(1969) The Seven Minutes (31 page)

There had been only one surprise, and this had come from the records in the administration department. Despite the press stories, Sheri Moore was no longer a student in good standing at the college. After receiving passing grades during the first semester of her freshman year, she had become increasingly erratic about attending classes regularly and handing in papers, and during her second term her tests had consequently been poor. One month before becoming the victim of rape, she had dropped out of Santa Monica College.

Barrett had been introduced to a dozen of Sheri’s former classmates, young men and women who were either gathered in raucous conversational groups before the college cafeteria and bookstore or basking in the sun on the grassy slopes of the campus. None of Barrett’s questions had elicited an objective or detailed response. One girl, an honor student, recalled that Sheri had become bored with school and had spoken of a career as a model or actress, and that then she had quite school to move to West Hollywood, where she hoped to find a part-time job that would support future acting lessons. A football player had mumbled something about Sheri’s being ‘a fun kid, a swinger.’ But listening to the other students, any visitor would have thought that they were speaking of Joan of Arc. The fact that one of their own had become the victim of a crime, was seriously injured and still lay in critical condition, seemed to have the effect of making most of them speak of her with reverence, extolling her virtues. Perhaps, Barrett had told himself as he had left the campus, he was being unfairly cynical. Perhaps Sheri Moore had indeed been virtue personified.

Now, on the final lap of his inquiry into the life and times of Sheri Moore, he had arrived at Mount Sinai Hospital.

After locking the door of the convertible, Barrett crossed die parking lot, went up the steps quickly, and entered the rear corridor that led to the downstairs lobby and to the elevators. He caught an elevator to the fifth floor and went directly to the nurses’ counter.

A Negro registered nurse greeted him from her desk.

Td like to inquire about Sheri Moore,’ said Barrett. ‘I’m a friend.’

‘She’s doing just about as well as can be expected,’ said the nurse. ‘She’s still in a coma.’ Momentarily she searched for the chart, then gave up. ‘She had a comfortable night. Do you want to see her? Because if you do, I must tell you visitors are restricted to the names on a list the doctor left. If you want me to check it for your name-‘

‘No, never mind. I only wanted to find out how she’s doing.’ He hesitated. ‘Are there many people on that visitors’ list?’

Now it was the nurse’s turn to be hesitant. ‘You’re not from the press are you?’

“The press? God, no, I’m a friend who -‘

‘We can’t be too careful. The reporters are around here all the time. Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong in telling you that Sheri’s relatives and her one closest girl friend are allowed to see her. In fact, her father and her girl friend, the one she was rooming with, Darlene Nelson, they’re in her room right now.’

‘Thanks,’ said Barrett. ‘I wonder whether you could let me know when Miss Nelson leaves. I’ll be in the waiting room.’

‘Well, no need your having to wait for that. Darlene’s just sitting there. I’d be glad to fetch her for you, Mr…’ She drew out the ‘Mister,’ turning it into a question.

‘Barrett,’ he said. ‘Mr Barrett. Thank you ever so much.’

He walked down the hall and turned into the visitors’ waiting room, a small alcove furnished with chintz and wicker and a television set. The waiting room was unoccupied. Barrett halted before an ashtray, emptied his pipe, refilled it, and circled the room, smoking, going over Darlene Nelson’s connection with the rape case. It was Darlene, he remembered, who had returned to their apartment on Doheny Drive, to discover Sheri Moore sprawled on the bedroom floor, bloodied and only half conscious. It was then that Darlene had heard Sheri murmur that she had been raped, and after that Sheri had lost consciousness. It was Darlene who had summoned the ambulance and the police.

From die recess of the waiting room, Barrett heard two women’s voices growing louder. He pivoted around in time to see the nurse and a girl with a boyish haircut and the shirttails of her blouse hanging out over her dungarees come into view. The two were absorbed in conversation.

The nurse was saying, ‘I sure envy you, Darlene. The Underground Railroad, that’s my favorite fun place whenever I can get

the time. I’d give anything to be there at that opening.’

‘It’ll be jumping this week and next, so any night’ll be as good as tonight. It’s just a pity poor Sheri isn’t well enough.They’re having her favorite group there. She’s got all their albums.’

‘She’ll get well.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

The nurse had gone, and Darlene Nelson was approaching Barrett with a quizzical expression.

