It was another half-hour before the wind-tossed cable tautened and another few minutes before they felt a terror-provoking vaulting forward.
Hours of slow movement. No one got used to the irregular pitching forward. It never pulled them more than a few feet. The wind picked up and the car was tossed like a salt shaker. Everyone feared one or both cables would break. Thereafter, the surges forward were slower and gained less ground.
It had been two in the afternoon when they ascended. By the time the car reached the concrete docking station on Mount San Jacincto it was after six. The winter sun had set, the external cold versus internal heat had glazed the windows with frost, through which the lighted yellow and green bauble of Palm Springs became tinier, increasingly fogged over and vague.
At the top, they stumbled, were half carried out of the car and led into the pinnacle’s man-made structure. Two men kissed the ground. Harve had come to, but his eyes were blank and glittery as he allowed Paul and Theo to lift him upstairs. He was checked over by a registered nurse who’d been already stranded with fifty other people at the mountaintop restaurant. Harve and the boys’ mother were put to bed. The mortified management made the newcomers comfortable and they were given free drinks and dinner. Paul brought the three young brothers to a window commanding the view of the cable-car route. As the boys chomped on their free burgers and sipped from the long pliant straws of their soft drinks, they spoke about the adventure.
‘It was great all right!’ Paul said. ‘But now, how do we get down!’
BOOK NINE
Ravens at Truro
… it is an address vanished, a name past divining, a costlier pain than you ever thought to possess. Aeons could not explain its sharp hold, its caress.
Dominic De Petrie,
Conversations in the Dark
‘IS THAT YOU? IT IS YOU! Hell and damnation! Stand up and give me a brotherly hug here in front of everyone or I’ll be forced to break both of your ears off and bring ’em to the guys at the bar.’
Whom else but Bart Vanuzzi, my brother-in-law!
Naturally I stood up and gave him a hug, which he paid back by almost shattering my ribcage. As he did, and as I attempted to pull out of his resolutely Drakkar-flavored ambience, I became very aware that all 200 passengers in the lounge awaiting the hour-late jet to Boston were staring at us. Bart has that effect: he’s so very public a person that even if there were no one else but two sight-impaired children who only spoke Urdu to witness it he’d turn our encounter into theater so unforgettable they’d not only recognize him but without fail gush about it to their very next interlocutor.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
He looked at me as though from a long-angled lens. ‘Don’t give me that line! Your sister told you I was here!’
‘In Fort Myers? I thought she said Fort Lauderdale,’ I invented on the spot. ‘I can never get these Forts right.’
The minuscule shift in his gunsight-narrowed eye showed he only half believed I was that stupid.
‘What are you doing in the airport?’ I’d assumed I’d be safe from him here.
‘Some guys just came in from the coast to join practice. We were meeting them. And my teammate there, you know him, our Heisman Trophy fullback, Evan Davis, he turns around and whistles: “Look at the cute piece of ass in the tight chinos.” Which, I forgetting that besides being our offensive co-captain, Evan is also our professional faggot, means he’s checking out a guy. So I turn around to look and who is Evan leering at but my own little brother-in-law? By the way, that is a close-fitting pair of pants. You looking to join the Mile-High Club?’ Before I could ask what he meant, Bart went on, ‘Your plane’s late. Come to the bar and I’ll buy you a beer and introduce you to the guys.’
His exceedingly muscled arm went round my shoulder and head, advancing me in the direction he wanted: this was more than a suggestion. A minute later, he’d maneuvered me across the airport’s main corridor, down the hall, inside a dark, noisy, beery bar and grill. The half-dozen oversized men on stools yelling at soccer on the dropped-down Hi-Def TV screen were undoubtedly his Forty-Niner cohorts. Facing us as we advanced was, I recognized not only from previous TV viewings but also from his focussed concentration upon my person as we progressed through the Formica tables, Evan Beauregard-Davis. He probably seemed bullet-headed because the rest of him was so big. His face youthful: peaches and cream skin and periwinkle-blue eyes the size of Susan B. Anthony dollars. He would have looked a kid if not for his aquiline nose – a rudder that gave distinction – along with his trademark three-inches-high, bristle-straight, butterscotch-colored hair. His long, overmuscled arms gently but surely dislodged me from Bart’s half-nelson, and drew me up to the bar between himself and an African-American watching TV who acknowledged me by a raised eyebrow as he scooped beer nuts off the bar.
