The Bones (36 page)

"What's the catch?" Frank wants to know.

"The cops just put a boot on my car for unpaid parkin' tickets. How about a lift?"

"My driver's license was revoked, babe. Otis?"

Lloyd watches from the door of the club as Frank and Mercy climb into Otis's Lincoln Navigator. Lloyd gets into his rented
Cadillac and starts to follow them, thinking,
This is what I came for. Following a car filled with trouble on a neon highway shooting through a strange, dark city where
I know no one and no one knows me. Finally, I'm doing what I'm meant to be doing. Unscripted, real. A world with no commercials,
no tidy endings, just life on the fly.

The beers he drank slosh around in his stomach and he wonders if he could pass a sobriety test if he's pulled over. Then he
remembers he only had two. The Navigator weaves through the light traffic and Lloyd stares at the red taillights, gripping
the wheel of the Cadillac and trying to hang back, like in the movies. He's feeling as if he were on-screen now, forty feet
high and doing something cool.

A big, bleached-blond middle-aged waitress is talking quietly to a rodentlike short-order cook at the service station between
the kitchen and the counter area of Critter's, a greasy spoon on Highway 44 with laminated menus featuring pictures of ribs
and fried chicken. The two of them are sneaking glances at Frank, who sits next to Mercy and across from Otis in a booth where
they are drinking coffee and eating pie. The waitress moves away from the cook and walks toward Frank, faking confidence as
she goes.

"You're him, aren't you?"

"I just look like him," Frank tells her.

Turning to Otis, the waitress, who wears a nametag that reads LIANNE, says, "I saw your picture in the paper today."

Otis beams. He's bathing in warm milk now. "My public!"

"Good luck," she tells Frank, and goes back to be debriefed by the short-order cook.

Taking a bite of his pie, Frank says, "You like being recognized?" then shakes his head, indicating he's had enough of it
for now.

"This is America, man," Otis says, somewhat unnecessarily. "That's what it's all about. Now I'm like a singer or a ballplayer.
Once I win this case, I'm gonna
be Johnnie Cochran: The Sequel
—
Bigger and Blacker!
I got the rays, brother."

"Being famous used to mean something but now . . ."

"The shit you talk!" Otis tells him.

"Who was famous back in the Middle Ages?" Frank says, gaining steam. "If you were a great painter, you were famous. If you
were a king or a playwright, you were famous. These days, you screw a teenager and she shoots your wife, hey! You're famous!
Your wife takes a Ginsu knife and cuts off your manhandle, whaddya know? You're famous. Today, you get caught blowing the
president and Jenny Craig makes you their spokeschick. This is where the culture is, man." As Frank is roiling along, he notices
Lloyd walking toward them, but it doesn't slow him down. "Hester Prynne wouldn't just wear a scarlet letter today; she'd have
a fuckin' Web site and she'd be selling Scarlet Letter lingerie," Frank concludes as Lloyd arrives at the table.

"How's everybody?" Lloyd says, sitting next to Otis.

"Who asked you to sit down?" Otis demands.

"Lloyd," Frank says. "Why are you gumshoeing me?"

"I figured you'd know the best places to hang." Then, realizing: "Whoa, bad choice of words." Mercy and Otis look at Lloyd—who
is this guy?—but Frank balls him out by laughing.

"Yeah, I do."

At that moment the waitress arrives with the check. Lloyd grabs it and hands her a credit card. She takes it and departs.
Otis excuses himself and Lloyd stands to let him out. Frank and Mercy get up as well, and the three of them head for the door,
leaving Lloyd to await the return of his plastic.

Sensing the party's breaking up, Lloyd quickly walks toward Frank, who is holding the door for Mercy. Putting his hand on
Frank's arm, Lloyd looks at him.

"Hey . . ."

"What?" Frank says, annoyed, as Mercy walks out.

"We both messed up. The two of us made some bad choices, but I think I can help you now if you help me."

"Thanks for the pie, Lloyd."

"Bones," Lloyd says, and something in his voice, a subtly commanding tone he's acquired since running a TV show, makes the
other man turn around. "The last time I saw you, you were bleeding to death on my living room floor. I never busted you for
nearly knocking my house down, never pressed charges, never did anything, and believe me, there were people who wanted me
to. So maybe you could cut me a little slack."

