If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that no one without wealth is exempt from destruction. Intelligence, morality, decency, industry, none is sufficient to confer immunity to downfall, not unless it has been successfully subordinated to the accumulation of riches.
Homage to Hammurabi, p. 289
21
On my way back to the office, I swung by the Central Station. There was an envelope for me at the desk, nine-by-twelve manila, with my name scrawled across the front in Charley’s hand. I thanked the sergeant, tucked it under my arm, and toted it back to my office. When my shoes were off and the coffee was on, I tore it open.
It was Wade Linton all right—Al’s father, Carrie’s savior, Emma’s heartthrob—but just barely. The once-bright eyes were vague and unplugged. The hair was sparse and graying, so long and oily it hung over his ears like a tattered scarf. The skin was sallow, the sweater torn, the mouth made comic by the loss of an eye tooth. Linton had been mugged, if not by a specific villain, then by the long misfiring of his life. I tried to imagine how badly his agile mind—the mind of Hammurabi—had been warped by his plunge. Then I wondered what course that mind might take at this point, and whether my invasion of his life would aid or complicate its future.
I set aside the mug shot and tried to make sense of the pieces of the puzzle I’d just uncovered, to decide whether Carrie Devlin had any part in Linton’s fall, whether her mother’s tiff with Lily Lucerne was anything I had to check on, whether any of the ties I’d unearthed were strong enough to make Wade Linton return to his old neighborhood and thus make that my focus.
I hadn’t made much progress toward any answers when the door to the outer office buzzed. Since my current secretary is only on duty irregularly, pursuant to her whim more than my requirements, I trooped out to answer it myself.
Bryce Chatterton was in the hallway, as fidgety as a boy dating a girl whose father liked to chat. I brought him in the office, sat him down, put some coffee in him, and encouraged him to relax. The effort went for naught—Bryce was as gloomy as I’d ever seen him.
In the middle of his marvel about the imminent reopening of the Bay Bridge, he looked around the office. “What’s different about this place?”
“Different from what—yours? About fifty thousand bucks’ worth of interior decorating.”
“I mean from before.”
I thought for a minute. “Peggy took her plants home,” I concluded finally.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Not good.”
“No.”
“So buy some new ones. You need greenery.”
“I’ve got greenery.”
“Where?”
“On the ceiling above my shower.”
Ever fastidious, Bryce made piano movements with his hands, as though just the thought of all that mold made the air alive with spores.
“What brings you here?” I prodded. “Progress report?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been talking to Andy.”
“Potter?”
He nodded.
“Double-checking my research? I don’t blame you.”
He shook his head, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick wad of paper. “This.”
He handed it to me. When I unfolded it I was looking at a notice of motion for a temporary restraining order, directed at Bryce and Margaret and Periwinkle, asking for a order “preventing the publication of a novel entitled Homage to Hammurabi and/or any other work of fiction or nonfiction consisting in whole or in part of a libel per se or libel per quod against the Sebastian School, its students, teachers, administrators, or alumni, individually or collectively.” There were some points and authorities attached, and a statement under penalty of perjury from Marvin Gillis swearing and affirming upon information and belief that publication of the novel would mean the Decline of the West.
“How’d he find out about it?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I handed the papers back. “This is bullshit, Bryce. There are all kinds of cases that say you can’t restrain speech before it’s published, that the only thing you can do is collect damages afterward if you can prove them. He can’t get away with it.” I considered Bryce’s persistent gloom. “Can he?”
Bryce wasn’t cheered by my essay. “He can if I don’t resist.”
“Why wouldn’t you resist?”
“Because resistance costs a fortune. Andy estimates fifty thousand dollars. And you know lawyers’ estimates—multiply by three.”
“Another example of a theoretical freedom being practically untenable.”
“I guess.”
“So you’re giving in?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
Bryce looked so miserable I picked up the phone. “Andy? Marsh Tanner. Bryce is pretty upset by this TRO thing.”
“He should be,” he said in a breathy voice that belied his solid sagacity.
“Why? It’s a sham, isn’t it?”
“Not entirely.”
“Why not? Prior restraint is—”
“There are kids involved,” Andy interrupted. “Kids make bad law.”
“They aren’t kids anymore,” I said. “If they ever were.”
“What do you know about it?”
“More than I want to.”
Andy hesitated. “We may need you as a witness, so keep Thursday open.”
I told him I would. “Tell me something that will calm Bryce down.”
“Anytime a big law firm agrees to take on a lawsuit against you, you have reason to be worried. No lawyer will defend a case on a contingency; it’s going to cost him some bucks.”
“Can’t you keep down the tab?”
“If Gillis is serious about this, keeping it down may mean keeping it under six figures. Expenses are high, Marsh; I’ve got partners to answer to.”
“Well, do what you can.”
“I always do. So how’s it going with you?”
I looked at my vastly ungreen office and my vastly apprehensive friend. “Not worth a damn.”
After I replaced the phone, Bryce looked at me. “So that’s my story; what have you been doing?”
