The Daring Dobson

(The Daring Dobson is an adaptation of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

By Joe Ditzel

The Daring Dobson – Chapter One

When I was young and still figuring out the world, my father told me something I’ve been thinking about ever since. 

“Whenever you get the urge to criticize someone,” he said, “keep in mind most people don’t have the resources and privileges you’ve had all your life.”

He didn’t add any further commentary, but we’ve always quietly understood what the other was trying to say, and I knew he was telling me much more than his short statement suggested. As a result, I don’t judge people quickly. I give them a chance to show me who they are, a habit that has allowed me to meet a wide variety of interesting people and also made me want to scratch my eyes out listening to some interminable bores. 

This quality is rare as most people only want to talk about themselves, so if you give them a chance, they will. In college, I was friendly with most everyone on campus, from cleaning staff to students and administrators, so I was often accused of being a schmoozer, a BS artist or a crafty politician. Yet I knew more about many people than their own relatives knew about them — their goals, desires and inner secrets.  

I didn’t go out of my way to induce people to tell me their personal story — I often pretended I was falling asleep, busy with the task in front of me or I would take to my phone for a phony long-awaited call. Over time I could tell when a long, intricate tale of no interest was about to be unleashed upon my ears and I quickly employed various escape plans. The downside is that occasionally the tale is very interesting, with full characterization and plot twists, a story I might have missed in my haste to preserve my sanity. 

And, although I regarded these abilities as a gift, I realized I wasn’t as tolerant as I thought. Behavior may be based on solid ground or the shifting sands of the river bottom, but in the end I don’t care either way. When I returned home from the West last year I wanted to rid myself of the moral failings of the entitled. I’d rather stay at home than spend any more time with the low spark of the high-heeled.

Only Dobson, the chap who inspired this story, escaped my scorn. Ordinarily, a man like Dobson made me wince, constantly talking about boats and private flights to Nice “for the weekend.” But there was something intriguing about him, his bright outlook and obsession with possibility, like a human seismograph at Caltech picking up the slightest tremors on the other side of the globe.

Dobson was unique in Los Angeles, where the easy-going 60s turned to hyper-competitive phoniness in the decades to come. Boorish clods excused their excess with the label “creative soul.” He had a cheery optimism I seldom came across and will probably never see again in this town. Dobson’s story ended well, but the malodorous mob he wrangled during his quests made me question if it was all worth it.  

The Whiteheads have prospered in my Midwest hometown for generations. Well-known civic leaders and philanthropists, a story has been handed down through time that we came from the House of Baccalarent, but the truth is somewhat less grand: our lineage goes back to the Civil War when my great-great-however many greats-grandfather started a small blacksmith shop that evolved into one of the biggest horse equipment and tack companies in the world.

I show people an old tintype of him sitting in his first shop and they say I look like him. I graduated from the ROTC program at Princeton in 1995, following in my father’s footsteps, and entered the Air Force after that. I enjoyed flying Raptors and Super Hornets so much daily life seemed a bit of a bore when I came back to the States.

Instead of the bustling center of modern life it felt like when I left, the Midwest now seemed a step behind–so I decided to head back to California and learn the film and TV business. I knew a few wags from school who were making their way in Hollywood, so I figured I could get on as well. At family gatherings, they discussed my decision as if deciding on their next chess move on a great board in front of them, as if they had any say in the matter, and my aunt pulled me aside after church one Sunday and said they all supported me. Father said I had two years to make a go of it before he pulled the plug and I was on my own, and after some delays, I settled in Hermosa Beach in the spring of 1997.

Other transplants often moved to the city, probably the West Side, or the Northeast side if they were a little hipper or, if money was tight from traveling from Boston or Philadelphia, they slummed in Mar Vista or The Palms. But I didn’t come all this way to live in concrete — I could get that in New York — so when a co-worker said he had just rented a house on the beach and needed a roommate to shave the rent down, I jumped onboard. 

Within a few weeks his company transferred him to San Diego and I had the place to myself. It was a claptrap bungalow on the Strand. I bought a dog to keep me company on walks along the beach, but he ran away one day after getting spooked by a giant mastiff. I made the extra bedroom into a man cave of sorts, with a makeshift bar and all my old hockey trophies from Princeton on two rows of shelves, until I finally canned them. No one cares about how you scored the winner in overtime against Boston College in ‘94. 

I jogged along Ardmore, partly to get rid of some bothersome weight I gained learning how to cook pasta dishes I found in a cookbook sitting in a drawer in the kitchen. It also gave me a chance to get outside, feel the incessant cool breeze coming over the sand, and get a feel for the town. One day a man addressed me as I ran in place waiting for the light to change.

“How do I get to Hermosa Beach village? This way?” he asked, pointing in the wrong direction.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by “village,” so I assumed he meant the center of town and sent him on the right path. My directions came out easily, confidently, as if I had lived there 20 years. I was a newbie no more. I was a concierge, an answer-man, a true local. Never mind the fact that I couldn’t accurately give him directions to any other spot in town. 

The low-hanging marine layer had yet to arrive and the spring sun was clear and bright. I noticed the roses climbing the trellis near the front porch were blooming nicely and that familiar feeling of great beginnings came over me.

I walked around the neighborhood, taking deep breaths of the cool air. I had a lot to do, for one thing I had much reading ahead: books on Hollywood, the film business, TV history, not to mention my subscriptions to Hollywood Reporter, Variety and the Los Angeles Times. I’ve loved entertainment my entire life, but there was so much I didn’t know, so much to learn. Barry Diller started in the William Morris mailroom in 1961 after dropping out of UCLA after only a few weeks. He substituted book-learning by spending his time after work going through the company’s files archive and reading everything he could about Hollywood history. I figured I should do the same.

And I had a long list of books I wanted to read as well, unrelated to my career. I fancied myself a well-read man and competent writer. The Princeton student newspaper published a few of my serious editorials, tackling tough issues of the day like the lack of fresh fruit in the dorm cafeterias. Sure, no students ate fresh fruit anyway, but this was a cause celebre! Now I wanted to return to the simple joys of reading and writing and be the renaissance man I pictured in my head: staring intently at the paper in my vintage Olivetti while puffing on a meerschaum pipe. 

It is a fluke I found myself in a house in one of the beach cities running south of Los Angeles like train cars. The southern-most, Redondo Beach, sits next to Palos Verdes and Rolling Hills Estates, wealthy communities situated on a peninsula jutting into the Pacific. Just north of Redondo is Hermosa Beach and then Manhattan Beach. Hermosa Beach is full of recent college grads and long-time locals, while yuppies and old money share Manhattan Beach. 

Hermosa’s main drag appeals to post-college frat rats extending their heavy drinking years well past graduation. A few stores selling local artist works and the venerable Comedy Beach comedy club add variety, but most of the businesses are watering holes featuring theme nights like Drink and Drown Wednesday. 

I lived in Hermosa Beach, Manhattan Beach’s poorer, hipper little brother. Manhattan Beach attracted millionaire Dodger outfielders while Hermosa Beach had former college baseball players. My house was right on the Strand, with a stunning view of Los Angeles Bay stretching to the horizon and Manhattan Beach’s multi-million dollar manses hugging the coast toward Playa del Rey.

One stood out – a massive, modern marvel that filled seven lots side by side, dwarfing the neighbors. One of the few residences designed by Frank Gehry, whose work includes the Guggenheim and the Walt Disney Concert Hall, it featured a sloping, swirling steel skin that dotted the nearby beach with thousands of reflected sun rays. 

It was Dobson’s mansion. I didn’t know Dobson, but a man’s name gets around when he owns a home like that. My own house was an eyesore, a ramshackle beach cottage built in the 1920s when this neighborhood was filled with artists drawn by the cheap rent and wonderful light. Both the artists and laughably low rent rates were long gone. Tucked between larger homes, it was easy to miss it completely as you walked down the Strand. But it had an excellent view of the water, a bit of the neighbor’s front yard, and the comforting knowledge I was surrounded by millionaires – all for the low price of $1000 a month. 

The pricey palaces of Manhattan Beach stood side-by-side along the strand, like a performance art piece commenting on social status, money and success, and the story of that summer really starts when I drove my BMW convertible a few blocks to have dinner with the Lance Buckleys. Cassie was my second cousin, and I’d known Lance back at Princeton. Just after college, I spent a few days with them in Chicago. 

Lance, among a variety of athletic accomplishments, was widely recognized as one of the best running backs that ever donned a Princeton jersey. Known as “Dancin’ Lance,” he effortlessly threaded his way through so many defenses he set multiple scoring records that stand today. It’s the kind of accomplishment that sometimes leaves college and professional football stars somewhat lost when their reign ends. On the other hand, his family had tons of money — his free-spending ways at Princeton rivalled a tech titan more than a typical college kid — but now he’d landed in LA with the same splash: for example, he trailered a dozen polo ponies from home and stabled them at the tony Coastal Polo Club. It rattles my brain that a guy my age had enough dinero to do that right after college. 

I had no clue why they came out to LaLaLand in the first place. They spent a year carousing around Nice and Cannes in the South of France and then bopped around Europe for a spell, meeting up with other super-rich folks in the various international polo centers like Porto Montenegro and Sotogrande in Andalucia. Cassie told me over the phone they thought of Southern California as their permanent home, but I knew Lance. His restless heart yearns for what’s gone, wistfully trying to recreate the inner joy and external praise he felt on the college gridiron.

So I found myself tooling up Ardmore to Manhattan Beach one breezy afternoon to catch up with old pals I was ultimately unfamiliar with. Their house was grander than I pictured, a Bahamian-style mansion with large white columns and a double-height stair leading to an expansive porch with sweeping views of the bay. The lawn ran down from the wide portico to the edge of the Strand, ringed with honeysuckle, Dutchman’s pipe vines and groups of lilies, daisies and African irises. A low running-white picket fence and entry-way trellis set off the front, while sitting benches invited lazy sunset-watching while sipping lemonade or Arnold Palmers on summer nights. I parked and walked around the front. Lance was motionless in a wide stance on the portico in his white polo breeches, staring at a fishing boat bobbing in the distance. 

He looked different from our time at Princeton. Now thirty, he had a strong frame and shock of brown hair that always looked like it needed a cut. His dark, piercing eyes sent a warning of his inner contempt for most anyone he met. He used his bulk to intimidate when needed — he felt it was required more often than not. He didn’t have the patience to entertain the niceties the rest of the world entertains to lubricate the machinations of everyday life. His jodhpurs tucked crisply into his gleaming riding boots which creaked with every aggressive step. Years of football and weight training made his body lean and powerful, shifting under his riding coat as he moved — like the thoroughbreds at Santa Anita parading in front of bettors before a race.      

Likewise, his voice was gruff, the words rushing out of his mouth like impatient fans squeezing to get into Disneyland in the morning. He spoke with a staccato rhythm, emphasizing select words with a chopping hand motion, increasing in cadence every other sentence to show his displeasure with whatever captured his short attention at the moment. His tone had a tinge of paternal scorn, even when he spoke with friends and family, and more than a few people in his Princeton days hated his guts.

“I don’t want to come across as a know-it-all,” he might have said,” but the truth is I am conversant on a variety of subjects, more than you.” We shared many classes senior year, and while I never hung around him much save for a few coffees before Western Culture and Civilization class, I always felt that he liked me and wanted me to approve of him, perhaps lauding his achievements on campus, but he remained aloof.

We sat on the porch, the sun casting a rhythmic shadow of the spindles.

“We nabbed this great house for a song,” he said, his eyes scanning the property restlessly.

“It’s very nice,” I said. “Congratulations.”

He led me to the edge of the rail and swept his arm like a game show model. Workers tended to the lush garden and a man in a broad hat pruned thick rose bushes. In the distance, an ocean liner eased along the horizon. 

“It belonged to Hewson, the pilot and adventurer.” He spun me around quickly with one hand on my back and the other on my elbow. “Let’s go inside.”

We walked through a large entrance with a high ceiling into a living space with rose-colored walls and white French windows at the sides open to the ocean air. The fresh smell of the thick green lawn hit my nose, a strong breeze curling through the room, sliding around a suit of armor near the stairs, and racing toward the ceiling. 

An enormous couch dominated the center of the room. Two young women sat delicately on the edge, as if they sat all the way back, they may fall into an abyss. Both wore vintage tees and carefully torn jeans that didn’t look as organic as they thought. I got lost in the moment, listening to the fluttering curtains while a few music sheets on the piano moved around. Lance Buckley slammed one set of the windows shut with a bang, the breeze dropped immediately, and the curtains fell straight down, like puppets collapsing on the ground when their strings were let loose. 

I didn’t know the younger woman. She laid on the edge of the couch like a stretched-out cat, not moving, with her head tilted, as if she was considering a question in her mind, turning it over and over to find a solution. If she noticed me, she gave no indication. Her eyes looked distant — for a second, I believed I might be disturbing her concentration but she was lost in thought.

The other woman, Cassie, leaned forward to get up, her hand raising from her side to shake mine, a business-like look on her face. Suddenly she laughed, stepped forward into me, taking my hand and wrapping it in hers as her other arm grasped me in a tight hug. 

“So GOOD to see you, Mr. Whitehead. I’m so happy I want to jump for joy!” she said. 

“Well, do it then!” 

At this, she jumped around and hugged me at the same time, laughing hysterically. 

She held me tight, then pushed back, letting her hand run along my arm until it met my hand. She gripped it firmly. 

Then she spoke softly and mentioned the name of the other woman on the couch was Brooks.

(Others have told me Cassie liked to speak quietly to force others to lean in, an annoying power move she must have learned from one of Lance’s friends.)

In any case, Miss Brooks looked over at me, dipped her head slightly as if to acknowledge a greeting, then threw her head back to toss her bangs — the couch rocked a little and she let out a little yelp, then laughed at her reaction. Again, I felt like I was imposing somehow and owed her an apology. I’ve always admired self-confident charm.

I moved my gaze over to my cousin, who started to pepper me with a battery of questions in her throaty voice, her intonation rising and falling like a Broadway musical. Her face was pretty while hints of depression played in her expression. Her bright eyes, full lips and passionate voice enthralled men who dated her — they couldn’t forget her tendency to sing at the drop of a hat, the way she purred “Listen,” the sense she had just finished an exciting adventure and even more exciting exploits were about to take place in an instant.    

I explained how I spent a day in Chicago before heading to LA, and how many of the people in our circle told me to send their love. 

“Well,” she said with a smile. “It sounds like I am still loved in the Windy City.”

“Not only do they miss you, but they also have a weekly symbolic funeral procession marking your absence. A priest stands with open palms on top of the hearse as it makes its way down Rush Street and throngs of thousands beat their chest and wail to the sky.”

“Fantastic! Oh, Lance, we must go back to Chicago immediately!” She added suddenly: “You haven’t seen the baby, have you? Oh, you must. Prepare to be in love.”

“Let’s do it!”

“Darn, she’s asleep right now. Can you believe she’s three? You’ve never seen her?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you must see her soon. She’s…”

Lance Buckley stopped pacing the room and put his hand on my arm. 

“Where are you working, Marc?

“I’m a writer’s assistant.”

“Where?”

“Scremoff Studios. In the valley.”

“Don’t know them from a hole in the wall!”

I wondered if he made a point of being so annoying.

“They’re small but very profitable. If you stay in LA, you’ll hear the name.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in LA, my friend, don’t even worry about it,” he said, looking hard at Cassie. He turned back to me and said, “I’d be a dumbass to live in any other city.” 

Miss Brooks said: “Absolutely!” so suddenly I jumped. It didn’t phase her at all, however, for she stretched and yawned, leaned forward, stood and reached for the ceiling to stretch some more.

“I’m stiff and sore,” she said, rubbing her neck. “I ended up in an awkward position on this sofa for hours.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to get you to go to LA with me all afternoon. No wonder you’re tight,” Cassie said.

“No thank you,” said Miss Brooks when Cassie offered her a cocktail. “I’m in training.”

Lance shot her a look.  

“Of course you are!” He lowered his drink. “I don’t know how you accomplish anything with your tough training regimen.” 

My eyes lingered over Miss Brooks, wondering what she really did all day. She was slender and pretty. She moved like an athlete, standing tall and striding with confidence. She gazed back at me with her hazel-gray eyes, shielding them from the sun. I felt like I knew her somehow. Have I seen her picture somewhere? 

“You’re over in Hermosa, right?” she said. “I know some people there.”

“Well, I’m fresh off the wagon train from Chicago. I don’t know…”

“Surely you know Dobson.”

“Dobson?” Cassie said. “What’s a Dobson?”

I began to explain that he is my neighbor, but Lance jammed his arm into my side and steered me into the dining room after dinner was called, as if he was moving chess pieces forcefully across a great board.

The two women walked slowly ahead of us without care or worry. We strode out to a breezy porch, the sun beginning to set in the distance. Four candles waited patiently, their flames flickering gently as the day’s wind began to mellow at dusk. 

“Candles? How very shopping-mall-bath-store charming.” Cassie said. She wet her fingers and put out each one. “In just over a week it will be the summer solstice, the longest day.” She beamed as she looked at each of us in turn. “Don’t you anticipate the longest day of the year for a very long time and then, somehow, you miss it? Every year I get excited to spend as much time outside that day but then I get busy and miss it.” 

“Let’s plan something fun,” Miss Brooks said, stretching for a yawn, then collapsing in her chair.

“Sounds good,” said Cassie. “But what kind of plan do you have in mind?” She looked at me with eyes wide. “What would you plan?”

I started to speak but stopped when she held up her little finger.

“Look at this!” she complained. “It hurts like hell!”

Everyone looked at her slightly bent finger. It was the color of ocean water near the rocks, dark blue with repeating black whirls at the base.

“Thanks, Lance, this is your doing,” she said. “Maybe you didn’t intend to do it, but it’s still on you. My fault for marrying a big old hulk like you…” 

“I’m not a hulk! What’s a hulk? I hate that,” he said crossly, “even if you are joking.”

“Hulking,” Cassie repeated, nodding her head to emphasize the point.

At times Miss Brooks and Cassie talked over each other they way long-time friends do without realizing it, a cross between banter and nervous chatter, that was serene as their white outfits and the dispassionate look in their eyes. They were physically here, and they put on a polite performance, but they knew dinner would go quickly and the end of the evening would soon follow. It wasn’t that way back in Chicago, where nights with friends were frenzied, loud and raucous, as if a giant “good-time” clock on the wall might stop, or you might run out of beer.

“Cassie, you make me feel uncultured,” I said, downing another glass of the slightly corky but full-bodied red wine.

I was just making conversation, but it sparked an unexpected reaction.

“This world is doomed!” Lance barked. “Everybody wants a free handout but nobody wants to work. And the Dems are too happy to accommodate them. And then they always want more. Have you read

 by Gallaster?”

“Uh, no,” I said, taken aback by his tone.

“Well, it’s an important book, and you should read it when you get a chance. His point is that nobody understands how economies really work and that there is no such thing as a living wage. He backs it up with research. It’s proven stuff.”

“Lance gets worked up about these things,” Cassie interjected, looking down. “He reads all these thick books with big words. What was the word we talked about the other–”

“Well, it’s all been researched and proven with science,” Lance continued as if Cassie hadn’t said a thing. “Gallaster has figured out everything. It’s up to people of means and education like us, people who run things, to make sure these people don’t ruin this great country.”

“We’ve got to turn them back at the gates,” Cassie added quietly, winking at us as she turned away from Lance.

“You should see what is going on in California–” Miss Brooks started to interject, but Lance turned and sat forward, both feet flat on the ground, and picked up his speech.

“The point is we know how to run things. We’ve led this country through wars and depressions to become the greatest in the world! WE! You and you and—” He hesitated before pointing at Cassie, then jabbed his finger at her. Again she turned her head toward me and winked. “—And built an economic engine that lifted the world out of tumult after WWII. Not to mention our great scientists, artists, entertainers and writers that every other country wishes they had. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”  

There was something desperate about it, as if he was trying to convince himself. When the telephone rang and the assistant left the porch to pick it up. Cassie took the break from Lance’s rant to lean in to me. 

“Want to know a family secret?” she said excitedly. “There is a wonderful story about the assistant’s nose. I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it quiet.”

“I rely on you for all the family secrets.”

“OK, see, he didn’t start out as a assistant. He was a silver polisher. He polished silver all day and night for some big entertainment power couple. All that polishing distorted his nose.”

“It kept getting worse and worse?” Miss Brooks said.

“Yes. Finally it was so bad he had to resign.”

The fading sun fell gently on her glowing skin, her voice drawing me in with anticipation — then the glow dimmed, the sun pulling back its rays like a magician making coins disappear in thin air. 

The assistant reappeared and, holding his hand over his mouth, whispered something to Lance. Lance’s face tightened, he got up quickly, and strode inside. Cassie perked up a bit at his absence. She smiled at me as she leaned toward me again, her voice light and musical. 

“It’s so good to see you again, Marc. You are a blooming flower – a rose! Without the thorns! Isn’t he?” She looked over at Miss Brooks for her agreement. “A big, luscious red rose?”

This was patently false. I’m the last person you would compare to a rose. She was talking off the top of her head, but I knew what she was trying to say, as if her love flowed through her words even if they weren’t quite accurate. Then she suddenly snatched the napkin off her lap and threw it in the air. It landed gently on the table as she walked briskly into the house. 

Miss Brooks and I sat in awkward silence. We looked at each other briefly as we considered the situation. I started to end our long pause when she sat up and said, “Shhh!” as she held a finger to her lips. We could hear a heated murmur from inside the house. As we strained to listen, the sound rose and ebbed, peaked again and then stopped.

“Dobson, the fellow you mentioned. He lives right next to me.”

“Shh. Let’s listen to the drama.”

“What’s happening?” I whispered.

“What, you don’t know?” Miss Brooks looked at me with a quizzical expression. “Listen. Everybody on the Strand knows this one.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Well—” she said, leaning in. “Lance is seeing another woman in LA.”

“Another woman?” I said, looking away.

She nodded.

“Whose mistress calls the home of the wife? At dinner time no less.”

Before I could answer, the outer door creaked open and Lance and Cassie sat down.

“I’m so sorry, I’m a terrible host.” Cassie said. “We have so much going on right now.”

She looked back and forth at Miss Brooks and me nervously and continued, “I glance out the window just now and was struck by the romance of this place. I think there is a Red-billed Tropicbird just resting on the grass there. You rarely see them this time of year. He seems very content, just squawking away, his friends responding in the distance. It’s so romantic, don’t you agree, dear?”

“Uh, sure, romantic,” he said. He turned to me and said, “If we have enough light later, I want to drive you to our stables down the road.”

The phone jangled inside, interrupting Cassie before she could speak. Our talk of birds and stables evaporated. Cassie lit the candles once again, though they would surely go out again in short order. I wanted to pick up the conversation to avoid the lingering awkwardness we felt, yet I froze. I had no idea what Lance and Cassie discussed in the house, and doubted Miss Brooks, who was naturally skeptical, had any more insight into why the woman called Lance at his home. To some it might have the juicy appeal of a Hollywood scandal — I just wanted to call the police.

It need not be said that any talk of horses vanished. Lance and Miss Brooks strode back in, a noticeable wide gap between them, quietly, as if entering the display room at the funeral home. At the same time, I tried to pretend I was focusing on the conversation at hand and couldn’t possibly have heard any damning evidence from the other room. Cassie led me through an endless maze of verandas that eventually took us to the front porch. We sat silently.

Cassie held her head in her hands, her eyes moving slowly around the room. Emotions crossed her face like storm clouds on a windy day, so I tried to change the subject. “Your little girl is lovely!” I said.

“We’re cousins but haven’t spent much time together, Marc. Even at the big family reunions. I missed you completely at our wedding.”

“Yes, family reunions make it hard to get to know each relative. Too little time. As for your wedding, I was busy flying F-18s.”

“True,” she said slowly. “Well, things haven’t been so easy for me, Marc, and it’s given me a bit of an edge.”

I imagined why she was perturbed. I held my thoughts to see what she would admit, but she quieted. I broke the silence with an awkward comment about her daughter.

“She probably eats you out of house and home!” 

“And how,” she said. She stared at me blankly. “Marc, I said the most surprising things when she was born. Would you be interested to know what I said?

“It will give you a good idea of where my head’s at. See, she was newly born, less than an hour in this world, and I realized Lance is missing in action. I came out of the anesthesia totally pissed off — where is he? The nurse said, ‘Aw, look, she’s a beautiful girl,’ and I started crying right there. ‘OK, I’m happy! Yes! It’s a girl. I always wanted a girl. And with luck she’ll learn how to navigate this sexist world. That’s the best thing for her, Marc. Beat men at their own silly games.’

“See, everything sucks, anyway,” she said with authority. ”Everyone tells me it does — the most sophisticated people in the world. And they know. I’ve been all over the globe and partied with everyone in all the hotspots. I’ve done it all!” her voice rose on the last word. “Her eyes lit up as she threw her head back and let out an evil cackle. “Oh, I am so worldly, Marc, so worldly!”

Her amusing rant dropped away and I suddenly lost interest — it seemed egotistical and jaded. It made the whole night seem like a sham, like I was supposed to applaud and cheer their home-made play. She looked at me with the smug look of the monied, as if she was putting up an imaginary rope and stanchion that barred me from entering the exclusive and mysterious world of the one percent. 

Inside, a warm light filled the room. Miss Brooks sat on the couch and read to Lance from

 magazine. He lay backwards with no expression on his face as she read slowly in a monotone. The end-table lamp lit up her golden hair and reflected off the mink oil rubbed deep in his boots. The pages rustled gently as she followed a story from one section to another, pausing her reading while she found the page with the rest of the article.

When we entered, she silently held her hand up without looking at us.

“Check out the rest of the story in our next issue…Bah!” she said, throwing the magazine where it slid off the table and on the floor.

She leaned forward to put weight on her front foot and stood up.

“Whoa, ten o’clock?” she said, “I gotta go to bed.”

“Sibley is playing at Riviera tomorrow,” Cassie said.

“Really? Oh, I know you! You’re Sibley

. I’ve been following you forever.”

No wonder she seemed familiar to me — I’d been reading about her in golf magazines and sports pages for years. From Oakland Hills to Doral, she was often in the running on the Ladies International Golf Tour leaderboards. There was something more — she was mixed up in some incident a few years ago but I couldn’t remember what happened.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” she said with a tired voice. “Get me up at eight, please. Okay?”

“Sure, if you’ll actually wake up.” 

“Oh, don’t worry. See you tomorrow, Mr. Whitehead.

“That’s for sure,” said Cassie. “This is going well. Can we look forward to a marriage?” she said, smiling. “You should visit often, Marc, and I’ll arrange some casual get-togethers where you two just happen to keep bumping into each other. Maybe send you both to get olives from the pantry or fishing off our yacht one summer day, that kind of thing…”

“Good thing I haven’t heard one thing you’ve said,” Miss Brooks said as she went upstairs. “Good night.”

“She’s so sweet,” Lance opined after it got quiet. “Her family shouldn’t let her gallivant all over the way she does.”

“Who shouldn’t? What say do they have?”

“Her parents, for one. I assume they paying for all this.”

“Well, her parents aren’t paying. A rich aunt is backing her. And Marc here is going to marry her soon and he’ll take it from there, right Marc? This summer she’ll be here plenty, and Marc will be a great companion.”

Lance and Cassie glanced at each other without saying a word.

“Was she born in LA?” I asked.

“She’s from Lexington. We grew up together — two southern girls…”

“Did you explain things to Marc outside?” Lance demanded.

“Hmm, I think so,” she said, looking me over. “I don’t recall exactly, but I remember mentioning our heritage. Yes, I think I did. It came up in conversation at some point, anyway…”

“Marc, take everything you hear out here with a grain of salt!” he instructed.

I said quietly that I had not heard a thing, and after a bit I decided to head home. They showed me to the door together. They stood in the bright light of the entryway lamp. I jumped in my BMW and started the engine. Cassie ran out and said, “Wait!”

“I almost forgot. I need to know something. Are you engaged to some young thing back in the Midwest?”

“Yeah, what gives?” Lance chimed in. “We got word you were getting hitched.”

“Who me? I have no money. Who would marry me?”

 Cassie insisted, “But I know we must have heard different versions from three different people, so they can’t all be full of it. It has to be true.”

