Page 111 of The Happy Month
“Oh God… I think they were in Glendale somewhere.”
“Glendale’s not far from where Vera’s body was found.”
“No. It’s not.”
“In your book, you say that Georgia Dawson told you about the trip to Malibu that Vera was planning. She told me she didn’t know anything about that. She said you made it up.”
“I didn’t make it up. That’s what she told me.”
“You made it sound like Vera was going with show business types.”
“They were planning to stay at some movie star’s beach house. I don’t remember which, I’d have to check my notes.”
“Vera and Georgia worked together at Security First National Bank. Is that how you found her?”
“No. I found her through Virginia Marker. They all used to go to a bar called The Blue Fox.”
“Is that a lesbian bar?”
“At this point it’s a little murky what it was. It was a place on the Sunset Strip—well, before people called it the strip. Before West Hollywood was a thing. It was a dance place. Fags and dykes. Everything went, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I wanted to reach through the phone and ring his sleazy little neck, but I needed him to keep answering questions. “So, let’s be clear… Vera, Georgia Dawson, Betty Brooks, Rocky Havoc and Virginia Marker, they all went to The Blue Fox. But you didn’t think this had anything to do with lesbians?”
“I never said that. I said my publisher didn’t want a book about a dead dyke. And frankly, neither did I. I wanted to sell books. That’s what writers do. And no… Rocky Havoc didn’t go there. It wasn’t a place for bull dykes. It was for the normal looking ones. See, you weren’t supposed to have queer dancing. So when the sheriff tried to raid the place, they switched partners. The ones like Rocky made it all little too obvious.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I don’t know what it’s got to do with anything.”
“Vera and Georgia went to the same bar,andthey worked together. How did that happen?”
“Georgia got her the job at the bank.”
Which was something I’d started to wonder about.
“I called my publisher about the new edition. They’re very excited. I’m going to want to do a detailed interview. When do think we can schedule that?”
I hung up on him. I mean, it was the least I could do. Besides, it was time for another pill, and I needed to spend a couple hours of making a concerted effort not to drool.
Two things happened on that Friday: The body shop called and told me my Jeep was all repaired and ready to be picked up; and Larry Wilkes got out of prison. The body shop called in the morning. I didn’t have to pay anything; Sammy’s insurance company would pay. Actually, they’d pay and then they’d go after Sammy for the money. No one covered deliberately running someone over. I got Junior to drive John there to pick it up for me.
When it arrived that afternoon, I walked out to the curb and looked it over. It looked like nothing had happened to it. I wished I could say the same about my body. I went back inside and took another pill.
On the six o’clock news there was a story about Larry Wilkes being released from prison. Edwin was right next to him at the microphone. Next to Larry was a young guy, good-looking. I guessed that might be Brysen, his prisonboyfriend, who would be around until they determined if there would be a settlement and how much it would be.
He would probably get something, but I doubted it was going to be a lot. The police didn’t do a great job, but Larry himself had encouraged a witness to perjure herself. The state was likely to say things would have turned out differently if he’d been honest about his relationship with Pete even though we all knew that wasn’t exactly true. They wouldn’t want to pay a lot of money, so they’d say whatever they could get away with.
Sunday, I waited until Ronnie kissed me good-bye and went off to show houses. Then I carefully got dressed and walked out to my Jeep. I climbed in and managed to get my safety belt on all by myself. Progress. I pressed the clutch down and started it. I looked at the stick shift and realized I was going to need to remove my sling.
I turned the Jeep off, undid my safety belt and started over. First taking the sling off and then repeating the steps. I put it into first gear and that only caused a tiny bit of pain, so I pulled out into the street. I told myself if I made it to 7th Street I’d go all the way. It was touch-and-go, but I knew it was mostly freeway driving on a Sunday, which wouldn’t require me to shift gears often.
It still took an hour, by the end of which I was sweating even though I’d had the air conditioning on full blast. Getting out of the Jeep in front of the gray stucco house, I hoped I’d stop sweating soon. It was only in the mid-seventies.
In the Marker’s driveway there was a big blue Buickfrom the mid-eighties. That meant they were home. Good, the journey was not pointless.
Before I crossed the street, I put my right arm back into the sling, which helped to lower the pain to a sharp ache. I made my way slowly up their driveway and knocked on the door with my left hand. A few moments later, Virginia Marker opened the door. She was a thin, sinewy woman in her later seventies. She had on a pair of peach-colored shorts and a pale-yellow sleeveless blouse. Her skin was well-tanned and loose. From the look on her face, she had a good sense of who I was before I introduced myself.
“I have nothing more to say,” she said before I got my full name out. “I have told you everything.”
