The house smelled like mold and whiskey.
Piled books squeezed the entryway, leaving just clearance enough to open the door and scrape through. Bindings and pages swollen and dotted with rot from the damp canyon air, the stacks teetered and listed, propped up by more books. Shelves lined the walls. Shelves that were little more than more stacks of books broken by the occasional strata of a pine plank used to create stability. The fireplace, long out of use, vomited books. The couch rested on a pedestal of them. Looking into the kitchen, I could see that the doors had been removed from the cabinets to allow more room for the spines of oversized editions to jut out. If I opened the fridge, I had little doubt Id have found paperbacks wedged into the crisper, first editions of Mailer growing ice crystals in the freezer. The only thing to challenge the rule of books were the empty bottles lining window ledges, mounded in the sink, overflowing from liquor store delivery cartons.
I picked my way through the heaps, noticing, above the books’ high watermark on the walls, the occasional slightly less dingy patch of paint where L.L. had once hung posters from his halcyon years. Five Easy Pieces signed by Jack. An original lobby card from The Thin Man. An Alfred Hitchcock silhouette, also signed. A photo of himself and Mom, when the novelty of Hollywood could still hold her wandering attention, flanked by Francis Ford and Eleanor Coppola at the Afocalyfse Now opening night after-party
But over the mantel, on the wall that had been entirely rebuilt following the fire, there was no mark to show where there had once been a picture taken by Mom: L.L. reclining on a lounge chair, a wineglass in one hand, pen in the other, marking up a script propped on his knees, a sleeping baby in his lap. And beyond him, mugging and holding his own child over his head like a trophy, Chevs dad, a cigarette between his lips, sideburns to his jawline, his wife beside him in a purple Mexican housedress, brushing long gold hair.
I walked past the absent photo and out onto the deck where it had been taken.
Ringed with wood vegetable crates filled with more waterlogged books, by the light of several candles pressed into a mass of melted wax that flowed over a rusting tin-top table and dripped to the planks below, L.L. dozed with an open copy of Tom Jones on his stomach.
– L.L.
He lurched, came awake with a phlegmy cough.
– Nguh. Hm.
He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes without turning.
– Moneys in the jar, Raj. Leave it anywhere.
He put the glasses back on and started to crane his head around, the book slipping from his belly and onto the deck.
– Could you maybe take out a few of the empties for me?
He saw me. Cleared his throat. Looked at the book hed dropped.
– Id make a clichй comment about the prodigal, but it wouldnt really apply, would it?
He reached for the book, missed it, and his shoulder jostled the table, sending the candle flames jittering and the various glasses and empty bottles clinking.
I bent and picked up the book and held it out to him.
– Here.
He took it.
– Thank you.
He found his place and scanned the page.
– Thought you were the delivery boy.
– Late for deliveries.
He looked at his watch.
– Suppose it is.
I nudged a box of full bottles by the table.
– Looks like he was here earlier.
L.L. pulled his glasses low on his nose and looked at me over the rims.
– Is that someone I know casting judgments about? Is that, wait, allow me to cup my ear.
He cupped his hand to his ear and angled his head at me.
– Is that perhaps the voice of my absent wife speaking to me through her son?
He removed his hand.
– A prodigious bit of ventriloquism for her to accomplish from her far northern climes. Perhaps, if I speak distinctly, I can send a message back to her via the same medium.
He put his hand to the side of his mouth.
– Althea, dear bitch, get out of the boys head, hes sufficiently fucked up now, we need neither of us endure in the effort.
He wiped his brow.
– There. With luck that will transmit to her and she will desist in dispensing her opinions about how I live my life, through my own flesh and blood. However misbegotten said flesh and blood may be.
He took a full bottle of Seagrams from the carton and held it to the light.
– Drink?
I shook my head.
– No thanks.
He shrugged, picked up a glass, sloshed the dregs at its bottom over the edge of the deck into the toyon, chaparral, coast oak and walnut growing up from the hillside, and poured himself a double.
– Ill have one for the both of us.
I moved some books from another chair and took a seat.
– Was there any doubt?
