“Ava,” I began, and started to cry.
The two of us hung on the line, neither speaking, our mutual grief filling in the spaces.
“I’m a prisoner here,” she said, finally. “In my own home. There are photographers camped out in the bushes. The phone keeps ringing. Reporters. Me and Max. Over and over. Reenie hangs up on them.”
I could hear someone talking in the background. Reenie, perhaps, a soft, soothing murmur. The sound of her yipping dog Rags.
“I have to be at the studio later today.” Ava sounded as if she were talking to herself. “But all I think about is…Max.”
“Is Frank there?”
A long pause. “He’s been avoiding me. We fought over that scene at the Beachcomber.”
“Tony Pannis told me people are suspecting him.”
Again, the long silence. “I know, I know. I heard it on the radio. Francis won’t talk about it. So all I do is sit here and sob. Poor Max. So…horrid.”
“Well, it is,” I agreed. “But whoever did this must be caught.”
“Who would…”
“That remains to be seen, Ava.”
“You don’t think it was Francis, do you, Edna?”
“You tell me, Ava.” My voice even, crisp.
“Of course not. I mean …”A deep intake of breath. I could hear her striking a match. “Edna, I need to see you. To see…or to…talk to someone.”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s a little coffee shop up the block from you. On Wilshire. The Coffee Pot.”
“I’ve gone by it.” I gazed out the window. “Okay, we’ll meet there.”
“Could I ask Sol to join us? He’s called here a number of times. The man is a wreck, Edna. You can feel his pain through the phone line.”
“Of course. I’d like to see him.”
“He’s so…helpless.”
***
I sat waiting in a booth, expecting her to be late. Lateness was a cardinal sin in my book, certainly; but I supposed I could excuse someone who confessed to being an insomniac, who only dozed off at early morning light. And now, especially, having to slip out to avoid the pesky reporters.
A woman entered The Coffee Pot, the country-store bell clanging noisily, and slipped into the booth opposite me. What in the world?
“Edna.”
My eyes got wide. The unglamorous Ava Gardner was smiling back at me. “Ava?”
But, of course, it was. Not a trace of makeup on her, not a hint of blush or lipstick or rouge, and yet, unmistakable, that face compelled, drew you in. But I hadn’t looked into that face. She was wearing a baggy lime peasant blouse, loose over calf-length pedal pushers, with a pale-green organdy kerchief covering her head, tied under her chin. She wore the most outrageous pair of tortoise-shelled eyeglasses, so matronly I expected her to deal a hand of canasta and kvetch about the agony of her sciatica.
“I’m near-sighted,” she told me.
“So this is what you really look like?”
Again, the small laugh. Yet there was no disguising that whiskey voice, so low and rumbling I kept thinking she had a cold. At first she whispered, but then, checking out the empty eatery, began to speak naturally. She debated between pecan waffles or pain perdu-“Edna, it’s nothing more than French toast with an attitude”-before choosing the waffles. The bored waitress, pencil buried in her messy hairdo and an order pad tucked into a stained apron, paid her no mind. I loved it. A practical woman, I ordered tuna on wheat toast. Coffee with whipped cream.
Ava reached across the table and grasped my hand. For a moment we sat there, silent, though we stared into each other’s faces, and she sobbed a little girl’s cry: short, raspy breaths, swallowed. Finally she sat back, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “I still don’t know what to think, Edna.”
“None of us do, Ava.”
I glanced around the empty eatery at the tacky tablecloths, a blackboard listing specials, a dropped napkin under a nearby table, the waitress chewing gum as she leafed through the newspaper.
We spoke in fits and starts, random chatter about Alice, about Max, about the…horror of it all. “What do you know?” she kept asking, but I knew nothing. She leaned in. “Francis has taken a vow of silence. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Well, does he have anything to hide?”
That shocked her. “Oh no, Edna. It’s just that he keeps stuff inside.” A sliver of a smile. “I’m the opposite-I yell and fret and let everyone know my insanity. He’s…he broods inside, cool, stewing…it’s deadly.” A pause. “I don’t mean…deadly.” She stopped. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“Very little, Ava.”
She laughed. “You don’t let people get away with much, do you?”
“No reason to.”
“You haven’t seen the best of me, you know. The fights, the bickering…” She slipped her hand across the table and touched mine. “I’m so sorry, Edna. I want you to like me.”