I knew what they were talking about, but it wasn’t even close to the truth. A rumor was going around that I was engaged. It was even in our hometown paper and discussed on local online forums. The gossip was growing to a fever pitch in my little Midwest circles, one of the reasons I decided to clear out and head to LA. You can’t break off old friendships based on gossip — I’d have no friends at all. But I had no intention of letting wagging tongues goad me down the aisle. 

Their curiosity moved me and made them more human, less separated from the rest of us by their wealth. Still, it left me a little irritated and disappointed as I moved the BMW through the gears on my way home. Why doesn’t Cassie grab that kid and get out of the house? Was she afraid of life outside of the lofty social world she inhabited? I wasn’t sure, but she didn’t make any noises about leaving. Lance didn’t seem bothered at all about having a girlfriend on the side. He was more upset about a second-rate book, his otherism growing by the minute.

The late summer breeze rustled canopies and umbrellas on balconies and rooftops sprinkled through neighborhoods overlooking the beach. A bright glow of overhead light showcased the new high-speed pumps at one of the popular gas stations. When I pulled into my place, I turned off the engine and sat quietly on an old metal chair on the porch. The whistle of the night wind died a bit — I could hear the gentle ding of volleyball nets clanging against their Kolls and the rolling crash of waves on the sand. The shadow of a black cat loomed on the wall of the house, and, as I turned to watch it walk by, I realized I had a guest. A dozen yards away a silent figure stepped out of the darkness near my neighbor’s home and stood motionless with his hands in his pockets. I could tell by the way he then walked toward me, slowly and confidently — as if he was looking over my run-down shack to buy it, demolish it and build an 8-story garage for his cars — it was Dobson.

I decided to greet him. Miss Brooks talked about him over at the Buckley’s, that was a good enough opener. But I hesitated. There was something about his movement that suggested he wanted to be alone. He looked across the bay toward Manhattan Beach and opened his arms like he was about to greet a loved one after they got off the plane at LAX. He shook slightly although the breeze was warm. I followed his eyeline across the water and saw nothing but black. After staring at the inky darkness for a minute I began to make out a faint green light in the distance, perhaps at the end of a pier or near one of the volleyball courts. I turned back to Dobson but he was gone and I sat alone again in the dark.

About midway between Hermosa Beach and LA the road runs through a middle-class town named El Tercero. Sometimes locals derisively call it Smell Tercero, or El Smellcero if you prefer, because of regular exposure to airplane exhaust fumes, energy plant mishaps, natural gas odors, hydrogen sulfide and tar seeps in the bay. Not to mention the relentless hum and din of car traffic winding its way down Spellavarona Boulevard, filling the air with minivan, muscle car and broken-down junker exhaust 24 hours a day. In the traditional mish-mosh of Southern California zoning, mid-sized corporate buildings sit cheek by jowl with strip malls, chemical plants, dive bars and gas stations. The lush green grass of El Tercero Links, a small “executive” 9-hole golf course and driving range, broke up the endless repetition of plain buildings and decaying grocery store parking lots.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Two

As you drive through this soupy mix of heady odors, you meet the friendly gaze of Doctor Wersarz M. Y. Spectacleski. His eyes loom big and bright over the boulevard — the corneas must measure five feet high. You don’t see his face. The billboard photo is zoomed into his glasses floating over his invisible nose.   

Apparently some optometrist bought the billboard to boost his clientele in the El Tercero area, then either died or couldn’t pay the advertising bill. His eyes remain, slightly frayed by the eternal Southern California sun, looking on the passing motor car parade with amusement. 

The traffic on Spellavarona Boulevard is thick most hours of the day, bumper-to-bumper during rush hours and stops completely when the chemical plant trucks pull out in a daily parade. It was during one of these dreaded waits I first ran into Lance Buckley’s girlfriend.

Everyone in his constellation knew he had one. Friends and acquaintances resented that he bounced from one Hollywood eatery to another with her in tow, leaving her alone as he floated from table to table, shaking men’s hands too hard and kissing women on the side of the cheek. 

I wondered about her, what she was like. I really didn’t want to join Lance on a trip down to see her in El Tercero, but there I was holding on for my life as he tore through red lights along Spellavarona Boulevard. We screeched to a stop at a gas station that had a small convenience store and a fast food restaurant. He leaped up and pulled me out of the passenger seat, literally pulling my arm out the socket. 

“Come on, get out. You have to meet her.”

He was half drunk from the bourbon he likes to down at lunch. His face was flush as he stomped across the parking lot.

We jumped over a low fence and walked back half a block as Dr. Spectacleski kept silent watch. A low, cement-block building sat awkwardly near the gas station and along the boundaries of the chemical plant. It operated as a low-rent strip mall, with space for four shops, two of them available. A 24-hour diner occupied the third. On the far end, a garage advertised “Repairs — Rusty Snyder — Cars bought and sold.”

Lance opened the rusty door, and we went inside.

The inside was almost empty. Along the far wall, a series of floor to ceiling shelves held hundreds of gears, bolts, and car parts covered in grease and dust. I had the thought the garage might be a cover for an opulent internal apartment where drug deals go down between crime lords. The owner walked in the door, slowly wiping grease from his hands on a red rag. He had receding blond hair and a slow, listless gait. He looked down as moved through the room, coming to a stop near the far wall.

“Hey, Snyder,” Lance said loudly. “How’s things? Been busy?”

“Business is great. I’m looking at a couple of brand-new yachts for the summer cruising season,” said Snyder, looking out the window. “When do I get to buy that car from you?”

“Sometime this month. I’ve got my top guy figuring it out.”

“Really? Is he using the same Roman calendar as us?”

“If smart remarks are all you have, I might just forget about the deal. Maybe I’ll sell it to someone that actually cares about that vehicle.”

“Gee, take it easy,” Snyder said. “I was just saying that—”

Fortunately, he stopped while he was ahead and Lance looked around the room patiently. Then I heard somebody coming down some stairs and in a few seconds a larger woman blocked the light coming from the office

I guessed she was around 35 years old, and slightly plump, but with curves that made men turn their heads to get a better look as she walked by.

She wore a simple pink dress with light streaks of blue along the bottom. She was not conventionally pretty, but she had a glow around her, a quiet charm.

A smile played on her lips as she walked right past her husband as if he didn’t exist, took Lance’s hands in hers, and stared at him straight in the eyes. Then she slowly licked her lips and without saying a word turned to her husband and said slowly, “Rusty, why don’t you bring in some chairs from the back so these gentlemen can take a load off.”

“Of course, honey,” said Snyder, hurriedly turning to walk into his small cramped office, immediately blending with the drab color of the walls. A fine white dust covered everything on him — his hair, suit, shoes — as well as the walls, ceiling, desk and old computer. His wife stepped closer to Lance.

“I have to see you,” Lance said. “Jump on the next Green line.”

“OK.”

“I’ll see you at the entrance gate.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and stepped back from him just as Snyder brought two dusty chairs from a storage area.

We drove to the CityWideRail station nearby where the Green line ran. It was almost Independence Day, and a skinny little kid was setting off bottle rockets along the tracks. 

“They live in a dump,” said Lance, staring down Dr. Spectacleski. 

“Disgusting.”

“She needs to get out of there sometimes. To save her sanity.”

“Snyder doesn’t mind?”

“Snyder? She tells him she’s visiting a sister in LA. He barely knows where he is half the time, much less where she goes.”

So we all took the Green line to Blue Line and then up to Los Angeles. Well, Lance and I were together. Mrs. Snyder hid in the crowd in the car behind us. This protected the sensitive eyes of any Manhattan Beach-types whose Range Rover might be in the shop this week and decided to take the train.

She had changed into jeans which drew taught around her wide hips when Lance helped her up the stairs at the 7th street station. We stepped out into the bustle and curious smells of downtown LA. Ducking into a convenience store, she bought a National Enquirer and a tiny bottle of Estee Lauder Pleasures perfume. Outside Lance let her wave down a taxi, but she let several go by before she found one satisfactory. At a stoplight, suddenly she tapped on the window.

“There, see that — I want one of those puppies,” she said. “For the apartment. Every home is better with a puppy.”

The cabbie pulled back a bit so we could see the dogs better. On the sidewalk next to us, an old man with a grizzled beard, who looked like an older version of Brad Pitt as Tristan in Legends of the Fall, wrangled a number of puppies of different breeds trying to jump out of a basket on the ground. 

“What breeds do you have?” said Mrs. Snyder, scooting closer to the open window. 

“Everyone you’d ever want,” the man said, smiling. “What do you fancy?”

“I’ve always wanted a police dog. LA is more dangerous every year. Got one of those?”

The man checked the unruly puppies in the basket, grabbed one by the scruff and held him up,

“You don’t have any police dogs,” Lance scoffed. “That’s a mutt.”

“You may be right,” the man said. “Looks like a Belgian to me.” He scrubbed the dog’s ears, head and back with a rag. “Look at the shine on this coat. This guy is a winner. That shine tells you he’s super healthy. And calm as the sea on a spring morning.”

“He’s adorable!” Mrs. Snyder said. “What’s the price on this little guy?”

“This rascal?” He smiled as he held it a little higher. “I shouldn’t do it, but if you promise to take care of him, I’ll let you take him for $100.”

The man handed the Belgian — or more like Belgian-adjacent — through the window to Mrs. Snyder. She beamed as the pup settled in her lap, stroking his back and scratching his ears with delight.

“Hey wait, is it a boy?” she asked suddenly.

“Boy.”

“Wrong! It’s a bitch,” Lance said quickly. “Take your dough, old-timer. Go get a dozen more.”

The driver resumed the trip and we headed to Beverly Hills. The air was clear and a slight breeze cooled the inside of the cab. Traffic down Wilshire was always lighter on Sunday afternoons and we made good time. 

“Wait,” I said. “I have to get out here.”

“Not on your life,” Lance said immediately. “Hazel will be upset if you don’t join us at this pad. Right, Hazel?”

“You can’t leave now!” Hazel exclaimed. “I’ll call my sister Audrey. Everyone says she’s super hot and she’ll love you.”

“I don’t know…”

We turned and headed up Rexford past some low-slung houses and a school. The old cab eased to a rumbling stop at a row of identical apartment houses with a neat, ecologically-friendly lawn of desert gravel, small cactuses, and fir trees. Mrs. Snyder stepped out, cradling her new canine acquisition, and looked around as if the cactus plants were part of an adoring Hollywood crowd on Oscar night. Securing her shopping bag in the other hand, she entered the apartment in a regal manner. 

“I’ll have the MacKinnons stop over,” she said loudly as we rose in the squeaky elevator. “And, for sure, I’ll get my sister to make an appearance.”

We stepped onto the top floor as the elevators doors banged shut behind us. It was slightly smaller than I imagined — dining room, living room, L-shaped bedroom and a bathroom. The living room was overflowing with way too many pieces of mid-century furniture, so negotiating a trip to the bathroom required balance and nimbleness.

The only art on the walls consisted of a canvas print of a collage of mugshot photos: Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley, Kurt Kobain, Jimi Hendrix, Frank Sinatra and David Bowie.

Dated copies of Star Lives, National Celebrity and Hot Hollywood gossip rags were strewn about the place. Mrs. Snyder was busy making the dog comfortable in his new place. A concierge for the apartment complex had a dog bed delivered and some milk sent up. He gave her some dry dog treats he kept at the ready — the pup tried one but found it too hard for his liking. Lance retrieved several bottles of liquor from a locked cabinet.  

I’ve had exactly two hangovers in my life, and I knew the next day would be one of them — we drank through the afternoon, draining the liquor bottles Lance spread out on the coffee table. The radio played endless 90s hits from grunge to hip hop as the shadows moved across the wall with the setting sun. Mrs. Snyder sat crosswise on Lance’s lap, legs dangling over the side. As she dialed another friend to come join us, I realized we were out of cigarettes and ducked out to the drugstore on the corner. When I returned, Lance and Mrs. Snyder were gone, presumably to one of the rooms. I picked up a Hot Hollywood magazine to read the cover story about space aliens taking over the entertainment business — I don’t know if the whisky was affecting my brain, but it started to make sense to me. Of course space aliens run Hollywood! It explains movies like “Leonard Part 6,” “Can’t Stop the Music” and “Cocktail.”  

Just as Lance and Hazel (after several drinks she started calling me “Midwest” and I called her “Snidely”) came back into the room, more guests began to knock on the door.

Her sister, Audrey, was thin, late twenties, with short red hair and fair complexion. Colored bracelets clacked together as she moved her arms up to take a drink Lance handed to her. Several small tattoos dotted her arms. She attempted a “too cool to care” look, with flared jeans, burgundy crop top, fabric choker, pale hoop earrings and Mary Jane-style shoes. She pulled it off in the casual way beautiful women often do, self-aware and awkward at the same time. Her eyes looked around the seating availability so quickly, I surmised she lived here. 

“Do you live here?” I asked, smiling. 

She laughed. “Do I live here? Oh, no. I live with my girlfriend in Santa Monica.”

Mr. MacKinnon was a slight, very fair-skinned fellow who lived in one of the apartments on the lower floors. He wore way too much cologne — it wafted after him like a motorboat’s wake as he drifted around the room introducing himself. He alternatively claimed to be an artist or a “professional connector.” The truth was his income was derived from his professional photography. He was responsible for the ghastly enlargement of Snidely’s mother haunting the entryway. His wife was loud, opinionated and proud, repeating to me several times that her better half had completed 167 professional photo sessions with her since they met.

Mrs. Snyder had changed clothes at least twice, suggesting she stayed here regularly. Now she whirled about the place in an ensemble best described as “hip hop prep,” featuring an oversized leather jacket with the skyline of New York. Borough names like “Brooklyn” and “Staten Island” were stitched randomly around the back and sleeves. She paired this with a cream-colored baggy tee and ripped jeans. Sure, you can get a similar look at Kohl’s for $200 but Lance probably picked up the bill in Beverly Hills for $5,000 or so. Her original perkiness morphed into a haughty disaffection, her tone becoming more regal and distant as the sun moved shadows across the wall. Her laugh grew louder as she sat in the middle of the cacophony, her eyes betraying happiness and disdain at the same time. 

With a loud shout, she said to her sister, “My dear, most of these guys out here will deceive you every time. They just think about money and how to get more. I had a foot specialist come around to look at my feet last week. You might have guessed she took out my appendix and replaced my heart and lungs when she handed me the bill.”

Mrs. MacKinnon enquired, “What was the feet lady’s name?”

“Mrs. Stabilistan. She has a long client list — spend her whole day inspecting their feet in their own homes.”

Mrs. MacKinnon said, “I admire your dress, I think it’s wonderful.”

Mrs. Snyder raised an eyebrow in mock rejection of the compliment. “It’s simply an eccentric old item,” she added. “Sometimes, when I don’t care about my appearance, I just slip it on.”

Mrs. MacKinnon persisted, saying, “But it looks great on you, it fits your personality.”

“I think Foster could make something of it if he could get you in the right pose.”

“We all remained silent as we stared at Mrs. Snyder, who took a hair from her eyes and gave us a bright grin. With his head tilted to one side, Mr. MacKinnon gave her a serious look before slowly moving his hand in front of his face.

He thought for a bit, then added, “I should change the light. I’d like to highlight her best features. And I want to get all of her wonderful hair.”

Mrs. MacKinnon exclaimed, “I wouldn’t think of altering the light. I believe it’s—”

We all turned back to the subject after her husband yelled “Sh!” 

Lance Buckley then stretched, yawned loudly and stood up.

He said, “You MacKinnons should have a whisky. Before everyone dies of boredom, Hazel, bring us some fresh water and ice.”

“I warned the young boy regarding the ice.” Hazel furrowed her brows in utter dismay at the slackness of the lower classes.”My word! You have to stay on top of them — never a moment’s rest!”

She chuckled aimlessly as she gave me a glance. She then swanned over to the dog and gave it an ecstatic kiss before sweeping into the kitchen, where she implied a dozen cooks and a team of pastry chefs were waiting for her in-depth orders. The dog didn’t look pleased.

Lance just stared at him.

“We have framed two of them downstairs.”

Lance asked, “Two what?”

“Two studies. I call one Manhattan Beach Pier—Morning and the other Redondo Beach Boardwalk.”

Audrey joined me on the couch.

She asked, “Do you live down in South Bay, too?”

“Hermosa Beach.”

“Really? I went there about a month ago for a party. A guy named Dobson lived there. Does he know you?”

“We live next to each other.”

“Well, they say he’s either a nephew or cousin of some European royalty. That’s where he gets all of his money.”

“Seriously?”

She smiled.

“He makes me nervous. I don’t want him to find out anything about me.”

Mrs. MacKinnon abruptly pointed at Audrey and exclaimed, “Foster, you should work with her — she has a certain presence.” Mr. MacKinnon merely nodded in a bored manner and shifted his focus to Lance.

“If I could get some more referrals, I would like to do more work in the South Bay. All I ask is they give me a shot.”

“Hazel will help,” Lance said with a brief burst of laughter as Mrs. Snyder entered carrying a tray. “She’ll help get the word out for you, right, Hazel?”

She was surprised. “Do what?”

“You’ll help spread the word about MacKinnon to your husband so he can make a few drawings of him.” He thought for a moment. “‘Rusty Snyder at the Gas Pump,’ or some such.”

“They both reeallly dislike who they’re married to,” Audrey moved up close to me and whispered.

“Serious?”

“Despise them.”

After glancing at Hazel, she turned to face Lance. “Why continue to live with them if they really don’t want to, is what I say. If I were them, I’d end it immediately obtain a divorce and start over at once.”

“Does she not also like Snyder?”

This brought forth an unexpected response. It was aggressive and filthy, and it came from Hazel who had overheard our conversation.

Audrey said proudly, “What did I tell you?” Once more, she softened her tone. “Actually, his wife is the one dividing them. Since she is Catholic, they do not want to even think about divorce.”

Cassie wasn’t Catholic, so I was a little taken aback by the deception.

Audrey went on. “When they do get hitched, they’re coming out here to California to live for a time until things settle down.”

“Traveling to Europe would be more covert.”

She asked, “Oh, do you like Europe? I prefer the south of France — I recently returned from Monte Carlo.”

“It’s great there.”

“We had so much fun. Me and my girlfriend. It was a blast.”

“Gone long?”

“Not at all; our main goal was Monte Carlo. Stopped in and returned. We took the Marseilles route. At the beginning, we had around $1200, but we lost it all in the private rooms faster than Ishtar left the theaters. We had a difficult time on the way back, I can tell you. God, I despised that place!”

Mrs. MacKinnon’s strident voice beckoned me back into the room as the late afternoon sky filled the window like the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

Her voice shook with exasperation: “I almost screwed up, too. A guy who’d been after me for years came very close to becoming my husband. I never liked him. ‘Margaret, you can do better than that fellow!’ everybody said. In the end, if Foster hadn’t entered the picture, he might have snagged me.”

“At least you didn’t get hitched to him,” Hazel Snyder said, nodding her head approvingly.

“I am sure I did not,”

Hazel said ambiguously, “Well, I married him. And that’s how your situation differs from mine.”

“Hazel, why did you marry him, though?” questioned Audrey. “Nobody made you do it.”

Hazel thought.

Finally, she remarked, “I thought he was a genuine guy. I assumed he was of good breeding, yet he wasn’t suitable to kiss my boots.”

“For a while, you were nuts about him,” Audrey remarked.

“Nuts?” Hazel exclaimed in disbelief. “Who said I was head over heels for the guy? Never in my life did I love him more than I did this fellow right over here.”

Everyone turned to look at me accusingly when she suddenly pointed at me. I tried to convey with my facial expression that I didn’t expect any approval.

“When I married him, that was crazy. I realized right quickly that I messed up. He didn’t even tell me that he borrowed his buddy’s best suit to wear to his wedding. That guy knocked on the door one day while he was gone and asked for it back. ‘Oh, I thought it was his’ I said. ‘Sorry, I never knew you lent it to him.’ But after giving it to him, I collapsed on the floor sobbing uncontrollably all afternoon.”

Audrey continued to me, “She definitely ought to stay away from him. They have spent the last eleven years living above that damn garage. The first sweetheart she ever had was Lance.”

Everyone there was now constantly asked for the second bottle of whiskey, with the exception of Audrey, who “wanted a break and water will do, thank you.” Lance called the concierge and told him to bring some the famous sandwiches from Belansky’s Deli, which were a whole meal by themselves. I longed to leave the house and stroll through the gentle dusk toward the park, but every time I tried to go, I was caught up in a hysterical dispute that pulled me back into my chair like steel cables. High above the metropolis, our row of yellow windows must have added their fair share of human secrets to the passing onlooker in the dimming streets, and I saw him gazing upward inquisitively. I was fascinated and repulsed by the endless variety of life.

When Hazel moved her chair up next to mine, the tale of her first encounter with Lance suddenly spilled over me in her warm breath.

“It was on the two tiny seats that are always the final ones on the train, facing each other. In order to see my sister and stay the night, I was traveling up to LA. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him despite the fact that he was wearing a formal suit and expensive leather shoes, so I had to pretend to be gazing at the dreary bus ad above his head. He stood next to me when we entered the station, touching his white shirtfront with my upper arm. I told him I would have to summon a police officer, but he knew I was lying. I was so thrilled that I barely realized I was getting into a taxi with him rather than a subway car. ‘Life is short; life is short,’ kept playing in my head over and over.”

She turned to face Mrs. MacKinnon, and her fake laugh filled the room.

She called out, “My dear, I’m going to gift you this dress as soon as I’m done with it. I’m going to sit down and compile a list of every item I need to buy. A rub and a wave, as well as a leash for the dog, and one of those adorable little ashtrays where you touch the little mechanism and it does a funny jig, as well as a big wreath trimmed with a large, somber bow for mother’s grave — I hope it lasts for the rest of the season at least. I’m so forgetful. I better write everything down on a big list.”

When I glanced at my watch shortly after nine, I discovered that it was now 10pm. Like a picture of man of adventure, Mr. MacKinnon was fast sleeping on the recliner with his hands balled up into fists in his lap. I wiped the dried-up soap patch from his cheek with my handkerchief after worrying about it all afternoon.

The puppy was seated on the table and occasionally made a mild groaning noise while peering through the smoke with squinty eyes. People made plans to go somewhere, disappeared, resurfaced, got lost, looked for each other, and finally found each other a short distance away. Around midnight, Mrs. Snyder and Lance Buckley were standing face to face debating whether Mrs. Snyder had any right to bring up Cassie.

“Cassie! Cassie!” Mrs. Snyder cried. “Cassie! Whenever I want to, I’ll say it! Cassie! Cas—”

Lance Buckley stood close to her, turned his body and smacked her face very hard, breaking her nose with his open palm.

Then, there were bloody rags on the bathroom floor, reprimanding female voices, and a long, broken cry of anguish high above the pandemonium. After waking up from his nap, Mr. MacKinnon stumbled toward the door. After making it halfway, he turned around and looked at the scene, which included his wife and Audrey reprimanding and comforting as they stumbled around the crowded furniture carrying bandages and medical tape, and the dejected figure on the couch who was trying to cover the tapestry scenes of Versailles with a copy of Hot Hollywood while profusely bleeding. Mr. MacKinnon then turned and walked out the door. I followed after grabbing my LA Dodgers cap from the closet.

“We should have lunch sometime.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Beverly Hills. Santa Monica. Downtown. Anywhere.”

Another rider said, “Careful. Don’t bump the buttons. This thing is already slow.”

Mr. MacKinnon apologized, saying with grace, “I didn’t know I was that close.”

I nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll be happy to.”

… Later, as I waited for the five o’clock bus, I was lying half asleep in the chilly afternoon air on a hard bench, staring at a copy of the Los Angeles Times I found sitting there.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Three

Throughout the summer nights, music could be heard coming from my neighbor’s home. Men and women came and went in his azure gardens like moths circling the lamps along the Strand. With the ocean tide at its highest, I could see people jumping from the tower of his high-dive platform or basking in the sun on his beach’s hot sand as his two sleek Spray Fount 24 DS motorboats sliced through the waters of the bay, pulling half-drunk water-skiers over the foam-filled wake.

On the weekends, transporting groups of people into and out of the city between the hours of nine in the morning and well after midnight, while his station wagon scurried like a quick-footed yellow beetle to meet every arrival at the railyard. And on Mondays, eight housekeepers and maintenance workers, along with an additional gardener, worked all day long to fix the damage from the previous evening using mops, scrub brushes, hammers, and large clippers with wooden handles.

A broker in Los Angeles sent five crates of dozens of varieties of fruits every Friday; the same fruit left his back door after the weekend in a tower of pulpless halves. In the kitchen, the chef installed a machine in the kitchen that could squeeze the juice from 500 oranges in minutes.

At least once every two weeks, a group of caterers descended with enough colored lights and several hundred feet of canvas to transform Dobson’s vast garden into a Christmas tree. Spiced baked hams pressed up against salads with harlequin patterns and pastry pigs and turkeys that had been magically transformed into dark gold on buffet tables adorned with dazzling hors d’oeuvres. A bar with a real brass rail was set up in the main hall, and it was packed with gins, vodkas, whiskeys, liquors, and cordials that had been around so long that most of his guests had no idea what the brands were.

The band has already come by seven o’clock; it is not a small group, but rather a pitiful assortment of oboes, trombones, saxophones, viols, cornets, piccolos, and low and high drums. The automobiles from Los Angeles are parked five deep in the drive, and already the hallways, salons, and verandas are garish with vibrant colors, hair styled in bizarre new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The last swimmers have just entered from the beach and are getting ready upstairs. The bar is in full swing, and the sound of clinking cocktails fills the outdoor garden. The atmosphere is alive with conversation, laughter, casual innuendo, introductions made on the fly that were immediately forgotten, and warm greetings between women who had never met before.

As the earth veers away from the sun, the lights become brighter. At this point, the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices is pitched up a key. It gets simpler to laugh minute by minute, spilling out prodigiously at a cheery word. The groups shift more quickly, grow with newcomers, and dissolve and form all at once. Already, there are roving, self-assured girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become the center of a group for a sharp, joyous moment, and then, giddy with triumph, glide through the sea-change of faces, voices, and color under the continually shifting light.

One of these gypsies suddenly grabs a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for bravery, and dances out on her own on the canvas stage while wearing trembling opal. There is a brief silence; the band leader alters his rhythm obediently for her; and there is a flurry of conversation as the false rumor spreads that she is Janice Lolie’s understudy from a long-running Broadway show. Party time has started.

I think I was one of the few visitors who had truly been invited the first night I spent at Dobson’s place. They went there despite not being invited. They boarded luxury cars and were transported to the South Bay, where they eventually arrived at Dobson’s door. When they arrived, someone who knew Dobson gave them an introduction, and they then behaved in accordance with the amusement park’s norms of conduct. They occasionally came to the party with a simplicity of heart that served as their own entry ticket and left without ever having met Dobson.

My invitation was casual and charming. The honor would be all Dobson’s if I attended his “little party” that night it stated in a note his chauffeur handed me – he was wearing a robin’s-egg blue uniform as he crossed my lawn early that Saturday morning. In a regal hand, Donny Dobson wrote that he had seen me several times in the neighborhood and had wanted to introduce himself to me long ago, but a weird mix of events had prevented it.

A little after seven, I went over to his lawn and stomped around awkwardly among swirls and eddies of strangers, but occasionally I saw a face I had seen on the commuter train. I was instantly surprised by the large number of young Angelenos scattered around; they were all well-dressed, all appeared a little hungry, and all spoke to the substantial and affluent friends in low, earnest accents. I was certain they were offering something for sale, whether it was bonds, insurance, or automobiles. At the very least, they were persuaded that everything was theirs for a few words in the appropriate key and agonizingly aware of the nearby easy money.

As soon as I got there, I tried to locate my host, but the two or three people I asked about his whereabouts looked at me in such astonishment and vehemently denied knowing anything about his movements that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without appearing aimless and by himself.

Sibley Brooks emerged from the house and stood at the top of the marble steps, leaning slightly backward and gazing down into the garden with scornful fascination. I was on my way to getting roaring drunk out of sheer embarrassment.

Whether I was invited or not, I felt the need to cling to someone before I could start making polite remarks to the onlookers.

“Hello!” I charged her with a roar. Across the garden, my voice felt abnormally loud.

