Make Believe (17 page)
I stood, raised myself to my full five-foot height, and my voice cut through the blather in the room. “Enough. You’re maddened…all of you. Frank”—I cast him a steely eye—“do you agree to something so absurd and deleterious?”
He waited a long time. Finally, he sputtered, “No, of course not. I’m not crazy… I may be a lot of things but…not crazy. It’s nonsense.” Another pause, a heartbeat. “Sol loved Max.”
It was, I thought, a simply beautiful statement, and took me by surprise.
Ethan broke in. “People kill folks they love.”
Frank held up his hand. “Come on, gang. No.”
Ava snarled, “Why don’t you turn in Sophie Barnes? You always made fun of her, the crazy secretary with the hots for Max. Maybe she got tired of her pain, her loneliness, and…and she shot him. Remember Harry said she stormed out of the Paradise Bar in a fury, sending the candles flying. In a rage. Maybe she killed Max because…” She stopped.
“She
did
run out of the restaurant. We saw her.” Tony glanced at his brother.
Ava screamed, “Francis, stop them. Now. The police are doing their job, just as Edna said. You know that. Nobody is going to arrest you. You’re allowing these fools to enflame you. Come off it.”
Frank nodded at us. “Let’s get out of here. Screw this!” He pointed at the brothers—
bang bang
, as though he had a gun—and turned away. The brothers leaned into each other, their voices overlapping, doubtless formulating other outlandish suspects: perhaps the headwaiter at Chasens’…or Greta Garbo…or…Lana Turner. Why not? Eleanor Roosevelt, sneaking into town…I imagined their scrambled minds teeming with such absurdities.
“I think Alice did it,” Tony blurted out. “Before she left for the Paradise.”
“No,” I said. “Remember Lorena called from the bar and spoke to Max. He was alone. Someone knocked on his door. He hung up. Alice was on the way to the restaurant.”
“I don’t care,” Tony said. “She snuck back in.”
His words suddenly made me wonder about that knock on the door. Who did arrive that night? Sophie before she joined the party at the Paradise Bar? A mysterious woman, this Sophie Barnes. Blighted love, anger, passion, a volatile temperament.
“How do we know Lorena’s even telling the truth?” Tony added. “Maybe
she
was there first. Maybe. You see how she’s weeping for Max, Frankie. Like she’s out of control. She was always so friendly with him. Maybe an affair…maybe he turned on her…” He was counting off the reasons on his fingers, the none-too-bright schoolboy trying to do sums.
Ethan glared at his brother. “Leave my wife out of this.”
“She ain’t your wife anymore.”
Ethan raised his voice. “You heard me, Tony. Lorena isn’t part of this. She spoke to Max, and she then told you to call him. I was
there
. You mean she’s making that up about the job he’d get you?”
Suddenly, Tony crumbled, his eyes tearing up. Looking at Frank, he blubbered, “Liz told me to get out—now that I lost that job at Poncho’s. She’s
leaving
me, Frankie. I thought that if I can get another job, she’ll…you know…take me back.” He faced his brother. “I promised her I won’t drink. I got nowhere to go.”
Ethan softened. “Tony, I told you. She won’t leave you. She
won’t
.”
Tony smiled at him. “She used your favorite word, Ethan.
Failure
. I’m a failure. She called us both failures. Me and you, Ethan.”
“Me?”
“You ain’t got your dreams, she said. Nobody does…except some. She wants to be rich and famous and I’m a…a burden.”
“She called me a failure?” Ethan looked stunned.
“Because you came out here to make millions, and you took that job in accounting at Metro.”
Ethan was furious. “I will be rich. Someday. Why else come out here?”
His eyes narrowed, Frank mimicked him. “I want to be rich, too, boys.” His voice became mocking. “Why else come out here?”
Why else come out here?
It was brutal imitation of Ethan’s whiny declaration, and Ethan glared at him. I expected him to say something but he watched, eyes slatted. “How can I become rich when I got to support Tony? Lenny left us
nothing
.”
Frank sang in a silly singsong voice: “I wanna be rich. I wanna be rich. Listen to the two of you. Your brother Lenny knew the game. He had smarts. That’s what Lenny had that both of you don’t. He built a fortune out of grit and sweat. That man understood honor and loyalty. I wouldn’t be alive if he hadn’t stepped in. They were gonna take me out. You two are pale imitations of that pal of mine.”
