Constance was in tears.
Is that what he looks like? Oh, God, I said. Yes.
Ricardo nodded: I often wanted to say: Sir, why do you live? Do you have nightmares of being beautiful? Who is your woman? What do you do for a living, and is it living? I never said. I stared only at his hands, gave him bread, poured wine. But some nights he forced me to look at his face. When he tipped he waited for me to lift my eyes. Then he would smile that smile like a razor cut. Have you seen fights when one man slashes another and the flesh opens like a red mouth? His mouth, poor monster, thanking me for the wine and lifting my tip high so I had to see his eyes trapped in that abattoir of a face, aching to be free, drowning in despair.
Ricardo blinked rapidly and jammed the photo into his pocket. Constance stared at the place on the tablecloth where the picture had
been. I came to see if I knew the man. Thank God, I did not. But his voice? Perhaps some other night?
Ricardo snorted. No, no. It is ruined. That stupid fan out front the other night. The only time, in years, such an encounter. Usually, that late, the street, empty. Now, I am sure he will not return. And I will go back to living in a smaller apartment. Forgive this selfishness. Its hard to give up two-hundred-dollar tips.
Constance blew her nose, got up, grabbed Lopezs hand, and thrust something into it. Dont fight! she said. That was a great year, 28. Time I paid my lovely gigolo. Stay! For he was trying to shove the money back. Heel!
Ricardo shook his head, and hugged her hand to his cheek. Was it La Jolla, the sea, and good weather?
Body surfing every day!
Ah, yes, the bodies, the warm surf.
Ricardo kissed each and every one of her fingers. Constance said, The flavor starts at the elbow!
Ricardo barked a laugh. Constance punched him lightly in the jaw and ran. I let her go out the door.
Then I turned and looked over at that alcove with the small lamp, the desk, and the filing cabinet.
Lopez saw where I was looking, and did the same.
But Clarences picture portfolio was gone, out in that night, with the wrong people.
Who will protect Clarence now, I wondered. Who will save him from the dark and keep him, living, until dawn?
Myself? The poor simp whose girl cousin beat him at hand wrestling?
Crumley? Dare I ask him to wait all night in front of Clarences bungalow court? Go shout at Clarences door? Youre lost. Run!
I did not call Crumley. I did not go yell at Clarence Sopwiths bungalow porch. I nodded to Ricardo Lopez and went out into the night. Constance, outside, was crying. Lets get the hell out of here, she said.
She swabbed her eyes with an inadequate silk handkerchief. That damn Ricardo. Made me feel old. And that damn photograph of that poor hopeless man.
Yes, that face, I said, and added, Sopwith.
For Constance was standing right where Clarence Sopwith had stood a few nights ago.
Sopwith? she said.
Driving, Constance cut the wind with her voice:
Life is like underwear, should be changed twice a day. Tonight is over, I choose to forget it.
She shook tears from her eyes and glanced aside to see them rain away. I forget, just like that. There goes my memory. See how easy?
No.
You saw the mamacitas in the top floor of that tenement you lived in a couple years back? How after the big Saturday night blowout theyd toss their new dresses down off the roof to prove how rich they were, and didnt care, and could buy another tomorrow? What a great lie; off and down with the dresses and them standing fat- or skinny-assed on the three-oclock-in-the-morning roof watching the garden of dresses, like silk petals going downwind to the empty lots and alleys. Yes?
Yes!
Thats me. Tonight, the Brown Derby, that poor son of a bitch, along with my tears, I throw it all away.
Tonight isnt over. You cant forget that face. Did you or did you not recognize the Beast?
Jesus. Were on the verge of our first really big heavyweight fight. Back off.
Did you recognize him? He was unrecognizable.
He had eyes. Eyes dont change. Back off! she yelled.
Okay, I groused. Im off.
There. More tears fled away in small comets. I love you again. She smiled a windblown smile, her hair raveling and unraveling in the flood of air that sluiced us in a cold flow over the windshield.
All the bones in my body collapsed at that smile. God, I thought, has she always won, every day, all her life, with that mouth and those teeth and those great pretend-innocent eyes?
Yep! laughed Constance, reading my mind. And look, she said.