She said absently, “I thought you would be here,” as I approached. “I recalled you had a neighbor named—”

She gave two girls in twin yellow dresses who had halted at the bottom of the stairs her undivided attention while holding my hand impersonally and promising to take care of me in a moment.

Together, they exclaimed, “Hello. Sorry about the loss.”

That applied to the golf competition. The previous week, she had lost in the championship.

“We met you here about a month ago, but you don’t know who we are,” one of the yellow-clad girls remarked.

Sibley said, “You’ve coloured your hair since then,” and I started to respond, but the girls had casually moved on and her comment was directed at the premature moon, which was undoubtedly generated like the meal out of a caterer’s basket. We strolled into the yard after descending the steps with Sibley’s delicate, golden arm resting in mine. The two females in yellow and three men, each addressed to us as Mr. Mumble, floated a tray of cocktails our way as we sat down at a table.

Sibley turned to the girl next to her and asked, “Do you come to these events often?”

The girl responded with keen confidence, “The final one was the one I met you at. Was it for you, Claire?” she asked, turning to face her friend.

It was also for Claire.

Claire remarked, “I like to come. “Since I don’t give a damn what I do, I always have fun. He asked for my name and address after I tore my gown on a chair during my last visit. A week later, I received a parcel from Bergdorf’s with a new evening gown inside.”

“Did you keep it?” Sibley questioned.

“Yes, I did. It had to be changed because the bust was too big for me to wear it tonight. It had beads of lavender and was gas blue. A total of $255 is mentioned.”

The other girl exclaimed eagerly, “There’s something hilarious about a fellow that’ll do a thing like that. He wants to avoid conflict with anyone.”

“Who doesn’t?” I questioned.

“Dobson. Someone informed me…”

Sibley and the two ladies leaned closely together.

“Someone informed me they believed he once killed a man.”

All of us felt a thrill. The three Mr. Mumbles hunched over and anxiously listened.

Claire responded skeptically, “I don’t think it’s so much that; I think it’s more that he was a German agent during the war.”

One of the males nodded his head in agreement.

He firmly confirmed us, saying, “I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew up with him in Germany.”

“He served in the American army throughout the war, therefore it couldn’t be that,” the first girl said. She leaned forward with enthusiasm as we turned back to her with renewed skepticism. “You sometimes glance at him when he thinks no one is watching. He killed somebody, I just know it.”

She shivered and narrowed her gaze. Claire trembled. We all spun around and searched the area for Dobson. The fact that there were whispers about him from people who had found little to whisper about in this world was evidence of the passionate speculation he aroused.

Sibley encouraged me to join her own group, which was gathered around a table on the opposite side of the yard, as the first dinner—there would be another after midnight—began to be served. Three married couples were present, along with Sibley’s escort—a relentless college student who enjoyed using aggressive innuendo and who was evidently certain that sooner or later Sibley would give up some aspect of her person to him. Instead of roaming, this party maintained a dignified homogeneity and took upon itself the role of symbolizing the staid nobility of the countryside—Manhattan Beach deferring to Hermosa Beach and wary of its spectral gaiety.

A large, middle-aged man was perched on the edge of a large table, somewhat inebriated and gazing with shaky focus at the book shelves. He wore gigantic owl-eyed specs. He spun around excitedly as we walked in and gave Sibley a thorough inspection from head to toe.

He bellowed impatiently, “What do you think?”

“Think about what?”

He gestured grandly toward the bookcases with his hand.

“All of this. Really though, you don’t need to worry about finding out. I found out. They are true.”

“The books?”

He moved his head in agreement.

“Exact real—pages and everything. I anticipated them to be a good, sturdy cardboard. They really are real, that much is true. Both pages and—this! I’ll demonstrate.”

He hurried to the bookcases, taking for granted our skepticism, and came back with Volume One of the Stamfordshire Lectures.

He said in triumph, “See! It is an authentic printed item. It deceived me. This guy is your typical Belaster. It’s a victory. What meticulousness! How realistic! also knew when to stop—never cut the pages. What do you want, though? What do you anticipate?”

He seized the book from me and hurriedly placed it on the shelf, murmuring that if one brick were to be taken out, the entire library may fall to pieces.

He asked, “Who brought you? Or have you just arrived?” I was taken. Most individuals were brought.

Sibley did not respond, instead giving him a watchful, happy gaze.

He said, “I was brought by a woman named Rainier. “Mrs. Charles Rainier. Does she know you? Somewhere yesterday night, I met her. Since I’ve been inebriated for nearly a week, I reasoned that spending time in a library may help me become sober.”

“Has it?”

“I believe so, somewhat. I’m not sure yet. I haven’t even been here an hour. Did I mention the books to you? They are actual. They’re—”

“You informed us.”

He gave us a somber handshake before we returned to the outside.

A large number of single girls were dancing individually or temporarily relieving the orchestra of the burden of the banjo or the traps. Old men were pushing young girls backward in endlessly graceful circles, superior couples were holding each other torturously and stylishly while keeping in the corners, and there was dancing on the canvas in the garden. By midnight, everyone was laughing more. Between the songs, people were performing “stunts” throughout the garden while happy, empty bursts of laughter ascended toward the summer sky. A renowned tenor had performed in Italian, and a notorious contralto had performed in jazz. Champagne was provided in glasses that were larger than finger bowls, and a set of stage twins—who turned out to be the girls in yellow—performed a baby performance while dressed in costume. The moon had risen higher, and in the Bay was a triangle of silver scales that was quivering slightly in response to the banjos on the grass playing a stiff, tinny drip.

I had not parted from Sibley Brooks. We were seated at a table with a man of my age and a boisterous young child, who broke out in fits of hysterical laughing at the slightest provocation. I was finally having fun. The sight had altered before my eyes into something significant, fundamental, and meaningful after I had consumed two finger-bowls of champagne.

The man smiled as he turned to face me during a break in the show.

He remarked courteously, “Your face is familiar. “Did you not serve in the First Division during the conflict?”

“Why, indeed. I served in the 28th Infantry.”

“Until May of 18 I was a Sixteenth grader. I was certain I had seen you before.”

We briefly discussed a few dreary, small French communities. He told me that he had recently purchased a hydroplane and planned to test it out in the morning, so it appears that he resided in the area.

“Would you like to join me, brother? Just a short distance from the Bay’s shore.”

c”When is it?”

“Whenever suits you the best,”

As soon as Sibley turned to face the room and grinned, I was about to ask him his name.

She asked, “Having a good time now?”

Much improved. I turned back to face my new friend. “For me, this is a strange party. I’ve never even met the host. I gestured toward the hazy hedge in the distance and said, “I live over there, and this fellow Dobson sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”

He gave me a momentary look that suggested he wasn’t understanding.

“I’m Dobson,” he announced abruptly.

“What?” I cried out. “Oh, please forgive me.”

“Brother, I assumed you were aware. I’m sorry, but I’m not a great host.”

He grinned with much more than just understanding. It was one of those exceptional smiles that only happens four or five times in a lifetime and has a quality of perpetual confidence. It briefly faced—or appeared to face—the entire everlasting globe before focusing on you with an unavoidable bias in your favor. It gave you the assurance that it had just the impression of you that, at your best, you had desired to transmit. It understood you just as fully as you wanted to be understood. At that very moment, it disappeared, and I found myself staring at a classy young roughneck who was barely a year or two over thirty and whose excessive formality of speech narrowly avoided being comical. Prior to his introduction, I had the strong sensation that he was choosing his words carefully.

An assistant rushed over to Mr. Dobson immediately after he introduced himself, informing him that Chicago was contacting him over the wire. He bowed slightly and left, addressing each of us individually.

He advised me, “Brother, just ask for anything you need. Pardon me. I’ll catch up with you later.”

I had to quickly turn to Sibley to let her know I was surprised as he left. I had anticipated that Mr. Dobson would mature into a middle-aged, flabby man.

“What’s he all about?” I prompted. “Do you know his deal?”

“He’s just a guy named Dobson, really.”

“I mean, where is he from? What does he do, then?”

She responded with an unenthusiastic smile, “Now you’re started on the subject. He once told me he was a Stanford man, so…”

Behind him, a dark background began to form, but it vanished at her subsequent remark.

“However, I don’t think it’s true.”

“Really?”

She insisted, “I mean, well, I simply don’t think he went there.”

Her tone somehow made me think of the other girl’s “I suppose he killed a man,” which piqued my interest. If someone had told me that Dobson was from the lower West Side of Los Angeles or the Louisiana swamps, I would have believed it without a doubt. That was understandable. But young guys didn’t just glide coolly out of nowhere and buy a palace on Santa Monica Bay—at least, that’s what I thought in my provincial naivety.

Sibley changed the subject by saying, “Anyhow, he like to stage these big bashes,” while expressing an urban dislike for the concrete. And I enjoy big shindigs. I like the intimacy. Private space is nonexistent in small gatherings.”

The sound of a bass drum was followed by the abrupt emergence of the DJ’s voice above the fray.

He yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen. At Mr. Dobson’s request, I am going to play a bombastic mix of the funkiest tunes from the Valley to Miami, including the hottest new cat out of Detroit, whose latest hit is putting Motor City back on the groove map — he just rocked the Palladium to the ground with it just yesterday.”

“Well, they rebuilt it today!” he smiled, and everyone laughed.

“Let’s kick it off with, ‘Ice Creamy Steamy,’ the big monster smash from Ice Cream Man!” The ground moved to the sound of a thumping bass and the familiar opening chords of the song drove throngs to the dance floor. 

I was never a fan of the song for whatever charms it had were lost on me after hearing it on the radio thousands of times, and as people bumped me on the way to the center of the room, I caught sight of Dobson standing by himself on the marble stairs and approvingly scanning each group. His short hair appeared to have been cut every day, and his tanned skin was drawn pleasantly taut on his face.

He didn’t strike me as being particularly evil. Was the fact that he didn’t drink what separated him from the hoi polloi gyrating all over his floor? He seemed to become more genteel the more the revelers became soused. Girls were putting their heads on men’s shoulders in a puppyish, coy manner after “Ice Creamy Steamy,” and they were falling backward playfully into men’s arms, even into groups of dancers in circles, knowing that someone would catch them if they fell. But nobody tried similar antics with Dobson, and he refrained from stepping in the morass.

“I apologize.”

Suddenly, Dobson’s assistant appeared next to us.

He asked, “Miss Brooks?” Please excuse me, but Mr. Dobson would like to meet with you privately.”

“With me?” she asked in a startled tone.

“Yes, alone.”

She stood slowly, arching her eyebrows in surprise as she looked at me, then she followed the assistant inside. She wore her evening gown, as well as all of her clothing, like sportswear; she moved with a sprightliness that made me wonder whether she had learnt to walk on golf courses in the early morning dew.

It was almost two and I was alone myself. For some time, a long chamber with numerous windows that overhung the terrace had been the source of perplexing and intriguing noises. I entered, dodging Sibley’s undergraduate, who was pleading with me to join him while he was having an obstetrical discussion with two drunk ladies from Van Nuys.

One of the young women at my elbow said, “She got into a fight with a man who claims to be her husband.”

I took a long look around the room. The majority of the remaining ladies were now fighting with males who were allegedly their husbands. Dissension even tore Sibley’s group, the Manhattan Beach quintet, apart. One of the men was engaging in an oddly intense conversation with a young actress when his wife, who had been trying to laugh at the situation in a polite and unobtrusive manner, finally lost it and started launching flank attacks. At various points, she would appear suddenly at his side like an enraged diamond and hiss, “You promised!” into his ear.

Not only errant men felt reluctant to return home. At the time, the hall was populated by two appallingly sober men and their incredibly furious spouses. The spouses’ voices were somewhat elevated as they commiserated with one another.

“Whenever he sees me finally enjoying being away from the kids and house, he wants to return home.”

“Never in my life have I heard anything more self-centered.”

“We’re the first ones to depart every time!”

“We are, too.”

One of the men apologetically remarked, “Well, the DJ left some time ago.”

The women agreed that such malice was unfathomable, yet the argument resulted in a brief scuffle, during which both wives were hoisted in the air, thrown over shoulders and left kicking away into the darkness.

The library door opened while I waited for my coat in the hallway, and Sibley Brooks and Dobson emerged together. A few people came up to him to say farewell as he was speaking a few final words to her, and the enthusiasm in his demeanor suddenly tightened into formality.

She waited for a time to shake hands even though Sibley’s group was calling to her impatiently from the veranda.

She said in a low voice, “I just heard the most fantastic thing. How long were we inside for?”

“Why, a good hour or so.”

She muttered incoherently, “It was… just incredible. But now that I’m teasing you, I’ve broken my promise to keep it a secret.” She gracefully yawned in my direction. “Please come see me…I’m in the phone book…look for Mrs. Sheila Halsteron…she’s my favorite aunt. “She was leaving quickly as she spoke; her brown palm waved a cheery goodbye as she joined her group at the door.

I joined the last of Dobson’s guests, who were gathered around him, feeling somewhat embarrassed that on my first outing I had lingered so late. I wanted to apologize for not knowing him in the garden and to explain why I had sought for him early in the evening.

He urged me anxiously, “Don’t mention it. Don’t think about it anymore, friend.”

The hand that reassuringly touched my shoulder had no more familiarity than his expression. “And don’t forget, we’re taking off on my jet boat at 9:00 tomorrow morning.”

The assistant then said, “Philadelphia wants you on the phone, sir,” from behind his back.

“Okay, in just a moment. Tell them I’ll be there immediately. Good evening and we’ll talk soon.”

“Good night.”

Saying “good night” he grinned, and all of a sudden it appeared as though it had been his goal to be among the last to depart all along. “Good night, brother…Stay well.”

But as I descended the stairs, I realized that the evening was still young. A strange and chaotic scene was lighted by a dozen headlights fifty feet from the door. A brand-new roadster that had just departed Dobson’s drive rested right side up but violently devoid of one wheel in the ditch next to the road. The detachment of the wheel, which was now drawing great attention from six curious chauffeurs, was explained by the sharp jut of a wall. However, a harsh, discordant din from those in the back had been audible for some time since they had abandoned their automobiles, adding to the already violent uncertainty of the scenario.

A man wearing black shoes, shirt and slacks dismounted from the collision and was now standing in the middle of the street, amusingly and bewilderedly glancing from the automobile to the tire and from the tire to the witnesses.

“See!” he cried out. It landed in a ditch.

He found the information to be infinitely astounding, and I immediately recognized the man—he was the late Dobson’s library patron—after noticing his remarkable sense of wonder.

“What did you do?”

He made a shoulder shrug.

“I have absolutely no knowledge of mechanics,” he declared firmly.

“How did that happen, though? Have you hit the wall while speeding?”

Owl Eyes said, washing his hands of the situation, “Don’t ask me. I know practically nothing about driving. I only know the car has a mind of its own.”

“Well, you shouldn’t try driving at night if you’re a bad driver.”

He retorted angrily, “But I wasn’t even trying, I wasn’t even trying.”

The onlookers sank into a stunned silence.

“Do you want to end your life? You’re fortunate that it was only a wheel! A poor driver who makes no effort!”

“You don’t understand,” the offender said. “I wasn’t driving. There is a second man in the vehicle.”

A prolonged “Ah-h-h!” was released as the roadster’s door slowly swung open, expressing the horror that followed this assertion. When the door had opened wide, the crowd—which had now grown considerably—stepped back unintentionally. Then, very gently, piece by piece, a pallid, hanging figure emerged from the wreck, pawing at the earth warily with a huge, unsure shoe.

The phantom remained swaying for a moment before he noticed the man in the black shirt, his vision obscured by the headlight glare and his confusion compounded by the constant groan of the horns.

“What’s wrong,” he asked coolly. “Have we run out of fuel?”

“Look!”

He stared at the amputated wheel for a time before looking up as if he thought it had fallen from the sky as six fingers pointed towards it.

Someone said, “It came off.”

He nodded. “I initially didn’t realize we had stopped.”

A break. Then he took a deep breath, drew back his shoulders and said in a resolute tone, “I wonder if you could tell me where the nearest gas station is.”

He was informed that the physical connection between the wheel and the car had been broken by at least a dozen individuals, some of whom were slightly less gassed than he was.

After a time he said, “Back out. Move her backwards.”

“The wheel is off, though.”

He was unsure.

He responded, “I have to try.”

I turned away and sprinted across the yard in the direction of my house as the caterwauling horns had become louder. I briefly looked back. Over Dobson’s home, a thin moon was beaming, keeping the night as pleasant as it had been before and withstanding the laughing and sound of his still-glow-in-the-dark yard. The host’s figure, which was standing on the porch with his hand raised in a traditional farewell gesture, took on a sense of complete isolation as a sudden emptiness that seemed to emanate from the windows and the large doors.

When I reread what I’ve written so far, I realize that I may have given the idea that my attention was solely focused on the events of three evenings that occurred weeks apart. On the contrary, they were only incidental activities during a busy summer and, until much later, they consumed me far less than my private matters.

I was at work most of the time. As I ran down the bright expanse of the Valley to Scremoff Studios in the early morning, the sun cast my shadow westward. I had lunch with the other writing assistants at dark, crowded restaurants over little pig sausages, mashed potatoes, and coffee because I knew them by their first names. I even had a short fling with a very attractive young woman from Irvine who worked in the finance department. But when her brother started giving me snide looks when she was on vacation in July, I let the relationship quietly end.

I typically ate dinner at the Sunset Club near the studios, which for some reason was the most depressing part of my day. After that, I walked upstairs to the library and diligently studied TV and film contracts for an hour. Although there were occasionally a few loud voices in the hall, they never entered the library, making it a safe location to work. If the rest of the evening remained quiet, I continued driving past the former Valley Vibe Hotel on Ventura Boulevard before crossing Coldwater Canyon to reach the Coffee Scene.

I grew to enjoy Los Angeles’s nighttime racy, daring vibe as well as the delight that the constant flicker of people and cars provides for the wandering eye. I enjoyed picking out romantic women from the crowd as I drove down Hollywood Boulevard and picturing how I would infiltrate their lives in a matter of minutes without anyone ever knowing or objecting. Sometimes, when I followed them in my imagination to their flats on the corners of secret streets, they would turn and smile back at me before vanishing through a door into the cozy darkness. I occasionally experienced a haunting loneliness during the magical city twilight, and I also noticed it in other people—poor young interns who stood in front of windows until it was time for a lonely restaurant dinner—young assistants in the fading light who wasted the most poignant hours of the evening and of life.

I experienced a sinking sensation in my chest once more at eight o’clock, when Sunset Boulevard’s gloomy lanes were lined up five deep with pulsating taxicabs headed for the hot sushi and fusion restaurants. While they waited, bodies leaned close together in the taxis, voices sung, laughter erupted from overheard jokes, and lit cigarettes drew oblique circles inside. I sent them my best wishes while imagining that I was also rushing toward merriment and experiencing their intense delight.

Sibley Brooks was out of my line of sight for a while, but by midsummer I had located her once more. She was a golf champion, so at first I was flattered to go with her because everyone knew who she was. Later, it became more. Although I wasn’t really in love, I did experience a soft curiosity. She presented the world with a bored, disdainful look, but something was hidden there—most affectations eventually hide something, even if they don’t initially—and I eventually discovered what it was. She lied about leaving a borrowed car out in the rain with the top down while we were at a house party up in Ojai, which made me remember the story I had forgotten about her from the previous night at Cassie’s. The allegation that she had moved her ball from a poor lie during the semifinal round of her first major golf tournament almost made it into the press. The situation got close to becoming a scandal before dying out. The sole other witness acknowledged that he might have made a mistake, and a caddy changed his story. Together, the incident and the name had persisted in my memory.

I now understand why Sibley Brooks naturally shunned cunning, wily men: she felt safest on a plane where any deviation from a code would be viewed as impossible. She was a chronic liar. She couldn’t stand being put in a disadvantageous position, so I imagine she started using deceptions when she was very young to maintain her calm, arrogant smile while still meeting the needs of her hard, lanky body.

To me, it didn’t matter. You never really blame a woman for being dishonest—I was merely sorry, and then I forgot. We had an odd talk about driving a car at that same home party. She passed a group of construction workers so closely that our fender accidentally flipped a coat button on one of them.

I objected, “You’re a lousy driver.” “Either you need to drive slower or you need to drive more carefully.”

“I’m cautious.”

“You’re not,” I say.

She mumbled, “Well, other people are.”

“How does that relate to you?”

She insisted, “They’ll stay out of my way. An accident requires two people to occur.”

“Imagine you met someone who was equally as thoughtless as you.”

“I hope I won’t,” she said in response. “I detest sloppy individuals. For this reason, I like you.”

She had purposefully changed the focus of our relationship, and for a few seconds, I believed I was in love with her. Her steel grey eyes stared straight in the distance. But because of my sluggish thinking and abundance of internal regulations that serve as brakes on my wants, I was aware that I needed to first pull myself out of that mess at home. All I could think of was how that particular girl’s upper lip would develop a thin sweat moustache as she played tennis. I had been writing letters once a week and signing them, “Love, Marc.” But before I could truly be free, a hazy understanding had to be diplomatically terminated.

One of the cardinal characteristics that everyone suspects they possess is honesty. I am one of the few honest persons I have ever met.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Four

On Sunday morning, the universe and its mistress returned to Dobson’s home and twinkled delightfully on his lawn while church bells rung in the villages nearby.

The young women, while meandering somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers, said, “He’s a drug dealer.” “He once killed a man who discovered he was El Jefe’s nephew and the devil’s second cousin. Honey, give me a rose and pour me one last drop into that crystal glass over there.”

I once jotted down the names of visitors to Dobson’s house that summer on a timetable’s blank sections. It reads, “This schedule was in effect as of July 5, 1997,” It is an outdated timetable that is falling apart at the folds. However, I can still read the murky names, and they will give you a more accurate picture of the people who accepted Dobson’s hospitality and offered him the subtle homage of not knowing anything about him than my generalizations.

The Freddy Comptons and the Buffles, as well as a fellow named Burnstein whom I knew from Yale, and Doctor Warren Claret, who drowned last summer up in Maine, then arrived from Manhattan Beach. And the Whitedeer family, who constantly huddled in a corner and turned their noses up at anyone who approached, as well as the Monbemms and Kyle Voluncias. Along with the Jomleys, the Narrowstraights, Himby Soreback, and Fallon Bester, whose hair allegedly became cotton-white one chilly afternoon for no apparent reason.

I seem to recall that Frank Benlenson was from Manhattan Beach. He only ever showed up once, dressed in white knickerbockers, and engaged in combat with Kip, a tramp, in the garden. The Weddles, the O. R. P. Schraeders, the Alonzo Abraham Bennetts of Alabama, the Walljeks, and the Chester Bells arrived from further out on the island. Three days prior to entering the penitentiary, Bell was there and was so inebriated on the gravel drive that Mrs. Buregard Bunce’s automobile ran over his right hand. The Fancies, S. B. Whitebait, who was well over sixty, Mookie S. Clink, the Jammerleads, the tobacco importer Portencia, and Portencia’s girls all joined them.

The Kolls, the Booksterns, Clarence Bebackson, Stencil Reedy, Pelick the State senator, Newberry Petunia, who oversaw Movies Worldwide Incorporated, Eckerd, Cimple Noehn, Darry S. Manners (the son), and Barty McLaren—all those having some connection to the motion picture industry—came from Hermosa Beach. Additionally, there were the Dogears, the Benbustiers, and Q. Enry Mistop—the brother of the Mistop who later choked his wife. They all gathered to gamble, including the promoter Da Fabluoso, Ted Lager, Billy C. “Post Time” Berrion, the De Kungs, and Elson Loviton. When Berrion strolled into the garden, it signaled he was done and Amalgamated Faction would have to vary profitably the following day.

As a result of his frequent visits, a man by the name of Fitzsinger earned the nickname “the boarder”; I doubt that he had a house elsewhere. Buster Waves, Warren O’Kiteson, Paul Munson, Rusty Duckweed, and Filbert Barton were among the actors. The Steels, the Backcats, the Donbreaks, Rory Berniece, the Flanagans, the Hellons, the Fewers, the Sullencaps, S. W. Belcher, the Glibs, the young Pripps, who are now divorced, and Hank L. Primaroty, who committed suicide by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square, were all also from Los Angeles.

Every time, Bruce McCaster showed up with four girls. Even if they were never quite the same in person, they were so similar to one another that it was impossible not to believe they had been there before. I can’t remember their names, but I believe they were Juliet, Constance, Gabriela, Mary, or May. If pressed, they would admit that they were the cousins of big American entrepreneurs with sterner last names rather than the more musical names of flowers and months.

In addition to all of these, I can recall that Maria O’Cowlane, the Baedeker girls, young Bearclim, who had his nose amputated during the war, Mr. Allsrightend and Miss Hiop, his fiancée, Ariela Nitz-Qepers, Mr. O. Longmire, a former head of the American Pride Club, Miss Carrie Callminster, with a man rumored to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whose name I forgot the second someone told me. We called him Baron.

In the summer, all of these individuals visited Dobson’s home.

—————

One morning in late July at nine o’clock, Dobson’s stunning automobile lurched up the uneven drive to my door and let out a burst of music from its three-note horn.

Even though I had attended two of his parties, ridden in his hydroplane, and frequently used his beach at his urging, it was the first time he had called on me.

“Greetings, brother. Since you’re joining me for lunch today, I figured we should ride up together.”

He was using that ingenuity of movement that is so uniquely American to balance himself on the dashboard of his automobile. I think this comes from the lack of lifting work when he was younger and, more importantly, from the formless elegance of our anxious, irregular games. His restlessness was a trait that kept showing through his meticulous demeanor. He was never really still; there was always a tapping foot or an eager palm flapping open and shutting somewhere.

He noticed that I was admiring his automobile.

“Brother, isn’t that pretty?” To offer me a better perspective, he sprang off. “Don’t you remember seeing it before?”

Of course, I remember seeing it. Everyone had witnessed it. It was a deep cream color dazzling with nickel. Its huge length was inflated here and there with triumphal hatboxes, supper boxes, and toolboxes, and it was terraced with a maze of windshields that reflected a dozen suns. We headed out while seated in a type of green leather conservatory behind thick layers of glass.

I had probably spoken to him six or seven times in the previous month and was disappointed to discover that he had little to say. As a result, my initial feeling that he was a figure of some unspecified prominence had gradually subsided and he had simply become the owner of the opulent roadhouse next door.

Then that unsettling ride started. Before Dobson started leaving his lovely phrases incomplete and hitting himself irrationally on the knee of his caramel-colored suit, we hadn’t even arrived at Hermosa Beach.

Surprisingly, he said, “Look here, brother. What do you think of me anyway?”

I started making the broad evasions that question deserves because I was feeling a little overwhelmed.

He cut in, “Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life. I don’t want all these stories you hear to give you the false impression of who I am.”

So he was aware of the absurd allegations that permeated conversations in his hallways.

“This is God’s truth.” Suddenly, he gave the order to divine vengeance to wait. “I was born in the Midwest to rich parents who are now all deceased. I was raised in America but received my education at Stanford because all my relatives had been there for a very long time. It is a cherished family custom.”

He gave me a strange look, and I immediately saw why Sibley Brooks had assumed he was lying. The words “educated at Stanford” were hurriedly uttered, swallowed, or choked on, as though they had bothered him in the past. His entire claim crumbled in the face of this uncertainty, and I began to wonder if perhaps there was something a bit sinister about him after all.

“What region of the Midwest?” I asked nonchalantly.

“San Francisco.”

“I see.”

“My entire family passed away, and I suddenly became quite wealthy.”

His tone was sad, as though the memory of that clan’s abrupt extinction still bothered him. For a brief minute, I thought he was playing a practical joke on me, but a quick glance at him dispelled that notion.

“After that, I lived like a young rajah in all the European capitals—Paris, Venice, and Rome—collecting gems, primarily rubies, going on large game hunts, doing a little art, and living a solitary life while attempting to forget a very terrible event that had occurred to me in the distant past.”

I struggled to hold back my disbelieving laughter. The sentences themselves were so worn-out that the only image they conjured was of a turbaned “character” chasing wild game around the Bois de Boulogne while dripping sawdust at every pore.