“All right, Francis. Enough.” Ava was blinking wildly.
Tony sagged into his chair, moody, hunched over. Looking up at Frank, he moaned, “You’re rich, Frankie.” At Ava. “You’re rich, Ava.” At me. “Even
she’s
rich.
Show Boa
t fills her pockets with gold. She doesn’t even have to work anymore.” He turned back to his brother. “We’re the only two poor people in this room, Ethan. You and me.” He started sobbing and wiped away tears with the backs of his hands.
“Oh, Christ,” Ethan muttered. “Stop it, Tony.”
“Are they smarter than me? Frankie? Ava? Her?”
Her
had already answered that question some time ago, but decided now silence was preferable. Why articulate the obvious? Let them rattle on, I thought, these destructive hangers-on.
Ethan snickered. “Actually they
are
, Tony.”
“No, they ain’t. Mr. Adam and Miss Ava. You told me Frankie was just plain lucky. Luck is the game in this town.”
Ethan squirmed. “Not everyone is lucky, Tony.”
“You deserve to be rich, Ethan.”
“Okay, enough, Tony.” He stared at Frank, nervous.
I broke into the brotherly keening. “Who gains from Max’s being murdered?”
My startling outburst, intentionally off the subject, silenced the brothers’ inane bickering. All eyes landed on me.
Sitting up, Tony started to say Alice’s name, but Ethan reached out and touched his sleeve. “Not now. Haven’t we embarrassed ourselves enough tonight?”
Ava whispered to Frank. “Get them out of here.”
Frank smiled. “Did you hear them, though? They don’t think much of my brain, Ava. I’m just a lucky so-and-so…”
Ethan pleaded, “Don’t listen to him, Frankie.”
Tony looked helpless. “Do you really think Max found me a job? Lorena said she talked to him.”
His shoulders stiff, Ethan walked to the door. “Maybe Lorena lied, Tony. Maybe she made the whole damn thing up. We’ll never know, will we? Maybe Lorena was trying to make Max look good. Good old Max, unselfish Max, no-hard-feelings Max.”
“But Lorena did speak to Max that night,” I added.
Ethan frowned. “But who knows what that conversation was about? The only part I heard was when she asked for Alice.”
Tony burbled, “I need a job.”
Ethan turned the doorknob. “Good luck.” He focused on Frank. “We need a lift back to civilization, Frankie.” He waited until Tony was at his side. “We’re going back to New Jersey. I’ve had it out here. Lenny is dead. He was murdered, too. It’s too dangerous out here in Hollywood land. God knows when one of us”—His hand swept the room—“will face the barrel of a gun. Little Alice-sit-by-the-fire did
him
in. It’s you and me, Tony. Back home. People come to Hollywood to die. I’m not ready for that.”
***
Ava and I sat alone in the quiet room, sipping iced tea and eating slabs of chocolate cake. Frank had driven the brothers away, begrudgingly, annoyed with them. We’d watched him careen out of the driveway, nearly clipping some bushes. I surmised the ride back would consist of silence, and a whole lot of groveling.
“I keep failing at my promises to you, Edna,” Ava finally said.
“Not true.” I smiled at her. “You came through with the magnificent fried chicken.”
“Which, you remember, you had to fry yourself.”
I breathed in. “Listen to me, Ava. These things happen, and I suppose they happen more with volatile people. You and Frank are a train wreck, but there’s nothing that can be done about that. You have to play that love game out. You have no choice, toppling chairs in restaurants, knocking over drinks, screaming at each other. And everyone watches. Neither of you is ready to jump off that speeding train.”
She leaned over and poured me more tea as I gazed out the window into the pitch-blackness: no moonlight, no stars.
Quietly, “I know.”
“I don’t like it out here,” I said.
“Who does?”
“But you stay here. I can leave. New York may be a lot of things, but there’s a gritty, hard-nosed reality about it. New York tells me the truth. New York slaps you awake every day of your life. Out here in the constant sunshine with wide boulevards and sparkling cars, well, people come to believe they can reinvent themselves, their failed lives. That’s always been the promise of the West, of course—new beginnings, second chances, new blood pulsating through the anemic body. And, I suppose, it can be true. But not for L.A., not this oasis that looks to Hollywood for answers. Make it up and see if it flies. If it doesn’t, make something else up. A culture of sandboxes with children restacking the blocks that keep falling down.”