Frank takes this in silently. Then he walks out the door, down the steps of the diner, and to the parking lot, where Otis
and Mercy are waiting. Lloyd debates whether to follow and determines he's shown enough belly for one night. He goes back
to the table for his credit card.

Shit! I played that completely wrong. Frank's madder at me than I thought. I shouldn't have sat down with them. I should have
just kept my distance and watched. No, that's wrong, too. What I should have done is gone back to the motel. There's going
to be plenty of time to buttonhole Frank. They're probably talking about me now. Frank's telling that bartender girl and his
lawyer that he thinks I'm an asshole. Why didn't I go back to the motel? Shit!

By the time Lloyd gets to the parking lot, they're gone, but he has ceased his recriminations for a moment and is comforting
himself with the thought that for once he has not taken the easy road. He wants to write a serious book, he's flown to Oklahoma
to do research, and it's going to work out if he follows it to the end. He can play cat and mouse with the Notorious B.O.N.E.S.
if that's what Frank wants. The point is, he's not on a soundstage with a bunch of whiny actors anymore. No, this is really
happening, the murder, the comic, the girl; as if it were something from one of the pulp fictions he collects. Only he can't
close the book, curl into his luxurious sheets, and drift off to his usual NyQuil-induced slumber because now it's swirling
around him.

Otis is dropping Mercy off first, but when the car pulls up to her house, she asks Frank to come in with her, telling him
she knows a twenty-four-hour car service and he can get a cab home, so the two of them get out. As Otis drives away, Frank
says, "Your husband's not coming back tonight?"

"Not unless he wants a bullet in his useless ass." He likes this woman more and more.

The inside of the small house is decorated with thrift-shop furniture. The kitchen has a Formica table and a couple of vinyl
chairs, the living room an old sofa and two wing chairs, one of which is losing its stuffing. Frank notices a catalog for
Broken Arrow Community College. He picks it up and flips through it.

"I'm taking some courses," she says. "Trying to improve my standing in life."

"What are you studying?" Frank asks, genuinely curious.

"Basic psychology right now. They call it 'Nuts and Sluts.' I figure I could teach the course but the faculty didn't see it
that way."

"So you wanna be a shrink?" Frank says, moving closer.

"I dunno, I just want to find out what makes people tick," she says, sticking her tongue down his throat.

The streetlamp outside the window throws soft light into the bedroom where Frank and Mercy are making love. On a shelf above
the king-size bed are a row of little ceramic houses: a cabin, a manor house, and a lighthouse among others Equally fanciful.
As the bed rocks into the wall, the houses shake slightly.

When they are finished, they lie naked side by side. "I got your new CD, Frank," Mercy says. "I bought it this afternoon.
I wasn't gonna tell you 'cause you already think I'm some kind of comedy slut."

"No, I don't."

"There's a lot of pain in some of those stories you tell. I mean, they're funny, but there's pain, too."

"I'm the Pain Queen."

"Lucinda Williams is the Pain Queen, son. But you're not bad."

"I can die now that I've been compared to Lucinda Williams. Who is . . .?"

"The greatest songwriter and singer alive today, you ignorant man, you. Think you know everything, doncha?" she says, propping
herself up on her elbow and stroking his chest. "I felt bad today so I played it."

"And it made you feel better?"

"It made me feel worse."

"Did you visualize me?"

"I did."

"Was I naked?"

"You were wearin' a red dress. The lesbian inside you was leapin' out."

Frank gets out of bed to go to the bathroom, and when he comes back, she asks, "What's that scar on your back?" so he tells
her the whole story of Honey's implants and his dalliance with Candi Wyatt and her cat, no reason to lie now.

"You're a cheatin' man," Mercy says, not without amusement. "I coulda told you that."

"Never had the incentive not to be." Frank looks into her open face, and for the first time in what feels like years a woman's
eyes aren't working like spotlights, lighting a stage,
Ladies and gentlemen, Frank Bones!
He's not performing with Mercy, he's
being
with her, and it's a new and soothing feeling for him.

Mercy kisses him on the mouth, then says, "Frank, I want you to stay, but you better go."