‘I’m Darlene Nelson,’ she said. ‘Are you the one who wanted to see me?’

“That’s correct. I -‘

‘Do I know you ?’ She had a nervous habit, a flick of her hand as if brushing her hair off her shoulder, but she touched nothing, because her hair was cut short. Perhaps the haircut was a recent idea, thought Barrett.

‘I’m Michael Barrett,’ he said. This brought no recognition. “The lawyer representing Ben Fremont, the owner of the bookstore, who -‘

Recognition came. ‘The dirty book,’ she said. Suspicion followed. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘Just the answers to a couple of questions,’ said Barrett. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

She made no move to sit. Her hand brushed past her ear. ‘What questions?’

‘Well, for one thing, had Miss Moore or yourself, either of you, had any acquaintance with Jerry Griffith before the night he - ?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘All right,’ Barrett said. ‘What about any of Jerry’s friends? Did you know any of them?’

‘How would I know who his friends are? Even if I’d met one by accident, I wouldn’t know it.’

‘Well, Miss Nelson, I’m thinking of one in particular. He’s a student at UCLA and. lives in Westwood. His name is George Perkins. Did you ever hear Miss Moore - Sheri - mention him?’

‘No.’

‘What about yourself? Do you know George Perkins?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

“There’s another thing I hoped you could tell me. On the night you found Sheri -‘

‘Mr Barrett, I don’t think I should be talking to you. I can’t tell you a thing. Besides, there’s nothing to tell. I told it all to the police, and it’s been hashed over in the papers. I better go now. Excuse me.’

Darlene Nelson had been backing off, and now she rushed out of the room.

Barrett shrugged, emptied and pocketed his pipe, and headed for the elevator.

A few minutes later he descended the rear staircase of the hospital and went into the parking lot. Starting toward his car, he heard someone running behind him.

He wheeled around to find a stocky, brawny man, older than himself, with a large head and almost no neck, coming toward him. The man was upon him, gasping for breath, face livid, hands knotted into fists.

‘Are you the guy named Barrett?’ the man demanded. ‘The lawyer defending that goddam dirty book?’

Recoiling before the other’s fury, momentarily stupefied, Barrett nodded. ‘Yes, I -‘

‘You listen to me, then!’ the man bellowed, shooting both hands forward and clutching the lapels of Barrett’s jacket angrily. ‘You listen to me, you rotten bastard, because I’m going to tell you something -‘

He wrenched Barrett toward him, and in self-defense Barrett struck at the man’s arms to free himself. For a moment they were apart, and then the wild man lunged at him again. Barrett threw out his hands to fend him off as the man swung a powerful right-hand hook at his face. Barrett tried to duck backward, but the arcing fist grazed his chin, rattling his teeth, and, off balance, he went reeling backward, falling, landing on his haunches.

The suddenness of the assault, more than the force of it, had dazed Barrett, and he sat on the tarred surface of the lot, holding his chin, as powerless to rise as a paraplegic. Above him loomed the distended face of his assailant.

‘You listen to me, you bastard,’ the man panted, hands still clenched. ‘I’m Sheri’s father, see - I’m Howard Moore - and I’m telling you there’s more where that came from, see - there’s lots more. And I’m warning you to keep your goddam nose out of our private affairs. My poor girl’s on the critical list, and all because some little prick was made crazy by your goddam dirty book - and anybody standing up for that kind of book is going to get it from me. So you remember this, mister - you keep your snotty nose out of my affairs - or next time I’ll beat you up until you’re in worse shape than my poor girl is in now. You just remember that!’

Howard Moore whirled around and went stalking off. - His head clearing, Mike Barrett struggled to his feet. Anger at this attack, at the gross unfairness and injustice of it, began to shake him, and his immediate instinct was to go after Moore and give him back some of the same. But then, watching the pathetic figure slow down at the door of the hospital, watching the older man open the glass door and for an instant hang his head and press it against the door, Barrett’s anger gave way to a surge of pity and reason. The man was a father, helpless, and up there five stories was the daughter he had spawned, his little girl, violated, unconscious. And, what the hell, he had to strike out at something, someone.

Barrett reached for his handkerchef and touched it to his mouth.

A faint bloodstain showed on the white linen. The inside of his lower lip had been cut. Well, so be it.

Going slowly, dusting himself off, he returned to his car.

