Poor Butterfly

16

Vera came to say good-bye the next morning. She was wearing a little black hat shaped like a “V.” I was in a private room. I found out later she had paid for it. She leaned over to kiss my forehead and wake me from a dreamless nap.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Lovely.”

She bit her lower lip.

“They’re all dead,” she said.

I wasn’t sure whether she had read the morning Chronicle or was referring to Lorna, Griffith, and Lundeen. I nodded. I could tell from the fact that she was biting her lower lip that something other than death was on her mind.

“You’re leaving,” I said.

“I’ve got a possible … an audition for a new company in Seattle,” she said. “My agent says we’ve got to get there by tomorrow.”

“We?” I asked.

“Marty Passacaglia and me,” she said, blushing. “His voice is coming back, and he knows the major donator to the company. Marty’s not a bad person.”

“Yes he is,” I said.

“He and his wife aren’t …” she began, but I stopped her.

“It’s okay, Vera. I’m going back to Los Angeles tomorrow. If you ever get there, look me up in the phone book under Private Investigators or Dentists.”

“I will,” she said with a tear in the very corner of her left eye.

I reached for a Kleenex. The move hurt my leg. She dabbed at her eyes daintily. I was sure I’d seen her rehearse this scene the day before.

“You’re going to be a star,” I said. If she could do Cio-cio-san, I could do Norman Maine in A Star is Born.

“Wherever I go,” she said, “the tragedy of the past days will haunt my career.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “A legend like this must be great for an opera singer.”

The smile came. “Good-bye, Toby.”

I dabbed the corner of my eye with a Kleenex and she laughed, a very musical laugh, and was gone.

About ten minutes later Lawyer Flores showed up, dressed in his finest, carrying his briefcase. He surveyed my crushed and scarred body and shook his head a few times.

“All charges against you have been dropped,” he said. “If you like, I can institute a charge of false arrest, which I will take on a contingency basis for 50 percent of all restitution. I advise you, however, not to institute such charges, since they will bring up the fact of your escape from custody, which was illegal whether or not you were guilty. Still, I think we could get the police to settle out of court.”

“Forget it,” I said.

“Good,” said Flores, opening his briefcase. “That will make it easier to pursue my case. I’d like you to read the statement I have prepared for your signature, and sign it.”

I read. It was a statement saying I had heard Inspector Sunset insult Flores and his cultural background and ethnicity. I signed.

“You think you can win this?” I asked him when he took back the signed statement and pen.

“No,” he said, “but I can make an issue of it I can make an issue each time, and if enough of us make an issue, it will stop. In return for your cooperation in this matter, I will not bill you for my services.”

“Thanks,” I said.

We shook hands and he left.

I listened to the radio the rest of the day. I slept through Mystery Man, answered a few questions on Quick as a Flash, had a few chuckles with Henry Aldrich and Homer, who tried to find a way for Henry to earn enough money to take a new girl at school to the big dance. I liked the way Ezra Stone’s voice cracked. It soothed me to sleep.

In the morning, Gunther, Shelly, and Jeremy arrived. I didn’t like it, but the only one of the trio who could drive my Crosley was Shelly. Jeremy couldn’t fit into the driver’s seat and it wasn’t propped up for Gunther, who informed me that Gwen would, indeed, be attempting to transfer from San Francisco University to the University of Southern California at the end of the semester to complete her graduate work.

“This is not a good town for a creative dentist,” Shelly complained as Jeremy picked me up out of the bed. Shelly trotted at our side. Gunther moved ahead opening doors. We hit the sidewalk in front of the hospital; my Crosley and Gunther’s Daimler were parked at the curb. Shelly went on, “The people who most need serious oral care keep murdering each other, leaving town, or going to jail. In Los Angeles, they stay put. I think my plan for branching out into dog dental hygiene has promise here; though.”

“Right, Shel,” I said. “Drive carefully.”

I’m not sure if Shelly answered. He climbed into my Crosley, ground the gears, and pulled away. Jeremy put me in the back seat of the Daimler, put my suitcase on the floor, and joined Gunther in front.

We drove through town and over the Oakland Bay Bridge. I sat with my legs on the seat and my back to the window. I drifted in and out of sleep and ate a sandwich with a Pepsi somewhere along the way. I tried to read Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript for a while, but darkness came. I popped a pill Doc Ungurait had given me and sweated off to sleep.

Sometime during the night we went through Santa Barbara, and the next morning we hit Los Angeles and drove to Heliotrope. Jeremy lifted me from the back seat and carried me down the walk and up the steps to the porch, where Mrs. Plaut stood, hands in apron pockets, blinking at us.