“Well, I’ve made some progress.”
“Really?” He brightened by a watt. “Good.” Then he remembered his predicament. “I guess.”
“The author’s name is Linton.”
“That’s wonderful. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to try a couple of leads, but …” I shrugged to establish my pessimism.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said about Jane Ann,” Bryce said, as though he’d read an earlier edition of my thoughts. “If all this really happened at Sebastian, she probably does know something about it. I should talk to her,” he concluded nervously.
“Why don’t you let me do it?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my job. And because she’ll have to be pushed to get her to talk, and she’ll resent whoever does the pushing. There’s no need to put that in your relationship.”
Bryce was obviously relieved by my offer. “I suppose not.”
“I’ll let you know how it comes out.”
“Fine.”
“And Bryce?”
My tone was enough to make his nerves return posthaste. “What?”
“If someone did frame this poor teacher, it had to have been done with the cooperation of at least one student at Sebastian.”
“The girl, you mean. The victim.”
I nodded. “And my sense of kids is, they seldom go out on their own at that age. Teenage schemes and antics tend to be group things.”
“So?”
“So if Jane Ann had anything at all to do with this, she could be hit with a conspiracy charge.”
Bryce recoiled. “Nonsense. Jane Ann wouldn’t—”
“All members of a criminal conspiracy are equally guilty, Bryce
, even if only one of them did the actual deed. I just want to make sure you know what the risks are of going on with this—I don’t want to bring down a bunch of grief on you and your family.”
I had expressed that caution twice before, without effect, but this time he hesitated. “Maybe I should talk to Margaret. She doesn’t even know about this.” He waved the papers in his hand.
“Maybe you should.”
“Don’t do anything else until you hear from me.”
“Fine.”
“And, Marsh?”
“What?”
“Thanks for … looking out for me.”
“My pleasure,” I said, because it was. If it wasn’t, I shouldn’t be in the business.
After Bryce had gone, I cleaned up some odds and ends as I plotted my next move, assuming Bryce ultimately authorized one. When I was getting ready to go home, the phone rang. It was Margaret Chatterton.
“I’ve just spoken with Bryce,” she announced furiously.
“And?”
“He’s fouling the whole thing up.”
“What thing?”
“The business, the family, everything. Now he’s going to drag Jane Ann into this … this whatever it is. You have to put an end to it.”
“How?”
“By stopping whatever you’re doing.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll have to bring in Marvin.”
“Marvin’s already in.”
“You mean the lawsuit?”
I thought back to my nocturnal meeting at the Gillis mansion. “And other ways.”
“Marvin gets what he wants, Marsh. If he wants to stop you, he will. Especially if I help him.”
I sighed. Bryce had talked a lot about truth in literature. Well, I deal in truth as well, and truth is often unpalatable in my business too. “I don’t want to hurt you or Jane Ann, Margaret, but Bryce is still my client. Unless it involves something illegal or immoral, I have to go by what he wants.”
“You find it moral to ruin a young girl’s life?”
“No one’s talking about doing that.”
“That’s precisely what Bryce thinks you were talking about.”
“If it looks like that’s what’s happening, I’ll call a halt. Unless she was mixed up in framing a man for something he didn’t do. Then it might get complicated.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is my daughter you’re referring to.” She marshaled her weapons. “If I hear you’re threatening her happiness, I’ll take steps, Marsh. Don’t think I won’t. I won’t let you hurt her.”
“I wouldn’t want you to, Margaret,” I said, but I was talking through a severed thread.
When I replaced the phone and leaned back in my chair to ponder the events of the last half hour, I found myself looking into the alabaster disdain of Jane Ann’s fey and furtive boyfriend.
“What brings you by—collecting for United Way?”
“Not this month.” Lloyd’s smile remained infuriating. “I’m here to give you a dollop of advice.”
“That’s great—I haven’t had any advice for about thirty seconds.”
Lloyd was too caught up in his persona to react. “I’ve been tight with Jane Ann since Country Day,” he said.
“Whatever that is.”
“It’s a grade school.”
“Oh.”
“There are certain … episodes in her past that her stepfather is unaware of.”
“I’m sure there are. I’m sure the converse is true as well. And I’m sure there are things in your past that would make your parents change their names.”
“My parents are dead.”
I reddened—even Lloyd didn’t deserve that. “Sorry.”
He shrugged away my sentiment. “The events I’m referring to would be very upsetting for Mr. Chatterton if they were made public. Upsetting, and perhaps expensive.”
“Bryce is a big boy, Lloyd.”
He raised an invisible brow. “Really? Poems about traffic? You could have fooled me.”
Lloyd reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette—black paper, gold filter, exotic length. He made the ceremony of lighting it a dalliance with death.
“The Sebastian story is complex, Mr. Semi-private Eye. It’s straight out of Kafka—nothing is as it seems; no one is unsullied; guilt and innocence are indeterminable.”
“It sounds more like Ross MacDonald.”