“Ava, I do like you.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Max adored you. That tells me something.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
The curious insecurity bothered me…I didn’t expect it from a movie star. The love goddess of A Touch of Venus. The girl in the bathing suit on the cover of Photoplay. Max once told me she’d been on over three hundred fan magazine covers, an ocean of lipstick and eye shadow and sun-tanning lotion. Mechanics in innumerable garages across America checked off the months on calendars that showed her come-hither smile.
What I liked about her was hard to define. For one thing, she was a strong woman who was hell-bent on defining her own life, regardless of public censure. She set the terms. This woman could be hungry for caviar at Romanoff’s, yet publicly insist on sticking up for a battered friend. Max. Dear Max. Here was a woman who drank and cursed and slapped lovers, but she refused to be cowed by random and thoughtless authority.
Yes, admittedly not my life, my prim and spinsterish life, purposely chosen. Being a spinster, I famously told everyone, was like drowning, a delightful sensation once you ceased to struggle.
Ava’s terms were otherwise: men, sex, more men-even scrawny crooners with circus bowties-dancing at the Trocadero, nightlife, cigarettes, coffee, and plenty of booze. Spiked ten-inch heels on the dance floor. Life on her terms. Perhaps it was the fist raised against the hypocritical constraints of Metro and Hollywood and Hedda Hopper, the phony and disingenuous morals clause that no authoritarian mogul himself felt compelled to follow, given the stories of sexual peccadillo on the casting couch. A man’s world, scripted narrowly for women.
Ava said no! In thunder!
You had to admire that in a fleshpot.
“I’m so sorry for everything.”
“Stop saying that, Ava.” I made the sign of the cross, or at least I think it was, never having executed the benedictory papal gesture before. “I absolve you of all sin.”
“If only it was that easy.” She laughed so loudly the waitress glanced over.
“Where’s Sol?” I wondered out loud.
She looked toward the front door. “Funny. He’s always early. But he seemed so…so broken on the phone. Those sobs that erupt from inside him. Everyone’s shattered, Edna. I understand Lorena is distraught, too.”
“So the Pannis brothers told me.”
“Those foolish guys.”
“I made the mistake of stopping at the Paradise for a glass of wine. You know, Ava, they seem more interested in Tony’s job loss than grieving for Max.”
She tapped her finger on the table. “It’s because of Alice. They didn’t care one way or the other about Max-it was a business arrangement, rarely social-but when Alice married Max…”
“Tell me about the Pannis brothers.”
“I don’t care for them.”
“I know that. Your likes and dislikes are apparent.”
“My mama once told me I was not born to lie.”
I arched my eyebrows. “Oddly, my mother told me it was one of the things that I was especially good at-and would make me rich and famous.”
“And so it did.”
“Yes, indeed.”
She sighed. “Actually I used to like Tony-before he became Tiny, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Tony was the…softer of the two. A deliberate buffoon, capable of making us all laugh. City-slicker boyish humor. But after Lenny died and Ethan went to the police and called it murder, Tony…shifted. He got sullen, angry, started those sad drinking binges. He never was like that before. I liked him. Now he gets on my nerves.”
“So sad,” I commented. “So Lenny…”
“Lenny is the only important Pannis brother. The dead one. Lenny. There’s a photo that Francis keeps in his Palm Springs home of him and Lenny and Lucky Luciano dining together in Havana. The exiled Mafia don. The three men in flowered shirts smoking Cuban cigars.”
“So the rumors are true-he was a gangster?”
“Francis has a liking for thugs.” The waitress placed the food on the table. Ava sipped her coffee but grimaced. “Dreadful stuff, really.” She pushed the coffee cup away. “When the Estes Kefauver committee in Washington started investigating organized crime, Lenny Pannis got…squirrelly, abusive. The FBI was moving in. He began to hit Alice. Edna, I’m good friends with Alice. I like her. She’s a sweet girl.”
“I like her, too. A lot.”
“And she was the best girl for Max. She married Lenny back in New Jersey, right out of high school, a simple girl. Lenny was the dashing, flashy boy who wooed the quiet, bookish girl. Then they came here, Lenny spreading his poison, getting into deals with seedy characters. Alice finally wised up. The fights. The beatings. Alice always had bruises on her arms and neck. Francis closed his eyes to it all because he’s a skinny little boy who likes to play with the big shots. He likes guns, he likes to hear stories of people getting beat up. He likes playing the tough guy. That’s my Francis. Thugs…but from a distance.”