He saluted me with the glass.
– In your mind? Apparently none.
He downed the whiskey.
– But I generally dont drink alone.
I looked back into the dark house, the moonlight glinting off all the empty bottles.
– Been having a lot of company, have you?
He swung his arm in an arc, indicating his massed library.
– My oldest friends. My enduring companions. Those that stand by me.
I picked at the wax on the table.
– And experiencing the delights of Renaissance technology, as well, I see.
He topped off his glass, sipped this time.
– The electric bills. They send them, God knows theyre here somewhere, I just never quite find the time to deal with them.
I looked up at the sky, remembered that same sky projected inside the Griffith Observatory planetarium, how the stars would swim and race down the horizon as the view shifted, season by season, between the hemispheres. L.L. providing commentary, whispering in my ear.
– You could always get someone to take care of that shit for you.
– I have an ex-wife, my boy, I dont need another.
– I was thinking more in the way of an assistant. Or a business manager.
Didnt you used to have one?
He opened his book, turned a page, ignored the implication that he might once have been in the kind of business that would require a manager.
– L.L.
– Yes, I attend.
– Has it ever occurred to you, all these books, the alcohol, open flames?
He turned a page.
– Has it ever occurred to you, mothers son that you are, to mind your own business?
I snapped a stalactite of wax from the edge of the table.
– L.L.
– Web.
– I dont want you to die.
He pressed the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth and closed his book.
– Im choked up, filled with emotion. Imagine, my son not wanting me to die. How many fathers can say the same?
– Shut the fuck up, Dad.
He turned his head, looked at me through the candlelight, and waited.
I threw the spear of wax over the rail.
– I dont want you to die. I dont mean just that I dont actively wish that you would die, I mean that I dont want you to die at all. I dont want you to trip and fall over that rail one night and break your neck. I dont want you to pass out on your back and vomit and choke to death. I dont want one of these candles to tip into a puddle of 101 and ignite a copy of Madame Bovary and incinerate you.
He touched his throat.
– I loathe Bovary. Wouldnt be caught dead with a copy in the house.
I stretched my arm and slapped the side of his head.
He looked at me through skewed glasses.
– You have my attention.
I stood up.
– Youre a fucker, L.L. The champion fucker of the world. Im never gonna take the crown from you. I concede, you have the throne all to yourself.
I showed my middle finger to him.
– But fucker that you are, that doesnt mean you can get rid of me, you pathetic misanthropic shit. I mean, Im not saying you dont grow old after about the first five minutes Im with you, but I can fucking take it. God knows Ive had the practice. So.
I hooked a thumb at the house.
– Ill be here next week with a truck to start hauling away some of this shit and to get the lights turned on. And. Whatever.
He straightened his glasses.
– Whats the matter, Web?
– Fuck you.
He stood up.
– What happened? Whats been happening? Whats this about?
I put a hand on his chest as he approached me.
– L.L., all this is about is how I dont want to get a call one day from someone, and find out your corpse has been rotting up here for five weeks and I have to come and smell it and see the stain where you melted into the carpet. I dont want to clean up after you when youre dead.
He nodded.
– Well, I didnt want to clean up after you when you were a baby. So I guess thats fair.
I nodded.
– King Fucker, L.L., thats you.
He dropped back into his chair.
– You hold your own, Web, you hold your own just fine.
– I have skills.
He turned his back, put his feet on the lower rail of the deck and picked up his book.
– Make the most of them.
I stood there.
– Ill be back next week with the truck.
He tugged a stained handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air.
– As you wish.
I went to the door.
– I found the money in Karenina. -Did you read the book?
– Man, I know all I need to know about unhappy families.
He wiped his nose with the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
– I guess you would.
I scratched my head.
– But I could use some more money.
He opened his book.
– Yes, I saw that you are wearing a towel in lieu of actual pants. One suspects you might need the odd dollar or two. As I said earlier, its in the jar.
– I need a lot. For a fuckup I know. Someone pathetic enough to need help from someone like me.
He picked up his glass and toasted the sky.
– Help yourself. If you need more than whats there, let me know.