“After that, brother, I enlisted. It was a huge relief, and despite my best efforts, I continued to live what seemed to be an enchanted life. When it started, I agreed to a commission as a first lieutenant. In Iraq, I advanced the remnants of my machine-gun battalion so far that the infantry was unable to move forward over a gap of a half mile on either side of us. With 130 soldiers and 16 Heckler & Kock MP5s, we stayed there for two days and two nights. When the troops finally arrived, they discovered the insignia of three Iraqi divisions among the bodies. Every Coalition force awarded me a decoration once I was raised to the rank of major, including Poland!”

Poland? I didn’t even know they were part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. He smiled as he nodded at the words while holding them up. Now that my skepticism had been replaced by curiosity, it was like quickly skimming through a dozen magazines.

He reached in his pocket and pulled a piece of metal on a ribbon. It fell into my palm.

“That is the from Poland.”

I was shocked to see that it appeared genuine. The circular legend read, “Poland, Order Honoru, Wszystkie jej województwa.”

“Look on the other side.”

I saw “Major Jay Dobson,” “Za niezwykłą odwagę.”

It means “For extraordinary bravery.”

“This is something else I constantly have with me. A memento from the Stanford years. The man on my left is now the Ambassador to Japan; the photo was shot at the Main Quad.”

It was a picture of a group of young men lounging in an archway with a number of spires visible through it. Dobson was there, holding a baseball bat, and he appeared to be somewhat, but not significantly, younger.

So, he was telling the truth. In his palace on the Great River, I witnessed the skins of tigers pulled tight against timber frames, and I witnessed him unwrapping a blanket of rubies to soothe the gnawings of his broken heart with their crimson-lit depths.

He remarked, pocketing his trinkets with delight, “I’m going to make a major request of you today, so I felt you ought to know something about me. I didn’t want you to think that I was merely a bystander. You know, I frequently see strangers because I wander around in an effort to ignore the horrible things that have happened to me.”

He was unsure. “You’ll get all this and more this afternoon.”

“At lunchtime?”

“Not today, this afternoon. I just discovered you’re taking Miss Brooks to tea.”

“Do you mean you have feelings for Miss Brooks?”

“I’m not, no, brother. However, Miss Brooks has graciously agreed to speak with you about this situation.”

Even though I had no notion what “this situation” even meant, I was more annoyed than intrigued. I hadn’t invited Sibley around for tea so we could talk about Mr. Jay Dobson. For a brief minute, I regretted ever setting foot on his crowded lawn because I was certain the request would be something absolutely crazy.

He remained silent after that. As we got closer to the city, he started to feel calm. We sped along Vista Del Mar, where we had a glimpse of red-belted oceangoing ships, and through a cobblestone street lined with dark, abandoned saloons from the faded-gilt nineteenth century. As we passed, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Snyder struggling with the garage pump with panting vigor as El Tercero opened up on all sides of us.

We sped through South Bay with fenders stretched out like wings, but just half, for as we curved around the tight beach avenues, I heard the recognizable sound of a motorcycle, and a panicked police officer rode alongside.

Dobson answered, “All right, brother.” Our pace slowed. He waved a white card in front of the man’s eyes after removing it from his wallet.

The policeman nodded in agreement and said, “You’re right. Next time, Mr. Dobson, I’ll remember you. “Pardon me!”

“What was that?” I questioned. “The Stanford photograph?”

“Because of a favor I once did for the commissioner, he now sends me a Christmas card each year.”

Over the large bridge, with the city rising up over the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all erected with a wish out of nonolfactory money, the sunlight streaming through the girders casting a steady flicker upon the moving cars. The city is always first seen from the Queensboro Bridge, in all its untamed promise of all the wonder and beauty in the world.

A funeral loaded with flowers for the deceased drove by us, followed by two carriages with drawn curtains then more jovial carriages for friends. The friends’ melancholy eyes and the short upper lips of Southeast Europe were staring out at us, and I was relieved that Dobson’s magnificent car had been included in their depressing vacation. In a limousine being driven by a white driver and carrying three fashionable black people—two bucks and a girl—passed us as we crossed Blackwell’s Island. As their eyeball yolks rolled toward us in pompous competition, I laughed out.

Now that we’ve crossed this bridge, anything is possible; anything at all.

Without any special awe, even Dobson could occur.

roaring midday. I had lunch with Dobson in a well-ventilated cellar on Forty-second Street. He was speaking to another man in the anteroom when I noticed him after squinting away the streetlight’s brightness.

“Mr. Wiezman, this is for you, Mr. Whitehead.”

A little, Jewish man with a flat nose lifted his huge head to look at me, his two fine hair growths luxuriating in either nostril. After a little period of time, I noticed his tiny eyes in the semi-darkness.

Mr. Wiezman sincerely shook my hand and continued, “So I took one look at him, and what do you think I did?”

“What?” I kindly asked.

But it was clear that he wasn’t speaking to me since he let go of my hand and covered Dobson with his expressive nose.

“I gave Katspaugh the cash and instructed him to withhold payment until the man stopped talking. He immediately closed it.”

Mr. Wiezman swallowed a new phrase he was beginning and slipped into a somnambulant abstraction when Dobson took an arm from each of us and advanced into the restaurant.

The head waiter asked, “Highballs?”

Looking up at the presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling, Mr. Wiezman remarked, “This is a wonderful restaurant here.” But I like across the street!”

Dobson nodded in agreement, “Yes, highballs,” adding, “It’s too hot over there.”

Mr. Wiezman remarked, “Hot and small—yes, but full of memories.”

“What location is that?” I queried.

“The old Metropolis.”

The gloomy Mr. Wiezman brooded, “The old Metropolis. Filled with dead and gone faces. Full of pals who are now permanently lost. For as long as I live, I will never forget the night Rosy Rosenthal was murdered there. Rosy had eaten and drunk a lot all evening, and there were six of us at the table. When morning was almost here, the waiter approached him and gave him a strange look before telling him that someone wanted to speak to him outside. Rosy responds, ‘All right,’ and starts to stand up. I had to pull him back down into his chair.”

“’Let the fools come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, leave this room.’

“At that time, it was four in the morning, and if we had opened the blinds, we would have seen daylight.”

“Did he leave?” I merely inquired.

“Yes, he went.” Indignantly, Mr. Wiezman’s nose flared in my direction. “’Don’t allow that waiter take away my coffee,’ he said as he turned around to face the door. After that, they shot him three times in his inflated stomach and fled on foot along the pavement.”

I recalled, “Four of them were electrocuted.”

Five, including Becker.” His nostrils made a curious curve toward me. “I recognize that you are seeking a business negotiation.”

The combination of these two comments was unexpected. Dobson responded on my behalf, saying, “Oh, no, this isn’t the man.”

“No?” Mr. Wiezman appeared dissatisfied.

“This is just a friend of mine. I promised we’d discuss that at a later time.”

“I had the wrong man, I’m sorry,” Mr. Wiezman remarked.

When a delicious hash was served, Mr. Wiezman started devouring it with fierce delicacy, completely ignoring the more melancholy ambiance of the old Metropole. While this was happening, his gaze slowly swept the entire room before turning to look at the individuals directly behind him. Without me there, I believe he would have given the table beneath our own a quick glance.

Dobson leaned toward me and said, “Look here, brother. I’m worried I made you a little angry in the car this morning.”

Once more, the smile appeared, but this time I resisted it.

I replied, “I don’t like secrets, and I don’t get why you won’t be open with me and tell me what you want. Why does everything have to go through Miss Brooks?”

“Oh, it’s not shady at all,” he assured me. “You know Miss Brooks is a superb athlete, and she would never do anything improper.”

He abruptly glanced at his watch, got up, and fled the room, leaving Mr. Wiezman and me at the table.

Mr. Wiezman remarked, watching him with his eyes, “He needs to call. He’s a nice guy, isn’t he? Stunning and the epitome of a gentleman.”

“Yes.”

“He is an Oggsford grad.”

“Oh!”

“He attended England’s Oggsford College. You’re aware of Oggsford College?”

“I am aware of that.”

“It is among the most well-known colleges in the world.”

“How long have you known Dobson?” I questioned.

He smiled. “Several years,” he said. “I had the pleasure of meeting him shortly after the war. But after speaking with him for an hour, I realized I had found a man of impeccable breeding. That’s the kind of guy you want to bring home and meet your mother and sister, I thought to myself.” He stopped. “I see that you are examining my cuff buttons.”

I wasn’t paying attention to them before, but I did now. They were made of strangely familiar ivory chunks.

He told me they were the “finest instances of human molars.”

“Well!” I examined them. “That’s a really intriguing thought.”

“Yeah.” Under his coat, he raised his sleeves. “Yes, Dobson is quite cautious about ladies. Never once would he even glance at a friend’s wife.”

When the object of this innate confidence came back to the table and sat down, Mr. Wiezman jerked back his coffee and stood up.

He remarked, “I’ve enjoyed my lunch, and before I overstay my welcome, I’m going to flee off from you two young lads.”

“Don’t rush, Efraim,” Dobson said without much excitement. Mr. Wiezman extended his hand in the manner of a blessing.

He said earnestly, “You’re extremely nice, but I come from another generation. You talk about your young women, your sports, and your— as you sit here.” With another sweep of his hand, he gave a made-up term. “As for me, I’m fifty and won’t bother you any more,” the speaker said.

His terrible nose was shaking as he moved away after shaking hands. I questioned if I said anything to anger him.

“He occasionally gets very sentimental,” according to Dobson. “He often has melancholy days, like today. He’s a big Lakers fan and quite the character in Los Angeles.”

“Is he an actor?”

“No.”

“An oral surgeon?”

“Efraim Wiezman? Not at all; he gambles. He’s the one who fixed the World Series back in 1979,” Dobson said after he paused.

“Fixed?” I said again.

The concept astounded me. I was aware that the 1979 World Series had been rigged, but if I had given it any consideration, I would have assumed it was a random event or the conclusion of some chain of events. I had no idea that one man could begin to undermine the beliefs of fifty million people with the obstinacy of a thief breaking into a safe.

How did he manage to accomplish that? After a minute, I queried.

“He simply recognized the chance.”

“Why is he not behind bars?”

“Brother, they can’t capture him. He is a wise man.”

I was adamant about covering the check. Lance Buckley was visible across the crowded room when the server brought my change.

I invited them to follow me for a moment since I needed to introduce myself to someone.

Lance sprang to his feet and started moving in our direction as soon as he saw us.

He eagerly questioned, “Where have you been?” Because you haven’t called, Cassie is irate.”

“Mr. Buckley, this is Mr. Dobson.”

After a brief handshake, Dobson’s face stretched into an odd expression of discomfort.

Lance questioned me, “How have you been, anyhow? How did you end up coming up here to eat?”

“Mr. Dobson and I have begun eating lunch together.”

When I turned to face Mr. Dobson, he was gone.

____________________

“I was moving from one location to another on an October day in 1997, half on the sidewalks and half on the lawns,” Sibley Brooks recalled that afternoon while sitting upright in a straight chair in the Plaza Hotel’s tea garden. “Because I was wearing English-made shoes with rubber knobs on the soles that dug into the soft ground, I was pleased while walking on the lawns. The red, white, and blue banners in front of every house stretched out stiffly and said tut-tut-tut-tut whenever this happened. I was also wearing a new plaid skirt that blew a little in the breeze.

“The house belonging to Cassie Fay has the biggest lawn and the biggest flag. She was only eighteen, two years older than me, and Louisville’s most well-liked young woman. She drove a tiny white roadster and wore all white. All day long, young Camp Taylor officers on edge called her home and asked to have her all to themselves that evening. ‘For an hour, anyway!’

“That morning as I approached her house, her white roadster was parked next to the curb, and she was inside with a lieutenant I had never seen before. She didn’t see I was there until I was five feet away since they were so absorbed in each other.

She called out of the blue, “Hello, Sibley. Come on in, please.”

“She was the older girl I most admired — I was touched that she wanted to talk to me. She questioned whether I would be making bandages at the Red Cross. I was. Then, should I inform them that she is unable to arrive on that day? Every young lady likes to be looked at once or twice, and the officer’s gaze at Cassie while she was speaking felt romantic to me, so I have recalled the episode ever since. He went by the name of Jay Dobson, and even after we first met on Long Island, it took me more than four years before I saw him again.

“That was in the year 1997. The following year, I had a few beaux of my own and started competing in tournaments, so I didn’t see Cassie as much. When she went with anyone at all, she hung out with a slightly older set. Wild rumors about her were flying, including the claim that her mother had discovered her packing her luggage one chilly winter night for a trip to Los Angeles to bid a soldier farewell. Although she was successfully stopped, she didn’t speak to her family for a few weeks. After that, she stopped playing with the troops and instead spent her time with a few townie young guys who were totally unfit for the army.

“By the following fall, she was once more gay and still was. After the armistice, she made her debut, and by February, she was probably engaged to a New Orleans-born man. She wed Chicagoan Lance Buckley in May in a ceremony that set a new standard for pomp and circumstance in Louisville. The day before the wedding, he handed her a strand of pearls that was worth $350,000. He traveled down with 100 people in four private cars and reserved an entire floor of the Muhlbach Hotel.

“I was a maid of honor. In her flower-adorned outfit, she was resting on her bed when I entered her room 30 minutes before the bridal meal. She was also as inebriated as a monkey. She held a note in one hand and a bottle of Sauterne in the other.

“She whispered, ‘Gratulate me. I’ve never drunk before, but man, do I like it.’

“‘Cassie, what’s wrong?’

“I can tell you that I was terrified because I had never seen a girl like that before. ‘Dearies, here.’ The strand of pearls was discovered when she dug about in a wastebasket she had on the bed. ‘Take them downstairs and return them to their rightful owner. Tell everyone Cassie’s change is hers. “Cassie’s changed her mine,” you say.

“She started crying and kept crying. We locked the door and got her into a cold bath after I hurried outside to find her mother’s maid. She clung to the letter tenaciously. She squished it into a damp ball and brought it into the bathtub with her. She only allowed me to leave it in the soap dish after she noticed that it was crumbling like snow.

“She remained silent after that, though. When we left the room 30 minutes later, the pearls were around her neck, the situation was done, and we had given her spirits of ammonia, applied ice to her forehead, and fastened her back into her dress. She married Lance Buckley the following day at five o’clock without flinching and left for a three-month tour to the South Seas.

“When they returned, I saw them in Santa Barbara, and I remember thinking that I had never seen a woman more enraged by her husband. When he left the room, she would uncomfortably scan the area, ask, ‘Where’s Lance gone?,’ and adopt the most expressionless look until she saw him enter through the door. She used to spend hours sitting on the sand, holding his head in her lap, stroking her fingers over his eyes, and gazing at him with an indescribable joy. It was heartwarming to see them together, and you couldn’t help but giggle quietly and with fascination. It happened in August. Lance slammed into a wagon on the Ventura highway one night a week after I left Santa Barbara, ripping a front wheel off his car. The female who was accompanying him—a chambermaid at the Santa Barbara Hotel—got into the news as well because her arm was fractured.

“The next April, Cassie gave birth to her daughter, and they spent a year in France. They came back to Chicago to settle down after I saw them in Cannes and Deauville one spring. In Chicago, Cassie was well-liked, as you are aware. They were all young, wealthy, and reckless, and they moved quickly, but she emerged with a spotless reputation. She might not drink, for that reason. Being sober around heavy drinkers has several benefits. You have the ability to control your tongue and, in addition, to time any minor abnormality of your own such that nobody else notices or cares. Maybe Cassie never ever tried to find love, yet there’s something in her voice.

“She hadn’t heard the name Dobson in years until around six weeks ago. Do you recall when I asked you whether you know Dobson in Hermosa Beach? She awakened me up after you left for home by entering my room and asking, “What, Dobson?” She remarked in the oddest voice that it must be the man she used to know when I described him—I was half asleep at the time. I didn’t make the connection between this Dobson and the police in her white car until that point.”

——————————

After Sibley Brooks concluded this story, we left the Plaza and spent 30 minutes driving across Central Park in a Victoria, the clear voices of children who had collected like crickets on the grass soared through the scorching twilight as the sun set behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties:

“I’m the Sheik of Araby.
Your love belongs to me.
At night when you’re asleep
Into your tent I’ll creep—”

I remarked, “It was an odd coincidence.

“But it wasn’t at all a coincidence,” she said.

“Why do say that?”

“Dobson bought that place to be near Cassie.”

Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendour. He wants to know whether you will invite Cassie to your place one day and then allow him to come over, said Sibley.

I was alarmed by the demand’s humility. In order to “come over” one day to a stranger’s garden, he had waited five years and purchased a mansion where he gave starlight to wandering moths.

“Did he need to know all this information for him to ask such a simple question?”

“He’s waited so long; he’s terrified. He assumed you might find it offensive. He’s actually pretty tough underneath it all, you see.”

Something made me nervous.

“Why didn’t he request that you set up a meeting?”

She said, “He wants her to see his place.     And your home is right across the street.”

“Oh!”

Sibley continued, “But she never did. I guess he half expected her to stroll into one of his parties some night. I was the first person he found when he started casually approaching folks and asked them whether they knew her. You should have heard the intricate way he built up to sending for me at his dance that night. Naturally, I quickly suggested a luncheon in Los Angeles, and I was sure he’d lose his mind when he kept saying, ‘I don’t want to do anything out of the way! I want to see her over there.’ He began to give up when I mentioned that you were a personal buddy of Lance’s. He claims to have read a Chicago newspaper for years in the hopes of spotting Cassie’s name, but he claims to know very nothing about Lance.”

Now that it was getting dark, I wrapped my arm around Sibley’s golden shoulder, drew her in, and invited her to dinner as we slipped beneath a small bridge. Suddenly, I was thinking about this clean, hard, limited person instead of Cassie and Dobson, who dealt in universal skepticism and leaned back amiably just inside the radius of my arm. There were only the pursued, the pursued, the busy, and the fatigued, a sentence that started to drum in my ears with a kind of dizzying exhilaration.

Sibley said to me, “And Cassie ought to have something in her life.”

“Wants to see Dobson?” I asked.

“She is not to be aware of it. Dobson doesn’t want her to know. Just invite her to tea, that’s all.”

The façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, shined down into the park after we passed a barrier of gloomy trees. I drew up the girl next to me and tightened my arms since, unlike Dobson and Lance Buckley, I didn’t have a female whose disembodied face drifted along the black cornices and bright signs. I dragged her up again closer, this time to my face, as her pale, disdainful mouth grinned.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Five

That evening when I arrived home in Hermosa Beach, I briefly thought my house was on fire. At two o’clock, the entire peninsula corner was bathed in light, which cast surreal shadows on the bushes and cast thin, elongating glints on the wires beside the road. I turned a curve and spotted Dobson’s house, which was well-lit from the tower to the cellar.

I initially believed it to be a different party, a chaotic brawl that had devolved into a game of “hide-and-go-seek” or “sardines-in-a-box,” with the entire home left wide open for the activity. However, there was silence. There was nothing but wind in the trees, blowing the wires and making the lights flash on and off, making it appear as though the home had winked into the night. I spotted Dobson striding toward me across his lawn as my taxi sputtered away.

I remarked, “Your place resembles the World’s Fair.”

“It does?” He glanced at it indifferently. “I’ve been peeking inside a few of the rooms. Brother, let’s visit Coney Island. I’m driving.”

“No time. It’s late.”

“Well, what if we jump into the swimming pool? I haven’t used it since the summer.”

“I have to get to bed.”

“No problem.”

He waited, his eagerness repressed as he looked at me.

I waited a moment, then continued, “I spoke with Miss Brooks. Tomorrow, I’m going to contact Cassie and ask her to come over for tea.”

He casually said, “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Which day would be best for you?”

He promptly corrected me, “What day would suit you. You see, I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“What about the following day?”

He gave it some thought. Then, reluctantly, he remarked, “I want to get the grass mowed.”

We both turned our heads to gaze at the grass. There was a clear division between his darker, immaculate lawn and my unkempt yard. I assumed he was referring to my grass.

He hesitated before he replied, “There’s another tiny thing.”

“Would you want to delay it for a few days?” I queried.

“Oh, that’s not the point, I mean…” he struggled how to say it. “Look here, brother, you don’t make much money, do you?” I asked myself.

“Not much at all.”

He appeared to feel more at ease after hearing this, and he continued.

“I assumed you didn’t, if you’ll excuse my—you see, I run a small side business, you realize, as a sort of sideline. And I reasoned, you’re selling bonds, aren’t you, brother, if you don’t make very much.”

“I’m trying.”

“Well, you might be interested in this. You might make a decent chunk of money and it wouldn’t take up much of your time. It’s actually a rather private kind of thing.”

I now see this discussion may have been one of my life’s crises had other factors been different. I was forced to stop him there because the offer was blatantly and rudely for a service to be provided.

I said, “I’ve got a full plate. I’m really grateful, but I’m unable to accept any more work.”

“Wiezman wouldn’t require you to conduct any business with him.” He seemed to believe that I was trying to avoid the “gonnegtion” that was brought up during lunch, but I reassured him that he was mistaken. He stayed a little longer, expecting I’d start talking, but I was too engrossed to respond, so he had to return home against his will.

I was feeling giddy and dizzy after the evening, and as I came through my front door, I believe I fell asleep. Therefore, I’m unsure if Dobson visited Coney Island or how long he “glanced into rooms” while his house was ablaze. The following morning, I gave Cassie a call from work and invited her to tea.

I told her not to bring Lance with her.

“What?”

“No Lance, okay?”

She innocently questioned, “Who is ‘Lance’?

On the agreed-upon day, it rained like Noah was returning. A man dragging a lawnmower knocked on my front door at eleven o’clock and claimed that Mr. Dobson had hired him to cut my grass. That remined me I forgot to get my Finn back. I drove into Hermosa Beach village to look for her among the damp whitewashed lanes and to get some cups, lemons, and flowers.

The flowers were not essential because a greenhouse from Dobson’s arrived at two o’clock with countless containers to hold it. A half-hour later, the front door hesitantly opened, and Dobson hurried inside wearing a white flannel suit, a silver shirt, and a gold tie. Under his eyes, there were dark indications of sleep deprivation, and he appeared pallid.

“Is everything okay?” he asked right away.

“The grass looks okay to me if that’s what you mean.”

“What grass?” he asked in a daze. “Oh, outside.” He stared out the window at it, but based on the look on his face, I don’t think he saw anything.

He made a vague comment, “Looks pretty good. One of the radio stations reported they anticipated the rain to end about four. It might have been the pop station. Do you have all the things you need to make some tea?”

I led him into the pantry, where he gave the Finn a mildly critical glance. We looked at the twelve lemon pastries from the delicatessen shop.

“Is everything ship-shape?” I queried.

“Sure, sure, sure! They’re okay!” and then he then said hollowly, “…Brother.”

About half past three, the rain turned into a wet mist, through which sporadic small drops swam like dew. Dobson scanned a copy of Clay’s Economics with empty eyes, beginning with the Finnish footfall that rocked the kitchen floor and occasionally glancing towards the bleared windows as though a succession of silent but worrying events were unfolding outside. He finally stood up and announced that he was leaving for home in a hesitant voice.

“What gives?”

“No one is attending tea. We have a no-show.” He appeared to be under some urgent time pressure from somewhere as he glanced at his watch. “I am unable to wait all day.”

“It’s only two minutes to four, so stop being so ridiculous.”

He sat down sadly, as if I had pushed him, and a car’s turn into my lane was audible at the same time. We both leaped to our feet, and I went out into the yard feeling a little harrowed.

A wide-open automobile was approaching the driveway underneath the barren, weeping lilac trees. It halted. Under a three-cornered lavender hat that was tilted sideways, Cassie’s face stared out at me and smiled brightly and exuberantly.

“My beloved, is this really where you live?”

In the pouring rain, her voice’s exciting ripple served as a wild tonic. Before any words got through, I had to follow the sound for a little period of time, up and down, with only my ear. As I took her hand to assist her from the car, I saw a streak of damp hair that looked like a dash of blue paint across her cheek.

She whispered softly into my ear, “Are you in love with me, or why did I have to come alone?”

“That is Castle Rackrent’s well-kept secret. Tell your driver to travel a long way and stay there for an hour.

“Fergy, come back in an hour.”

“His name is Fergy,” was then spoken in a somber tone.

“How does gasoline make him fee giddy?”

She answered naively, “I don’t think so. “Why?”

We entered. I was completely shocked to find the living room empty.

I said, “Well, that’s hilarious.”

“What is?”

The front door was being gently knocked on when she turned to see. I stepped outside to open it. Dobson was standing in a pool of water and staring cruelly into my eyes. He was as pale as death and had his hands buried like weights in his coat pockets.

He walked past me into the hallway with his hands still in his coat pockets, made a fast turn as if he were on a wire, and vanished into the living room. Not even remotely amusing. I drew the door shut against the escalating rain as I became aware of the loud heartbeat in my chest.

There was silence for 30 seconds. I then heard a sort of choked mumble and a small laugh coming from the living room, followed by Cassie’s voice on a distinct false note saying, “I surely am terribly delighted to see you again.”

There was a terrible pause. I entered the room because there was nothing I could do in the hallway.

Dobson was sitting against the mantelpiece with his hands still in his pockets, trying to appear perfectly at ease or even bored. His eyes were inconsolable as he looked down at Cassie, who was seated on the edge of a rigid chair, terrified but graceful. His head had dropped back so far that it was resting against the face of a broken mantelpiece clock.

“We’ve met before,” Dobson murmured. He gave me a fleeting glance, and his lips parted in an unsuccessful attempt to laugh. Fortunately, the clock tipped dangerously at this precise moment under the weight of his head, at which point he turned, caught it with shaking fingers, and reset it. He then took a stiff seat with his chin in his hand and his elbow resting on the sofa’s arm.

He said, “I’m sorry about the clock.”

My own face now had the appearance of a severe tropical burn. Out of the thousand commonplaces I had in my head, I couldn’t think of a single one.

I foolishly remarked, “It’s an ancient clock.”

I think we all experienced a brief period of delusion that it had broken into pieces on the floor.

“We haven’t spoken in a long time,” Cassie answered, sounding as objective as she possibly could.

“Five years in November.”

We all had to wait for at least another minute because of Dobson’s automatic response. When the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray, I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they assist me in making tea in the kitchen.

A certain level of physical decorum emerged amid the delightful chaos of cups and desserts. While Cassie and I were conversing, Dobson hid himself in a shade and cast a watchful eye from one of us to the other while maintaining his composure. But since remaining calm wasn’t a goal in and of itself, I quickly contrived an excuse and stood up.

Dobson exclaimed with concern, “Where are you going?”

“I promise to return.”

“Before you leave, I need to talk to you about something.”

He ran after me into the kitchen, shut the door, and muttered anguishedly, “Oh, God!”

“What is the issue?”

He shook his head side to side, “This is a terrible error, a terrible, terrible mistake.”

I was fortunate to add, “Cassie’s embarrassed too,” and said, “You’re just ashamed, that’s all.”

“She’s embarrassed?” he asked again in disbelief.

“Exactly the same as you are.”

“Stop talking so loud,” Dobson said.

I exclaimed impatiently, “You’re acting like a young boy. On top of that, you’re impolite. There is only Cassie in the room by herself.”

He stopped me mid-sentence by raising his hand, gave me an unforgettable look of reprimand, and then cautiously opened the door to the other room.

I followed Dobson’s example and exited the home via the back door before rushing to a large black knotted tree whose massed leaves served as a shield from the rain. Once more, it was pouring, and Dobson’s gardener had well-trimmed my odd lawn, which was full of tiny muddy wetlands and ancient marshes. I spent a half-hour staring at Dobson’s large house like Kant did at his church steeple because there was nothing else to see from under the tree. It was constructed by a brewery owner a decade earlier, at the height of the “period” mania, and there is a legend that he offered to pay the taxes on all the nearby cottages for five years in exchange for the straw thatching of their roofs. His plans to start a family may have lost some of its luster as a result of their rejection, since he started to decline right away. The black wreath was still on the door when his children sold the house. Americans have always been adamant about not being peasants, despite being willing and even eager to be serfs.

After 30 minutes, the sun started to shine once more, and the grocery store’s shuttle rounded Dobson’s drive carrying the ingredients for his servants’ dinner. I was confident he wouldn’t touch a spoonful. His house’s maid started to open the higher windows, briefly appeared in each, and then, leaning from the wide center bay, spat meditatively into the garden. It was time for me to return. While it rained, it sounded like the murmur of their voices, occasionally expanding a little with emotional gusts. However, I sensed that the home had also become quiet in the new silence.

