Stardust (43 page)

“Why didn’t you bring him home?”

“Home. Where have you been living?” He caught himself and looked away, toward the Pacific. “You don’t know how it is, do you? That really wouldn’t have been on. Sharing. There’s a certain standard you have to keep up here. Not startle the horses. Unless you’re a set dresser, something like that.” He turned to Ben. “And I’m not. So I found him a place. One of the contract players used to live there—”

“Who?” Ben said, thinking of the lists he’d gone through.

“Does it matter? The boy who played the gunner on Dick Marshall’s bombing raid. Dick Marshall,” he said, partly to himself. “That’s
the war we gave them. Not the one in there. Well, why not? Dick killing Japs—you’d pay to see that. Who’d pay to see this?” He took a breath. “
Any
way, he was at the Cherokee for a while, and I knew about the phone there. That was essential, having the phone, but still private, not the Roosevelt or something, so I moved him in, with Robert to look after him. And I think he liked it. So much better than the hospital. Like being on your own, in a way. That was before the leg got better, so he was still in a wheelchair, but even so. Not as—sad.”

“And Danny was there?”

“No. That was all an accident—a meet cute. Robert was wheeling him, doing errands, I suppose, just getting out, and your brother was— well, I don’t know what he was doing, actually. Make something up— lunch at Musso’s. Who knows? Who cares. Anyway, on the street and wouldn’t you know? Long-lost Jack, it’s been years, what happened to you—like that. Robert probably thought they were old
Army
buddies, not comrades. Anyway, it cheered Jack up, seeing somebody from the old days, so come back and have a drink. And they did. A lot to catch up on.”

“So that’s how Danny knew about the Cherokee.”

Bunny shrugged. “I must say, it never would have occurred to me to use it for— But I didn’t have his imagination.”

“You saw him there?”

“No. I never knew he took a place there until Dennis called. I guess he liked the look of it. All the possibilities. But he saw Jack there. The second time I thought, that’s it, I’m getting him out of here. The reunion’s over. Anyway, Robert really wasn’t enough. He couldn’t be with him all the time. Jack needed somewhere like this. Where they can watch him.” He glanced again into the bedroom.

“Why didn’t you want him to see Danny? I mean, if they knew each other.”

“Well, it’s
how,
isn’t it? I knew what your brother was doing. I’ve done Minot a favor or two myself. But not like that. Jack left that life a long time ago—well, the war left it for him. It was only his good nature, you know. Always for the underdog. But try to tell anybody that now.
He’s been through a lot. He doesn’t need to go through anything more. Not one more thing.”

“You think Danny was going to give him to Minot? A crippled war hero? What for?”

“To see who else he remembers, from those Fuller Brush parties they used to have. Very sinister characters they were. How can we help Paul
Robeson
? Christ.” He looked up. “His arm’s gone, but his memory’s there. No, thank you.”

“He has a Silver Star.”

Bunny raised his eyebrows, a question.

“Army records,” Ben said.

Bunny said nothing for a second, taking this in. “I always underestimate you.”

“They’re not going to go after somebody with a Silver Star. How would that make them look?”

“They don’t have to play to the gallery. Nobody sees friendly witnesses in closed sessions. I’m not putting him through that, either. I’m not.”

“But Danny didn’t do that—I’ve seen the files. He wouldn’t have.”

“Touching, your faith in him. He was an
informer
. You don’t want to face that, don’t. I had to. I had someone else to think about. One time, how’ve you been? Fine. Two, he’s after something. So I moved him.”

“What would Danny have said? We went to a meeting five years ago—bring him in? They’re after more than that. Headlines.”

“And they’ll get them. But not here. Not from me. And not from you, either,” he said, leveling his gaze. “Not here.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Then what are you doing, running errands for Dennis?”

“I’m trying to find out what Danny was doing, that’s all. So I’m friendly. Just like you. To get something.”

“And what was your brother trying to get?”

Ben said nothing, his own question come back at him. He leaned against the rail.

“You’re wrong about him, though,” he said quietly. “He never gave
MacDonald away, where he was, even if he’s alive. There’s nothing there. I checked.”

“You forget—he stopped reporting.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

Bunny looked at him, then let it go, taking out another cigarette instead and sitting on the chaise.