Not until an hour later, when he was once more secure in his office and Donna had returned with disinfectant from the pharmacy downstairs, did he ask her the question that he had been waiting to ask. He had remembered hearing Darlene Nelson and the nurse as they talked in the hallway of the hospital, and here was Donna, the office secretary who always read the entertainment pages and gossip columns and who tried to keep young by reading about the young.

‘Donna, my pretty, it seems to me I’ve heard of it, but I just can’t remember exactly - forgetting the Civil War, meaning right now, today - what’s a place called The Underground Railroad?’

‘Boy, are you the straight one. That’s the leading hangout for all the youngsters. It’s out on Melrose. Strictly rock groups, dancing, near beer and nothing stronger.’

‘I understand there’s a group opening there tonight?’

‘Well, now, maybe you’re not so straight. Yup. Gregorian Chant.’

‘Gregorian what ? I’m not talking about medieval ecclesiastical music or choirs. I’m -‘

‘Straight, straight, straight, that’s what you are, boss. Gregorian Chant. They used to be called Chauncey and the Snow Shoes until they merged with the L.A. Heat. They’re the hottest rock group in the country right now. And they’re opening at The Underground Railroad at seven tonight. What have you got in mind ?’

‘Closing the generation gap. What’s the opposite of straight, Donna? Curved?’

‘Groovy.’

“That’ll be me at seven-thirty tonight.’

Even in the darkness of the parking area behind the gigantic hardware store that had been converted into a rock haven, Mike Barrett could hear the incessant, cacophonous music blaring through every window and wall of The Underground Railroad.

When he paused under the street light on Melrose Avenue, he could make out the time on his wristwatch. It was twenty minutes after seven in the evening. Across the street there were two other teenage water holes, one called The Limbo and the other The Raga-Rock, but tonight they were nearly deserted. The real population explosion was occurring thirty feet from him, where two orderly lines of bizarrely costumed youngsters were moving steadily into The Underground Railroad.

Barrett made his way to the end of one line and fell in, and he was relieved that he had followed Donna’s advice and not worn a suit and a tie. Actually, his crew-neck cotton pullover and corduroys were still conservative enough to label him, if not exactly an

octagon or a rub - oh, he had done some homework - then at least a partial square. But then it wasn’t his attire that made him self-conscious, he knew, but his age, and for the first time he believed that half of America’s entire population was under the age of twenty-five.

Following the swaying line of youngsters toward the roughhewn log-cabin entrance, he was satisfied that he had not told Faye where he was going. She would have wanted to come along, as one goes to the zoo, and, man, that would have been too much. This was one of his standing-date nights with Faye, the special one of the week, the physical one, and he hadn’t had the courage to cancel or postpone it. Instead, he had telephoned Faye to explain that they’d have to skip their regular dinner, because a research lead had turned up. He had promised to meet her at his apartment at eleven o’clock.

There was no research lead, of course. There was only his knowledge that this was a happening night at The Underground Railroad, and that Darlene Nelson would be here, and perhaps one of the happenings would be George Perkins. A hunch, no more. If George appeared, he would have friends, and they might also be Jerry Griffith’s friends. A fuller roster of Jerry’s friends was what Barrett wanted.

‘Let’s have some green, man,’ he heard someone say above him, and he realized that the speaker - who resembled Lincoln, assuming Lincoln had been black - was in the doorway collecting the entrance fee. He paid the man the two dollars and proceeded inside.

At once, caught up in a swarm of chattering and singing customers who were seeking tables, he was lost.

He tried to orient himself to the scene and adjust himself to the sound. Before him lay a mad house of tables around which were packed the music lovers. Then he could see the dance floor, as animated as a bucketful of writhing worms, and, facing the dance floor, the bandstand, over which a giant kaleidoscope kept turning and turning, and, beyond, more tables.

The lighting that came from the rotating stroboscope produced a spinning rainbow of psychedelic colors. On the dance floor, boys and girls of white, black, brown, yellow skin in micro-skirts, capes, hussar uniforms, relating not to one another but to the dissonant music, were going through their highly individual frenetic dance undulations. Yet there was a single movement to the tribal dance: every male native gyrated his pelvis and torso, every female native thrust forward her bust and wiggled her butt, as they paid homage to the howling voices and pinging electric guitars of Gregorian Chant.