She stopped dead in front of the studio gates. She stared up for a long moment.
Ah, God, she said at last. Thats no hospital. Its where great elephant ideas go to die. A graveyard for lunatics.
Thats over the wall, Constance.
No. You die here first, you die over there last. In between She held to the sides of her skull as if it might fly apart. Madness. Dont go in there, kid.
Why?
Constance rose slowly to stand over the steering wheel and cry havoc at the gate that was not yet open and the night windows that were blind shut and the blank walls that didnt care.
First, they drive you crazy.
Then when they have driven you nuts they persecute you for being the babbler at noon, the hysteric at sunset. The toothless werewolf at the rising of the moon.
When youve reached the precise moment of lunacy, they fire you and spread the word that you are unreasonable, uncooperative, and unimaginative. Toilet paper, imprinted with your name is dispatched to every studio, so the great ones can chant your initials as they ascend the papal throne.
When you are dead they shake you awake to kill you again. Then they hang your carcass at Bad Rock, OK Corral, or Versailles on backlot 10, pickle you in a jar like a fake embryo in a bad carny film, buy you a cheap crypt next door, chisel your name, misspelled, on the tomb, cry like crocodiles. Then the final inglory: Nobody remembers your name on all the pictures you made in the good years. Who recalls the screenwriters for Rebecca? Who remembers who wrote Gone With the Wind? Who helped Welles become Kane? Ask anyone on the street. Hell, they dont even know who was president during Hoovers administration.
So there you have it. Forgotten the day after the preview. Afraid to leave home between pictures. Who ever heard of a film writer who ever visited Paris, Rome, or London? All piss-fearful if they travel, the big moguls will forget them. Forget them, hell, they never knew them. Hire whatchamacalit. Getmewhats-isname. The name above the title? The producer? Sure. The director? Maybe. Remember its deMilles Ten Commandments, not Moses. But F. Scott Fitzgeralds The Great Gatsby?
Smoke it in the Mens. Snuff it up your ulcerated nose. Want your name in big type? Kill your wifes lover, fall downstairs with his body. Like I say, thats the flickers, silver screen. Remember, youre the blank spaces between each slot-click of the projector. Notice all those pole-vault poles by the back wall of the studio? Thats to help the high jumpers up across into the stone quarry. Mad fools hire and fire em, dime a dozen. They can be had, because they love films, we dont. That gives us the power. Drive them to drink, then grab the bottle, hire the hearse, borrow a spade. Maximus Films, like I said. A graveyard. And, oh yeah, for lunatics.
Her speech over, Constance remained standing as if the studio walls were a tidal wave about to fall.
Dont go in there, she finished. There was quiet applause.
The night policeman, behind the ornate Spanish ironwork was smiling and clapping his hands.
Ill only be in there a while, Constance, I said. Another month or so, and Ill head South to finish my novel.
Can I come with you? One more trip to Mexicali, Calexico, South of San Diego, almost to Hermosillo, bathing naked by moonlight, ha, no, you in raggedy shorts.
I only wish. But its me and Peg, Constance, Peg and me. Ah, well, what the hell. Kiss me.
I hesitated so she gave me a smack that could flush a whole tenement tank system and make the cold run hot.
The gate was opening.
Two lunatics at midnight, we drove in.
As we pulled up near the wide square full of milling soldiers and merchants, Fritz Wong came leaping over in great strides. God damn! Were all set for your scene. That drunken Baptist Unitarian has disappeared. You know where the son-of-a-bitch hides?
You called Aimee Semple McPhersons? Shes dead!
Or the Holy Rollers. Or the Manly P. Hall Universalists. Or My God, roared Fritz. Its midnight! Those places are shut. Have you checked Calvary, I said. He goes there.
Calvary! Fritz stormed away. Check Calvary! Gethsemane! Fritz pleaded with the stars. God, why this poisoned Manischewitz? Someone! Go rent two million locusts for tomorrows plague!
The various assistants ran in all directions. I started off, too, when Constance grabbed my elbow.
My eyes wandered over the facade of Notre Dame. Constance saw where I was looking.
Dont go up there, she whispered. Perfect place for J. C.
Up there its all face and no backside. Trip on something and you fall like those rocks the hunchback dropped