“Do you know how it works?” he said, not angry, a resigned patience. “Ever been to the zoo? Watch them feed? The big cats, animals like that? Give them a piece of meat, then another. It only stops when you stop feeding them. The cats just keep eating. You think they can’t be hungry anymore, but they’ll still take the meat. It’s what they do. No matter how much you give them, it’s never enough. You think you know these people? I knew Tenney. That same hunger—I don’t know where it comes from—he could never get enough. But a crackpot. You didn’t have to take all that carrying-on seriously. Look good in Sacramento and he’s satisfied. But Minot’s not a crackpot. You stick your hand through the bars, he’d take it with the meat. Get out of this before it turns on you. Once you’re part of it, you’re expected to
supply
. Just to prove you’re with them. So you throw them anything. Maybe even Jack. To stay in. Your brother would have done it. But now Jack’s safe. Except from you.”

“I told you, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I just want to be clear. How unwise that would be. Oh, I know, little Brian, not very scary. But you know who is? Somebody with nothing to lose. And I’m going to lose. Everything I want. I know it.” He looked back to the bedroom. “One of these times it’s going to work. So all I can do is hold on till it does.” He looked back at Ben. “You were never here.”

Ben held his stare. “That’s right.”

Bunny nodded, then drew on the cigarette. “But you were, weren’t you? So now you’re part of it. My confidante. So what do I do? Tell me. I don’t know anymore. He’s going to do it again. I don’t know what to do.”

“Give him time. Even here,” he said, holding his hand to the view. “It takes time.”

“Darling,
time
. Does it get any hoarier? I suppose I deserve that. Wallowing like this.” He sat up. “Mustn’t grumble. As they used to say in the Blitz. My mother was like that. Mustn’t grumble. Mustn’t grumble.” He covered his eyes with his hand. “Why the fuck not? That’s what I’d like to know.” He paused. “What if it works next time? You’d think I’d be enough. Even with all the rest. You’d think it would be enough—not to want to, for me. But it isn’t.”

Ben was quiet for a minute, then moved away from the railing. “I’d better go.”

“Am I embarrassing you? Or just me,” Bunny said, moving his hands over his cheeks, a quick-change. “What do I say when he wakes up? The last time—”

“Last Monday,” Ben said, trying it.

Bunny’s head jerked up. “How do you know that? Why would you?”

“You left the studio in a hurry. You never leave early. I figured—just now, I mean.”

Bunny stood up, a willed change of mood. “My every move. I didn’t realize I was so fascinating. I still don’t know why. What do you want, exactly? Coming here.”

“Just following a name. I didn’t know.” He looked toward the bed.

“What, all this because he knew your brother?”

“I think somebody tried to stop Danny before he could—”

“Rat on them? I don’t blame him. I’d do it myself.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or did you think that I did? Ben,” he said, drawing the word out. “Well, sorry to disappoint. Dennis called me. At
home
. I may have picked up a phone from time to time, but my activities don’t extend to—oh, never mind. Think what you like. You might scratch Jack’s name off the list, though, don’t you think? He really wouldn’t have been up to it. Anyway, he was here. Ask anybody.” He waved his hand to the house.

“I had to be sure, that’s all.”

“Well, now you are. So fuck off.” He looked down. “Sorry. Not very nice, was it? What a hard case I have become,” he said, giving it a hint of a Southern accent. “You get that way when you stop telling yourself
stories. You can’t change things. No matter how many stories. I remember standing in front of the mirror, looking at my hair go, just crying and crying because I knew everything was coming to an end, and my face just stared right back at me. There it was. Like it or not.” He turned away. “Like it or not.”

From the bed there was a soft rustling, Jack’s head moving slowly, still asleep. Bunny went over and watched for a second. The side of Jack’s face with the purple splotch was more visible now. He made a sound without opening his eyes, some fragment line in a dream. Bunny touched his forehead. “Ssh,” he said, calming him. Ben stood in the room, not moving, afraid any sound would wake him, watching Bunny’s hand stroking Jack’s hair. When he finally turned, satisfied Jack was still asleep, his eyes were squinting, in pain.

“Oh, go ahead and look,” he said, then glanced back at the bed. “He was a hero, did you know? A real war hero. He saved someone’s life. From that grenade. Just—not his. Well,” he said, raising his head. “Mustn’t grumble.” Then he looked at Ben, his eyes brimming. “Do you know what it’s like? When you feel everything slipping away?” He held out his hand, as if it were actually happening. “Like water, right through your fingers.”