I entered the room after making every noise I could think of in the kitchen short of knocking the stove over, but I don’t think they heard a sound. Every trace of shame was gone as they sat at each end of the couch and stared at one other as if a question had been posed or was in the air. When I walked in, Cassie’s face was splattered with tears, and she got up to start dabbing at it with her handkerchief in front of a mirror. But Dobson had undergone a metamorphosis that was just perplexing. He practically emanated a fresh sense of well-being that filled the little space without saying a word or making a gesture of joy.

He greeted me with a “Oh, hey, brother” as if we hadn’t spoken in a long time. I briefly believed he might extend his hand to shake.

“It’s no longer raining.”

“Really?” He smiled like a weatherman, like an exuberant patron of recurrent light, when he comprehended what I was talking about and that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room. He repeated the information to Cassie. “How do you feel about that? It is no longer raining.”

“I’m happy, Jay.” Her throat was filled with anguished, sorrowful beauty, and it only spoke of her surprising ecstasy.

He invited Cassie and himself to his home, saying, “I’d like to show her around.”

“Are you certain you want me to join you?”

“Without a doubt, brother.”

While Dobson and I waited on the lawn, Cassie went upstairs to wash her face—too late, I thought, humiliated by my towels.

He shouted, “My house looks good, doesn’t it? Look at how the entire front of it reflects light.”

I concurred that it was wonderful.

“Yes.” He scanned every square tower and arched door. “I earned the money that bought it in just three years.”

“I believed you inherited your wealth,”

He replied automatically, “I did, brother, but I lost most of it in the big panic.”

When I asked him what business he was in, he said, “That’s my affair,” before realizing that wasn’t the acceptable response. I believe he hardly knew what he was saying.

“Oh, I’ve been in a lot of stuff,” he said to himself. “I first worked in medicine before moving into the oil industry. However, I’m currently not in either.” He gave me more of his attention. “Do you mean you’ve been mulling over what I suggested?”

Before I could respond, Cassie emerged from the home, her dress adorned with two rows of gleaming brass buttons.

She cried, “That ginormous house over there?”

“What do you think?”

“I adore it, yet I fail to understand how you manage to live there by yourself.”

“I make sure there are always fascinating people there. Extraordinary people doing amazing things. People at the top of their field.”

We entered the road through the large back entrance instead of using the shortcut along the Bay. Cassie admired various aspects of the feudal silhouette against the sky with seductive murmurs. She also enjoyed the gardens, the glittering jonquil scent, the foamy scent of hawthorn and plum flowers, and the pale gold scent of kiss-me-at-the-gate. Reaching the marble steps and finding no bustle of colorful clothes coming in and going out of the door, as well as only the sounds of birds in the trees, seemed strange.

And inside, as we made our way through Marie Antoinette music rooms and Restoration Salons, I had the impression that there were visitors hiding behind every couch and table who had been given the instruction to be utterly silent until we had passed. I think I heard the owl-eyed man start to giggle eerily as Dobson shut the door to “the Mermann College Library.”

We climbed the stairs and passed through period bedrooms decorated with fresh flowers and swathed in rose and lavender silk, dressing rooms, pool rooms, and bathrooms with sunken baths before entering one room where a disheveled man in pajamas was performing stretching exercises on the floor. The “boarder,” Mr. Fitzsinger, was there. He had been ambling around the beach that morning, famished. We eventually arrived at Dobson’s apartment, which included a bedroom, bathroom, and a study roomz`. We sat down and sipped some Chartreuse that he pulled out of a wall-mounted cabinet as we arrived there.

He had never stopped staring at Cassie, and I believe he reevaluated everything in his home in relation to the amount of attention it received from her adoring eyes. Sometimes he would look around at his belongings in a confused manner, as if nothing was real in her true and amazing presence. He once almost fell down a flight of steps.

The least decorated room in the house was his bedroom, save for the toilet set that was affixed to the dresser in dull, pure gold. Dobson sat down, covered his eyes, and started to giggle as Cassie eagerly accepted the brush and smoothed her hair.

He chuckled, “It’s the funniest thing, brother. When I try, I can’t…”

He was about to enter a third state after having clearly traversed two others. After his humiliation and irrational joy, he was overcome by awe at her presence. He had been consumed by the notion for such a long time, had imagined it through to completion, and had been waiting with his teeth set at an unfathomably high pitch of passion. He was now fading away in the response like an overworked clock.

After quickly getting himself together, he unlocked two enormous cabinets for us, revealing a mound of his suits, dressing gowns, ties, and shirts stacked twelve high like bricks.

“I have a buddy in England who purchases clothes for me. At the start of each season—spring and fall—he sends over a selection of items.”

He pulled out a stack of shirts and started tossing them one by one in front of us. They were made of sheer linen, thick silk, and fine flannel, and as they landed, they lost their folds and covered the table in a kaleidoscope of colors. While we gazed in awe, he brought more, and the soft, rich heap rose higher. These shirts had stripes, scrolls, and plaids in coral, apple green, lavender, and pale orange, along with Indian blue monograms. Cassie suddenly bowed her head into the shirts and sobbed hysterically while making a straining sound.

Her voice was masked by the dense folds as she wailed, “They’re such beautiful clothes. I’ve never seen such lovely clothes before. It makes me sad.”

—————————-

We were supposed to visit the gardens, the swimming pool, the hydroplane, and the midsummer flowers after the house, but it started raining again outside Dobson’s window, so we stood in a line and stared at the corrugated surface of the Bay instead.

Dobson replied, “If it weren’t for the mist, we could see your house across the water. At the end of your dock, there is always a green light that is on throughout the night.”

Cassie abruptly slipped her arm through his, but he appeared preoccupied with what he had just said. He may have realized that the immense significance of that illumination had now been eternally lost. It had appeared extremely close to Cassie, almost touching her, in comparison to the vast space that had separated them. It had appeared to be a star’s distance from the moon. Once more, a dock had a green light. His collection of magical items has shrunk by one.

I started to round the room while looking at various vague objects in the dim light. I was drawn to a sizable picture of an elderly man dressed as a yachtsman that was hanging over his desk.

“Who is this?”

“That guy? Brother, that’s Dan Cody.”

The name had a slight familiarity to it.

“Now he’s dead. Years ago, he was my closest friend.”

On the desk was a little photograph of Dobson, again dressed in yachting attire, with his head thrown back stubbornly and seemingly taken when he was about eighteen.

Cassie gasped, “I adore it! A pompadour! You never told me you owned a yacht — or a pompadour.”

Dobson said, “Look at this. There is a ton of news coverage about you.”

They inspected it while standing side by side. When the phone rang and Dobson picked up the receiver, I was about to ask to see the rubies.

“Yes…I’m unable to talk… I’m can’t right now, brother…I said a tiny town…He should know what I mean when I say a tiny town. If his idea of a small town is Detroit, then he is of no value to us.”

He ended the call with an exasperated look.

Cassie yelled at the window, “Come here now!”

Even though it was still raining, there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea, and the darkness in the west had divided.

She muttered, “Look at that,” and then, after a little pause, “I’d want to just get one of those pink clouds, put you in it, and push you around.”

Then, I tried to go, but they flatly refused; perhaps my presence made them feel more contentedly alone.

Dobson responded, “I know what we’ll do, we’ll have Fitzsinger play the piano.”

He left the room while yelling “Ewing!” and came back a short while later with a young man who was embarrassed and a little worn out. He had shell-rimmed glasses and scanty blond hair. He was now appropriately dressed in sneakers, a nebulous-colored duck pant, a “sport shirt” that was open at the neck.

“Did we stop your workout?” Cassie asked nicely.

In a fit of humiliation, Mr. Fitzsinger exclaimed, “I was asleep. Well, I mean I was sleeping just now. Then I got up.”

Dobson interjected, “Fitzsinger plays the piano. Don’t you, brother Ewing?”

“I’m not a good player. I hardly ever play at all. I have don’t have time to practice.”

“We’ll go downstairs,” Dobson said. He switched on a light. The home filled with brightness and the gray windows vanished.

Dobson ignited a lone lamp in the music room next to the piano. He used a shaky match to light Cassie’s cigarette before joining her on a couch across the room where there was no other light source save the hallway’s reflection off the sparkling floor.

After Fitzsinger finished playing “The Love Nest,” he turned around on the bench and glumly scanned the shadows for Dobson. “You see, I’m completely out of practice. I told you I wasn’t able to play. I have no time to practice.”

“Brother, don’t talk so much.” Dobson admonished. “Play!”

“Ain’t we got fun in the morning, fun in the evening—”

Outside, there was a strong wind and a light thundershower along the Bay. Now that all the lights in Hermosa Beach were on, cars were rushing home from Los Angeles in the pouring rain. It was the hour of a fundamental transformation in humankind, and the air was buzzing with anticipation.

“Nothing is more certain than one thing,”

Children are given to the destitute while the rich gain richer.

In the meantime, throughout the interim—”

When I went over to say goodbye, I noticed that Dobson’s attitude had returned to one of perplexity, as if a fleeting doubt had crossed his mind about the genuineness of his current contentment. Just over five years! Even that afternoon, there must have been times when Cassie fell short of his expectations—not due to her own fault, but rather to the enormous vigor of his delusion. It had transcended both her and everything. He had devoted all of his creative energy to it, constantly building to it and adorning it with every vivid feather that came his way. What a man may store up in his ghostly heart cannot be challenged by any amount of fire or freshness.

He visibly adjusted himself as I watched him. As she whispered something in his ear, he grabbed her hand and turned to face her in an emotional outburst. With its varying, feverish warmth and the fact that it couldn’t be over-dreamed, I believe that voice to have captured his attention the most.

Dobson had completely forgotten about me, but Cassie looked up and extended her hand. I gave them another glance, and they returned it with a distant, intensely human gaze. I left them there as I left the chamber and descended the marble steps into the downpour.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Six

Around this time, Dobson was approached by a driven young reporter from Los Angeles who knocked on his door early one morning and inquired if he had anything to say.

Dobson calmly said, “Anything to say about what?”

“Why—give any statement about what it going on, please.”

After a perplexing five minutes, it became clear that the man had overheard Dobson’s name in relation to something that either he wouldn’t tell or wasn’t quite clear to him. On his day off, he hurried outside “to see” with commendable initiative.

Despite being a random shot, the reporter’s gut feeling was correct. Throughout the summer, Dobson’s notoriety grew to the point that he was barely shy of making the headlines thanks to the hundreds of people who had taken advantage of his hospitality and become authorities on his past. He became the subject of modern urban legends like the “underground pipeline to Hudson Bay,” and there was a recurrent rumor that he didn’t reside in a house at all, but rather in a houseboat that was discreetly moved up and down the Long Beach shore. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly why James Gatz of North Dakota found delight in these inventions.

James Gatz was his actual name, or at least his legal name. When he observed Dan Cody’s yacht set anchor over the most treacherous flat on Lake Superior when he was seventeen years old, he altered it, marking the beginning of his career. James Gatz had been lazing on the beach that afternoon wearing a torn green jersey and some canvas pants, but it was Jay Dobson who drew up to the Tuolomee in a borrowed rowboat and warned Cody that a breeze might catch him and blow him away in 30 minutes.

Even then, I imagine he had the name prepared for quite some time. His mind had never truly embraced his shiftless, unsuccessful farm workers as parents at all. In actuality, Jay Dobson of Hermosa Beach, South Bay, originated from his Platonic self-conception. He was a son of God, a title that, if anything, implies exactly what it says. As such, he had to be attending to His Father’s business, which was to serve a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. He then created a Jay Dobson that was exactly what a seventeen-year-old boy would likely create, and he remained true to this idea throughout.

He had been working as a clam digger, a salmon fisher, or in any other job that would provide him with food and a place to sleep for more than a year along the south shore of Lake Superior. Through the partially ferocious, partially lethargic work of the chilly days, his brown, hardening body survived organically. He was introduced to women early, and since they spoilt him, he began to despise them—young virgins for being dumb, and everyone else for being frantic over things he took for granted in his extreme self-absorption.

But there was a persistent, violent riot in his emotions. He spent his nights in bed being haunted by the most horrific and fantastical ideas. While the clock on the washstand chimed and the moon bathed the room in moist light, a universe of indescribable gaudiness spun itself out in his mind. Each night, he added to the pattern of his fantasies until sleepiness embraced some vivid sight and snatched it away. These fantasies gave him an outlet for his creativity for a while, serving as a satisfying hint at the unreality of reality and a guarantee that the world’s foundation was a fairy’s wing.

Some months prior, he had been drawn to the modest Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota by an instinct for his future glory. He stayed there for two weeks, appalled by its violent disregard for the beats of his destiny and for destiny itself, and loathing the janitorial work he would have to do to survive. When Dan Cody’s yacht anchored in the shallows nearshore on the day that he had drifted back to Lake Superior, he was still looking for something to do.

Cody, who was then fifty years old, was a product of the Yukon, the Nevada silver fields, and every other rush for metal since 1935. He was physically strong but on the point of softness during the Montana copper deals that made him a multiple millionaire, and because of this, countless ladies wanted to steal his wealth. The not-so-savory repercussions by which Ella Kaye, a newspaper employee, played Madame de Maintenon to his frailty and sent him out to sea in a yacht were a staple of the stale journalism in the 1970s. He had been drifting along the too-friendly sands for five years when James Gatz’s destiny finally found him in Little Girl Bay.

The yacht symbolized all the beauty and glitz in the world to young Gatz, who was sitting on his oars and gazing up at the railed deck. He probably grinned at Cody because he had learned that people loved him when he smiled. Cody thought him to be quick and overly ambitious after asking him a few questions, one of which revealed the brand-new name. A few days later, he took him to Duluth where he purchased for him a yachting cap, six pairs of white duck pants, and a blue coat. Dobson also departed when the Tuolomee departed for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast.

While still with Cody, he served in a variety of roles, including steward, mate, captain, secretary, and even jailor. Dan Cody sober anticipated the extravagant antics Dan Cody drunk may soon engage in, so he prepared for these eventualities by placing increasing amounts of trust in Dobson. The agreement lasted for five years, during which the boat circled the Continent three times. If Ella Kaye hadn’t joined the crew one night in Boston and Dan Cody hadn’t untimely passed away a week later, it might have continued endlessly.

I recall seeing a picture of him in Dobson’s bedroom; he was a grey, florid man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee who, at one point in American history, brought the brutal savagery of the frontier brothel and saloon back to the Western Seaboard. Cody had some indirect influence on Dobson’s lack of drinking. Women would occasionally rub champagne into his hair during gay parties, but he developed the practice of leaving alcohol alone.

And Cody left him an inheritance of $25,000. He failed to grasp it. He never understood the legal strategy that was employed against him, but Ella Kaye received the entire sum of money that was left over – millions of doallars. He was left with his uniquely suitable schooling; Jay Dobson’s hazy outline had taken on the substantiality of a man.

—————————-

He revealed all of this to me much later, but I’ve written it down here to dispel the initial, absurd rumors about his ancestors, which were not even remotely accurate. Furthermore, he revealed it to me during a period of uncertainty, when I was torn between believing everything and nothing about him. In order to dispel these myths, I take advantage of this little pause as Dobson, so to say, gathered his breath.

It was also an end to my involvement in his business affairs. Since I spent much of my time in Los Angeles traveling with Sibley and attempting to become friends with her frail aunt, I didn’t see him for a few weeks or hear his voice on the phone before I finally walked over to his house one Sunday afternoon. Before I had even been there for two minutes, Lance Buckley was brought in for a drink. Naturally, I was astonished, but what really caught me off guard was that it hadn’t happened before.

They were a group of three riders consisting of Lance, Sloane, and a beautiful woman wearing a brown riding outfit who had previously visited the area.

Standing on his porch, Dobson exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you. I’m happy that you stopped by.”

As though they cared!

“Sit down right now. Have a cigar or cigarette.” He hurriedly circled the space while ringing bells. “In a moment, I’ll have something to drink for you.”

Lance’s presence had a significant impact on him. Although he knew in a strange manner that was all they wanted, he would still feel uncomfortable until he had given them something. Mr. Sloane had no desires. A lemonade? I decline. An ounce of champagne? None at all, thank you…I apologize.

“Did you enjoy the ride?”

“The local roads are excellent.”

“I guess that for cars it’s…”

“Yeah.”

Dobson turned to Lance, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger, moved by an overpowering inclination.

“Mr. Buckley, I think we’ve met somewhere before.”

Lance said, being sternly nice but plainly forgetting, “Oh, yes. We did, then. I clearly recall.”

“Approximately two weeks ago.”

“That’s accurate. You were with Marc that day.”

“I know your wife,” Dobson said in an almost hostile manner.

“Really?”

To face me, Lance pivoted.

“Marc, do you reside nearby?”

“Right next to Dobson.”

“You don’t say?”

Neither Mr. Sloane nor the woman spoke during the exchange; instead, they both reclined arrogantly in their chairs. However, after two highballs, the woman surprisingly warmed up.

She said, “Mr. Dobson, we’ll all come over to your next party. What say you?”

“Yes, please; it would be a pleasure to have you.”

Mr. Sloane said, “Would be very nice,” without showing appreciation. “Well, I suppose we should start heading home.”

“Please take your time,” Dobson begged. Now that he was in control, he was eager to see more of Lance. “Why don’t you stay for supper, please? If more guests arrived from Los Angeles, I wouldn’t be shocked.”

“You come to supper with me,” the woman said with enthusiasm. “You both, please.”

She pointed at me. Then Mr. Sloane stood up.

He just said, “Come on,” to her.

“I’m serious,” she affirmed. “I would adore having you. Lots of space.”

Dobson gave me a perplexed expression. He wanted to leave but didn’t realize Mr. Sloane had decided against it.

I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t leave right now.”

She prodded Dobson, “Well, you come.”

Near her ear, Mr. Sloane mumbled something.

She declared loudly, “If we start immediately, we won’t be late.”

“I don’t have a horse,” Dobson stated. “Despite riding in the army, I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to drive after you. Please excuse me for a moment.”

The rest of us went outside onto the porch, where Sloane and the woman got into a passionate discussion off to the side.

Lance exclaimed, “My God, I think the dude is coming along. Does he not realize that she doesn’t want him?”

“She claims to want him,” I said.

“He won’t know anyone there, and she’s having a big dinner party.” He squinted. “I’m curious as to how the hell he met Cassie. I could have outdated beliefs, but nowadays’ women rush around too much for me. They encounter some bizarre fish in the dating pool.”

Suddenly, the woman and Mr. Sloane descended the steps and climbed on their horses.

“Come on, Lance, we’re late,” said Mr. Sloane. “We must leave.” Then he turned to me and said, “Tell him we couldn’t wait.”

Lance and I shook hands, the rest of us nodded coolly, and they trotted quickly down the road, blending in with the August foliage just as Dobson emerged from the front door with a hat and a lightweight overcoat.   

Because he accompanied her to Dobson’s party the next Saturday night, Lance was obviously upset that Cassie was out and about by herself. I believe that the evening’s peculiarly oppressive quality was caused by his attendance since it stands out in my mind among the various gatherings Dobson hosted that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same type of people, abundant champagne, and a riot of colors and tones, but there was an unsavory quality to the air this time that hadn’t been there before. It’s also possible that I had simply become accustomed to it and accepted Hermosa Beach as a universe unto itself, complete with its own standards and great figures, second to nothing because it was unaware of its inferiority, and that’s why I was now seeing it through Cassie’s eyes. Looking at things with fresh eyes after using your own adjusting abilities on them always makes you sad.

They arrived at dusk, and Cassie’s voice was playing murmuring pranks in her throat as we wandered out among the shining hundreds.

“I’m really excited about these things,” she said. “Marc, just let me know if you want to kiss me at any point during the evening, and I’ll be happy to make arrangements for it. Mention my name only. or show a valid red card. I’m dispensing card…”

“Look around,” Dobson said.

“I’m scanning the area. I’m having a wonderful…”

“You must recognize many of the names you have heard about.”

Lance surveyed the audience with haughty eyes.

“We don’t travel about much,” he admitted, and he had just realized that he didn’t know a single person in the area.

“Maybe you know that woman.” Dobson pointed to a stunning, hardly human-looking orchid of a woman who was seated in regalia beneath a white-plum tree. Lance and Cassie looked, experiencing that peculiarly surreal sensation that comes with recognizing a previously spectral celebrity from the movies.

“She’s beautiful,” Cassie said.

“Her director is the man hunched over her.”

“Mrs. Buckley… and Mr. Buckley—” he said as he ceremoniously led them from group to group. He hesitated for a few moments before adding, “the polo player.”

Lance swiftly objected, “Oh no, not me.”

However, it’s clear that Dobson liked the sound of it since Lance became “the polo player” throughout the rest of the evening.

Cassie exclaimed, “I’ve never met so many celebs. I liked the guy with the kind of blue nose.”

Dobson mentioned that he was a modest producer after identifying him.

“Well, I liked him nonetheless.”

Lance smiled and continued, “I’d kind of prefer not to be the polo player; I’d rather stare at all these renowned people in—in oblivion.”

Dobson and Cassie danced. I recall being taken aback by his moves out there because I had never seen him dance before. Then, at her request, I stayed vigilantly in the garden while they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for a half-hour. She clarified, “In case of fire, flood, or any act of God.”

As we all sat down to dinner, Lance emerged. “Do you mind if I eat over here with a few people?” he said. “This comedian is hilarious.” Cassie smiled and said, “Go ahead, and if you want to mark down any addresses, here’s my small gold pencil.”

After a brief minute of looking about, she described a young woman as “ordinary but lovely.” I realized that aside from the half-hour she had spent alone with Dobson, she wasn’t enjoying herself.

At a particularly inebriated table, we were. Dobson had been called to the phone, and only two weeks earlier, I had partied with these same individuals, thus it was my responsibility. But what had initially pleased me now irritated me.

“What’s going on with you, Miss Baedeker?”

The girl I was speaking to was attempting to slump against my shoulder but failing. She sat up and opened her eyes in response to this query.

“Wha’?”

Miss Baedeker was defended by a large, sluggish woman who had been pleading with Cassie to play golf with her at the neighborhood club tomorrow: “Oh, she’s all right now. She always starts shouting like that after five or six cocktails. I advise her to be quiet about it.”

Falsely claiming, “I do leave it alone,” the accused insisted.

We heard you yelling, so I told Doc Civet to come over since someone needed his assistance.

Another acquaintance replied, “She’s grateful, I’m sure, but you got her dress all wet when you shoved her head in the pool,” without expressing gratitude.

Miss Baedeker murmured, “Nothing I hate more than to get my head trapped in a pool. They once nearly drowned me in New Jersey.”

The doctor responded, “So you should leave it alone.”

“Speak for yourself,” Miss Baedeker yelled angrily. “Your hand trembles. You couldn’t operate on me, I promise!”

That’s how it was. I almost don’t recall anything after witnessing the movie director and his Star while standing next to Cassie. Except for a slender, faint ray of moonlight, their cheeks were still touching while they were still standing beneath the white-plum tree. I realized that he had been moving very slowly toward her all evening to get to this close, and as I looked, I saw him stoop to his lowest point and kiss her cheek.

Cassie affirmed, “I like her, and I think she’s wonderful.”

The remainder, however, clearly angered her because it wasn’t a gesture but rather an emotion. She was horrified by Hermosa Beach, this unheard-of “place” that Broadway had created from a fishing village on Long Island. She was horrified by the raw vigor that chafed under the outdated terminology and the intrusive fate that herded the community’s residents down a short cut from nothing to nothing. She perceived something terrible in the very simplicity she was unable to comprehend.

While they waited for their car, I joined them on the front steps. Only the bright door, which was at the front and cast rays of light out into the softly lit morning, broke the darkness. At times, a shadow moved in front of a dressing room blind above, occasionally making way for another one in a never-ending line of shadows that rouged and powdered in a transparent window.

Lance suddenly said, “Who is this Dobson anyway? “Some major drug dealer?”

“What place did you hear that?” I questioned.

“I wasn’t aware of it. I made it up. You know, a lot of these newly wealthy people are just major drug dealers.”

“Not Dobson,” I quickly remarked.

He remained still for a while. Under his feet, the drive’s gravel crunched.

“He must have exerted a lot of effort to put this menagerie together, I suppose.”

The grey veil of Cassie’s fur collar was ruffled by a breeze.

She struggled to say, “At least they are more intriguing than the folks we know.”

“You didn’t appear to be as interested.”

“I was, in fact. You are wrong.”

After laughing, Lance looked at me.

“Did you see the expression on the Cassie’s face when that woman asked her to put her under a cold shower?”

In a hoarse, rhythmic whisper, Cassie started to sing along with the music, giving each syllable a meaning it had never had before and would never have again. When the song began to rise, her voice broke up gently in a way that contralto voices often do, and each change released a small amount of her warm human enchantment into the atmosphere.

“Lots of folks who weren’t invited show up there,” she stated abruptly. “That girl wasn’t a guest. He is too polite to object as they simply barge in.”

Lance said, “I’d like to know who he is and what he does. And I believe I’ll make it a point to learn more.”

She replied, “I can tell you right now. He was the owner of numerous drugstores. He himself put them up.”

The slow-moving limousine slowly approached the driveway.

“Marc, good night,” Cassie said.

The crisp, depressing slow song from that year, “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” was wafting out the open door as she cast her gaze away from me and toward the lit top of the stairs. After all, Dobson’s party was so laid back that there were amorous possibilities that were entirely foreign to her. What in the song was it up there that appeared to be beckoning her back inside? What would occur right now in the gloomy, unknowable hours? It’s possible that an extraordinary visitor—someone who is infinitely uncommon and worthy of awe—would show up. This young girl, who is genuinely radiant, would erase those five years of unshakable devotion with a single glance at Dobson.

That evening, I stayed up late. Dobson instructed me to wait until he was available, so I remained in the garden until the expected swimming party had emerged from the black beach, euphoric and chilled, and until the lights in the guestrooms above had been turned off. When he finally descended the stairs, his eyes were bright and fatigued, and his brown skin was dragged unusually tightly across his face.

He instantly responded, “She didn’t like it.”

“Obviously, she did.”

He kept repeating, “She didn’t like it. She didn’t enjoy herself.”

I assumed that he was depressed because he was silent.

“I feel far from her,” he said. “It’s challenging to get her to understand.”

“You are talking about the dance, right?”

“The dancing?” With a flick of his fingers, he ended all the dances he had performed. “My friend, the dancing doesn’t matter.”

Nothing less than Cassie telling Lance, “I never loved you,” was all he wanted from her. They might decide on the more doable course of action once she had erased four years with that sentence. One of them required them to return to Louisville and get married from her home, precisely as if it had been five years prior, once she was free.

“And she doesn’t comprehend,” he continued. “She was once able to comprehend. For hours, we would sit…”

He left the walkway and started strolling up and down a barren trail made of fruit rinds, broken flowers, and thrown favors.

I guessed, “I wouldn’t ask too much of her. The past cannot be repeated.”

“Can’t we learn from the past?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “Of course you can, I say.”

He frantically glanced around as if the past were hiding here in the house’s shadow, just out of his reach.

He nodded resolutely, “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before.” She will check.

He spoke extensively about the past, and I deduced that he wished to recapture some aspect of himself—possibly a concept of who he was—that had gone into loving Cassie. Since then, his life had been chaotic and disorganized, but if he could travel back in time to a certain beginning and methodically review everything that had happened, he might be able to identify what it was.

… They had come to an area where there were no trees and the pavement was white with moonlight five years earlier while they were strolling along the street during a leaf-falling autumn night. They came to a standstill and faced one another. Now, it was a cold night with a hint of the enigmatic excitement that occurs around the two yearly equinoxes. There was a commotion among the stars, and the gentle lights from the houses were humming out into the night. Dobson noticed that the sidewalk blocks actually formed a ladder that rose to a hidden location above the woods. If he ascended there alone, he would be able to drink the unparalleled milk of astonishment and savor the pap of life.

The moment Cassie’s white face touched his own, his heart began to race. He was aware that after kissing this girl and joining his indescribable images to her fleeting breath for all time, his mind would never again play like the mind of God. He therefore continued to wait while listening to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he gave her a kiss. She opened up like a flower for him at the touch of his lips, and the incarnation was complete.