“Lenny still has a lot of power over Frank, it seems.”
“That’s true. Unfortunately.” Her eyes got wide, a glint of fear in them. “Francis wants to be in a James Cagney shoot-‘em-up crime movie. He loves that scene in White Heat, Cagney on top of the oil tanks, yelling, ‘Made it, Ma. Top of the world.’ The hoodlum and his mommy.”
“Everyone out here sees the world through a movie lens.”
She shook her head. “I’m drifting. That last night Alice and Lenny had fought. He was drunk. He went to hit her. She ran off the balcony into their house. He stumbled, toppled over the railing. Dead on the pavement. Alice, the widow. Ethan cried murder. He hounded the police. He got Tony all crazy.”
“And somehow Max got in the middle of this.”
“Well, Max was Tony’s agent-back when Tony actually could do a funny stand-up show. So Alice knew…liked Max. Edna, they were meant for each other. Max had been slowing down these last few years, settling, and he needed a decent companion, someone to go to the movies with, someone to make grilled cheese sandwiches with. And Alice, fresh from bruised arms and legs, from shouting matches, from a loveless marriage, needed someone like Max Jeffries. Kind and decent and funny…and, well, by her side.” She closed her eyes for a second. “My favorite Gershwin tune, Edna, is ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’” Her eyes got moist.
“And Alice got all the money.”
“That’s the funny thing. Ethan and Tony, latecomers out here, believed Lenny’s stories of colossal wealth. Well, yeah, he flashed a bunch of cash, had that big house in Beverly Hills. A kidney-shaped pool and spiral staircases. He used to point out the spiral staircase like it was the golden path to Mafia heaven. But after the dust settled and debts were paid, and the IRS stepped in with a wink from the FBI, it was not the fortune-the pot at the end of the rainbow-that the brothers believed in.”
“They don’t accept that fact, do they?”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Edna. Ethan knew there was no money. He’s a moneyman. Lord, he handled lots of Lenny’s money-so Francis told me. But I don’t think he told Tony that. Let the simple brother think he’s poor because of Alice. Ethan knows better.”
“Ava, I don’t understand Frank’s friendship with Ethan and Tony. They’re hangers-on.”
“True, and Francis knows it. He insists I like them. He’s always dragging them to my house. Yet he gets annoyed with them. It’s dumb loyalty to the dead, revered gangster brother.”
“It has to be more than that. Why?”
“Lenny.”
“Everyone tells me that. It makes no sense.”
She leaned in. “Another secret, Edna. Francis will kill me if he knows I told you. But back East, Francis was trying to elbow his way into some deal, so he got involved with some local hoods. Money borrowed, fights, even threats against his life. He promised things he shouldn’t have-whatever that means. Well, Francis suddenly renewed his old-buddy friendship with Lenny, and Lenny, a real power thug, called off the low-level creeps, paid off Francis’ debts, and the two became joined at the blood-brother hip, so to speak.”
“So what? Years later…”
“Well, suddenly everyone is out here in happy land, and Francis loses his audience, his record contract. Friends disappear out here faster than loose change in a hole in your pants pocket. Look at poor Max. Loyalty is not a virtue out here. Who stuck with Francis? Lenny way back when-and the brothers. Lenny’s long gone and Francis has lonely evenings with me-or, when it’s time for fun and games, the boys.”
“But it must wear on Frank.”
She nodded. “I got to hear all about it. He liked them-still does, I suppose. But Tony is on the path to drunkenness.”
“And Ethan?”
“He’s still waiting for some of the gold dust of Hollywood to land on his shoulders.”
I finished my sandwich and tapped my cup. The waitress walked over with a coffee pot. “Ethan struck me as intelligent.”
“He is, and sometimes real funny. We find it amazing that he still is on speaking terms with his ex-wife.” She arched her back. “Not very Hollywood, that attitude. Lorena’s a funny lady, bright. She divorced Ethan but likes him. It’s like she’s afraid to let go of something important. I don’t get it, but who am I to talk? We end up with men we never plan to, right, Edna? I first thought Francis was arrogant and ego-mad, but one night in Palm Springs the bells and whistles went off in my head. In my case, all it took was a heady dose of his charisma and flattery. I mean, Ethan’s too rigid, intolerant of any weakness. All the pencils sharpened, all the sentries lined up.” She laughed. “Lorena told me he demanded his socks be ironed.”
