by Sally Mason
A deflating thought needles its way through the protective layers of booze: how can he expect a repeat of that fluke win the other day?
Is it likely that another jockey will tumble from his mount?
No, he decides, drinking deeply.
Then the alcohol—what a magical potion it is!—allows him an insight that he would never have sober.
He’s back in the final moments of the race the other day, the almost-victorious jockey urging the favorite toward the finish, raising his arms and half-standing in his stirrups, pumping his fists in celebration.
Then Forrest sees—as clearly as if he’s right there—the little man dive from the horse, rolling himself into a ball to protect himself from injury as Mr. Darcy leads the rest of the field home.
Forrest laughs out loud.
Of course! The race was fixed!
And Forrest’s mind, made so nimble—almost acrobatic!—by the booze takes him into a smoky backroom, where swarthy men in check sports coats and green eyeshades, stogies clamped in their jaws (men whose surnames all end in vowels) hatch a diabolical plan to make a chunk of money off of a half-ton of horsemeat called Mr. Darcy by buying jockeys and fixing races.
Brilliant, Forrest says out loud, referring both to their dark scheme and his ability to detect it.
I’ll bet on Mr. Darcy tomorrow.
And I’ll bet heavily.
Another brief moment of deflation.
All he has in his skinny wallet is a couple of dollars.
How, then, is he going to finance this bet?
His hand answers him, delving beneath his shirt, fingers finding the comforting contours of his mother’s ring.
He’ll use the ring as collateral.
Raymond, his bestest old buddy boy, will not refuse him.
As Forrest raises a triumphant hand and signals for more drinks the train jolts and groans into motion.
71
Poor Billy Bigelow has never driven his car beyond the outskirts Santa Sofia.
He seldom travels out of town, but when he does—occasionally visiting the Los Angeles Book Fair—he uses the train.
So, hunched over the wheel of the station wagon, peering into the night, his foot flat to the floor, the old car wallowing on the highway like a whale, he’s terrified.
Terrified of losing his once-in-a-lifetime shot at love, sure, but it is an older terror that causes rivers of sweat to flow from his body.
Memories of the runaway ice cream truck and that awful collision that killed his mother and sister fill his mind, and when, down near Carpinteria, he drifts from his lane and a huge, rumbling rig nearly turns him to hamburger beneath it eighteen wheels, the theme from The Sting plays loudly in his head.
But once the rig, air horns blaring, speeds away into the night, Billy feels a strange kind of fatalistic calm settle upon him.
He will get to Union Station or die trying.
So Billy races toward Los Angeles in some sort of trance until he sees the city’s infinity of lights spread before him, and a new fear seizes his gut.
How will he not get lost in this vast metropolis?
The old car, needless to say, has no GPS, and even if it was furnished with one, Billy wouldn’t have a clue how to work it.
So, using a combination of dumb luck and improvised prayers he barrels toward downtown LA until—as if by magic—the Union Station exit sign blooms in the night.
Billy hurls the car at the off-ramp and sees ahead of him, lit up like something from an old movie, the white clock tower of the train station rising above a row of palms.
A sign directs him to valet parking and Billy flings the keys into the hands of an attendant and sprints for the ticket concourse with its high wooden ceilings, tiled floors and chunky leather arm chairs.
The concourse is filled with travelers and their luggage, and Billy—as he searches the vast room—knows he has to exercise extreme caution and, in the moment he turns to dodge a porter wheeling a mountain of steamer trunks, he misses Brontë Baines who slips through an exit into the night.
Dragging her suitcase out the art deco concourse, her heels clicking on the glossy tiled floor, Brontë Baines decides that perhaps it is time she left behind her the distant era of those frail English sisters and allows herself to live in the modern world.
Or as modern as she can tolerate.
Which would be about the time this train station was built: the nineteen thirties.
Yes, she will get lost in this vast city and sustain herself on scraps of its glamorous, cynical past, like a character from Nathaniel West’s Day of the Locust.
As she is about to raise a hand for a taxi, she hears a voice calling from behind her.
She turns to see the man who accosted her on the platform in Santa Sofia, who she later saw in the dining car of the train drinking an astonishing amount of alcohol.
“Leave me alone!” she yells and he retreats.
Then she sees he holds her silk scarf in his hand.
“You dropped this.”
Brontë nods and walks back through the doors and with as much grace as she can muster, takes the scarf from the man and drapes it around her neck as she turns again for the exit.
Suddenly she is grabbed and lifted from her feet—the lunatic is attacking her!—but when she’s swung around she looks up not into the face of the drunkard, but the flushed beaming features of William Bigelow.
She blinks.
“William?”
“Brontë.”
“Put me down,” she says and he obeys. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to take you back.”
“Back where?”
“Back to Santa Sofia.”
“Why?”
“Because I, what I mean to say is . . .”
“Yes?”
“I feel as you do.”