I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a shard of forgotten words—that I had heard somewhere a long time ago throughout everything he spoke, even through his revolting sentimentality. My lips parted like a dumb man’s during a brief attempt to utter a syllable, giving the impression that there was more going on there than just a startled air wisp. However, they were silent, and what I had almost remembered was forever lost to communication.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Seven

When Dobson’s house lights failed to turn on one Saturday night, just as people were starting to wonder about him more and more, his career as Trimalchio came to an abrupt end. I didn’t realize for a while that the cars that had turned into his driveway with anticipation had only waited for a few moments before sulkily driving away. I walked over to see if he was sick and when I opened the door, a strange assistant with a sinister face peered suspiciously at me.

“Is Mr. Dobson unwell?”

“Nope.” He added “sir” in a hesitant, dilatory manner after pausing.

“I was a little concerned because I hadn’t seen him around. Inform him that Mr. Whitehead visited.”

He briskly demanded, “Who?”

“Whitehead.”

“Whitehead. Okay, I’ll let him know.”

He suddenly slammed the door.

My Finn told me that Dobson had fired all of his home servants a week prior and replaced them with a dozen new hires who never entered Hermosa Beach village to be bribed by the tradespeople but instead placed telephone orders for supplies. The kitchen, according to the grocery delivery boy, appeared to be a pigsty, and the villagers’ general consensus was that the new residents weren’t actually servants at all.

The following day, Dobson gave me a call.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

“Brother, no.”

“I heard you let go of all your staff.”

“I wanted a gossip-free staff. Cassie frequently visits in the afternoons.”

Consequently, the condemnation in her gaze caused the entire staffing heirarchy to collapse like a card house.

“They are some contacts Wiezman wanted to help — siblings and brothers who used to own a modest hotel.”

“I see.”

Would I join him for lunch at Cassie’s house tomorrow, he asked me over the phone. There would be Miss Brooks. Cassie herself called a half-hour later, sounding relieved to hear that I was coming. Something was going on. Still, I couldn’t believe they would pick this particular setting for some drama, especially for the chilling scene Dobson had described taking place in the garden.

The following day was scorching, nearly the last and unquestionably the warmest of the summer. Only the scorching whistles of the National Donut Company disturbed the simmering silence at noon as my train came out of the tunnel into the sunlight. The straw seats of the car were on the verge of igniting, and the woman sitting next to me began to perspire subtly into her white shirtwaist before collapsing into deep heat with a sorrowful cry as the newspaper began to become damp under her fingers. Her wallet fell to the ground.

“Oh my!” she exclaimed.

In an effort to demonstrate that I had no intentions of keeping it, I bent down and picked it up before returning it to her. However, the woman and everyone else in the area suspected me anyway.

The conductor said, “Hot!” to familiar faces. “This weather is killing me! It’s hot! Hot! Hot! Do you find it hot enough? Is it warm? Is it… ?”

My commuter ticket was returned to me with a dark handprint on it. Whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made the pyjama pocket over his heart damp, that anyone should care in this heat!

… A little breeze wafted through the Buckleys’ home’s hallway, sending the sound of the phone’s bell to Dobson and me as we sat at the door.

The assistant yelled into the speaker, “The master’s body? I’m sorry, Madam, but we’re unable to provide it—this noon is just too hot to handle!”

What he actually said was: “Yes… Yes… I’ll check on it.”

He put down the phone before walking over to us and grabbing our stiff straw hats.

He shouted, pointlessly pointing in the direction of the salon, “Madame expects you at the salon!” Every extra action was an insult to life’s basic necessities in this heat.

The room was cold and dark, with good awning coverage. On a large couch, Cassie and Sibley lay, their white dresses weighting down against the fans’ humming breeze like silver idols.

They said as one, “We can’t move.”

Sibley’s fingers briefly rested in mine as they were covered in white powder over their tans.

I asked, “And Mr. Thomas Buckley, the athlete?”

I simultaneously overheard his heavy, muffled, and grizzled voice at the hallway phone.

Dobson stood in the middle of the red carpet and scanned the area with interest. When Cassie saw him, she giggled with her characteristic sweetness and excitement. A tiny puff of powder ascended into the air from her breasts.

“The rumor is that the female on the other end of the line is Lance’s girlfriend,” Sibley murmured.

We kept quiet. “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the automobile at all,” the voice in the hallway grew louder and angrier. “I have absolutely no duties to you. And I won’t tolerate it at all if you continue to bother me about it during lunch.”

Cassie remarked cynically, “Holding down the receiver.”

I told her, “No, he’s not. This is a real deal. I know all about it.”

Lance quickly entered the room after throwing open the door and temporarily blocking it with his large body.

“Dear Mr. Dobson!” He hid his disapproval as he extended a big, flat hand. “Good to see you again, sir… Marc…”

“Make us a cool beverage,” Cassie cried.

She stood up and walked over to Dobson as he left the room once more, pulling his face down and kissed him on the mouth.

“You’re aware that I adore you,” she muttered.

“You seem to have forgotten that a lady is present,” Sibley said.

Cassie cast a suspicious glance about.

“You kiss Marc, too!”

“What a vile, low girl!”

Cassie yelled, “I don’t care!” as she started to stoke the brick hearth. As a newly laundered nurse and a young girl entered the room, she suddenly recalled how hot it was and sat down guiltily on the couch.

She crooned, “Bles-sed precious,” while extending her arms. “Come to your own loving mother.”

After being given back by the nurse, the little girl ran across the room and hid herself shyly in her mother’s clothes.

“The blessed beloved! Did your mother get powder in your hair? Now get up and say, ‘How do you do?’”

Dobson and I knelt down and took the young child’s hesitant hand. He continued to stare at the infant in shock after that. He may not have previously truly believed in its existence.

The young girl immediately turned to Cassie and stated, “I got ready before lunch.”

“That’s because your mom wanted to brag about you,” I said. Her face curved into the lone furrow on the little, white neck. “You, you dream. You little dream, you.”

“Yes,” the youngster admitted easily. “Aunt Sibley is also wearing a white dress.”

“How do you like your mother’s pals?” She turned around to face Dobson. “Do you find them attractive?”

“Where is daddy?”

Cassie said, “She doesn’t look like her dad. She resembles me. She shares my hair color and face structure.”

Cassie reclined her seat on the sofa. The nurse moved closer and extended her hand.

“Pammy, come.”

“Goodbye, my love!”

The well-behaved youngster reluctantly turned to look behind her as she was dragged out the door by her nurse, just as Lance returned with four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.

Dobson picked up his beverage.

He remarked, clearly tensed, “They sure look cool.

We drank slowly and greedily.

Lance reflected, “I read somewhere that the sun is getting hotter every year. It appears that the earth will soon plunge into the sun, or wait a second, it’s the exact opposite—the sun is getting colder every year.”

He invited Dobson to step outside, saying, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.”

With them, I walked out onto the balcony. One small sail moved slowly toward the cooler water on the green Bay, which was stagnant in the heat. Dobson briefly followed it with his gaze before pointing across the bay with a raised palm.

“I am directly across from you.”

“You are!”

Our gaze shifted to the weedy waste of the dog days along the sea, the heated lawn, and the rosebeds. The boat’s white wings drifted slowly against the cool blue sky’s limit. The scalloped ocean and numerous blessed isles lay ahead.

Lance nodded and said, “There’s sport for you. I’d like to spend maybe an hour out there with him.”

We ate lunch in the dining room, which had been made darker out of respect for the heat, and we sipped cold lager to calm our nerves.

Cassie said, “What will we do with ourselves this afternoon, and the next day, and the next thirty years?”

“Don’t be a downer,” Sibley advised. “When it turns crisp in the fall, life starts over again.”

Cassie, on the edge of tears, said, “But it’s so hot, and everything’s so confusing. Let’s all head to the city!”

Her voice battled the heat, pushing against it, and creating shapes out of its senselessness.

Lance was telling Dobson, “I’ve heard of creating a garage out of a stable, but I’m the first man who ever constructed a stable out of a garage.”

“Who would like to go out?” demanded Cassie adamantly. Dobson’s eyes drifted in her direction. She exclaimed, “Ah, you look so cool.”

They locked eyes and remained silently fixed on each other for a long moment. She made an effort to look down at the table.

She said again, “You look so cool all the time.”

Lance Buckley had heard her tell him she loved him. He was amazed. He appeared to have just recognized Cassie as someone he knew from a long time ago as his lips opened a little and he turned to glance at Dobson before turning back to Cassie.

She said innocently, “You look just like the man in the commercial. You know the one I mean…”

Lance swiftly interjected, “All fine, I’m completely willing to go to town. Come on, everyone is going to the city.”

He stood up while keeping an eye between Dobson and his wife. Nothing changed.

“Let’s go!” His fury began to fray. “What’s the matter? Let’s get going if we’re headed to the city.”

His palm shook as he tried to maintain control as he brought the last of his ale to his lips. We stood up and exited onto the scorching gravel drive at the sound of Cassie’s voice.

She questioned, “Are we just going to leave? Like that? Were we not going to allow anyone to light up first?”

“We all smoked during lunch.”

She pleaded with him, “Oh, let’s have fun. It’s too hot to bother.”

He remained silent.

“Have it your way,” she said. “Sibley, get moving.”

We three men stood there moving the hot pebbles with our feet as they went upstairs to prepare. The moon was already curved in silver and hovering in the western sky. Lance spun around and was waiting for Dobson to respond when he changed his mind.

Dobson made an effort to inquire, “Have you got your stables here?”

“A little more than a quarter mile down the road.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

Lance snarled, “I don’t see the point of traveling to town. Women develop these crazy ideas in their minds.”

From a higher window, Cassie yelled, “Shall we take anything to drink?”

Lance said, “I’ll fetch some whisky.” The man entered.

Dobson resolutely turned to face me and said, “Brother, I can’t say anything in his house.”

“She has an inappropriate voice, I said. It’s filled with…,” I stammered.

He abruptly replied, “Her voice is full of money.”

There it was. I had never before understood. Its endless charm, which could be heard in its jingle and cymbals’ song, was that it was full of money. The golden girl, the daughter of the monarch, is high up in a white mansion.

Lance emerged from the house carrying a towel-wrapped quart bottle, followed by Cassie and Sibley who were toting light capes over their arms and sporting little, tight caps made of metallic fabric.

Dobson asked, “Shall we all get in my car?” He touched the seat’s warm, emerald leather. “I should have placed it in the shade.”

Lance questioned, “Is it standard shift?”

“Yes.”

“You may take my roadster, and I’ll take your vehicle into town.”

Dobson found the suggestion to be objectionable.

He argued, “I don’t think there’s much gas.”

“There’s plenty of gas,” exclaimed Lance loudly. He turned to face the gauge. “And if it runs out, I can visit a pharmacy. Nowadays, a drugstore sells anything.”

This seemed to be a meaningless comment, and there was a pause. A somewhat recognizable, yet distinctly strange expression crossed Dobson’s face as Cassie scowled at Lance, as if I had just heard it described in words.

Lance urged Cassie, “Come on,” pushing her in the direction of Dobson’s car. “Come with me in this circus wagon,” I said.

She slipped out of his arm’s reach as he opened the door.

“You take Sibley and Marc. We’ll ride along in the roadster.”

She approached Dobson and put her hand on his coat. Lance cautiously shifted into the unknown gears as Sibley, Lance, and I climbed into the front seat of Dobson’s car and sped away into the stifling heat, leaving them out of sight.

Lance yelled, “Did you see that?”

“Saw what?”

He gave me a close look as he acknowledged that Sibley and I must have known all along.

He implied, “You think I’m fairly stupid, don’t you? Maybe I am, but occasionally I have a second sight that tells me what to do. Perhaps you don’t think that, but science says…”

He stopped. He was dragged back from the theoretical abyss by the present situation.

I’ve done a little research on this guy,” he said. “If I had known…, I could have gone further.”

Sibley chuckled, “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?”

“What?” He looked at us in confusion as we chuckled. “A medium?”

“Regarding Dobson.”

“Regarding Dobson! Not at all. I explained that I had been looking into his past in a little way.”

Sibley was helpful, adding, “And you found he was a Stanford man.”

“A man from Stanford!” He couldn’t believe it. “He is like hell! He’s got on a pink outfit.”

“However, he is a Stanford man.”

Lance snorted mockingly, “Stanford, New Mexico, or something like that.”

“Hear, Lance. Why did you ask him to lunch if you’re such a snob?” demanded Sibley angrily.

“Cassie invited him; before we got married, she knew him—God knows where!”

Now that the ale was getting weaker, we were all irritable, and after realizing this, we drove silently for a time. Then I recalled Dobson’s warning about gasoline as I saw Doctor I.B. Frysinger’s faded eyes approaching from the distance.

“We have enough to travel to town,” Lance remarked.

Sibley countered, “But there’s a garage right here. I don’t want to become stuck in this sweltering heat.”

We came to a sudden, dusty stop in front of Snyder’s sign as Lance hurriedly slammed on both brakes. After a brief delay, the owner came out of his business and regarded the car with hollow eyes.

“Let’s go for some gas,” Lance yelled angrily. “What do you suppose we paused for—to take in the scenery?”

Snyder responded without moving, “I’m sick. I’ve been unwell today.”

“What is the issue?”

“I’m exhausted,” he said.

“Will I help myself, then?” Lance prompted. “You seemed to sound okay on the phone.”

Snyder made a conscious effort to leave the doorway’s cover and stability before forcing the tank’s top off while exhaling heavily. His face was green in the sun.

“I apologize for interrupting you during your meal. However, I urgently need cash, and I was curious as to what you planned to do with your old car.”

Lance asked, “How do you like this one? I purchased it last week.”

Snyder yanked at the handle and exclaimed, “It’s a good yellow one.”

“Like to purchase it?”

Snyder said with a wry smirk, “No chance. No, but I could make some dough from the other.”

“What do you suddenly need money for?”

“I have stayed here too long. I need to leave. We wish to travel to the West.”

Lance, astonished, shouted, “Your wife does.”

“She has been discussing it for ten years.” He briefly laid his head against the pump and covered his eyes. “And now, whether she likes to or not, she must go. I’m going to get her out of here.”

With a cloud of dust and the flash of a waving hand, the roadster sped past us.

Lance sternly questioned, “What do I owe you?”

Snyder said, “I just learned something funny the previous two days. I wish to leave for that reason. I have been bugging you about the car because of this.”

“What do I owe you?”

“Twenty dollars, please.”

I had a nasty moment there until I realized that thus far, his suspicions hadn’t fallen on Lance because of the persistent hammering heat. The realization that Hazel lived an existence separate from his in another universe made him sick to his stomach. No difference between men, in IQ or race, was as profound as the difference between the sick and the well, it dawned to me as I glanced at him and then at Lance, who had made a similar revelation less than an hour before. Snyder appeared guilty—unforgivably guilty—as if he had just given birth to a helpless girl because he was so unwell.

Lance said, “I’ll let you have that car. I’ll deliver it tomorrow afternoon.”

Even in the bright afternoon sun, that area always gave me the creeps, so I turned my head as if I had been warned of something behind me. The enormous eyes of Doctor I.B. Frysinger kept watch over the ash heaps, but I soon realized that other eyes were watching us from less than twenty feet away with an odd intensity.

Hazel Snyder was looking down at the car through a window in the garage that had its curtains slightly pulled back. She was so absorbed that she was unaware that she was being watched, and one feeling after another slowly crept onto her face like elements of a slowly coming scene. When I learned that Hazel Snyder’s eyes, which were wide with jealous horror, were fixated not on Lance but rather on Sibley Brooks, whom she believed to be his wife, her look, which I had frequently seen on women’s faces, seemed purposeless and unexplainable.

___________________

Lance was experiencing the scorching whips of panic as we drove away. There is no confusion like the perplexity of a simple mind. His mistress and wife, who had been safe and untouchable for the previous hour, were now evaporating from his grip. He instinctively hit the gas in order to pass Cassie and pass Snyder, and we rushed into Astoria at fifty miles per hour until we caught sight of the laid-back blue roadster hidden beneath the elevated’s webbed girders.

Sibley remarked, “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool. I enjoy visiting Los Angeles in the summertime when everyone is away. It has a very sensual quality to it, like all kinds of strange fruits are about to fall into your hands because they are overripe.”

The word “sensuous” added to Lance’s unease, but Cassie signaled for us to pull up next to the roadster before Lance could think of a protest.

She wailed, “Where are we going?”

“What about the cinema?”

It’s so warm, she groused. “You go. After riding around, we’ll meet up with you.” Her wit began to rise with a bit of effort. “We will meet you at a nearby corner. The man smoking two cigarettes will be me.”

Lance reacted hastily, “We can’t argue about it here,” as a truck whined an expletive behind us. “You come with me to the Plaza on the south side of Central Park.”

He often turned to look behind him for their automobile, and if the traffic held them up, he slowed down until he could see them. I believe he was scared they might disappear forever down a side street.

However, they didn’t. And then we all made the less obvious decision to use the parlor of a suite at the Plaza Hotel.

Though I have a clear physical memory of it, I can’t recall the lengthy and tumultuous dispute that culminated in our being herded into that room. During that time, my underwear continued crawling up my legs like a damp serpent as sporadic sweat beads ran coolly across my back. Cassie’s suggestion that we rent five bathrooms and take cold baths was the inspiration for the idea, which later took on a more concrete form as “a location to have a mint julep.” Each of us repeatedly referred to it as a “crazy notion,” and we all spoke at once to the confused cashier, pretending to find it amusing.

Even though it was almost four o’clock, opening the windows allowed just a gust of heated shrubbery from the Park to enter the vast, stuffy chamber. Cassie turned away from us and walked over to the mirror to straighten her hair.

Sibley muttered reverently, “It’s a swell suite,” and everyone chuckled.

Without looking back, Cassie instructed, “Open another window.”

“There are no longer any.”

“Well, we should call for an axe,”

Lance replied anxiously, “The thing to do is to forget about the heat. You crow about it and make it ten times worse.”

He took the whisky bottle out of the towel and set it on the table.

Dobson asked, “Why not leave her alone, brother? You wanted to come to town.”

A moment of silence followed. Sibley said, “Excuse me,” but this time no one laughed as the phone book slid from its nail and splashed to the ground.

I said, “I’ll pick it up.”

“No worry — I’ll grab it.” Dobson looked at the split thread, said an amused “Hum!” and threw the book on a chair.

Lance remarked angrily, “That’s a fantastic expression of yours, isn’t it?

“What is it?”

“This whole ‘brother’ thing. Where did you get that?”

Cassie remarked, moving away from the mirror, “Now look here, Lance. If you’re going to make personal remarks, I won’t stay here for a minute. Make a phone call and request some ice for the mint julep.”

Lance picked up the receiver, and the compressed heat burst into sound, bringing the ominous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March to our ears from the ballroom.

“Imagine getting married to anyone in this heat,” Sibley bemoaned.

Still, Cassie said, “I was married in the middle of May. May in Louisville! Someone passed out. Who was it, Lance, who passed out?”

Shortly, he said, “Biloxi.”

“A person called Biloxi. He was known as ‘Boxes’ Biloxi, and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee. He made boxes.”

Sibley continued, “They dragged him into my house because we lived just two doors from the church. He remained there for three weeks before his father advised him to leave. Daddy passed away the day after he passed.” She added after a brief pause. “There was no connection at all.”

I said, “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis. He had a cousin. I was fully aware of his family’s history before he departed. He handed me a putter made of aluminum, which I still use.”

The music had stopped as the ceremony got underway, and now a long cheer could be heard coming from the window. This was followed by sporadic cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and then a blast of jazz as the dance got going.

“We’re getting older,” Cassie said. “We would get up and dance if we were young.”

Sibley cautioned her, “Remember Biloxi. Where did you first meet him, Lance?”

“Biloxi?” He made a conscious effort to focus. “I was unaware of him. He was one of Cassie’s friends.”

She argued that he wasn’t. “I had never before seen him. He arrived in the private vehicle.”

“He claimed to know you, though… He said he grew up in Louisville. At the last minute, Asa Bird brought him over and inquired about our availability for him.”

Sibley smiled. “He was likely hitchhiking home. He claimed to be the Yale class president, I believe.”

Lance and I exchanged expressionless looks.

“Biloxi?”

“First off, we were without a president…”

Dobson’s foot pounded a brief, restless tattoo, and Lance abruptly glared at him.

“Furthermore, Mr. Dobson, I believe you are a Stanford man.”

“Not quite.”

“Oh, I hear you attended Stanford.”

“Indeed, I went there.”

A pause. After that, Lance said in a mocking and skeptical tone, “You must have gone there at the same time Biloxi went to USC.”

One more pause. The only sounds were the quiet closing of the door and the waiter’s “thank you” as he entered carrying crushed mint and ice. Finally, this enormous detail was going to be explained.

Dobson answered, “I told you I went there.”

“I heard you, but please tell me when.”

“It was in 1991, and I only stayed for five months. I therefore can’t truly refer to myself as a Stanford man.”

Lance took a quick look around to check if we shared his disbelief. But everyone was fixated on Dobson.

“After my time in the military, they gave some of the officers an opportunity,” he said. “We could attend any university in the United States or England.”

I yearned to stand up and give him a pat on the back. I had one of those previous restorations of unwavering faith in him.

While feigning a smile, Cassie got up and went to the table.

She commanded, “Open the whisky, Lance, and I’ll prepare you a mint julep. Afterward, you won’t appear as foolish to yourself…Check out the mint!”

Lance abruptly said, “Wait a second, I have one more question for Mr. Dobson.”

Dobson kindly said, “Go on.”

“What sort of argument are you attempting to start in my home anyhow?”

Finally, they were in the open, and Dobson was happy.

Cassie frantically glanced from one to the other, “He isn’t starting a fight,” she said. “You’re starting a fight. Please chill.”

Lance said incredulously, “Self-control! The newest trend, I suppose, is to relax and watch Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make out with your wife. However, if that’s the plan, I’m out. Nowadays, people start out mocking the family and its structures, then they just toss everything out the window and marry between black and white.”

Flushed by his passionate babbling, he realized that he was the only one left on the last vestige of civilization.

“Uh, people can marry who they want. It’s the 1990s,” Sibley muttered.

“I am aware people don’t agree with me. I don’t host large gatherings. In the present world, I think you have to turn your home into a pigsty in order to have any friends.”

I wanted to chuckle every time he spoke, as mad as we were all at him. It was a seamless change from cultured to pig.

Dobson started by saying, “I’ve got something to tell you, brother—” Cassie, though, deduced what he meant.

Helplessly she interrupted, “Please don’t! Let’s all please go home. Why not all return home?

I rose and said, “That’s a terrific idea. “Let’s go, Lance. Nobody wants a beverage.”

“I’m interested in hearing what Mr. Dobson has to say.”

Dobson responded, “Your wife doesn’t love you. She never did. She cares for me.”

Lance screamed, “You must be mad!”

Dobson, giddy with enthusiasm, leaped to his feet.

He sobbed, “She never loved you, do you hear? She just got married to you because she got tired of waiting for me and I was impoverished. She made a dreadful error, but she had only ever loved me in her heart.”

Sibley and I attempted to go at this point, but Lance and Dobson insisted with competitive firmness that we stay, acting as though neither of them had anything to hide and that it would be a privilege to experience their feelings via them.

Lance’s voice fumbled for the fatherly note, “Sit down, Cassie. What has been happening? I’d like to learn everything.”

Dobson said, “I told you what’s been going on. For five years, and you were unaware.”

Lance abruptly turned to face Cassie.

“You’ve seen this man for five years, right?”

“Not seeing,” Dobson said. “We were unable to meet. However, brother, you were unaware that we had been in love with one another the entire time. I used to giggle occasionally knowing you weren’t aware,” he said, but there was no sign of mirth in his eyes.

“That’s all, I see.” Lance leaned back in his chair and tapped his broad fingers together like a priest.

“You’re insane!” he yelled. “I can’t talk about what happened five years ago since I didn’t know Cassie at the time; furthermore, unless you delivered the groceries to the back door, I’ll be darned if I can figure out how you got so close to her. But everything else about that is a goddamn lie. When she married me, Cassie loved me, and she still does.”

“No,” Dobson replied, shaking his head.

“She does. She occasionally has dumb ideas in her brain and doesn’t know what she’s doing, which is the problem.” He gave a wise nod. “In addition, I also adore Cassie. I occasionally go on a binge and embarrass myself, but I always return because I will always love her in my heart.”

“You’re disgusting,” Cassie remarked. She turned to face me, and a tingling scorn filled the room as her voice fell an octave lower: “You know why we left Chicago, don’t you? It surprises me that they didn’t tell you the tale of that brief rampage.”

Dobson strolled over stood next to her.

He stated firmly, “Cassie, that’s all over now. It isn’t relevant anymore. Simply admit to him that you never loved him, and everything will be forgotten forever.”

She gave him a blank stare. “Why—how could I possibly love him?”

“You never showed him love.”

She was unsure. Her eyes shifted to Sibley and I, as if she had just realized what she was doing—or perhaps as if she had never intended to do anything at all. But now it was over. Too late.

She answered, with apparent hesitation, “I never loved him.”

“Not at Kapiolani?” cried out Lance abruptly.

“No.”

Muffled and stifling chords were floating up on hot air waves from the ballroom below.

“Not on the day I helped you down from the Punch Bowl so your shoes wouldn’t get wet?” His tone had a husky warmth to it. “Cassie?”

“No, please.” Despite being ice cold, her voice lacked any bitterness. She turned to face Dobson. She responded, “There, Donny,” but her hand was shaking as she attempted to light a cigarette. She abruptly flung the lit match and cigarette onto the carpet.

“Oh, Dobson, you want too much,” she cried. “Isn’t the fact that I love you now enough? I am powerless over the past.” She started to cry hysterically. “I once loved him, but I also loved you.”

Dobson’s eyelids flickered open and shut.

“You also loved me?” he inquired.

That’s a lie, too!” Lance admonished. “She was unaware that you were even alive. Why—there are things about Cassie and me that neither of you will ever know and that we will never forget.”

Dobson appeared to feel the words physically bite him.

He said, “I want to talk to Cassie alone. She is over-excited at the moment.”

She stated in a sorrowful voice, “Even alone, I can’t say I never loved Lance. The statement is untrue.”

“Of course it is untrue,” Lance said.

She turned to face her spouse.

“As if it were important to you,” she remarked.

Obviously, it matters. From now on, I’m going to look out for you more.”

Dobson responded, “You don’t understand,” in a panicked tone. “You won’t be looking after her any longer.”

“I’m not?” Lance laughed as he widened his eyes. He could now afford to keep his temper. “What gives?”

“Cassie is going to leave you.”

“Nonsense.”

“I will,” she said with apparent effort.

“She’s not going to leave me,” Suddenly, Lance leaned over Dobson and spoke. “No, not for a normal con artist who would have to take the ring off her finger.”

“I won’t put up with this,” Cassie exclaimed. “Oh, let’s leave, please.”

Lance asked, “Who are you, anyhow?” You belong to those yahoos who hang out with Efraim Wiezman, as far as I’m aware. I’ve done a little research into your situation; tomorrow, I’ll do more.”

Dobson calmly remarked, “You can suit yourself about that, brother.”

“I learned what your ‘drugstores’ were,” Tom said. He said quickly as he turned to face us. “He and this Wiezman acquired numerous corner drugstores in both Chicago and this area and dispensed grain alcohol there. That’s just one of his operations. When I first saw him, I immediately assumed that he was a bootlegger, and I wasn’t far off.”

“What about it?” Dobson asked courteously. “Walter Chase, your friend, wasn’t too prideful to come in on it.”

“And you abandoned him, didn’t you? You permitted him to spend a month in jail in New Jersey. God! Walter should speak about the issue of you, I think.”

He arrived at our door broke. He was overjoyed to receive some cash, brother.

“Don’t call me ‘brother,’” Lance yelled. Dobson remained silent. “Walter could have educated you about gambling regulations as well, but Wiezman terrified him into keeping quiet.”

Dobson once more had that peculiar yet recognized expression on his face.

Lance added slowly, “That drugstore business was simply tiny change, but you’ve got something going on now that Walter’s reluctant to tell me about.”

I cast a quick glance at Sibley, who had started to balance an imperceptible but absorbent thing on the tip of her chin, and Cassie, who was staring horrified between Dobson and her husband. I then went back to Dobson, who’s expression astonished me. He appeared as if he had “killed a guy,” and I say this with complete disdain for the babbled slander of his yard. His face’s angle may briefly be defined in such amazing way.