“My advice, Mr. Tanner, is to disappear. Until Wade Linton is removed from the scene.” He inhaled enough smoke to fuel a bagpipe and an assessment. “You have no idea what’s at risk in all this,” he concluded.
“I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”
He exhaled an insoucient cloud. “It will be pretty of you to keep it that way.”
“Hemingway, for God’s sake?”
But Lloyd had already closed the door.
I’ve spent hours choosing the first thing I’m going to do after I’m released—the first luxury I’m going to allow myself. At last I believe I know—after I get off the bus from Folsom, I’m going straight to Grace Cathedral to enjoy a minute of perfect silence, a delicacy I’ve been denied for a decade. Then I’m going to find a place that doesn’t smell—the Alta Plaza, perhaps, high enough for the ocean breezes to sweep away the fumes of the stagnant city.
And then I’m going to Nordstrom and buy the best outfit I can afford, in any hue but blue.
Homage to Hammurabi, p. 278
22
I’ve held someone’s life in my hands before, both literally and figuratively. On more than one occasion, I didn’t realize it until it was too late, and the results were tragic, so on the way home I tried to decide whether Jane Ann Gillis was in danger from me or not. By the time I stuck the key in my lock I decided I didn’t know whether she was or wasn’t and didn’t have a way to find out except to keep doing what I had been doing—looking for the author of Hammurabi.
I was halfway through my bowl of Campbell’s Home Cookin’ when the phone rang. Bryce Chatterton’s voice was jacketed in steel. “Stay with it, Marsh. Do what we talked about. I’ll deal with the consequences when they arise.”
“Does Margaret approve of your decision?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.”
After Bryce hung up, I set the stage for my impersonation. I turned up the heat, though the room was comfortable without it. Then I exercised. I don’t do it often, and even then reluctantly and intermittently, so it didn’t take much to work up a sweat—jumping jacks, stretching, some sit-ups and push-ups, a couple of minutes of running in place, a handful of reps with the set of free weights I’d owned for twenty years and ignored for a dozen.
When I was lathered from the exertion, I put on the shirt and cap I wear when I play Softball with Charley on the Central Station team the day it takes on the self-important swells from the Washington Square Bar and Grill, then donned the pants I wear when I change the oil in the Buick. Then I performed another stunt I don’t indulge in very often—I cleaned the apartment.
I cleaned places that hadn’t seen the light of day for years—behind the refrigerator, behind the toilet, under the bed, beneath the TV, under the bath mat and the throw rug. Then I washed the kitchen floor—by hand, with a sponge that was soiled to its core before I was halfway through and emitted when I squeezed it a jaundiced sauce reminiscent of a mix of marmalade and pancake syrup. Then I cleaned, believe it or not, the oven, with a chemical agent that was sufficiently noxious to suggest it would kill me long before it made a dent in the crud that made the bottom of my stove a nifty diorama of the far side of the moon.
When the fumes were reduced to tolerable levels, I rounded up all the pencils I could find along with a small hand sharpener and scraped off enough ground graphite to rub into my face and hands until I looked like a Kentucky coal miner. Then I went to bed. In my clothes. Without turning down the heat, or taking a shower, or shaving, or brushing my teeth. That I actually slept, eventually, is test
imony to the toil that exercise can take on a body that is preferably at rest.
When I got up the next morning, I stayed in my clothes, stayed in my beard, stayed in my fuzzy and fetid mouth while I ate a sandwich of ketchup and onions, drank half a can of beer and poured the other half over my head. After toweling off, I got in my car and headed west, and got where I was going without looking at myself in the mirror.
Golden Gate Park was established in 1870 on an expanse of some one thousand acres on a portion of the San Francisco peninsula so remote and desolate it was known in those days as the Outside Lands. A windswept expanse of dangerously shifting sand dunes, the area was thought by most experts of the day, including Frederick Law Olmsted, the architect of New York’s Central Park, to be permanently incapable of supporting vegetation.
Initially a haven for thugs and thieves, over the years of its development the park became the object of political warfare between the forces of the rich—who employed the venue as a private playground—and the poor—whose idea of diversion was more organic and elemental. More aggressive members of the latter group periodically regarded the park’s undeveloped acres as a home for those without the means to afford a real one, to the extent that just prior to the turn of the century an entire village of squatters’ shacks known as Mooneyville had sprung up in the outer reaches and had to be dismantled by authorities.
A more sanctioned invasion occurred in 1906, when some thirty thousand refugees from the earthquake took up residence in the park, complete with tents to live in, food to eat, and schools for displaced children. As recently as the sixties, an illegal occupation occurred once more, when a troup of flower children tried to commandeer a portion of the park known as “hippie hill.” This time the invasion was stymied when park gardeners covered the entire mound with two inches of manure.
Fortunately, the wealthy did not prevail entirely, either. The more glaring sources of their entertainment, from gambling casinos to a “speed road” on which to race their horses and motorcars, were also excised over the years, despite the protests of the playboys. But the struggle over the grounds continues, and the current source of dispute is the occupation of its nether reaches by a substantial number of the city’s homeless.
Book Case Page 18