“How do you know how I feel?”
He produces her journal from his pocket.
“Uh, you left this behind.”
“You read my journal?”
“Well, it kind of fell open and I saw something on the last page, just a little, about how you felt about me . . .”
She snatches the Moleskin from his hand.
“How could you?”
“I’m sorry. It was just a few of lines.”
“A Zen kōan is just a few lines and it has the power to alter consciousness.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She stares at him.
“Mnnnn. And what about your dance partner? Little Miss Potato Chip?”
“That was nothing.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, we’re just friends.”
“So you really want me to go back with you to Santa Sofia?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll live the rest of our lives together.”
This is just the most impossibly romantic thing anybody has ever said to her.
Brontë steps close to William and, as the “Begin the Beguine” wafts through the public address system, she says, “Dance with me.”
Without a moment’s hesitation William Bigelow—never again to be called Poor Billy—takes Brontë Baines in his arms and leads her masterfully across the tiled concourse in a slow rumba, the chandeliers bathing them in buttery light, travelers encircling them, enchanted, applauding as the huge man and the slip of girl twirl and glide like a vision from Hollywood’s flickering past.
72
Darcy is woken by Eric brandishing a cup of black coffee like a lethal weapon.
“Here, darling, drink this,” he says.
Darcy shrouds her head with the comforter and burrows deeper into the couch.
Eric, about as sympathetic as a drill sergeant, yanks the covers free and leaves Darcy blinking at the bright sunlight that floods the room.
“Eric, did I really drink an entire bottle of wine last night?”
“You did.”
�
�And I’m remembering something about a tub of Ben & Jerry’s . . .”
He holds up the empty container.
“Gone to the great ice cream parlor in the sky, sadly.”
“Hell, I really pigged out.”
“Well, I did help you with the Chocolate Therapy. You could almost call it couple’s counseling . . .”
“Funny.” She sits up, groaning. “Were you here the whole night?”
“Uh huh, curled up in that armchair watching over you like a little gnome.”
“You’re very sweet.”
“Aren’t I just?”
Darcy lifts the cup and manages to get a couple of mouthfuls of the coffee down.
“Okay, now it’s off to the shower with you,” Eric says, “and then I want you in that hideous SUV heading south.”
“No way.”
“Oh, way, darling. Way, way, way.”
“Forget it.”
“You’re going to get over that creep of an ex of yours in the arms of another, very hot man.”
“Don’t worry, I’m waaaay over Porter. Besides, I’m the last person Forrest wants to see.”
“Let’s ask him,” Eric says dialing a number on his cell.
Darcy jumps from the couch like she’s seen a snake and backs away.
“No, God, Eric! I’m not prepared!”
He listens to his phone, then grimaces.
“Voice mail.”
He tosses the cell onto the couch.
“Okay, you drive down and you see him face-to-face. Even better.”
“I have no idea where to find him, so that’s the end of that scheme.”
“Not so fast. There’s that Indian restaurant he took you to.”
“What about it?”
“The owner will know how to find Forrest. She’s his friend.”
Darcy shrugs, “Maybe.”
Eric stands and puts an arm around her.
“Darce, you need to do this, otherwise you’re going to slump into a deep and miserable and terribly boring depression.” He strokes her tangled hair. “And you owe Forrest a teeny-weeny little explanation, don’t you think?”
She sighs. “I guess you’re right.”
“I am. Go down and find him and take it from there. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
“He slams the door in my face?”
“Well, I doubt it. But if he does, you just shoot along to Valentino and buy yourself something outrageously expensive and charge it to your card. Give Porter another aneurism.”
Darcy has to laugh.
“Well, when you put that way . . .”
“Go, go, go! Get yourself in the shower. You’ve got a life to start living.”
As she climbs the stairs, despite her throbbing headache, Darcy can’t help feeling a little buzz of excitement—no, desire—spread through her body at the thought of seeing Forrest Forbes again.
73
Forrest stands a little unsteadily in the doorway of the bar, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior and the banks of monitors tuned to every sporting event known to man.
A girl in a letter sweater and tight shorts approaches him.
“A booth for one?”
Forrest says, “I’m looking for a friend.”
“Aren’t we all, Sailor? Does she have a name, this friend?”
“She’s more like a he,” he says.
The girl shakes her head.
“Wow, complicated gender stuff here.”
“Raymond. His name is Raymond.”
“Sharply dressed guy who looks a bit like a young Andy Garcia?”
“Yeah, Andy Garcia in . . .” Forrest waves a hand as if he’s trying to pluck something from the air, “8 Million Ways to Die.”
“Hey, you’re good. Follow me.”
Using the backs of seats for support he tails her to a booth in the corner where Raymond sits with the giant thug who tenderized Forrest’s upper body a week ago.
“Forrest, good to see you, my friend.”
Raymond gestures toward the Mexican giant.
“You remember Edmundo?”