‘Hello, good-lookin’,’ Evan said in a husky molasses and mintjulep drawl I couldn’t believe was natural. ‘Bart said you were his bro, but I couldn’t believe it. He’s such an orang-utan.’
Evan took my hand in his huge one and released it slowly. He smelled of Joop, or Boss, not an aggressive scent. His green polo shirt seemed to be the exact hue of – and about the same breadth as – a snooker table. From close up, the baby blues were blondly, extravagantly lashed. A red comma left of his amused mouth and a tiny nick below one butterscotch eyebrow were all Evan possessed by way of scars. But upon his innocent countenance they looked deliberate. He kept his large warm hand against the small of my back, using it to turn me as though he were my puppeteer as Bart introduced me to one after another of their team members.
‘You a detective?’ backup quarterback Toby Hess asked.
Baffling me. ‘I’m a scholar … a literary detective.’
‘Oh yeah, that’s right.’ He lost interest.
‘He a college professor, Bart?’ another asked. Tapping my neighbor on his head. ‘Hey, Tyrone! Here’s your chance to get your degree.’
‘I don’ wan’ no degree,’ Tyrone growled.
Bart got the rest sufficiently confused about who I was, so when a particularly egregious foul was made on the TV, they all went back to the Galaxys.
Except for Evan, who guided me to face only him, and who said, ‘How’m I going to turn you into my boy-toy love-slave if you fly to Boston right away?’
I was tickled by his attitude and intelligence. ‘You’re awfully confident, aren’t you? You get everyone you go after?’
‘Not always … right away!’ He rectified it. ‘Eventually!’
‘Not everyone’s gay, you have to admit.’
He shrugged. ‘That don’t mean coon-shit to me!’
As I looked at him, the good ole boy Evan suddenly resembled someone else, someone more substantial. I couldn’t think who.
‘Then I’ll change what I said before. You’re overconfident.’
His lips puckered as though he were about to bawl. ‘Now don’t go making definitions. I jes want me a friend to play with. You about the cutest I seen all …’
‘… afternoon!’ I finished for him.
‘All damn month I been in this hole of Fort Myers! If you want to know the truth. Good thing your brother-in-law’s a completely evil son of a bitch, because I’d have you here on the bartop, if he weren’t.’
‘Whooaa!’ I succeeded pulling away from him, uncertain what was going on. I thought we’d been flirting, fooling around. ‘I’m glad he’s here. And mean. And that I’m leaving soon.’
‘Boy!’ Evan leaned into my ear, voice huskier than ever, ‘You don’t half know what you’re missin’ turning me down? But I’m going to be a good sport. I’ll give you another chance! I’m going to get your info and call you next time I’m in … where is it he said you live? – Los Angeles? I’ll take you out to dinner in a tux an’ all. Be a complete fuckin’ gentleman. How about it?’
‘Maybe,’ I said, pulling away. ‘Nice meeting you … all!’ I said. I found my brother-in-law. ‘I’d bett
er get back to my lounge.’
To my surprise, Bart threw his arm around my shoulder and walked me back out. ‘You give Evan wet dreams? He going to be on my case all week about you?’
‘He could use some work on assertiveness.’
‘Runs in the family. His daddy was Rutherford Davis. The guy who went to Siberia and opened those gold mines despite being shot twice by the Russian Mafia? Before him they are all dominators, going back to Jefferson Davis.’
‘President of the Confederacy?’ That’s who Evan resembled.
‘Johnny Reb himself!’ Bart said. ‘Now, I don’t have to warn you, do I?’
‘I can handle Evan.’
‘I’m not just talking about Evan. At least he’s open about what he wants. I’m talking about all these people you’re going around seeing.’
‘Thanks for your concern. I’m just, like, interviewing. Nothing else is going on!’ And when he stopped dead and looked at me skeptically, I added, ‘Okay! I bought a manuscript. That was it! It cost what you spend monthly on underwear.’