"I thought you said he wasn't coming home."

"He's got a set of keys."

"I guess a threesome is out of the question."

"Are you gay for Creed?"

"If I have to explain when I'm joking, there's no future here, babe," he says, getting back up and starting to dress.

"That's good to know because I was plannin' the church wedding, coupla kids, house in the suburbs with you, Frank Bones, accused
killer," she says, smiling. He tells her he'll settle for conjugal visits in the big house and is laughing when he leaves.

The next morning Robert tells Frank, "There's a lot of heat on you. We've been getting a major amount of calls. Everyone wants
to know what's going on. If you beat this thing, the net career effect is going to be very positive." Frank is still struggling
to wake up. It's just after ten and Robert's call was his alarm clock. "You're gonna do all the talk shows, we'll tie it into
publicity for the new CD, and listen to this, Harvey Gornish called. They're thinking about developing something new for you
at Lynx."

"They could put me away for life, Bobby. How am I going to do a television show?"

"We're in spin control mode right now. All four network morning shows called. We're giving
AM America
an exclusive tomorrow, and when you do it, please, no sunglasses."

"Why them?"

"Because when people see you make Patty Sullivan laugh while they're eating their oatmeal, it's gonna help buff your image,
which between you and me has taken a few hits lately." Patty Sullivan was the preternaturally perky, blond hostess of
AM America
and was the breakfast nation's prom queen, beloved by all. The notion of Patty Sullivan and Frank Bones, gone denizen of the
night city, unrehabilitated rehab patient and indicted criminal, together was preposterous, Beelzebub with Bo Peep. But if
by the end of the interview she behaved as if he were not radioactive, it would influence the perceptions of millions of Americans,
many of whom were swimming in the prospective jury pool. After listening to Robert expound on how being cleared of a murder
charge is exactly the shot in the arm his career needs, Frank hangs up, shaves, showers, and heads out to find breakfast.

"G'morning."

"Jesus Christ, Lloyd, you're like a bad cold. What are you doing?"

What Lloyd is doing is leaning against the wall outside Frank's room reading a copy of that morning's
Variety,
which he has downloaded from the Web.

"
Variety
liked the show. They called it"—he reads from the printout—"'audacious, reckless and very funny. Vintage Bones.' "

"Let me see that," Frank says, grabbing it out of Lloyd's hand and scanning it himself.

"Can I buy you breakfast?"

"What do you want from me, Lloyd? The one time I asked you for anything, you made me walk the plank, so why should I do anything
for you?"

"I never asked you to apologize for wrecking my house."

"You want an apology, Lloyd?"

"No, I don't because I think I understand what you were doing."

"You do?"

"It was an irrational act. You were pissed at me, sure, but it wasn't like you could have been thinking you were going to
accomplish anything. It sprang from the same place you get your material, you know? The rage, Bones. The blistering rage!
I didn't take it personally."

"I appreciate it," he says, turning over Lloyd's analysis in his mind.

"A lot of people are going to be weighing in on you. I want to write something sympathetic. I want to write about the two
of us and the business and how the most talented people, the ones who really deserve to succeed, are so often the ones who
don't because—"

"I'm brilliant but misunderstood?"

"More or less."

"Do I get a cut?"

"Fifty-fifty. It's not about money for me, Frank. I want to do something good."

This sits in the air between them for a moment, Frank thinking,
Maybe I misread this guy.

"How are you getting around town?" Lloyd asks.

"Cabs."

"I rented a brand-new Cadillac. You want to drive it?"

So with Lloyd in the passenger seat, Frank drives the two of them back to the diner to get breakfast, and over pancakes and
multiple cups of coffee he agrees to let Lloyd be his shadow for his time in Tulsa. In exchange, Lloyd agrees to let Frank
read the manuscript before he submits it and also promises to help with whatever creative endeavor next manifests itself;
legal briefs excepted.

***

"He can't be in the meeting," Otis says, taking a putter from his golf bag and looking at Lloyd. It's around eleven o'clock
in the morning and the November sun warms Otis's office in downtown Tulsa.

"Lloyd, this is confidential, okay?" Frank says.

"Sure," Lloyd replies. He's been looking out the window at a billboard across the street that says REMEMBER WAYMAN.