T
HERE WAS
no point going back to the Ambassador so he drove to the Cherokee to change and throw a sweater in an overnight bag. Weather was vertical here: Mt. Wilson would be chilly at night. First tea, an excuse to see the campus in Pasadena, and then by convoy up the mountain. An evening with the émigrés, the last thing he wanted, his head filled now with Bunny and Danny and the unknowability of people.

He parked in back and was about to take the stairs when he remembered the key and went to the front desk instead.

“You have a mail key for me yet?”

“You 5C?” A new clerk, the staff as transient as the guests. He reached under the desk and handed Ben an envelope. “There’s a charge.”

“Put it on the bill.”

“Can’t.”

Ben, exasperated, put a few dollars on the counter and went over to the mailboxes, opening his. For a second he just stared. Empty. But there’d been something there, a flyer for Current Resident, something. The mailman wouldn’t have arbitrarily cleaned out the box.

“Mail’s late today,” the clerk said, helpful. “Should be here soon.”

“But I thought—” He closed the box. No white paper visible through the holes. But there had been.

Upstairs, he packed his small bag, then looked at the key again. If the box had been opened, then someone else must have one. From Danny. He noticed the script on the night stand. Bits of business about post office boxes, something that had been on his mind. Ben glanced at his watch again. Think about it in the car.

When he got to the lobby, he saw the mailman filling the tilted wall of boxes.

“Anything for 5C?” he asked.

The mailman flipped through the stack in his hand. “John Collins, that you?”

Ben held up his key, an ID tag, and took the envelope, staring at it. John Collins, what Danny had called himself here. He went out the back, threw his bag into the car and stood there, holding the letter. John Collins. A name for hotel registers, hiding out. Who knew him as John Collins? A San Francisco postmark. He opened it carefully, as if he were prying. But wasn’t he John Collins now?

Not a letter. A sheet with a list of names, grouped, not boxed like an organizational chart but arranged in clusters, some kind of order. He looked down the list. No one he recognized from the Continental list. Men, not starlets. But a list Danny evidently had wanted. Ben studied the names again, wondering whether any of them were already in Minot’s files or whether they were new. More names to feed him. At the bottom of the list there was a group of numbers, also arranged by some unknown scheme. Army serial numbers? He counted one off against his own—no, wrong number of digits. Some other number
then, maybe file references. Sent by some friend in San Francisco.

He looked at the building, half-expecting to see people watching him. Why would Danny get mail here? Where he’d brought his women. Except he hadn’t. Stained sheets in the afternoon—but the maid hadn’t seen any. Rented months before Rosemary. Then used once. But why drive up to Santa Barbara when you had a secret place in town? Ben looked at the list again, then folded it and put the envelope in his pocket. Unless it hadn’t been used for that. No personal items in the bath, no toiletries or leftover boxes of powder. Maybe the point all along had been the mail, not girls. Ben saw him walking Jack MacDonald home, taking in the barely supervised lobby, the anonymous rooms upstairs. Ideal for sex, what everyone would think. Not noticing the boxes. But letters from whom? Not whoever had killed him—he’d have stopped sending them. Someone still unaware that Danny was gone.

Ben looked at the time. Minot’s office would be closed Saturdays— he’d need Riordan to let him in. And he was already running late. Anyway, why suppose the names were already in the files? Danny’s new list. Maybe with the one who’d thought he’d acted in time, before his name was in the mail.

He headed east on Hollywood Boulevard, storefronts slipping by in a blur. There had been a flyer in the box. So someone had opened it recently, maybe looking for the envelope now in his pocket. How long would he wait? And why set it up this way? Why not pass a list in a bar? Call from a pay phone. Unless the source couldn’t be too careful.

He cut down through Silver Lake then crossed the river and followed the winding road through the Arroyo Seco. The old commuter route from downtown, businessmen in starched collars driving home to their Midwestern houses and flowering gardens, what the city had been like before the movies came. Turn-of-the-century lampposts and rows of trees, the streets empty in the yellow afternoon light. He’d expected Cal Tech to be utilitarian, but the look was residential, cloistered quadrangles, the buildings larger versions of the houses down the street. The faculty lounge was even more traditional, dark wood paneling and oil
portraits. Dieter was already pouring tea for Liesl and her father. To Ben’s surprise, Kaltenbach rounded out the table.