‘The money is not the point,’ Bart insisted. ‘Not the amount. Not even that you paid it! I’m worried you’re out of your depth. Truth is, I don’t know what you’re up to, and who all of these people are. Some may be great writers. Hell, the greatest in the world! That doesn’t mean they’re not going to fuck you over. Use you for their own ends. Who knows, just toy with you, for their own entertainment. These people are intellectuals, probably screwed up, and, well, they’ve all got a million more miles experience than you. Admit that!’
‘I admit it. But …’
‘I’ll bail you out. No questions asked,’ Bart said. ‘Not just because of your sister.’
‘That’s really generous of you. But …’
‘You don’t know – you can’t know – anyone’s motives but your own. Just watch your step. That’s all I’m asking. Okay?’ He grabbed me in another half-nelson, half lifting me off the floor.
Someone on a public address system called my flight number. I heard it, and so evidently did Bart. He let go of me and poked me in the rib.
‘Now get the hell out of here! Call your sister when you get home! You hear me! Mi-nac-cio!’ he warned in a low snarl. ‘If you don’t … you’re going to be my personal gift for Evan Cock-sucking Davis. You understand?’
The last photo I’d seen of Dominic De Petrie had been on the back inside cover of his last published book of memoirs dealing with the early 1980s: Death and Art in Greenwich Village. Despite its late publication date, according to Irian St George, the picture was taken a decade before. St George would know. In 1992, De Petrie had been barrel-chested, vigorous-looking, with still-curly, abundant salt and pepper hair and a distinguished squarish face, dominated by the sort of large, piercing eyes Romantic poets used to compare to those of eagles. I assumed after fourteen years as he’d moved into his middle sixties, he’d altered. I was prepared not to recognize the author at the little Provincetown Airport, where he’d insisted on picking me up, saying, ‘Why rent a car? I can chauffeur you around, and if you want, you can drive one of my vehicles.’ It might even be diverting to report back that we’d gotten into an identity mix-up.
But there he was, as I stepped down the stairway of the little commuter twelve-seater – I have to admit, feeling like an early RKO Picture. This was my first non-jet plane, jets being banned due to wetland environmental concerns. De Petrie was unmistakable in the small crowd waiting. He wore a white cotton vest over a yellow polo shirt, Roman centurion sandals, and baggy off-black shorts. His hair was almost white and he’d lost more, though what remained was curly. He looked healthy and vigorous, if thinner than in the glossy. When I got closer, I noticed his skin was loose under his chin and neck, though taut on his arms and legs. He was on the far side of the cyclone fence separating passengers in front of the singlestory airport building as I stepped through the plane’s hatch and peered around. By the time I’d reached the runway tarmac, he’d already figured out who I was. As I arrived at the gate’s stationary luggage rack, De Petrie was there.
‘They said it was uncanny!’ he said. ‘They weren’t lying.’
‘My resemblance to Len?’
‘Though I didn’t know him when he was your age, naturally. Is this all of your stuff?’ De Petrie asked. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
I wouldn’t let him tote the heavier suitcase, but he almost tore my computer bag out of my hands and hefted it as though it weighed nothing. He guided us through the swarming little terminal and out into the peace of an immense back parking lot. ‘It’s not far,’ De Petrie said. ‘That pale green object ahead.’
‘The Z-5?’ I asked. The little Beemer roadster stood out from the heap of drab Minivans, Sport Utes and sedans like a diamond in a coal chute.
‘Dame calls it the De Petrie Fuckmobile,’ he said. ‘When Axey saw it he asked why I didn’t get it in fire-engine red. But I couldn’t forget the old adage, R-C-S-D! You’ve never heard it? Red-Car, Small-Dick!’ De Petrie laughed: a distinctive laugh, a mix between a chortle, a cackle and a giggle, genial and masculine. The Beemer happily chirped and flashed its headlights at our approach. It started its engine and revved to a soft purr. I knew this was mechanical, in response to the proximity of De Petrie’s keychain-sensor. To me it was like a happy puppy welcoming its owner, eagerly awaiting playtime.
My luggage was stowed and we were belted into the cockpit and he was shifting into reverse, awaiting a doddering woman in a 1970s Sedan De Ville to pull out, when I realized I’d still not made a formal salutation.
‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that first, we’d drop into P-Town. It’s more or less on our way. We’ll pick up the papers and sweets there. You hungry? What am I saying, the young are always hungry! If you have special food needs let me know. After you’re settled in and we’ve had coffee or tea and munchies, I thought you’d show me the manuscripts and other documentation you’ve collected supporting your thesis. We’ll take it out to the beach. Given your tan, you look as though you enjoy sun. We’ve got a beach near me. Magnificent. Private. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to check you out without seeming to be a dirty old man. After, we’ll get dinner. Then you’re free to pump me as much as you want. That sound like a possible schedule?’ De Petrie asked. ‘Let’s go, lady,’ he prompted in a low growl.
‘It’s fine. Great. Yeah.’
‘Why do I sense there’s something on your mind?’
‘It’s just that … I don’t know how to say it … how incredibly honored I am to finally meet you.’
‘Save that for the MLA, okay?’
‘No, really, Mr De Petrie. I have to … Even if it sounds adolescent. The Adventures of Marty is my favorite book. I read it every year. It changed my life … in … a dozen ways. I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t be … well, who and what I am if it weren’t for that book – and your others too.’
‘Okay, you said it. Feel better?’
‘You don’t believe me?’ I said. ‘Or you’ve heard it so many times before that you …’
‘That what? I believe you. Now what? Am I responsible for changing your life? How am I supposed to deal with that? It’s … this is why I’ve stopped going out, meeting people, why I’ve stopped interviews and all that publicity junk. I’m glad you liked it, but the sad truth is, I wrote Marty for my own selfish reasons. That book more than others. I had no intention of some sixteen-year-old changing his life. I’m not sure I like the idea you did. It’s confusing. Too many issues. That’s why I don’t publish.’
‘What reasons?’ was, out the welter of questions, all I could think to ask.
‘To buy this little fucker,’ he slapped the steering wheel, ‘for one thing! Foreign advances from the book went as downpayments. Continued royalties keep paying it off. Finally! She moves!’ He threw the Z-5 into gear. We shot out of the parking lot, leaving curtains of sand on either side.
The two-laned road curved and twisted almost back on itself several times as it asce
nded into high sand dunes surrounding the airport. Perfect for De Petrie to open up the Beemer’s powerful engine. He drove with confidence, a little flair, and fearlessness, accelerating into sharp bends, throwing the car into overdrive along a straightaway to pass a dilapidated pickup, maneuvering abruptly, effortlessly. In minutes, we’d approached an eight-laned islanded main road, which he leapt across, onto another rough two-laner headed into an area of one- and two- and infrequently three-story clapboard houses. We crossed two more good-sized boulevards and came out onto the main drag, Commercial Street, in front of the post office. I could partly see and even more strongly smell the waterfront, only a block away, and apparently at low tide.
Getting out, De Petrie said, ‘I’m leaving the keys. Move it only if a cop asks.’ Then he was gone.
Provincetown was a bustling tourist zone, but I got why De Petrie avoided it in summer. The half-dozen teens sprawled on the post office steps shadowed by its towering Doric columns were dressed in retro-grunge and post-punk outfits, their hair multiple shades of colors, the least expected parts of their anatomies embellished with rings and silver studs. Cars crawled along the street, as people hung out of back windows shouting. Pedestrians ambled slowly three and four abreast on the narrow sidewalks, spilling into the narrow main concourse, further slowing traffic. Shops selling every kind of merchandise went out of their way to attract passers-by. It was boisterous and obscurely happy, social and comfy. It was also blaring and vulgar and nerve-racking.
De Petrie threw a bundle of newspapers and a grease-spotted white paper bag into the netting behind his car seat as he hopped in.
We inched along a block of the stop-and-go main-street traffic before he veered left into what looked to be an alleyway. It never widened, but it did rise steeply, recrossed the avenues from before and ran parallel to the road we’d come into town on. At the highway, De Petrie swung a right, pushing two buttons on the car’s console. One turned on the CD player. Kate Bush’s second album began with lush orchestration and her characteristic wail. The other button had no apparent effect. I asked what it was. Despite our speed and the wind inches away outside the car windows, within was calm, so De Petrie didn’t have to shout.
The Book of Lies Page 41