Ava had been staring at me, mouth open. “God, Edna. Stay away from the Chamber of Commerce. They’ll crucify you. Tar and feather you and ride you out of town on a rail.” She started giggling.
“And it would be filmed for a scene in some celluloid epic.”
She looked to the ceiling. “But I wanted to come out here.”
“It’s your career.”
“I know, I know. I make my money here. Lots of it. Tons of it. But most don’t. A Tony Pannis. Liz Grable who waits for that talent scout every time someone walks into the soda parlor where she waits and waits, perched on a stool. We keep lying to them.”
“Otherwise there’d be only desert and orange groves. L.A. circa 1900.”
She sipped her tea. “Sometimes I dream of going back home. I wanted to be an actress—I wanted to shine in
Show Boat
, get fantastic reviews—but I don’t
want
it. You know what I mean? Francis doesn’t believe me. For him it’s everything. Hoboken is grubby and horrid…and over. L.A. is…is the flashy Cadillac convertible, the big house in Palm Springs, and the screaming girls. I dream of North Carolina because no one bothered me there. Yes, I like the fame, I guess, but I feel
owned
here. Eaten alive.”
“You are so good in
Show Boat
.”
A wide grin. “Keep telling me that. I don’t
like
myself most of the time.”
I sipped my tea. “What do you want, Ava?”
“I don’t know. Right now, I want Francis. But I also know that he’s…Hollywood. Exciting. He’s L.A. He’s Palm Springs. He’s beautiful at the moment but he’s temporary. Everything out here—even people—are rented for the short term. Ironically he’s probably the love of my life. Paradox, no?” She chuckled. “I learned
that
word from Artie Shaw. He described
me
that way.”
“Well, you are.”
“Everyone is.”
“True. But some more than others.”
She drew her bare feet up under her legs, snuggled into the cushions. “I will always make movies. I’m supposed to.” She struck a pose. “‘The most beautiful woman in the world.’” Said with a bittersweet wistfulness. “But I want to live in Europe. Spain, probably. When I was there, I felt…comfortable. Everything is old and they like it that way.” Now she grinned. “And the bullfighters wear such tight pants, Edna.”
I ignored that. “Does Frank know about this dream of yours?”
“I’ve told him, but he’s not one to listen. He thinks Hollywood is paradise on earth. El Dorado. The seven cities of Cibola, acres of gold all contained in one big movie contract. You know, he’s so…soft a man, Edna. He’s afraid he’ll break.”
“He reminds me of a mischievous little boy.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes got merry. “It must be illegal to go to bed with a little boy in Hollywood.” She laughed outright, long, full.
My mind wandered. “Ava, I go back home in days and Max’s murderer is still at large.”
Ava leaned into me and smiled. “But you’re doing something about it, no?”
Startled, “How do you know?”
“I see the way you look at folks, Edna. You know, I’ve watched you at the cocktail party and at dinners and the public melees that Francis and I stage for Hedda Hopper and her ilk. This is a puzzle you’re working on. You got a bag of pieces and you’re shaking it.”
I nodded. “I owe this to Max.”
“You know all the players in this little costume drama.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a stranger?”
“Of course not. This was a deliberate killing…and
personal
. Somebody had something
against
Max. Some vendetta. No Commie nonsense. That was a convenient excuse, used by someone. Think about it, Edna. Someone took advantage of the moment to kill poor Max.” She locked eyes with me. “We agree about that, don’t we, Edna?”
“I know that.”
“It’s about timing here. Timing.”
I sat back. Everybody in Hollywood talked about timing. The glib catchphrase covered a multitude of sinning. The players. Who gained by Max’s death? I asked that question over and over. What satisfaction did someone have in seeing him dead?
Ava got reflective. “The night he died, Edna. Think about it.”
Yes, I thought: the night he died. Where were all the people? I counted them in my head. Who?
“You know the answer, Edna. I suspect you know most things before they happen.” She smiled.
“Tiki voodoo, Ava?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I pointed a finger at her. “There’s always black magic in paradise.”
“Miss Ferber.” A scratchy voice, grating. For some reason Desmond Peake glanced over my shoulder, toward the doorway. “Miss Ferber.”
