I felt one of my legs being pulled by him and shut up.
“Cat got your tongue?” said Crumley.
Silence from me.
“You still there?” asked Crumley.
Grim silence.
“Lazarus,” said Crumley, “damn it to hell, come outa that Christ-awful tomb!”
I laughed. “Shall I finish the list?”
“Let me grab my beer. Okay. Shoot.”
I reeled off six more names, including, though I didn’t really believe it, Shapeshade’s.
“And maybe,” I finished, and hesitated, “Constance Rattigan.”
“Rattigan!” yelled Crumley. “What the hell you know about Rattigan? She eats tiger’s balls on toast and can whipsaw sharks two falls out of three. She’d walk out of Hiroshima with her earrings and eyelashes intact.
Annie Oakley, now, no to her, too. She’d rifle someone’s butt off before he, no, only way is some night, on her own, she might toss all her guns off the pier and follow after; that’s in her face.
As for Shapeshade, don’t make me laugh. He doesn’t even know the real world exists out here with us grotesque normals. They’ll bury him in his Wurlitzer come 1999. Got any more bright ideas?”
I swallowed hard and finally decided to at last tell Crumley about the mysterious disappearance of Cal the barber.
“Mysterious, hell,” said Crumley. “Where you been? The Mad Butcher skedaddled. Piled his tin lizzie with dregs from his shop just the other day, pulled out of the no-parking zone in front of his place, and headed east.
Not west, you notice, toward Land’s End, but east. Half the police force saw him make a big U-turn out front the station and didn’t arrest him because he yelled, ‘Autumn leaves, by God, autumn leaves in the Ozarks!’ “
I gave a great trembling sigh of relief, glad for Cal’s survival. I said nothing about Scott Joplin’s missing head, which was probably what drove Cal off and away forever. But Crumley was still talking. “You finished with your super-brand-new list of possible deads?”
“Well…” lamely.
“Dip in ocean, then dip in typewriter, says Zen master, makes for full page and happy heart. Listen to the detective advising the genius. The beer is on the ice, so that the pee is in the pot, later. Leave your list at home. So long, Krazy Kat.”
“Offisa Pup,” I said. “Goodbye.”
The forty dozen rifle shots from last night drew me. Their echoes would not stop.
And the sound of more of the pier being pounded and compacted and eaten away drew me, as the sounds of war must draw some.
The rifle shots, the pier, I thought, as I dipped in the ocean and then dipped in my typewriter, like the good kat Offisa Pup wished me to be, I wonder how many men, or was it just one, Annie Oakley killed last night.
I wonder, also, I thought, placing six new pages of incredibly brilliant novel in my Talking Box, what new books of drunken doom A. L. Shrank has toadstool-farmed on his catacomb library shelves?
The Hardy Boys Invite Ptomaine?
Nancy Drew and the Weltschmerz Kid?
The Funeral Directors of America Frolic at Atlantic City?
Don’t go look, I thought. I must, I thought. But don’t laugh when you see the new titles. Shrank might run out and charge you.
Rifle shots, I thought. Dying pier. A. L. Shrank, Sigmund Freud’s Munchkin son. And now, there, up ahead of me hiking on the pier:
The Beast.
Or, as I sometimes called him, Erwin Rommel of the Afrika Korps. Or, sometimes, simply:
Caligula. The Killer.
His real name was John Wilkes Hopwood.
I remember reading one of those devastating reviews about him in a small local Hollywood theater some years before:
John Wilkes Hopwood, the matinee assassin, has done it again to another role. Not only has he torn a passion to tatters, he has, madness maddened, stomped on it, ravened it with his teeth, and hurled it across the footlights at unsuspecting club ladies. The damned fools ate it up!
I often saw him riding his bright orange Raleigh eight-speed bike along the ocean walk from Venice to Ocean Park and Santa Monica. He was always dressed in a fine, freshly pressed, brown hound’s-tooth English suit with a dark brown Irish cap pulled over his snow-white curls and shading his General Erwin Rommel or, if you prefer, killer hawk’s Conrad-Veidt-about-to-smother-Joan-Crawford-or-Greer-Garson face. His cheeks were burned to a wonderful polished nutmeg color, and I often wondered if the color stopped at his neckline, for I had never seen him out on the sand, stripped.
Forever, he cycled up and down between the ocean towns, at liberty, waiting to be summoned by the German General Staff or the club ladies over at the Hollywood Assistance League, whichever came first. When there was a cycle of war films, he worked constantly, for it was rumored he had a full closet of Afrika Korps uniforms and a burial cape for the occasional vampire film.