“Mr. Peelers,” she said. “You court disaster.”

“It would so appear, Mrs. Plaut,” I said as Gunther hurried ahead and opened the screen door.

“Your cat did not eat my bird,” she said.

“I’m pleased,” I said.

“But my bird died of the apoplexy,” she continued, following us.

“I’m sorry,” I said as Gunther went up the stairs and Jeremy followed with me in his arms.

“I believe the apoplexy was caused by a fear of your cat,” she called.

“Are you sure it was apoplexy?” I called back.

“It was a yellow canary,” she, said with exasperation at my lack of basic feathered epidemiology.

“Ah,” I said, looking down at her from the top of the stairs where Jeremy had paused so that Mrs. Plaut and I could continue our brilliant repartee.

“I do not blame the cat,” she said. “He attempted to be a gentleman. It was the sight of the innocent creature that done birdie in. The memory of the species is built in like a carburetor. Did you shoot anyone this outing?”

“No,” I said.

“Did you read my chapter?” she asked as Gunther came out of my room to announce softly that he had unpacked my bag.

“I have a few pages to go,” I admitted, with a whisper to Jeremy to get me into my room.

“Do you not believe that Cousin Pyle’s encounter with Sitting Bull in the Baptist church in Cherokee was good stuff?” she asked.

I touched Jeremy’s shoulder to stop him. Since I seemed to be no burden to him I felt only a slight touch of guilt.

“Cherokee, Texas?” I asked.

“Family tree’s from there,” she said. “Cousin Pyle’s branch. Cousin Pyle was not my cousin but the cousin of my mother. I visited them often with the Mister.”

“Ever hear of an opera there?” I asked.

Gunther had gone back into my room.

“No opera in Cherokee,” she said emphatically. “Tried to do one a few years back. Cousin Pyle was sheriff. The opera people absconded with the receipts. Since that night, both Cherokee and the Plauts have refused to enter an opera house, though I do sometimes listen to Milton Cross on Saturdays.”

“I’m tired, Mrs. Plaut,” I said, looking at Jeremy. “And in awe of the way the gods tie our lives together in knots. Until two days ago, I had never heard of Cherokee, Texas. Now it’s haunting me.”

“Then sleep,” she said.

“Hearing aid’s working fine,” I added.

Mrs. Plaut smiled, and Jeremy carried me into my room and put me on the mattress, which Gunther had apparently wrestled to the floor.

“What are the odds of running into someone from Cherokee, Texas?” I said.

“It is not a coincidence,” Jeremy said, gently helping Gunther take off my clothes. “It is, like the process of birth, part of the mystery of being, of life. We are seldom receptive to seeing the silken links that bind us together.”

I could hear the phone ring in the hall and Mrs. Plaut’s footsteps start up the stairs.

“God’s got one heck of a sense of humor,” I said, trying to prop myself up.

“I too have noticed that,” said Jeremy.

“I will be in my room, Toby,” Gunther said. There were little dark circles under his eyes and his tie was slightly loose. He was tired from driving all night but also buoyed by the thought of Gwen of San Francisco coming to Los Angeles. “Please knock on the floor with your shoe should you need anything. I will return with a late lunch.”

“Thanks, Gunther,” I said.

Gunther bowed and exited. Mrs. Plaut was standing in the doorway holding Dash in her arms. She let the cat leap to the floor. He ran to me and began to use my cast as a scratching post.

“I had almost forgotten,” Mrs. Plaut said. “A woman in a funny hat came to the door two days ago and left you this.”

She handed me a pink envelope with an eye painted on it. Dash furiously continued to scratch while Mrs. Plaut watched. My leg began to itch under the cast where Dash was scratching.

“Cats,” she said.

“Cats,” I agreed and opened the envelope. The paper inside was red with green lettering which said:

I cannot understand why man should be capable of so little fantasy. I do not understand why, when I ask for a grilled lobster in a restaurant, I am never sewed a cooked telephone; I do not understand why champagne is always chilled, and why on the other hand telephones, which are habitually so frightfully warm and disagreeably sticky to the touch, are not also put in siluer buckets with crushed ice around them. Please try to locate a telephone which does not offend you and call me at the number below. I am in need of your services.

There was a phone number and a signature.

“Who’s it from?” asked Mrs. Plaut.

“Salvador Dali,” I said.

“The king of Tibet!” she said with awe.

I closed my eyes and went to sleep.