I looked behind me. “Are you seeing double, Mr. Peake? Perhaps a visit to the eye specialist…”
He glared at me and the pencil in his hand snapped into two. “What I need to say, well…needs saying.”
He made no sense, of course, but I let it pass. Desmond Peake, Metro’s troubleshooter, had reached me at my hotel, insisting I visit Culver City for a short luncheon. When I said no, he announced that the studio car was already in the Ambassador parking lot, waiting. “It’s important.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why would you say that?” Real concern in his voice.
“Because such words usually introduce topics that don’t live up to the promise.”
He blathered for a bit and I almost felt sorry for him, so I consented.
Delivered by a taciturn chauffeur to Culver City, then sequestered in a private room, I dined quietly with Desmond Peake, though he wolfed down his pot roast with such alacrity I feared we were being timed in some competition no one had told me about.
“Tell me why you’ve summoned me here, Mr. Peake.”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You must be joking, ma’am. Four words. Max Jeffries.
Show Boat
. No, make that five words. Murder. Let me add two other words. Hedda Hopper. Very chilling words.”
“I’m aware of the meaning of all of them, sir.”
“Put them together and they spell trouble.”
“For whom?”
“Look around you, Miss Ferber. For Metro. Even after Max…died, Hedda Hopper persists in referring to you and
Show Boat
in her columns. Her last comments were beyond the pale.”
“I agree with you. Max was already removed from Metro some time ago. By you, I believe. And most unfairly, to be sure. He was uncredited for his work on
Show Boat
. None of that was acceptable to me…so why now…”
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation, Miss Ferber. Millions of dollars are at stake here. Reputations.
Show Boat
is to be premiered in two days. Today’s
Examiner
published another photo of you and Max and Ava Gardner from that infamous lunch you all had. This time with Ava sticking out her tongue. And then Louella Parsons’ blow-by-blow account of the melee at Don the Beachcomber. My God, Miss Ferber. Max did himself in.”
“And?”
“And you’re not listening to the message.”
Desmond Peake folded and unfolded the napkin in his lap. He was so tall and lanky, with such a long graceless neck on a head that seemed to bob as he spoke, that even sitting opposite me, five-foot little me, he loomed over me. Disconcerting, that image, for I had to look up at him though we were both seated.
“I’m going back to New York,” I announced. “I came here for Max and someone killed him.”
He placed his napkin on the table. “I’m happy you’ll be returning to New York. I know you were invited to the premiere at the Egyptian Theatre but…”
“I’ve already refused.”
The air went out of him. “I know. Wisely.”
“But I could change my mind.”
He narrowed his eyes. “But you won’t, will you? That’s why I invited you here today…to talk. You’re a sensible woman. I sense that about you. Hasn’t your name been in the scandal sheets too often lately? With Max, with Ava, even a casual mention of you with Alice Jeffries at the Paradise Bar the night Max died—and none of it favorable. You’re so…visible in Hollywood these days while publicly shunning our premiere based on
your
novel. People wonder why you’re
still
here. It’s only natural. So people expect you to be there.
Show Boat
doesn’t need that. Dore Schary is nervous.” He grunted. “The only one not nervous is Ava Gardner.”
“She loved Max, you know.”
“Max Jeffries is dead. So will be her career if she isn’t careful.” The napkin slipped off the table onto the floor. He glanced at it but didn’t retrieve it. I assumed it was too far to travel.
“Aren’t you concerned that Max was murdered?”
He didn’t answer, but shuffled to his feet. “I’m glad you’re leaving L.A., Miss Ferber. And I’m glad you’ll be absent from the premiere.” An anemic smile, forced. “It makes my job a lot easier. I’m glad we have this…understanding.”
Outside, standing with him as we waited for the car he summoned, I heard my name called. Ava Gardner rushed up, swaddled in a terry cloth robe, a scarf around her head, cold cream slathered on her cheeks. “My spies reported in,” she whispered. “I had to escape from makeup. No one told me you were here.”
Desmond bristled but stepped into the street, frantically waving to an approaching town car, probably hoping it would bump me onto an unused soundstage.
Ava whispered again, “I’ll call you later. We need to talk. Me and Francis and you. I’ll call. Don’t make plans. Please. I’ll reserve a private room at the Brown Derby.”