“And then there’s Tony. Or…Tiny.”
“Imagine that. Tiny. Both came out here to be rich. Ethan had a feeble scriptwriting course back East and produced Gone with the Wind Two, some costume drama he tried to sell to Vivian Leigh. Max scoffed at him, so he fell back on his accounting background. Lenny demanded that of him. One thing you’ll discover about Ethan is his favorite word. Failure. He despises failure, though it’s all around him. That’s why he can’t stand his brother, the current reigning example of failure. His main job these days is stopping Tony from drinking himself to death. Poor Tony-he’s such a pitiful drunk.” She smiled. “Unlike the rest of us. He keeps asking Francis to use his connections to get him headlined in a good place. Well, these days Francis has no clout. I have it, Ava the vamp. But Tiny won’t dare ask me. Francis hugs both boys to his skinny rib cage. End of story.”
“And when Alice married Max…”
Ava finished for me. “All hell broke out. They weren’t happy with the marriage. Not at all. It had nothing to do with Max. They liked Max. But they believed Alice was up to her old tricks one more time. Poor Max, seduced by that evil Alice.” She smiled wistfully. “Frankly, it surprised us all, that marriage. Thrilled me, I must say. Anything for Max to be happy. Shakespeare’s Puck takes a bride.”
“They looked good together.”
That pleased her. “Of course. Max was intoxicated with her.”
“I didn’t expect to like her-when I heard he had got married. I flew out here expecting, well, I don’t know.”
Ava tapped her finger on the back of my wrist. “And I bet you expected to dislike me.”
A heartbeat. “Yes, the frivolous sulky siren.”
She smiled. “I am that.”
“But so much more.”
“Thank you. You know, when Pop Sidney lobbied for me to play Julie in your Show Boat, he fought Mayer, who wanted, well, Judy Garland first…before she fell apart and was shown the door. But Dinah Shore, others. Finally Dore Schary agreed I was perfect. Do you know why? His quote got back to me. He told a disgruntled Dinah: ‘Because you’re not a whore. Ava is.’”
“My God!”
“Welcome to Hollywood.”
“That’s unconscionable.”
She looked down, trembled, but then her eyes locked with mine. “That brought tears to my eyes. And you wonder why I can’t sleep at night-or why I hate it out here. I vowed-I’ll show them bastards. Ava Gardner is Julie LaVerne. I got her soul inside me. She breathes through me. When I heard that, I decided I can’t worry what these foolish men who sign my checks have to say.”
“And you, my dear. Your story?”
“Is yet to be written. This chapter-movies-is a prelude.”
“To what?”
“Don’t know yet. But Francis is part of it. That I know.”
“Well…”
She smiled. “You don’t like him, Edna. That’s all right. It’s because he barrels his way through crowds. He can be so mean to people. He doesn’t stop to understand the…the quality of souls like you. He keeps his goodness hidden, Edna-like his long visits to sick friends in hospitals, days sitting at bedsides. That’s Francis, too!” She checked her wristwatch and frowned. “I have a photo shoot this afternoon.”
The bell over the front door clanged, and Sol Remnick walked in. He stood there, looking around, unbuttoning his sports jacket and removing his feathered fedora. When he spotted us, he ambled over and half-bowed to me. Ava stood and hugged him, but he seemed to push her away as he slid into a seat, and nodded toward me. He looked broken, this old friend of Max, with a collapsed face, bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes, and a quivering chin. I expected some tears, I expected grief-instead, what I got was sputtered anger. He blurted something out, incomprehensible, then had to start over.
“Sol, what?” Ava pleaded.
He breathed in. “I just had a fight with Larry Calhoun.”
Ava turned toward me. “Do you remember…”?
“Of course. We met him at lunch,” I broke in. “At the Ambassador. The old friend who warned Max…”
Sol rushed his words. “One of the three musketeers.” Said sarcastically, words laced with bitterness.
“What did he want?” Ava asked. “And a fight, Sol? Why?”