After it was over, he started to chat eagerly to Cassie, denying everything and defending himself from unfounded allegations. He gave up trying to touch what was no longer palpable because she was drawing in on herself with each new syllable, and only the dead dream persisted as the afternoon wore on, straining unhappily and despondently in the direction of that misplaced voice across the room.

The voice begged once more to leave.

“Lance, please! This is becoming intolerable to me.”

Any good intentions or bravery she may have had were evidently lost in her terrified gaze.

Lance responded, “You two start on home, Cassie. In Mr. Dobson’s vehicle.”

Now startled, she turned to face Lance, but he persisted with gracious scorn.

“Go on. He won’t irritate you. He may be aware that his impudent little affair is over.”

They vanished silently, abruptly, and alone, like ghosts, even in the face of our sympathy.

After a brief pause, Lance stood up and started encircling the liquor bottle with the towel.

“Do you want any of this? Marc? Sibley?”

I remained silent.

“Marc?” He re-asked.

“What?”

“Want some?”

“No… Just now did I realize that today is my birthday.”

In my 30s. A new decade’s ominous road was spread out before me.

We boarded the roadster with him at seven in the morning and headed for Long Island. Lance kept talking and laughing nonstop, but Sibley and I could not hear him as we could not hear the strange clamor on the sidewalk or the commotion of the elevated overhead. Human compassion has its limitations, therefore we were happy to watch as all of their tragic disagreements vanished behind the city lights. Thirty holds the prospect of a decade of loneliness, a dwindling pool of eligible bachelors to get to know, a dwindling supply of zeal, and receding hair. In contrast to Cassie, who was too clever to carry well-forgotten dreams from generation to generation, Sibley was standing alongside me. Her thin face sagged lazily into the shoulder of my coat as we crossed the dark bridge, and the imposing stroke of thirty vanished under the comforting grip of her hand.

So, through the chilly dusk, we continued on our journey toward death.

—————————-

The main witness at the inquiry was a young Greek man named Michaelis who owned the coffee shop next to the ash mounds. Rusty Snyder was sick in his office, seriously ill, as pale as his own pale hair, and shaking all over when he was discovered by the man who had slept through the heat up until after five. Snyder hesitated to go to sleep despite Michaelis’ advice to do so because he believed he would miss a lot of opportunities. While his neighbor was attempting to convince him, an aggressive racket broke out above.

Snyder said calmly, “I’ve got my wife locked in up there. She will remain there till the day after tomorrow, following which we will depart.”

They had been neighbors for four years, and Snyder had never seemed even somewhat capable of making such a claim, so Michaelis was shocked. He was often one of these exhausted men; when he wasn’t working, he sat in the doorway on a chair and observed the traffic and passing vehicles. He always chuckled agreeably and subtly when someone spoke to him. He wasn’t his own guy; he was his wife’s.

Michaelis understandably tried to find out what had happened, but Snyder remained silent. Instead, he started to cast suspicious looks at his visitor and inquire about his whereabouts at specific times and days. When some workers arrived at the door headed for his restaurant as the latter was growing uneasy, Michaelis used the chance to leave and promised to return later. He didn’t, though. He simply assumed he did not, to be honest. A little after seven, when he went outside once more, he overheard Mrs. Snyder’s voice, harsh and reprimanding, in the garage. This brought back memories of the conversation.

He heard her scream, “Beat me! You dirty little coward, hit me and throw me down!”

Before he could get out of his door, she dashed out into the night, shouting and flailing her hands that the deal was over.

The “death automobile,” as the media dubbed it, continued on without stopping. It emerged from the advancing darkness, swayed cruelly for a split second, and then vanished around the next curve. Even when he claimed it was bright green to the first police officer, Mavro Michaelis wasn’t certain of the color. The driver of the other vehicle, the one headed for Los Angeles, sped back to where Hazel Snyder, whose life had been savagely cut short, was kneeling in the road and mixing her thick, dark blood with the dust after coming to rest a hundred yards away.

She was initially reached by Michaelis and this man, but once they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp from perspiration, they discovered that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, so there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. She had a mouth that was open wide and somewhat torn at the corners, as if she had choked a little while releasing the enormous vitality she had been holding in for so long.

—————————-

When we were still a fair ways away, we noticed the three or four automobiles and the throng.

“Wreck,” exclaimed Lance. “That’s great. Finally, Snyder will have a small business.”

As we drew nearer, he began to slow down but had no intention of stopping until the quiet, focused faces of the individuals at the garage door caused him to audibly apply the brakes.

He said sceptically, “We’ll take a look, just a look.”

As we exited the roadster and made our way to the door, I became aware of a hollow, whining sound coming from the garage, which eventually resolved into the words “Oh, my God!” shouted repeatedly in a breathless moan.

Lance exclaimed with excitement, “This place is in big trouble.”

On tiptoes, he reached up and peered into the garage, which was only illuminated by a yellow light in a swinging metal basket above. He then grunted angrily in his throat and forced his way through with a hard shove of his strong arms.

Before I could see anything at all, the circle closed up once more with a continual murmur of expostulation. The queue was then disrupted by newcomers, and Sibley and I were abruptly shoved inside.

Lance was bent over Hazel Snyder’s body with his back to us, immobile, as she lay on a worktable by the wall covered in two blankets, as if she had a chill in the warm night. A motorcycle police officer was standing next to him, carefully writing down names in a small book while sweating profusely. At first, I was unable to identify the source of the loud, high-pitched groans that resounded throughout the empty garage. Then, I noticed Snyder standing on the raised threshold of his office, rocking back and forth while firmly grasping the doorposts with both hands. Snyder neither heard nor saw the man who was speaking to him in a low voice and occasionally trying to put a hand on his shoulder. He would jerk back to the light after gently lowering his eyes to the laden table beside the wall while uttering his shrill, horrifying cries of, “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh my goodness! Oh my God! God, oh God!”

Lance suddenly lifted his head with a jerk, and after giving the policeman a muttered, unintelligible remark while looking about the garage.

The policeman was speaking in “M-a-v—” and “—o—”

The man responded, “No, r—, “M-a-v-r-o—.”

“Listen to me!” Lance murmured angrily.

The policeman uttered “r—,” “o—,” “g—,” and “g—” Lance’s big hand landed sharply on his shoulder, causing him to look up. “What do you need, fella?”

“What happened? I’m want to know!”

“Car struck her. Immediately killed.”

Lance repeated, “Immediately killed,” while glaring.

“She took off along a road. Son of a bitch didn’t even slow down his car.”

“There were two cars, one coming and one going,” Michaelis said.

The policeman was curious, “Going where?”

“One moving each way. Okay, she raced out there and the person coming from New York knocked directly into her while traveling at thirty or forty miles per hour,” the man said as his hand lifted toward the blankets but stopped midway and fell to his side.

The officer said, “What’s the name of this place here?”

“Hasn’t been given a name.”

A pale, well-dressed black man approached.

He remarked, “Big yellow automobile. It was yellow. New.”

The policeman enquired, “See the accident?

“No, but a car was passing me along the road at a speed greater than forty. Probably going fifty, even sixty.”

“Come on over so we can get your name. Watch out now. I need to know his name.”

Apparently, some of the words from this conversation must have reached Snyder, who was swaying in the office door.

“You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what it was!”

I looked over at Lance. I saw a tightening of the muscle mass in the back of his shoulder. He hurried over to Snyder and, taking a position in front of him, forcefully grabbed him by the upper arms.

He said with a calming gruffness, “You’ve got to get yourself together.”

Snyder looked at Lance as he stood up on tiptoes and was about to fall to his knees if it weren’t for Lance holding him up.

Lance gently shaken him and said, “Listen. I just arrived here from Los Angeles a minute ago. That roadster we’ve been talking about, I was delivering it to you. Do you hear that the yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t my own? It hasn’t shown up since the afternoon.”

Only the black man and I were close enough to hear him speak, but the policeman detected something in the tone and glared at us with hostile eyes.

He asked, “What’s all that?”

“I’m one of his friends.” While turning his head, Lance firmly held onto Snyder’s body. “He claims to know which car was responsible… The automobile was yellow.”

The policeman was compelled by some vague desire to scrutinize Lance warily.

“What color is your car, by the way?”

“It’s a roadster, and it’s blue.”

I added, “We’re here from Los Angeles.”

This was corroborated by someone who had been driving a bit behind us, and the policeman turned away.

“Now, if you’ll allow me to get that name right once more…”

Lance took Snyder into the office like a doll, seated him in a chair, and then left.

He said snappily, “If someone will come here and sit with him.” He watched as the two men who were closest to him exchanged glances before reluctantly entering the space. Lance then closed the door behind them and went down the single step while avoiding the table with his eyes. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered as he passed by me.

We forced our way through the still-growing mob, his forceful arms paving the way, passing a hasty doctor carrying a patient who had been sent for in a mad hope half an hour earlier.

Lance took it carefully until we were over the bend, at which point he pressed hard on the gas and the roadster sped through the night. Soon after, I heard a deep husky sob and noticed that he was crying uncontrollably.

He sobbed, “The God damned coward! He didn’t even slow down his car.”

—————————-

Through the pitch-black, rustling trees, the Buckleys’ home floated abruptly in our direction. Lance paused next to the porch and peered up at the second floor’s two windows that were dripping with light among the bushes of vines.

“Cassie is home,” he said. He cast a quick glance my way as we exited the car and grimaced a little.

“Marc, I should have dropped you off near Hermosa Beach. Nothing that we can do tonight.”

He talked solemnly and decisively after going through a mood shift. He quickly resolved the matter as we crossed the moonlit gravel to get to the porch.

“I’ll call for a taxi to drive you home, but in the meanwhile, you and Sibley had better head inside to grab some supper, if you want some.” He let the door open. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, but no. But if you could call me a taxi, I’d be grateful. I’ll hang out front.”

Sibley touched my arm with her hand.

“Marc, why don’t you enter?”

“Thanks, but no.”

I wanted to be alone myself since I was a little queasy. Sibley, however, stayed for a little longer.

“Only half past nine,” she said.

I wouldn’t dare enter; I’d had enough of all of them for the day, and now that suddenly included Sibley as well. She must have recognized this in my expression because she immediately turned around and raced up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a while with my head in my hands till I heard the assistant dialing a taxi on the phone that had been brought inside. I then carefully made my way out of the home along the driveway with the intention of waiting by the gate.

When I heard my name and Dobson walked out from between two bushes into the walkway, I had only traveled about twenty yards. By that point, I must have been feeling quite strange since all I could think about was the brilliance of his pink outfit under the moon.

I asked, “What are you doing?”

“Brother, I’m just standing here.”

That seemed a bit despicable. I had no idea that he was about to plunder the house; had I looked behind him in the shadowy shrubbery, I wouldn’t have been shocked to see ominous features, the faces of “Wiezman’s people.”

After a minute he inquired, “Did you spot any difficulty on the road?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated.

“Was she killed?”

“Yes.”

“I believe it, and I told Cassie I believe it. It’s preferable if the shock hits all at once. She handled it fairly well.”

He conveyed that the only thing that mattered was Cassie’s response.

He said, “I took a side route to get to Hermosa Beach and left the car in my garage. Even though I don’t believe anyone saw us, I can’t be certain.”

I didn’t feel the need to correct him at this point because I despised him so much.

He asked, “Who was the woman?”

“Snyder was her name. The garage belongs to her spouse. How in the hell did it happen?”

“I tried to swing the wheel, but…”

As soon as he stopped talking, I began to suspect the truth.

“Was Cassie driving?”

After a little pause, he responded, “Yes, but of course I’ll pretend I was. She was anxious as we left Los Angeles, so she felt driving would help her feel more in control. Unfortunately, this woman charged out at us as we were passing a car heading the other way. It all happened in a flash, but I had the impression that she wanted to talk to us and thought she recognized us. Well, after turning away from the woman and toward the other automobile, Cassie eventually lost her composure and turned around. I felt the impact as soon as my palm touched the steering wheel; she must have died instantly.”

“It tore her open.”

“Don’t reveal it to me, brother.” He groaned. “Nevertheless, Cassie stepped on it. She resisted my attempts to get her to stop, so I applied the emergency brake. She stumbled over into my lap, and I continued driving.”

He said, “She’ll be OK tomorrow. I’ll just wait around and see if he attempts to trouble her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She has barricaded herself in her room, and if he engages in any savagery, she will switch the light back on.”

I assured her, “He won’t touch her. He isn’t considering her.”

“I don’t trust him, brother.”

“How long will you be waiting?”

“All night if need be. Until they are all in bed, anyway.”

I had an entirely new perspective. Imagine Lance learning Cassie was the driver. He might believe anything, including that he saw a connection. When I turned to face the home, I could see two or three brilliant windows on the bottom level and the pink glow coming from Cassie’s room.

I said, “You wait here. I’ll look around for any indication of a commotion.”

I carefully stepped across the gravel as I made my way back along the edge of the lawn and up the veranda steps. I could see the drawing room was vacant because the drapes were open. I came across a little rectangle of light that I assumed to be the pantry window as I crossed the porch where we had dinner that May evening three months before. Despite the pulled blind, I discovered a rift at the sill.

A platter of cold fried chicken and two bottles of ale were placed between Cassie and Lance as they sat across from one another at the kitchen table. His hand had accidentally landed on top of hers when he was speaking earnestly to her across the table. She occasionally raised an eyebrow at him and nodded in accord.

They were neither happy nor unhappy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale. The image had a certain aura of natural familiarity, and anyone could have inferred that they were working together on a plot.

I heard my cab stumbling along the dark road approaching the home as I stepped off the porch. Where I had left Dobson in the drive, he was waiting there.

“Is it all calm up there?” he worriedly questioned.

“Yes, everything is silent.” I hesitated. “You ought to return home and get some rest,” I said.

He gave a headshake.

“Let me stay here till Cassie goes to sleep. Until tomorrow, brother.”

He excitedly turned back to his inspection of the house after placing his hands in his coat pockets, acting as though my presence had desecrated the vigil’s sanctity. So I turned around and left him there in the moonlight, keeping watch over nothing.

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Eight

The sound of a foghorn on the Bay kept me up all night, and I alternated between nightmares and hideous reality while half-sick. I leapt out of bed and started getting ready when I heard a cab approaching Dobson’s Drive at daybreak because I felt like I needed to warn him about something or tell him something, and daylight would be too late.

As I crossed his lawn, I noticed that his front door was still ajar and that he was slumped against a table in the hallway, perhaps exhausted or dejected.

Nothing occurred, he muttered. As I waited, she arrived at the window at four o’clock, stood there for a moment, and then turned out the light.

When we searched the great rooms that evening for cigarettes, his house had never felt so big to me. We pulled back pavilion-like curtains and searched over many feet of pitch-black wall for light switches; at one point, I sort of splashed into a ghostly piano’s keys. The rooms smelled musty, as if they hadn’t been air-conditioned for some days, and there was an absurd quantity of dust everywhere. The humidor was on an unknown table, and it contained two dry, stale cigarettes. We sat smoking outside the drawing room’s French windows when it was dark.

“I suggested that you leave. They’ll probably find your car, that much is for sure.”

“Leave right now, brother?”

“Travel up to Montreal or spend a week in Atlantic City.”

He wouldn’t think about it. Cassie had to wait till he knew what she was going to do before he could leave. I couldn’t bear to shake him loose as he desperately clung to any remaining hope.

He told me the unusual tale of his early days with Dan Cody on this particular evening because “Jay Dobson” had crumbled under Lance’s hard hatred and the lengthy covert spectacular had come to an end. He probably would have said anything right now, without hesitation, but he wanted to talk about Cassie.

He had never met a “decent” female until he met her. He had interacted with these folks in a variety of unspecified capacities, but there was always imperceptible barbed wire between them. She exuded an alluring desire in his eyes. He visited her home twice—first with other Camp Taylor officers and later by himself. He had never been in a house so lovely before, so it astounded him. But the fact that Cassie lived there—to her, it was as unimportant an item as his tent at camp was to him—gave it an appearance of feverish intensity. It had an air of ripe mystery about it; there was a suggestion of bedrooms upstairs that were more lovely and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities occurring through its corridors, of romances that weren’t musty and laid away in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motorcars, and of dances whose flowers hadn’t yet withered. Cassie’s popularity among males thrilled him as well; it raised her worth in his eyes. He could feel them all over the house, filling the air with the echoes and shades of their still-vibrant emotions.

But a major mishap had informed him that he was in Cassie’s home. However magnificent Jay Dobson’s future might be, he was currently an impoverished young man without a history, and the invisible uniform cloak could come off at any time. He thus utilized his time well. He was rapacious and unscrupulous in taking all he could, and eventually, on a calm October night, he snatched Cassie even though he had no legitimate right to hold her hand.

He had kidnapped her under false pretenses, so he might have hated himself. I don’t mean to imply that he traded with his phanLance millions, but rather that he gave Cassie a false feeling of security by making her think he was someone from a similar social class to herself and that he was well capable of taking care of her. In actuality, he lacked such advantages; he had no secure family to lean on, and he was open to being transported anywhere in the world at the whim of a faceless administration.

But things didn’t go as he had planned, and he didn’t hate himself. He had likely planned to pack up what he could and leave, but he discovered that he had committed to pursuing a holy object. Although he was aware of Cassie’s outstanding qualities, he was unaware of how extraordinary a “decent” girl could be. She disappeared into her lavish home and into her lavish, prosperous life, leaving Dobson with little. Simply put, he felt married to her.

When they reconnected two days later, Dobson was the one who was out of breath and felt somewhat betrayed. The wicker of the sofa squeaked stylishly as she turned to face him and he kissed her fascinating and wonderful mouth; her porch was bright with the purchased pleasure of starlight. Dobson was acutely aware of Cassie, glistening like silver, safe and proud above the scorching struggles of the poor, and the youth and mystery that riches imprisons and preserves. She had a cold, which made her voice huskier and more endearing than ever.

—————————-

“Brother, I can’t begin to tell you how shocked I was to discover that I loved her. She didn’t throw me over because she was in love with me too, despite my hopes for a while. She believed that I knew a lot because I had different knowledge than she had. Well, there I was, far from my goals and falling more and more in love, and suddenly I didn’t give a damn. What good was doing great things if I could tell her what I was going to do more amusingly?”

On the final afternoon before leaving the country, he spent a long time sitting quietly with Cassie in his arms. Her cheeks were warm from the fire in the room and the chilly fall day. He occasionally altered his arm slightly in response to her movements, and once he kissed her dark, glossy hair. They were at peace for a while throughout the day, as if to prepare them for the lengthy separation that was predicted the following day. When she gently caressed his coat shoulder with her lips in silence or when he gently stroked the tips of her fingers as though she were dozing off, they were closer than they had ever been during their entire month of love and their communication was at its deepest.

—————————-

He performed remarkably well during the conflict. Before going to the front, he was a captain. After the battles of the Argonne, he was given his majority and the leadership of the divisional machine guns. He desperately sought to return home after the ceasefire, but a problem or miscommunication led him to Stanford. He was now concerned since Cassie’s letters had a tone of tense dread. She failed to understand why he couldn’t attend. She needed to see him and feel his support because she could feel the strain of the outside world and needed confirmation that she was acting appropriately.

Because Cassie was young, her artificial environment was scented with orchids, cheery snobbery, and orchestras that established the pace of the year while expressing the sadness and suggestiveness of life in fresh melodies. A hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the sparkling dust as the saxophones blasted the depressing lyrics of “Beale Street Blues” throughout the entire night. Fresh faces floated here and there like rose petals on the floor during the grey tea hour, but there were always rooms that throbbed ceaselessly with this low, delicious fever.

Cassie suddenly started keeping half a dozen dates every day with half a dozen guys through this twilight realm, and she started drifting off to sleep in the early morning with the beads and chiffon of an evening gown tangled among withering orchids on the floor next to her bed. And all the while, she was pleading with herself to make a choice. She needed to make decisions about her life right now. This required some force that was nearby, such as love, money, or undeniable practicality.

With the entrance of Lance Buckley in the middle of spring, that force began to take shape. Cassie was touched by the healthy bulkiness of his person and his position. Undoubtedly, there was some difficulty followed by some relief. While still attending Stanford, Dobson received the letter.

—————————-

Dawn was breaking over Los Angeles, so we went about opening the remaining downstairs windows to let light into the home that was gradually going from grey to gold. Ghostly birds started to sing in the midst of the blue foliage as a tree’s shadow suddenly fell across the morning dew. Although there was hardly any breeze, there was a subtle, delightful movement in the air that hinted at a cool, lovely day.

“I doubt she ever had feelings for him.” Dobson glanced at me sternly as he turned around from a window. “Remember, brother, how delighted she was this afternoon. He spoke to her in a tone that alarmed her and gave the impression that I was some low-class sharper. She consequently hardly knew what she was saying as a result.”

He slumped into a chair.

“Of all, when they were first married, she might have loved him for a little moment—and loved me more even then, don’t you see?”

He suddenly blurted out a strange comment.

“Anyhow, it was just personal,” he said.

What more may you infer from that except suspecting an unquantifiable level of intensity in his image of the relationship?

When Lance and Cassie were still on their honeymoon, he returned from France and, using the rest of his army salary, made the miserable but seductive trek to Louisville. He remained there for a week, strolling the streets where their footsteps had echoed through the November night and going back to the remote locations where they had driven her white automobile. In the same way that Cassie’s house had always struck him as being more enigmatic and homosexual than other homes, so too was his perception of the city itself, even after she had left.

He left with the impression that he may have found her if he had looked harder and that he was leaving her behind. He was now poor, and the day coach was scorching. He exited the station and sat down in the open vestibule as the backs of strange buildings passed by and the station slid away. Then they went outside into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley with passengers who may have once glimpsed her face’s pale charm down a casual street rushed past them for a moment.

The track turned and was now moving away from the sun, which as it descended seemed to bestow blessings on the disappearing metropolis where she had taken a breath. In an effort to save a small portion of the beautiful location she had created just for him, he desperately extended his hand as if to grasp a wisp of air. However, it was all moving too quickly for his blurry eyes now, and he realized that he had lost that aspect of it—the best and freshest—forever.

When we completed breakfast and stepped outside onto the porch, it was nine in the morning. The temperature had drastically changed because of the night, and the air was starting to smell like fall. The last of Dobson’s old servants, the gardener, approached the bottom of the stairs.

“Today, Mr. Dobson, I’m going to drain the pool. Soon, the leaves will begin to fall, and then there will inevitably be a pipe problem.”

Dobson replied, “Don’t do that today. He apologized as he turned to face me. Brother, did you know I haven’t used the pool all summer?”

I got up after checking my watch.

“12 minutes until my train.”

I was reluctant to travel to the city. It was more than just the fact that I wasn’t worth a respectable stroke of work—I didn’t want to leave Dobson. Before I could go, I missed that train and then another one.

I finally said, “I’ll give you a call.”

“Do that, brother.”

“I’ll give you a call at noon.”

We took our time descending the stairs.

“I guess Cassie will also call,” He gave me a worried expression as though he was hoping I would confirm this.

“Perhaps so,”

“So, good bye.”

I shook your hands and walked away. I had a thought just before I got to the hedge and turned back.

I yelled across the lawn, “They’re a horrible bunch. You’re worth the damn lot all together.”

I’ve been happy I said that ever since. It was the only time I ever gave him a compliment because I had nothing good to say about him. He gave us a modest nod before breaking into that brilliant smile of comprehension, as if we had been in cahoots over that fact the entire time. When I saw his magnificent pink rag-suit standing out against the white steps, it brought back memories of the night I had visited his family house for the first time three months earlier. The faces of those who suspected his corruption had filled the lawn and drive, and as he waved them off from those stairs, he had hidden his uncorruptible hope.

He received my gratitude for his kindness. I and the others were constantly thanking him for that.

I cried out, “Goodbye. I enjoyed breakfast, Dobson.”

—————————

Back in LA, I spent some time trying to list the quotes for an endless number of stocks before dozing off in my swivel chair. I was awakened by the phone just before noon, and I immediately began to perspire on my forehead. It was Sibley Brooks; she frequently contacted me at this hour because it was difficult to locate her elsewhere due to her erratic moves between hotels, clubs, and private homes. Normally, her voice would have come through the line as something nice and fresh, like a golf ball divot that has sailed in through the office window, but this morning, it sounded harsh and arid.

“I’m gone from Cassie’s house,” she declared. “I am currently in Hempstead and will be traveling to Southampton this afternoon.”

The act of leaving Cassie’s house may have been diplomatic, but it irritated me, and her subsequent comment made me stiff.

“You didn’t treat me that well last night,”

“Why would it have mattered at that point?”

Silence for a bit. Then: “However—I want to see you.”

“I’d like to see you as well.”

“What if I stay in town this afternoon instead of traveling to Southampton?”

“I don’t believe this afternoon, so no.”

“OK.”

“This afternoon is not possible. Various…”

We spoke in this manner for a while before suddenly ceasing to converse. I’m not sure which of us abruptly disconnected, but I can assure you that I didn’t give a damn. If I had never spoken to her again in this world, I would not have been able to talk to her across a tea table that day.

A few minutes later, I tried to phone Dobson’s home, but the line was busy. After four unsuccessful attempts, a frustrated central eventually informed me that the wire was being kept open for a long distance from Detroit. I marked a little circle around the three-fifty train on my timetable with a pencil. I then sat back in my chair and made an effort to concentrate. Just after noon.

—————————-

I purposefully moved to the other side of the railway car when I passed the ash-heaps that morning. A curious audience would likely assemble there during the day, including young boys looking for dark specks in the dust, and some rambling man would natter on and on about what had happened until he ran out of things to say and Hazel Snyder’s sad accomplishment was forgotten. I want to briefly rewind now and describe what happened at the garage the night after we departed.

They had trouble finding Audrey, Audrey’s sister. She must have broken her no-drinking rule that evening because she was drunk when she arrived and didn’t realize the ambulance had already left for Flushing. She promptly fainted once they persuaded her of this, as if that were the revolting aspect of the relationship. She was driven in the aftermath of her sister’s body by a friendly or curious person in his car.

Rusty Snyder rocked back and forth on the couch inside the garage until well after midnight as a shifting crowd gathered against the front of the building. Everyone who entered the garage for a while forcedly cast glances through the office door, which was left open. Finally, someone closed the door after expressing regret. He was accompanied by Michaelis and a number of other individuals, initially four or five and then later two or three. Later, Michaelis had to request that the final stranger remain there for an additional fifteen minutes while he returned to his own home and made a pot of coffee. He then remained there by himself with Snyder till daybreak.

Around three o’clock, Snyder’s rambling speech tone shifted; he became quieter and started talking about the yellow automobile. When he said he could find out who owned the yellow automobile, he suddenly blurted out that his wife had recently returned from the city with a battered face and sore nose.

However, as soon as he realized what he had just spoken, he recoiled and cried out in a moaning voice, “Oh, my God!” once more. Michaelis made an awkward effort to divert his attention.

“Rusty, how long have you been married? Come on, try to remain motionless for a moment, and respond to my inquiry. How many years have you been wed?

12-year period.

“Have you ever had any kids? I asked you a question, Rusty, so please remain motionless. Have you ever been a parent?

When Michaelis heard a car speeding along the road outside, it sounded to him like the automobile that hadn’t stopped a few hours earlier. The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dim light. He didn’t like to go into the garage since the workbench was discolored from where the body had been laying. Instead, he awkwardly wandered around the office—he was familiar with every piece of furniture by morning—and occasionally sat down next to Snyder in an effort to keep him quiet.

Do you occasionally attend church, Rusty? Perhaps even if it has been a while since you visited? Perhaps I might make a call to the church to arrange for a priest to visit and speak with you, you see?

Do not belong to any group.

“Rusty, you should have a church for situations like these. I’m sure you’ve visited a church before. You weren’t wed in a church, were you? Rusty, pay attention to me. You weren’t wed in a church, right?

It was a very long time ago.

He briefly went silent as the strain of responding caused the rhythm of his rocking to break. Then, the same dimly knowing, dimly perplexed expression returned to his eyes.

He pointed to the desk and said, “Look in the drawer there.”

What drawer?

The drawer in question.

Michaelis pulled open the drawer that was close to him. It contained only a small, pricey dog leash that was braided with silver and made of leather. It seemed to be brand-new.