As Desmond Peake rushed back, out of breath, grasping my elbows, she winked at him and disappeared through a doorway.
He spoke through clenched teeth. “If
she
won’t listen to me, perhaps you will.”
I sank into the back seat. “This has been delightful, Mr. Peake. As always, you show a girl a good time.”
***
Back at my hotel, lying on my bed with my eyes shut, the telephone jarred me. As I lifted the receiver to my ear, Ava was already in mid-sentence, a rush of words that ran together. “That ass, Desmond. When will men learn that there are certain women you do
not
warn? Edna, I couldn’t talk to you at Metro. Desmond chased me around until I slammed a door in his face. He’s so afraid the premiere will be one publicity nightmare.” She waited a second. “Edna, we’ll pick you up at eight tonight, if you’re free. Please be! We need to talk. Just the three of us.” I could hear her deep intake of a cigarette, a slight raspy cough. “That is, if you
want
to. I’m being pushy here, Edna.”
“Talk about what?”
“Francis.”
“Has something happened?”
“This morning a New York columnist named Lee Mortimer from the
Mirror
, some cheap tabloid, actually accused Francis of murder. In black and white. It’s causing a fire storm.”
“It’s just a rumor, Ava. We’ve already discussed it…”
Her voice rose. “The wire services have picked it up. Soon it’ll be…true.”
A heartbeat. “Could he be the killer, Ava?”
For a moment I thought she was laughing, but it was a jagged cigarette cough. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but…no.”
“I wondered.”
“Tonight, Edna. Please. You can ask him yourself.”
“Ava, I’m not his favorite person. Would I risk an ashtray hurled at my ancient head?”
“I’ll make him behave.”
“You haven’t in the past.”
“Please, Edna.”
“All right, but he must be kept on a leash. There are times I think I might like him, but I wouldn’t put my hand into his cage.”
“Edna, really. Sometimes you talk like a gossip columnist.”
She hung up the phone.
“Well,” I talked out loud to myself, “there was no need to insult me.”
***
Ava told me we’d be entering the Brown Derby through a side door, slipping in unseen. I’d been to the famed eatery before and never liked the unhealthy mix of noisy tourists, second-rate film stars, and obsequious waiters. As Frank, Ava, and I approached the landmark I mocked its garish exterior: that Stan Laurel derby perched atop a building already fashioned after a derby. I was sitting in the rear seat of Frank’s Cadillac convertible and had insisted he put the top up. I was in no mood for a breezy joyride.
Frank turned back to me and laughed. “Edna, people travel across America to eat this expensive food.”
To which I replied, “Must we be part of that mindless herd?”
Inside the eatery, snuggled into a small room where we could still hear the hum of diners nearby, I noticed the décor was merely a hiccough of the larger room: the worn red banquettes, the glittery crystal chandeliers, walls covered with caricatures of the famous and not-so-famous-anymore celebrities.
When we were alone, Ava reached over and grasped my hand. “I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon, Edna. I’ve come to rely on you.”
“You’ll have to visit me in New York, Ava.”
She nodded. “Of course. You know, I’m still afraid to stop in to see Alice. Whenever I turn around, there’s a photographer lurking nearby.”
Frank sat with his hands resting on the table, his eyes focused on Ava. He spoke quietly. “I’ve told her not to go.”
Ava narrowed her eyes. “I’ll do what I want, Francis.” But she pulled back. “I don’t want cameras flashing around Alice. She has enough to deal with.” She shuddered and said, strangely, “Max is not supposed to be dead.”
We stopped talking as a waiter knocked, entered, bowed deeply to us as he was walking in. I thought of movie scenes in which the royal factotum salaamed his way before the king, then backed out, apologizing, groveling. No eye contact. Well, this bronzed young man didn’t approach that caricature but he did warrant an Oscar nomination for servile flattery. Each menu was dispensed quickly but with a flourish. “Miss Gardner.” A Prussian bow. “Mr. Sinatra.” A similar bow. Then a short, barely perceptible pause. “Madam…” A pause, then, “Ah, Miss…Ferber.” Well trained and briefed. I like that in a man.
But the only one he looked at was Ava Gardner.
And I didn’t blame him. Tonight she was dressed in a strapless ivory and gold silk cocktail dress, with a cut-jade silver necklace. Quite striking, indeed. My simple black dress with the three strands of pearls and the modest onyx brooch made no statement at all that registered on Hollywood’s glitter meter.