“He knocks on my door, this man who avoids me. This is a man who avoided Max, his old friend. I thought he came to talk about Max’s death, the two of us grieving, and we did…for a few minutes. How sad, how truly sad, who would do such a thing? Blah blah blah. Then, settling in, he tells me he wants to sell his shares in the property we own. Or for me to make him a loan. And he has the nerve to say-you know, with Max dead, his shares go to both of us. The deal, remember? He needs money real fast-he’s being pressured. And I say, such a bad time to discuss this, Larry, Max not in his grave, and he goes, hey, business is business, no?” Sol was sweating, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief.
“Why does he need money?” I asked.
Sol smiled. “He told me he had a favorite horse trotting at the track. A favorite, mind you.”
“I’ve long ago learned from my family that the ones you favor are invariably the ones who let you down.”
Sol said nothing for a bit, his face sagging, his eyes darting, pell-mell, from one corner of the restaurant to the other, unable to focus, settle. Quietly, “He’s gotta be in deep to the mob. They’re gonna hurt him. Otherwise, he’d never sell his shares away.”
The waitress had placed a coffee cup in front of him. When he picked it up, his hand shook. His fingertips were gnawed to the quick, a ragged line of dried blood on a couple of them.
Ava slatted her eyes, threw back her head. “He had some dealings with Lenny Pannis. I remember Francis told me.”
“Then,” Sol continued, not really listening, “he brings out some papers, says he’ll sign everything over to me. Just give him a check. He even quoted an amount. So brazen, hungry. So-cold. ‘Max has been murdered!’ I yelled at him. So he looks at me and says, ‘I didn’t do it.’ Like that ended the matter.”
I spoke up. “Where was he that night when Alice called him?”
“You know, I asked him that.” Sol tensed up. “It bothered me, him not being home. It bothered me that Alice called him, but that was petty of me.”
“And what did he say?” Ava asked.
“‘Out, I was out.’ That’s his answer. ‘I got a life, you know.’ So…cavalier. I wanted to…hit him.”
“No.” Ava touched his arm. “No.”
For the first time Sol smiled thinly. “I realized what a weak man he is-I suppose I always knew it. Max and I both did. Max always made excuses for him-‘There’s always one friend who weakens the chain.’ That’s what Max said. But I looked at him and told him no…no sale. No cash from me-even if I had extra, which I don’t. I don’t care what mobster is breathing down his neck. Let the goons break his legs. Let him get his cash elsewhere.” He shook his head. “I’d been waiting for the right moment-even before Max died-to confront him.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He betrayed Max. Simple as that. I got this buddy at the Examiner, used to act with him in New York. He’d called me about that picture of you and Ava and Max that was in his paper. That nasty attack. He’d heard through word of mouth that Larry was responsible for the tip that led to that photo of you two and Max at lunch.”
Ava shrugged. “Sol, I assumed that. When I came in, I saw Larry hiding behind a palm tree, spying on Max and Edna. He was up to no good. He was never someone I liked, you know. An amateur at espionage.”
I stared at Ava, impressed.
“So he made a phone call.”
“Sort of dastardly,” I commented. “To turn in a friend.”
“That friendship ended a while back.” Angry, he reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth. Sol inhaled the smoke, breathed out, and relaxed, his chest swelling. “But the kicker is this-one of the editors at the Examiner, it seems, slips him a few bills now and then. A cheesy pay-off.”
Ava frowned. “God!”
“My friend found out that he even said my name to some folks at the Examiner for some cash.”
“You?” I exclaimed.
“Some inflammatory letter I signed years back, protesting some half-baked right-wing senator’s bill. But we never sent it-it was too over-the-top. But Larry provided a copy to the editor. He’s a lousy snitch. You know, he’d kept a copy from the days when we were all close. There’s a gold mine of names on that forgotten letter.”
“Did Max know?” Ava said.
“I phoned him the day he died.”
“What did he say?”
“You know Max. He goes, ‘So it surprises you that he’s a lowlife? Life turns some people good, turns others bad. A crap shoot.’” Now he laughed out loud. “So Max added, ‘Such entertainment we provide folks.’ He even imitated Molly Goldberg: ‘Yoo hoo, such a lot of tumul around me. Oy.’”
Neither Ava nor I laughed. Suddenly it dawned on me that Sol probably had no life outside his popular television persona, the bumbling Cousin Irving. And that scared me.
“Money,” I mused out loud. “Had he asked Max for money?”