I started into the house.
L.L. called after.
– Delightful to see you, Web. Nothing like a visit from the fruit of the old loins to make a man feel his mortality creeping up from behind. Ah, all this gloriously morbid talk. Just what a lion in winter requires on a chill evening. Thanks and thanks again. We must do it again soonest.
I listened to him as I negotiated the books and bottles in the kitchen and found the rooster-shaped cookie jar from my childhood and took off the lid and began sorting through the wads of bills stuffed inside.
Sparing a look at L.L. as I headed out the front door, the book back on his stomach, head dropped forward, shoulders rising and falling, King Fucker of the world at rest.
The light was on in our apartment when I parked the Apache in its spot.
I stared up at the light.
– What night is it?
Soledad had to think about that one.
– Sunday?
– Crap.
I opened the truck door and looked around the cab.
– It look pretty clean in here?
She looked at the seats.
– Looks really clean to me.
– Sure, to you and me it looks really clean, but to the guy who restored this thing from the axles up, it doesnt take much.
She brushed some ashes from the seat.
– Better?
I got out.
– Come on.
I jingled my keys and fiddled with the knob before going in. But I didnt need to give him any warning, he knew the sound of the Apache from a block away.
I opened up.
He looked from the TV screen showing a paused frame of Spetters, put a finger to his lips and pointed at Dot, curled sleeping on the couch with her head in his lap.
I nodded and came in and closed the door softly, and Soledad rapped on it and Dot lifted her head.
– Mfuh?
I opened the door.
Soledad tapped my forehead.
– Forget something?
– Sorry.
I held the door open and she came in.
– Thats Chev. Thats his friend Dot.
Dot rubbed her face all over and looked at Soledad.
– Whasas?
I closed the door again.
– Hey Dot. Hey. This is Soledad. Shes. This is Soledad.
Soledad pointed at the hall.
– Bathroom?
– Uh, yeah. Straight back.
She went down the hall.
Dot watched her go, looked back at me.
– She know what a dick you are?
I nodded.
– Most definitely.
She put her head back in Chevs lap.
– Mustve been the steam room look that got her.
I pulled the towel tighter around my waist.
– Yeah, she digs the bathhouse scene.
I bounced the truck keys on my palm and Chev held his hand up and I tossed them to him and he caught them.
He looked at the keys.
– You put gas in her?
– Yeah. Stopped at the corner.
– Its too expensive there.
– I didnt remember before.
He let the keys dangle from his index finger and studied them.
– She give you any problems?
– No. No problems.
Soledad came out from the bathroom and stood at the mouth of the hall and pointed at the two bedroom doors.
– Im tired.
I pointed at mine.
– That one.
She yawned, covered her mouth.
– OK.
She took her hand away and peeked around the corner.
– Hey Chev, Dot, nice to meet you. Hope I get to talk later.
She waved at me
– Dont stay up too long.
And went into my bedroom.
Dot pulled a thin blanket from the back of the couch and put it around her bare legs.
– She seems nice.
I walked over to my bookcase.
– She is.
I took a book from the case.
– Say, Dot.
– Mhun?
– Im sorry I was such a gargantuan dick the other day.
She closed her eyes.
– Chev says sorry dont mean shit.
I looked at Chev.
– Hes right about that.
She found one of Chevs hands and tugged his arm around her shoulders.
– Then fuck your apology, just try to be nicer to me.
– OK. Ill try.
Chev pointed at the TV.
– Youre in the way.
I got out of the way and he started his movie playing.
I walked to the hall, stopped.
– Hey man.
He held up a hand.
– I want to watch this.
I nodded.
– OK. Tomorrow?
He nodded.
– Tomorrow.
I cracked my bedroom door and looked in and saw Soledad under the blankets, her clothes tossed over the floor. I went in and dropped the towel and took off my shirt and kicked off my shoes and peeled the crusty socks from my feet and got into bed with her and opened the book Id brought with me.
She rolled over and looked at what I was reading.
– Cute kids.
I turned another page of the Hollywoodland Elementary yearbook.
– Yeah. Cute kids.