautiful woman wears only a bikini bottom.
The little girl reaches out to Vikar’s face, to wipe away the red teardrop tattooed beneath his left eye.
77.
As she did that day in Laurel Canyon, the woman appears to float across the room to take the girl back, just as the girl’s finger almost touches Vikar’s face. Perhaps there’s more urgency in the rescue this time, the hubbub of this house lending itself not so much to the woman’s gifts for casting spells. The mother carries Zazi through the sliding doors of the house out onto the deck, looking—as she did in Laurel Canyon—over her shoulder at Vikar.
“Soledad Palladin,” Viking Man explains to Vikar later that afternoon.
“I would never hurt a child,” says Vikar.
“How did a three-year-old wander across Laurel Canyon Boulevard anyway? Who was Soledad fucking or what drug was she inhaling when she was supposed to be keeping an eye on her kid?” They sit on the deck watching everyone. “They’re really not a bad lot, vicar,” says Viking Man, “for a bunch of hippies and pussies and over-indulged bohemian brats. The guys all want to be the next John Ford and haven’t yet come to grips with the fact that I’m the next John Ford, and the only reason I’m the next John Ford is because I’m not the next Howard Hawks, who made the greatest movie of all time, Red River , with your Mr. Montgomery Clift. Of course Monty was a fairy. Are you a fairy, vicar?”
“No,” says Vikar.
“I wouldn’t want to offend you if you were.”
“Thank you.”
“You got to hand it to Monty. For a little fairy he near pulls it off, you almost accept in Red River he actually could hold his own in those fisticuffs at the end with John Wayne, when hard logic tells you it’s patently preposterous. He had presence, Clift did, there’s no taking that away from him. But I can’t be the next Howard Hawks because I could never make a musical or screwball comedy—I know my limits, vicar, you got to give me that. So I have to settle for being the next Ford, and there you have it in a scrotum sac: what all these other pussies would kill for, I’m just settling for. You can’t blame them for the profound disappointment, vicar. It must be damned disconcerting. The women all want to fuck me, that’s obvious, you can’t blame them for that either.” Looking at the women, Vikar isn’t so sure it’s obvious. “I’m too overpowering and, after me, where would they go? Marty? Paul?” He points to this guy and that. “Margie Ruth fucks Hitch because he’s writing her a horror movie, of all things.”
“Margie Ruth?” says Vikar.
“The crazy one with the tits,” the Viking gestures his cigar at the dark-haired woman. “My God, vicar. Imagine getting to fuck those tits for a horror movie. What would she let him do for a good movie? Hitch,” he points at the bearded man in the dapper safari jacket with the matinee smile, “he’s the one who wears the stupid jungle costume all the time—Mr. Big Game Hunter. I call him Hitch because he doesn’t want to be the next John Ford, he wants to be the next Alfred Hitchcock. He’s got Margie thinking she’s going to play Siamese twins in this movie of his,” he snorts, “Siamese twins, vicar! Will they be joined at the tits or have four of them?”
“Are they all actresses?”
“Who?”
“The women.”
“Well, sure,” he shrugs, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you, vicar. The guys want to be John Ford and the girls want to be Siamese twins in horror movies joined at the tits, that’s the difference. What else are they going to be, the next …” he waves his cigar, searching his brain, “… Donna Reed ? What’s the point, vicar? That’s what I’m saying. These days you’ve got veteran actresses who once won Academy Awards playing gorillas
The little girl reaches out to Vikar’s face, to wipe away the red teardrop tattooed beneath his left eye.
77.
As she did that day in Laurel Canyon, the woman appears to float across the room to take the girl back, just as the girl’s finger almost touches Vikar’s face. Perhaps there’s more urgency in the rescue this time, the hubbub of this house lending itself not so much to the woman’s gifts for casting spells. The mother carries Zazi through the sliding doors of the house out onto the deck, looking—as she did in Laurel Canyon—over her shoulder at Vikar.
“Soledad Palladin,” Viking Man explains to Vikar later that afternoon.
“I would never hurt a child,” says Vikar.
“How did a three-year-old wander across Laurel Canyon Boulevard anyway? Who was Soledad fucking or what drug was she inhaling when she was supposed to be keeping an eye on her kid?” They sit on the deck watching everyone. “They’re really not a bad lot, vicar,” says Viking Man, “for a bunch of hippies and pussies and over-indulged bohemian brats. The guys all want to be the next John Ford and haven’t yet come to grips with the fact that I’m the next John Ford, and the only reason I’m the next John Ford is because I’m not the next Howard Hawks, who made the greatest movie of all time, Red River , with your Mr. Montgomery Clift. Of course Monty was a fairy. Are you a fairy, vicar?”
“No,” says Vikar.
“I wouldn’t want to offend you if you were.”
“Thank you.”
“You got to hand it to Monty. For a little fairy he near pulls it off, you almost accept in Red River he actually could hold his own in those fisticuffs at the end with John Wayne, when hard logic tells you it’s patently preposterous. He had presence, Clift did, there’s no taking that away from him. But I can’t be the next Howard Hawks because I could never make a musical or screwball comedy—I know my limits, vicar, you got to give me that. So I have to settle for being the next Ford, and there you have it in a scrotum sac: what all these other pussies would kill for, I’m just settling for. You can’t blame them for the profound disappointment, vicar. It must be damned disconcerting. The women all want to fuck me, that’s obvious, you can’t blame them for that either.” Looking at the women, Vikar isn’t so sure it’s obvious. “I’m too overpowering and, after me, where would they go? Marty? Paul?” He points to this guy and that. “Margie Ruth fucks Hitch because he’s writing her a horror movie, of all things.”
“Margie Ruth?” says Vikar.
“The crazy one with the tits,” the Viking gestures his cigar at the dark-haired woman. “My God, vicar. Imagine getting to fuck those tits for a horror movie. What would she let him do for a good movie? Hitch,” he points at the bearded man in the dapper safari jacket with the matinee smile, “he’s the one who wears the stupid jungle costume all the time—Mr. Big Game Hunter. I call him Hitch because he doesn’t want to be the next John Ford, he wants to be the next Alfred Hitchcock. He’s got Margie thinking she’s going to play Siamese twins in this movie of his,” he snorts, “Siamese twins, vicar! Will they be joined at the tits or have four of them?”
“Are they all actresses?”
“Who?”
“The women.”
“Well, sure,” he shrugs, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you, vicar. The guys want to be John Ford and the girls want to be Siamese twins in horror movies joined at the tits, that’s the difference. What else are they going to be, the next …” he waves his cigar, searching his brain, “… Donna Reed ? What’s the point, vicar? That’s what I’m saying. These days you’ve got veteran actresses who once won Academy Awards playing gorillas
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