“Not yet. Max told me he would not-never-give Larry any money. Larry was avoiding Max because of the blacklist nonsense.”
Ava took a cigarette from Sol’s pack, and he smiled at her. “God, he’s the worst of the lot.”
“So I called him a snitch to his face. A betrayer. A man who sells his soul for silver coins. A man who turns his back on friends. Turns in his friends.”
“What did he say?” Ava’s fingers trembled as she lit her cigarette.
“He didn’t answer for a while. Then he said, ‘I tell people what they already know. That’s not…snitching.’” Sol’s neck was beet red, his lips drawn into a thin line.
“A weasel,” I declared.
“You know, Larry got real smug-he knew at that point he wasn’t getting cash from me. We all should be worried, he told me. Heads are rolling. His job at Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre isn’t so secure, I guess. There are problems there. Then he got back on the subject of Max. How Max screwed it up for all of us. That infantile letter to the Reporter. Just look at the repercussions. All of us-himself included, an old friend and business partner-are now tainted by it. People may look at him as a fellow traveler, God forbid. I guess he’s friends with Desmond Peake, Metro’s liaison to the outside world. Babbitt goes to Hollywood. They’re both members of America First, that right-wing group. It seems Peake mentioned Larry’s old friendship with Max-and Larry took that as a reprimand. Peake’s the one who gave Max his walking papers.”
“I’ve yet to meet this Desmond Peake,” I said. “Though his messages pile up at the hotel.”
Ava shivered. “My Lord, he’s attacking Max, a murdered man.”
“Then he mentioned Show Boat and Ava…and Frank.” A nervous chuckle. “He even quoted Hedda Hopper from a recent column. She called Metro ‘Metro-Goldwyn-Moscow.’ Imagine that!” His voice got ragged. “So Larry said he can’t be around people like us. Everyone is going to sink. That isn’t all. He had a lot to say about you two.”
Ava and I both exclaimed at the same moment, “Us?”
We stared at each other.
“Desmond had already warned Ava to back off Max. But she wouldn’t. You know how you are, Ava, hell-bent on doing what you damn well want to do. But he said your career was make or break with Show Boat.”
Ava whispered, “But I don’t care.”
“You too, Miss Ferber. He mentioned that you are on the boards for a novel about Texas oil, movie producers vying for rights before publication. Then he said, ‘This is the last you’ll see of me, Sol.’” He shrugged. “His last words to me: ‘If you change your mind about buying my share, call me. And bring a check.’”
Sol was watching my face. “Perhaps, Miss Ferber, you’ve written your last novel.”
We lingered too long in that sad eatery, none of us wanting to leave the others. Ava kept saying she had to go to the studio, but she didn’t move. Sol kept saying he’d promised Alice he’d help her arrange the memorial service for Max, two days hence. He lit one cigarette after the other, dawdled with this coffee cup, tilted his head back against the wall. Eyes half-shut, he sat there. And I didn’t want to leave them because I felt oddly safe there, Ava across from me, Sol on my right. In the deserted cafe, even the waitress now disappeared back into the kitchen, the tawdry trappings of such a workaday diner-the stained black-and-white linoleum tiles, the cracked leather in the booths, the wispy dust motes illuminated by a shaft of light from outside, even the hiccoughing whirr of an old floor fan that did nothing but circulate the hot sticky air-all of that comforted, peculiarly; this was an American eatery that could be anywhere. Keokuk, Iowa. Kalamazoo, Michigan. The Southside of Chicago. Astoria, Queens, New York. Anywhere. And, for that reason, though perhaps illogical, it was wonderful shelter.
It was getting late. One or two stragglers wandered in. A faint rumble in the air, heat lightning on this hot, hot afternoon. The sun-baked plate-glass front window darkened, the daylight dimmed. “Maybe a shower,” Sol mumbled.
“I hope so.” Ava glanced at the shadows drifting into the eatery.
Rain, I thought: there were nights back in New York when I sat by my windows overlooking Central Park as thunder and lightning transformed Manhattan. “Rain,” I said now.
But people said it never rained in California.
And so we sat there, the three of us, loathe to move, bound by some fierce love for a dead friend, mourning him silently. There we sat, fumbling with our coffee cups-the shabby Yiddish comic, the beautiful movie goddess, and the white-haired novelist who was so far from home-waiting for rain.