He held it out, asking, “This?”

Snyder blinked while gazing.

It was discovered yesterday afternoon. She attempted to tell me about it, but I already knew it was humorous.

You mean your spouse purchased it?

On her bureau, she had it wrapped in tissue paper.

Michaelis didn’t find that weird, and he gave Snyder a variety of explanations as to why his wife would have purchased the dog leash. However, it’s possible that Snyder had already heard some of these identical justifications from Hazel because he started muttering “Oh, my God!” again after his comforter left a few of them in the air.

Then, Snyder said, “he killed her.” His mouth instantly opened.

Who was it?

“I have a method of learning.”

Rusty’s pal remarked, “You’re morbid, Rusty.” “You’ve been under stress because of this, and your words are incoherent. You should try to sit quietly until morning.

“He killed her,”

“Rusty, it was an accident.”

Snyder gave a head shake. With the specter of a superior, his mouth and eyes somewhat enlarged. “Hm!”

“I know,” he assuredly responded. I’m one of those obliging guys that doesn’t mean any harm to anyone, but once I learn something, I know it. That man driving that car was it. He refused to stop when she ran outside to speak to him.

Michaelis had also seen this, but he had not considered its potential relevance. Instead of seeking to halt a specific car, he thought Mrs. Snyder had been fleeing her husband.

“How could she be that way?”

Snyder responded, “She’s a deep one,” as if this were the answer. “Ah-h-h—”

Michaelis was standing there twirling the leash in his hand as he started to rock once again.

Rusty, perhaps you have a friend I might call on your behalf.

This was a desperate hope because he was nearly certain Snyder had no friends because there wasn’t enough of him to support his wife. He was relieved to discover that morning wasn’t far away when he saw a difference in the room and a blue quickening near the window a short while later. It was enough blue outdoors around five o’clock to turn out the light.

Snyder turned to look at the ash-heaps, where little grey clouds assumed amazing patterns and moved around in the light dawn wind.

After a long pause, he mumbled, “I spoke to her.” “I told her she might be able to trick me, but not God. I pulled her to the window and said, “God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing,” as he struggled to stand up and make his way to the rear window while leaning against it. You might be able to trick me, but not God.

Michaelis, who was standing behind him, was startled to realize that he was staring into Doctor I.B. Frysinger’s eyes, which had just emerged, pale and large, from the vanishing night.

God sees everything, Snyder said again.

Michaelis informed him, “That’s a commercial. He looked back into the room after turning away from the window due to something. However, Snyder lingered there for a while, leaning against the glass and nodding into the dusk.

—————————

Michaelis was exhausted at six o’clock and was happy to hear a car stop outside. He prepared breakfast for three people, which he and the other man shared. One of the watchers from the previous night had promised to return. Now that Snyder was more subdued, Michaelis returned home to sleep. Four hours later, when he awakened, he ran back to the garage, but Snyder was vanished.

After that, his movements—he was always on foot—were tracked to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he purchased a sandwich and a cup of coffee but didn’t consume either. Gad’s Hill wasn’t reached until after midday, so he must have been struggling and moving slowly. There were boys who had observed a man “acting type of crazy,” and drivers at whom he peered strangely from the side of the road, thus far there had been no trouble in accounting for his time. Then he vanished from view for three hours. On the basis of what he told Michaelis, that he “had a method of finding out,” the police assumed that he had spent that time driving about to other garages looking for a yellow automobile. However, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, so perhaps he had a simpler, more reliable way of learning the information he sought. He arrived in Hermosa Beach at half past two and asked a local how to get to Dobson’s house. By that point, he was aware of Dobson’s name.

—————————-

Dobson put on his bathing suit at 2:00 p.m. and instructed the assistant to inform him at the pool if anyone called. The chauffeur assisted him in pumping up a pneumatic mattress that had pleased his guests during the summer when he stopped at the garage. Then, strangely, he instructed that the open car was not to be driven under any circumstances, despite the right front fender needing repair.

Dobson began walking toward the pool while carrying the mattress. When the chauffeur asked him if he needed assistance, he stopped briefly to move it and then quickly vanished behind the dying trees after shaking his head.

The assistant sacrificed his sleep in order to wait for the phone message until four o’clock, long after there was someone available to receive it if it did arrive. I suspect that Dobson himself didn’t think it would happen and may not have bothered any longer. If that were the case, he must have felt as though he had lost the old, cozy world and had to pay a heavy price for having only one goal for so long. He must have shivered as he discovered what a hideous creature a rose is and how raw the sunshine was upon the scarcely developed grass, looking up at an unfamiliar sky through terrible foliage. The ashen, weird figure that was gliding toward him through the ephemeral woods was part of this new universe, material without being real, where wretched ghosts, breathing dreams like air, floated fortuitously around.

The chauffeur, who was a Wiezman protege, heard the gunfire but could only admit afterwards that he hadn’t given them any thought. I arrived at Dobson’s house immediately from the train station, and the first thing that anyone noticed as I hurried up the front steps was their alarm. But I’m sure they knew back then. The chauffeur, assistant, gardener, and I went down to the pool without saying a word.

The new flow from one end pushed its way toward the drain at the other, and there was a very slight, barely audible movement of the water. The loaded mattress slid erratically down the pool with tiny ripples that hardly resembled waves. It only took a slight gust of wind to alter its inadvertent trajectory with its accidental burden—barely enough to cause the surface to ripple. It slowly swung around when a group of leaves touched it, tracing a tiny red circle in the water like a transit leg.

The holocaust was complete when the gardener discovered Snyder’s body a short distance away in the grass after we had already set off with Dobson toward the home.

“Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Fitzsinger.”

The Daring Dobson – Chapter Nine

After two years, all I can recall of the remainder of that day, night, and the following day is a never-ending drill of police officers, reporters, and photographers entering and exiting through Dobson’s front door. Little boys soon learned that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a handful of them gathered around the pool, mouths agape, as a policeman stood guard by the main gate to keep the curious out. As he knelt over Snyder’s body that afternoon, a person with a good demeanor—possibly a detective—used the term “madman,” and the accidental authority of his voice provided the foundation for the newspaper articles that morning.

The majority of those reports were horrifying—grotesque, based on little evidence, hasty, and inaccurate. I assumed the entire story would be served up in a racy pasquinade when Michaelis’ testimony at the inquest revealed Snyder’s suspicions about his wife, but Audrey, who might have said anything, remained silent. She shown an unexpected amount of character in this situation as well. She swore before the coroner that her sister had never seen Dobson, that her sister was entirely content with her husband, and that her sister had engaged in no wrongdoing at all. She believed it to be true and sobbed into her handkerchief as though the whole idea was too much for her to bear. In order to keep the case as straightforward as possible, Snyder was therefore diminished to a man who was “deranged by bereavement.” It then paused there.

However, this entire portion of it looked unimportant and far away. I was by myself and on Dobson’s side. Every theory about him and every practical query was directed at me from the minute I phoned Hermosa Beach village to inform them of the calamity. At first, I was shocked and perplexed, but as the hours passed and he lay in his home without breathing, moving, or speaking, it gradually dawned on me that I was the one who was to blame because no one else was interested—I mean, interested with that intense personal interest that everyone has at the very end.

Half an hour after we found him, I automatically and without hesitation contacted Cassie. However, Sarah and Lance left early that afternoon with their luggage.

“No address was left?”

“No.”

“Did they say when would they return, please?”

“No.”

‘Any ideas as to their location? How could I get to them?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure.”

I wanted to find someone for him. I wanted to enter the room where he was lying and tell Dobson, “I’ll get someone for you. Not to worry. Just have faith in me, and I’ll find someone for you.”

There was no listing for Efraim Wiezman in the phone directory. I contacted Information at the office number the assistant gave me on Broadway, but by the time I received the number, it was far after five and no one had picked up.

“Will you call again?”

“I have called three times.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, but nobody is there.”

When I returned to the drawing room, I briefly believed that all of these officials who had just suddenly filled it were chance visitors. However, even as they pulled aside the sheet and stared at Dobson in amazement, I could still hear him yelling, “Look here, brother, you’ve got to find somebody for me. You must work hard. I can’t handle this by myself.”

I was about to be questioned, but I broke away and hurriedly searched through his desk’s unsecured drawers because he had never explicitly told me that his parents were deceased. However, there was nothing but the image of Dan Cody, which stood as a reminder of long-forgotten brutality.

The following morning, I dispatched the assistant to Los Angeles with a note to Wiezman asking for details and pleading with him to board the next train. When I made that request, it felt unnecessary. I was confident that he would begin when he saw the newspapers, just as I was confident that a wire from Cassie would arrive before noon. However, neither the wire nor Mr. Wiezman showed up; instead, only additional police officers, photographers, and newspaper men did. When the assistant returned with Wiezman’s response, I started to feel defiant and proud to stand with Dobson against them all.

“Greetings, Mr. Whitehead. I hardly believe it is true at all, and this has been one of the worst shocks of my life. That man’s act was so insane that it ought to have us all reflecting. I’m involved in some really important business right now, and I’m unable to get involved in this right now, therefore I’m unable to come down. Later, in a letter from Edgar, let me know if there is anything I can do. When I learn of anything like this, I am so completely knocked out that I hardly know where I am.

Authentically, Efraim Wiezman”

then hurried addenda below:

“Inform me of the funeral etc. have no idea who his family is.”

That afternoon, when the phone rang and long distance announced a call from Chicago, I assumed it was Cassie at last. However, the connection was made by a man speaking in a weak, distant voice.

“This is Slagle.”

“Yes?” The name was unrecognizable.

“What a note, don’t you think? Did you get the wire?”

“No wires have been received.”

He murmured in a hurry, “Young Parke’s in difficulty.” “When he gave the bonds over the counter, they pulled him up. Five minutes prior, they received a circular from Los Angeles with the numbers. Hey, what do you know about that? You never know in these hick towns…”

“Hello!” I had to stop suddenly. “This isn’t Mr. Dobson, see here. Mr. Dobson is gone.”

On the other end of the connection, there was a long moment of silence before an exclamation…then there was a brief screech when the connection was lost.

——————————

A telegram from a Minnesotan town bearing the signature of Harry K. Dobs, I believe, arrived on the third day. It just stated that the sender was going right away and that the burial should be postponed until he arrived.

It was Dobson’s father, an elderly guy dressed in a long, inexpensive ulster to protect himself from the warm September day. He was sad, powerless, and horrified. When I pulled the bag and umbrella from his hands, he started to pull at his sparse grey beard so relentlessly that I struggled to take off his coat. His eyes repeatedly streamed with excitement. He was about to pass out, so I carried him into the music room and forced him to sit down while I went to get him something to eat. However, he refused to eat, and his shaking fingers shattered the glass of milk.

He answered, “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper. The Chicago newspaper has it all. I immediately started out to head this way.”

“I had no idea how to contact you.”

His eyes swept the room incessantly, but he saw nothing.

He declared, “It was a maniac! He had to be insane.”

“Would you want a cup of coffee?” I asked him.

“I don’t want anything. Right now, I’m okay, Mr….”

“Whitehead.”

“I’m fine right now, I guess. Where is Donny right now?”

I took him into the drawing room and left him there while his son was sleeping. When I notified some young boys who had arrived, they unwillingly left the steps where they had climbed up and were peering into the hallway.

After a short while, Mr. Dobs opened the door and emerged, his mouth slightly open, his cheeks somewhat flushed, and his eyes dripping random, untimely tears. When he glanced around him for the first time and saw the height and splendor of the hall and the great halls spreading out from it into other rooms, his sadness started to be combined with an amazed pride. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of a dreadful surprise. While he removed his coat and vest, I guided him upstairs to a bedroom and informed him that all plans had been put on hold until he arrived.

“Mr. Dobson, I didn’t know what you would want…”

“My name is Dobs,” declared Mr. Dobs. I figured you would want to take the body back home.”

He gave a headshake.

“Jimmy always thought things were better out West. He advanced to his current position in the West. Mr.—, were you my boy’s friend?”

“We had a close friendship.”

“He knew he had a bright future ahead of him. Although he was still a young man, he was quite intelligent.”

I nodded as he impressively stroked his head.

“He would have been a magnificent man if he had lived. like James J. Hill, a man. He would have contributed to the nation’s growth.”

Uncomfortably, I said, “That’s true.”

He struggled to remove the embroidered coverlet from the bed, laid stiffly down, and fell asleep right away.

That evening, a caller who sounded obviously terrified requested to know my identity before disclosing his name.

I introduced myself as “Mr. Whitehead.”

“Oh!” He made a happy sound. “Fitzsinger here.”

That appeared to promise another buddy at Dobson’s cemetery, so I was relieved as well. I had been personally contacting a few folks since I didn’t want it to be reported in the media and attract a tourist crowd. They were elusive to locate.

“Tomorrow is the funeral,” I said. “Here in the house, it’s three o’clock. Please inform anyone who might be interested.”

He quickly said, “Oh, I will. Of course, I doubt I’ll run into anyone, but if I do.”

I was dubious because of his tone.

“Naturally, you’ll be present personally.”

“Well, I’ll try, for sure. I called to talk about—

I cut in, “Wait a second. “How about promising to show up?”

“Well, the truth is, I’m staying with some friends up here in Greenwich, and they fairly want me to be with them tomorrow,” he continued. “In actuality, there is some sort of picnic. Of course, I’ll make every effort to escape.”

He must have heard me because he continued hurriedly, “What I phoned up about was a pair of shoes I left there.” I ejaculated an uninhibited “Huh!”

“I wonder if having the assistant send them on would be too much hassle. They’re tennis shoes, you see, and without them I’m kind of powerless. Please forward my address to B. F…”

I hung up the phone before hearing the remainder of the name.

After that, I felt a certain amount of shame for Dobson because, according to one man I spoke with on the phone, he had received what he deserved. But that was my fault because he was one of the people who used to mock Dobson’s liquor most viciously, so I should have known better than to call him.

I traveled to Los Angeles the morning of the burial since I was unable to contact Efraim Wiezman in any other manner. On the advice of an elevator boy, I opened a door marked “The Swasi Holding Company,” and at first it appeared that no one was there. But when I repeatedly called “hello” in vain, a fight broke out behind a wall, and soon a beautiful woman appeared at an inside door and glared at me with her unfriendly black eyes.

She declared, “No one is in. Mr. Wiezman has departed for Chicago.”

The tuneless humming of “The Rosary” had already started inside, thus the first part of this statement was patently wrong.

“Tell him that Mr. Whitehead is calling to schedule a meeting.”

“How am I going to get him back from Chicago?”

From the other side of the door, a voice calling “Stella!” could only have come from Wiezman at this precise moment.

“Put your name on the desk,” she hurriedly instructed. “When he comes back, I’ll give it to him.”

“But I’m certain he’s here.”

She moved closer to me and started angrily slapping her hips with her hands.

She reprimanded, “You young lads think you can push your way in here whenever. It’s making us sick and tired. He is in Chicago when I say he is there.”

I brought up Dobson.

“Oh-h!” She gave me another close look. “Will you please tell me your name?”

She disappeared. Efraim Wiezman stood solemnly in the doorway in a split second while holding out both hands. He drew me into his office and offered me a cigar while saying in a solemn tone that it was a difficult moment for all of us.

He remarked, “My memory goes back to when I first saw him. A young major who recently left the army and was decorated in medals acquired during the war. Due to his financial situation, he was forced to continue wearing his uniform because he was unable to purchase some regular clothing. I first encountered him when he entered Winebrenner’s poolroom on Forty-third Street and inquired about employment. He had gone several days without eating. I said, ‘Come on, eat some lunch with me.’ In less than 30 minutes, he consumed food costing more than $4.”

“Did you help him establish a business?” I questioned.

“Launch him! I created him!”

“Oh.”

“I pulled him out of the gutter, out of nothing. He had a fine appearance and exuded gentlemanliness, and when he told me he was at Oggsford, I knew I could use him. He used to stand tall there until I persuaded him to join the American Pride Club. He started out by doing some work for one of my clients up in Albany. He held up two bulbous fingers, saying, “We were so thick like that in everything. Always together.”

I questioned whether the 1919 World’s Series deal was part of this cooperation.

I waited a while, then I added, “Now he’s dead. I know you’ll want to attend his funeral this afternoon; you were his closest buddy.”

“I would like to go.”

“Come on then.”

His head shook, the hair in his nose fluttered, and tears welled up in his eyes.

He said, “I can’t do that—I can’t get involved in it.”

“There is nothing to become confused over. Everything is now over.”

“I never like to get involved in any manner when a man is killed. I stay away. When I was a young guy, things were different; if a buddy of mine passed away, I stood by them through thick and thin. You might think that’s overly sentimental, but I really do mean it.”

I got up when I realized he was resolved to stay away for some cause of his own.

He asked abruptly, “Are you a college man?”

I momentarily believed that he would offer a “gonnegtion,” but all he did was shake my hand and nod.

“Let’s learn to express our friendship for a man while he’s still alive rather than after he passes away,” he said. “My own guideline is to leave everything alone after that.”

The sky had already grown black when I left his office, and I returned to Hermosa Beach in a drizzle. I went next door after changing my clothes and saw Mr. Dobs jumping up and down in the hallway. He had something to show me now, and his pride in his son and his son’s stuff was growing.

“Donny forwarded me this photo. He shook his hands as he fumbled for his wallet. “Look that way.”

It was a picture of the house, which was scratched in the corners and filthy from numerous hands. He eagerly described each aspect to me. “Look there!” he exclaimed before requesting my appreciation. He had shown the photo it so frequently that I believe it had become more real to him than the actual house.

“I got it from Donny. It’s a lovely photo, in my opinion. Very clear.”

“Very good. Have you recently seen him?”

“He visited me two years ago and purchased me the home I currently reside in. We naturally split up when he left the house, but looking back, I can see why. He was aware of the bright future he had in store. And ever since he became successful, he has been really kind to me.”

He held the photo in front of my eyes for an additional minute, hesitant to put it away. He then gave the wallet back and produced an outdated copy of the novel Hopalong Cassidy from his pocket.

“Look at this; he had this book when he was a youngster. Just goes to show you.”

He turned it around for me to see after opening it at the back cover. The word schedule as well as the date September 12, 1906 were put on the last flyleaf. Additionally, below

– Rise from bed – 6:00 am

– Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling – 6:15-6:30 am

– Study electricity, etc. – 7:15-8:15 am

– Work – 8:30 am-4:30 pm

– Baseball and sports – 4:30-5:00 pm

– Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it – 5:00-6:00 pm

– Inventions that require study – 7:00-9:00 pm

General Resolves

– No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable]

– No more smokeing or chewing

– Bath every other day

– Read one improving book or magazine per week

– Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week

– Be better to parents

“I stumbled over this book,” the elderly man replied. It just shows you, doesn’t it?”

“It shows you.”

“Jimmy was destined to succeed. He always had some sort of resolve like this. Do you take note of his efforts to develop his mind? He was always excellent at it. He once accused me of acting like a hog, and I beat him for it.”

He was hesitant to put the book down as he read each passage aloud before eagerly turning to face me. He might have preferred it if I had copied the list for my own use.

Just before three, the Lutheran preacher from Flushing arrived, and I unconsciously started scanning the road for additional vehicles. Likewise did Dobson’s dad. His eyes started to flutter nervously as the minutes passed and the servants entered the house and waited in the hallway, and he spoke of the rain in a frightened, doubtful manner. I requested the minister to wait for 30 minutes after noticing him repeatedly checking his watch. But it was useless. Noone arrived.

—————————-

Around five o’clock, our procession of three vehicles arrived at the cemetery and came to a stop next to the gate in a heavy downpour. First, a motor hearse, which was horribly dark and wet, was followed by Mr. Dobs, the minister, and me in the limousine, and a short while later, four or five servants and the Hermosa Beach postman arrived in Dobson’s station wagon, all of whom were drenched to the skin. I heard a car stop as we approached the gate leading into the cemetery, followed by the sound of someone splashing on the muddy ground in our wake. I peered about. It was the person wearing owl-eyed spectacles who I had once discovered ogling Dobson’s books in the library three months earlier.

Since then, I’d never seen him again. I have no idea how he discovered the funeral or even his name. He removed his heavy glasses to observe the covering canvas being unrolled from Dobson’s grave after they had been drenched by the rain.

I made an effort to think about Dobson at that time, but he was already out of reach, so all I could think about was the fact that Cassie hadn’t sent him a note or a flower. I faintly overheard someone say, “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls upon,” and then the owl-eyed man bravely responded, “Amen to that.”

We hurriedly descended to the cars in the rain. By the gate, Owl-eyes spoke to me.

He said, “I couldn’t go to the house.”

“Nobody else could either,”

“Go on,” he commanded. “Why, my God, hundreds of people used to visit the place.”

He removed his glasses and gave them another exterior and inside clean.

He said, “The miserable son-of-a-bitch.”

—————————-

One of my most enduring recollections is of returning to the West around Christmas time after attending prep school and then college. A few Chicago friends who were already immersed in their own holiday festivities would join those who traveled outside of Chicago at six o’clock on a December evening to give them a hurried farewell. When the girls returned from Miss This-or- That’s, I can still picture their fur coats, chattering frigid breath, hands waving in the air as we spotted familiar faces, and invites that matched: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” as our gloved hands tightly clasped the lengthy green tickets. Finally, on the tracks next to the gate are the dimly lit yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul train, which are as cheery as Christmas itself.

A sharp wild brace suddenly sprang in the air as we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, started to spread out beside us and shine against the windows while the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by. We took deep breaths of it as we made our way through the chilly anterooms on the way home from dinner, being utterly aware of our identity with this nation for one bizarre hour before we dissolved back into it.

That is my Middle West—not the wheat or the plains or the vanished Swedish towns—but the exciting returning trains of my youth, as well as the streetlamps and sleigh bells in the icy night and the shadows of holly wreaths cast by lit windows on the snow. I’m a part of that, a little somber from the experience of those long winters and a little smug from growing up in the Whitehead home in a city where houses are still referred to by a family name decades later. I can now clearly see that this has been a Western story after all. Cassie, Dobson, and I are all from the West, and it’s possible that we share a weakness that prevents us from fully integrating into Western culture.

Even then, the West had always had a distorting aspect for me. Even then, I was most conscious of how superior the West was to the bored, vast, bloated towns beyond the Ohio, with their endless inquisitions that spared only the very young and the very elderly. Particularly, Hermosa Beach continues to appear in my more fantastical dreams. I picture it as a nighttime landscape by El Greco, with a hundred conventional yet hideous dwellings huddled beneath a dismal, ominous sky and a dull moon. Four somber men in dress suits are seen in the front strolling along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which an inebriated woman wearing a white evening gown is lying. Her free hand hangs over the edge and is coldly encrusted in jewelry. Sadly, the men check in to the incorrect home. However, no one is aware of or concerned about the woman’s name.

The West was haunted for me after Dobson’s passing, warped beyond the capacity of my sight to fix. I made the decision to return home when the blue smoke of brittle leaves filled the air and the wind drove the wet laundry stiff from the line.

Before I went, there was one awkward, unpleasant task that perhaps would have been better left undone. But I didn’t want to just let that accommodating and unconcerned sea sweep my trash away; I wanted to leave things in order. Sibley Brooks was lying still in a large chair listening while I explained what had happened to us both and what had happened to me subsequently.

She was dressed for golf, and I recall thinking that she made an excellent example. Her face had the same brown hue as the fingerless glove on her knee, her hair was the color of an autumn leaf, and she had a somewhat jaunty chin. She informed me of her engagement to another man once I was done without making any further comment. Despite the fact that she could have married any of them with a nod of her head, I had my doubts, but I feigned to be astonished. I momentarily questioned whether I was doing it right before instantly second-guessing myself and getting up to leave.

“But you did knock me over,” Sibley replied abruptly. “You insulted me on the phone. Although I don’t care about you anymore, it was a novel experience for me, and I briefly felt lightheaded.”

We shook hands.

“Oh, and do you recall a chat we had about driving a car once,” she said.

“Why, not really.”

“You claimed that a terrible driver was only protected until she encountered another bad driver. I guess I did run into another reckless driver. I mean, it was careless of me to guess so incorrectly. I considered you to be a rather plain and honest person. I mistook it for your hidden pride.”

I stated, “I’m thirty. I’m five years too old to tell myself lies and call it honor.”

She remained silent. I looked away, feeling hurt and partially in love with her.

——————————

I saw Lance Buckley one day in late October. He was going ahead of me along Wilshire Boulevard on Beverly Hills in his characteristically aggressive and alert manner, with his hands slightly extended from his body to ward off impediment and his head jerkily shifting from side to side to accommodate his agitated eyes. Just as I slowed down to avoid passing him, he stopped and started frowning into some jewelry store windows. He turned around as soon as he seen me and extended his hand.

“Marc, what’s the matter? Do you have something against us shaking hands?”

“Yes. You are aware of my opinion of you.”

“Marc, you’re crazy,” he snapped. “Absolutely insane. I’m not sure what’s wrong with you.”

“What did you say to Snyder that afternoon, Lance?” I asked.

He gave me a blank look, and I realized I had been accurate about my assumption on those lost hours. He followed me and grabbed my arm as I began to turn away.

He said, “I told him the truth. When I sent word down that we were not in, he tried to push his way upstairs. He had arrived at the door as we were getting ready to depart. If I hadn’t told him who owned the automobile, he was insane enough to kill me. Every minute he was inside the house, his hand was on a handgun in his pocket.” He pulled away. “But what if I told him? That person deserved what he got. He was a tough one, but he fakes you out the same way he did Cassie. He ran over Hazel like you’d run over a puppy and never even stopped his automobile.”

There was nothing I could say, other than the one unutterable reality that it wasn’t true.

“And if you think I didn’t go through enough pain, consider this: when I went to leave that apartment and saw that awful box of dog treats on the sideboard, I sobbed uncontrollably. By God, it was dreadful.”

Despite the fact that I couldn’t forgive him, I could see that what he had done was totally justifiable in his eyes. Everything was incredibly casual and perplexing. Lance and Cassie were reckless individuals who destroyed objects and people before escaping into their wealth, extreme carelessness, or whatever it was that held them together, and let others to clean up the disaster they had created.

I shook hands with him because I felt like I was speaking to a child at the moment and it seemed foolish not to. He then left to go buy a pearl necklace—or maybe just a couple of cuff buttons—to put an end to my rural prudishness for good.

——————————

When I left, Dobson’s home was still unoccupied and his lawn’s grass had gotten just as long as mine. It’s possible that he was the one who took Cassie and Dobson to Manhattan Beach the night of the accident and that he cooked up a tale about it all on his own. One of the cab drivers in the town never took a fare past the entrance gate without pausing for a moment and pointing inside. When I got off the train, I avoided him because I didn’t want to hear it.

I spent my Saturday nights in Los Angeles because I could still clearly remember the music and faint but constant laughter from his garden parties, as well as the sound of the cars driving up and down his driveway. A material car did pass by there one night, and I saw its lights halt at his front steps. I didn’t look into it, though. Most likely, it was the last visitor who hadn’t heard that the party was over since they had been traveling to the extremities of the planet.

On the final night, after packing my trunk and selling my car to the grocery store, I went over and took one more look at that enormous failure of a house. In the moonlight, a word that had been scratched on the white steps by a youngster with a piece of brick stood out plainly. I rubbed my shoe raspingly along the stone to remove it. I then made my way to the shore and collapsed on the sand.

Except for the dark, shifting illumination of a ferryboat traversing the Bay, the majority of the large coastal locations were now closed. Then, as the moon rose higher, the unnecessary dwellings started to vanish, and eventually I realized that here was an old island that had once bloomed for the gaze of Dutch sailors—a fresh, green breast of the new world. For a fleeting enchanted moment, man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither desired nor understood, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Dobson’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams.

I also recalled Dobson’s awe when he first noticed the green light at the end of Cassie’s pier while I sat there reflecting on the ancient, uncharted world. His dream must have appeared so close to him because he had traveled far to arrive at this blue meadow. He was unaware that it had already passed him by, back in the huge void beyond the city, where the gloomy republican fields continued to roll into the night.

Dobson trusted in the bright future, which is vanishing before our eyes year by year. We missed it back then, but that doesn’t matter; tomorrow we’ll run faster and reach farther. And one fine morning…

So we continue to push on, boats against the flow, carried endlessly into the past.