“Yeah. He’s got that whole Nacho Libre thing down, even the mask.” Forrest pretends to squint at the big man. “Oh, pardon me, I see that’s no mask . . .”
When Edmundo growls Raymond pats him on the arm.
“You’re funny, Forrest.” He points to the seat opposite him. “Why don’t you sit before you topple, my man.”
Forrest sits and says to the waitress: “Bring me five Maker’s Marks. Doubles.”
“Five?”
“Yeah, one always looks so very lonely.”
She shrugs and walks away.
“So, Forrest,” Raymond says, “I was a little surprised to get your call. Aren’t you a reformed man? ”
“Well, there’s a horse . . .”
“There’s always a horse,” Raymond says.
“A horse called Mr. Darcy.”
“Yeah, he should be called Mr. Glue, man. He’s ready for the . . .”
Raymond mimes a shot between the eyes.
“He won a few days ago.”
“A fluke. Whatever little bit of juice he ever had is gone after that crazy sprint.”
“Well, I want to bet twenty thousand on him for a win. At fifty to one.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“Yes.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“American?”
“As American as I am.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No sir, I am not.”
“Well, as you Americans say, show me the color of your money.”
“I have no money.”
Raymond sighs. “And there I was having such a pleasant day.”
“But I have this.”
Forrest digs beneath his shirt and struggles to free his mother’s ring from the chain, the diamonds and sapphires gleaming like Christmas when, at last, he drops it onto the table.
Raymond stares at the ring, then he picks it up and turns it in his fingers.
He takes out his cell phone and uses its beam like a flashlight, spending a long time examining the stones.
When, at last, he looks at Forrest there is no humor in his face.
“This ring is very valuable.”
“Yes. Invaluable.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“Okay, so you’re saying I hold this until the end of the race? If you win, you get it back plus one million dollars?”
“Not if I win, when I win.”
“And if you lose, I get to keep the ring?”
“Yes.”
Raymond regards the ring, then he places it carefully on the table.
“Forrest, you’re very drunk. I think you should take your pretty bauble and go home.”
“No.”
“This is something you’re going to regret.”
“If you don’t take my action, I’ll find somebody who will.”
Raymond stares at him, then he shrugs.
“Okay, Forrest, you have yourself a bet.”
74
As Darcy drives south the little bubble of enthusiasm she felt for Eric’s plan bursts.
She sees a tired, melancholy woman—a woman who is definitely not getting any younger—staring back at her from the rearview.
A woman who should know better than setting off on this idiotic mission.
Darcy frees her phone from her purse and dials Forrest’s number.
Voice mail.
This is stupid, girl.
You’re setting yourself up for more humiliation.
She’s looking for an exit, ready to loop back and go home (Eric Royce be damned) when her phone rings and she sees Porter’s name on caller ID.
She’s tempted to ignore the call, but when she stopped for gas earlier her credit card was declined—Porter’s handiwork—and a little streak of malice has her answering.
“Hi, Porter,
” she says, breezy as can be.
“Darce. I tried the house first.”
“I’m in the car.”
“Okay. Listen, about yesterday . . .”
“How are your testicles, Porter,” she asks sweetly.
She hears him choke.
“Oh, uh, fine. Everything’s just fine down . . . there.”
“I’m so pleased. I really wouldn’t want to you not to be able to express your love for your wife in the most natural way.”
“Darcy, I know you’re upset.”
“Not any more, Port. Over that.”
“Well, good. I’m glad. I just wanted to revisit our chat yesterday.”
“Would that be before or after I kicked you in the nutsack?”
“Darce, I was hoping you’d seen reason about the house—“”
“No, Porter, what I saw was a selfish, scheming, miserable little son of a bitch. If you ever try to come near me or contact me again, I’ll get a restraining order.”
Darcy kills the call and says to the woman in the rearview: what the hell, I’m going to LA.
I’m going to LA to let the oh-so-hunky Mr. Forrest Forbes jump my bones like I’m a trampoline.
Yes, I am.
75
“And away they go!”
The strident bray of the race caller jerks Forrest from a stupor, and he stares blearily around the sports bar.
It takes him a few moments to remember where he is and what he’s doing here.
Then he sees Raymond sipping a Perrier, watching the race on the giant screen that hovers in the gloom just above the booth, and he remembers the bet.
Forrest turns in his seat to improve his view, squinting at the screen, trying to separate Mr. Darcy from the pack of horses.
Even for a man as drunk as Forrest this isn’t difficult to do.
Mr. Darcy is the straggler, way behind the rest of the field.
This is the strategy, Forrest tells himself.
This is exactly what he did the other day.
But he can’t help sneaking a glance at his mother’s ring, lying on the table between him and Raymond, the stones reflecting the light from the big screen.
The commentator is talking up the favorite: “Skylark is moving like a winner. He’s looking the horse to beat.”