Ava was in a mood to reminisce about Max, and she shared some stories I’d not heard before: how he appeared as an extra in the background in
Jungle Book
in 1942, dragged in for a crowd scene at the last moment by director Zoltan Korda, a reluctant Max who looked very unhappy holding a basket cradled against his chest. He’d worked on the soundtrack for the Kipling adaptation. She recalled being with Max in a Montgomery Ward in Fresno where the saleslady kept saying, “You don’t look like Ava Gardner.” Late one night Max appeared at her Nichols Canyon home because he dreamed she was in trouble and she wasn’t answering her phone.
Another time he showed up at Ava and her sister Bappie’s apartment, surprising Ava on her Christmas Eve birthday with an autographed photograph of Clark Gable, Ava’s long-time hero. This was long before she was famous, of course—when she was a fifty-dollar-a-week starlet living in a cheap hotel, the Hollywood Wilcox. Max had personally knocked on Gable’s dressing room door. The joke, realized later, was that Gable, in a hurry, had signed the photo “To Eva,” which Max didn’t realize until back in his office. Ava, of course, cherished the error.
“Bappie and I grilled hamburgers, played rummy, and listened to the radio. I was in bed by nine because I had to catch three buses out to Culver City.” Her eyes got moist. “Max warned me about Hollywood, especially the old lechers like Mayer who groped the girls, even little girls like Judy Garland. He told me—just
slap
them. They only understand violence.”
Frank said nothing the entire time Ava rambled on, a monologue punctuated now and then by my occasional interjection. Obviously she needed to do this…this beautiful ramble, heartfelt, and finally, her eyes closed, she stopped, slumped in her seat.
Frank poured from the bottle of champagne the waiter delivered and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. At last, Ava smiled thinly at me, a wistful smile, and sipped her drink. We ordered Cobb salads because that’s what you ordered there, in the eatery where it was first created.
As we ate, I noticed Ava got more and more agitated, picking up her fork, putting it down, leaning forward toward me, drawing back, jittery. “What, Ava?”
She shook her head and her eyes got dreamy.
“Something is going on,” I insisted.
When I looked at Frank, he was sitting back in his seat, arms wrapped around his chest, rocking his body. He didn’t take his eyes off her. What he doubtless saw was what I was seeing now: that beautiful face trembling.
Finally Frank looked at me. “Ava is going nuts over Lee Mortimer’s column in the
Mirror
. The tide seems to be turning against me.”
“But there’s no proof,” I protested.
She shook her head vigorously. “Does it matter out here?” She swung around and looked into his emotionless face. “Francis did not
kill
Max.” A deep intake of breath. “He didn’t
murder
my friend.” She reached for a cigarette and lit it with a shaking hand. I wondered why Frank didn’t light it for her, the gentlemanly gesture. But he seemed frozen in that chair, save for the maddening tapping of an index finger against his chest.
“They’re rumors, Ava.”
“This afternoon at Metro, in my dressing room after I saw you, I was leafing through a pile of clippings Publicity sent over, like ads for Lustre Creme Shampoo.” A fuzzy grin. “‘Ava Gardner of
Show Boat
uses Lux soap.’ Really insipid stuff. It piles up. Fan magazine hype—‘Trying to De-Glamorize Ava Gardner, Hollywood’s Toughest Job.’ Nonsense like that. They send it over, and I file it all away. But under that pile someone had maliciously slipped Mortimer’s vicious column.” She shook her head back and forth. “And someone scribbled on it: ‘Frankie Boy is a killer, you witch.’”
Frank said nothing, just picked at his salad.
“Lord,” I said. “Such mean-spirited folks.”
“I don’t like where this is heading. I always felt
safe
in my dressing room.”
“Ignore it, Ava.”
Frantic, “I can’t.”
“You can’t stop people from being vile or sneaky.”
Her eyes got wide, saucer-like, moons in that stunning face. “I didn’t ask for any of this.” She paused. “But what if the rumors don’t stop…poor Francis.”
Frank made a grunting sound, unpleasant.
Ava touched his sleeve but he didn’t move. It was as if he wanted to be invisible, away from there, perhaps out in the night desert, driving, driving.