As far as I could tell, he had only one casual outfit, that suit. And one pair of shoes, fine English oxblood brogues, highly polished. His bicycle clips, brightly clasping his tweed cuffs, looked to be pure silver from some shop in Beverly Hills. His teeth were always so finely polished, they seemed not his own. His breath, as he pedaled past, was Listerine, just in case he had to take a fast call from Hitler on his way to Playa Del Rey.
I saw him most often motionless, astride his bike, Sunday afternoons, when Muscle Beach filled up with rippling deltoids and masculine laughter. Hopwood would stand up on the Santa Monica pier, like a commander in the last days of the retreat from El Alamein, depressed at all that sand, delighted with all that flesh.
He seemed so apart from all of us, gliding by in his Anglo-Byronic-German daydreams . . .
I never thought to see him parking his Raleigh bike outside A. L. Shrank’s tarot-card-large-belfry-with-plenty-of-bats-open-at-all-hours shed.
But park he did, and hesitated outside the door.
Don’t go in! I thought. No one goes in A. L. Shrank’s unless it’s for poison Medici rings and tombstone phone numbers.
Erwin Rommel didn’t mind.
Neither did the Beast, or Caligula.
Shrank beckoned.
All three obeyed.
By the time I got there, the door was shut. On it, for the first time, though it had probably yellowed there for years, was a list, typed with a faded ribbon, of all the folks who had passed through his portals to be psyched back to health.
H. B. WARNER, WARNER OLAND, WARNER BAXTER, CONRAD NAGEL, VILMA BANKY, ROD LA ROCQUE, BESSIE LOVE, JAMES GLEASON . . .
It read like the Actor’s Directory for 1929.
But Constance Rattigan was there.
I didn’t believe that.
And John Wilkes Hopwood.
I knew I had to believe that.
For, as I glanced through the dusty window, where a shade was half-drawn against prying eyes, I saw that someone was indeed on that couch from which stuffing sprang in mad abandon from the burst seams. And the man lying on the couch was the man in the brown tweed suit, eyes shut, doing lines, no doubt from a revised and improved last act of Hamlet.
Jesus in the lilies, as Crumley had said. Christ fresh to the cross!
At that moment, intent upon reciting his rosary innards, Hopwood’s eyes flew open with actor’s intuition.
His eyes rolled, then his head flicked swiftly to one side. He stared at the window and saw me.
As did A. L. Shrank, seated nearby, turned away, pad and pencil in hand.
I stood back, cursed quietly, and walked quickly away.
In total embarrassment, I walked all the way to the end of the ruined pier, bought six Nestle’s Crunch bars and two Clark Bars and two Power Houses to devour on the way. Whenever I am very happy or very sad or very embarrassed, I cram my mouth with sweets and litter the breezeway with discards.
It was there at the end of the pier in the golden light of late afternoon that Caligula Rommel caught up with me. The destruction workers were gone. The air was silent.
I heard his bicycle hum and glide just behind me. He didn’t speak at first. He just arrived on foot, the bright silver bike clips around his trim ankles, the Raleigh held in his firm grasp like an insect woman. He stood at the one place on the pier where I had seen him, like a statue of Richard Wagner, watching one of his great choruses come in tides along the shore.
There were still half a dozen young men playing volleyball below. The thump of the ball and the rifleshots of their laughs were somehow killing the day. Beyond, two weight-lifting finalists were lifting their own worlds into the sky, in hopes of convincing eight or nine young women nearby that a fate worse than death wasn’t so bad after all, and could be had upstairs in the hotdog apartments just across the sand.
John Wilkes Hopwood surveyed the scene and did not look at me. He was making me sweat and wait, daring me to leave. I had, after all, crossed an invisible sill of his life, half an hour ago. Now, I must pay.
“Are you following me?” I said at last, and immediately felt a fool.
Hopwood laughed that famous last-act maniac laugh of his.
“Dear boy, you’re much too young. You’re the sort I throw back in the sea.”
God, I thought, what do I say now?
Hopwood cricked his head stiffly back behind him, pointing his eagle’s profile toward the Santa Monica pier a mile north from here, along the coast.
“But, if you should ever decide to follow me,” he smiled, “that is where I live. Above the carousel, above the horses.”
I turned. Far off on that other still vibrant pier was the carousel that had been turning and grinding out its calliope music since I was a
