(1969) The Seven Minutes (32 page)

Barrett focused upon the group on the bandstand. It consisted of four boys dressed like cotton-picking slaves, and presumably the Gregorian part consisted of the three shaggy-haired whites loosely chained together, strumming away, occasionally joining the

Chant, a fat young Negro, in his solo.

Hemmed in on all sides, Barrett began to feel faint. And his ears rang. And his heart yearned for the sweet security of Dave Brubeck and Gerry Mulligan and Davey Pell.

He needed a more isolated lookout post, and then he saw, to his left, past the aisle, the long oak bar. A portion of it was relatively free of humanity. Turning, pushing, excusing himself, pushing, going sideways, he made slow progress toward the bar, and after several minutes he reached it.

‘Scotch and water,’ he gasped.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the moustached young bartender. ‘We’ve got only near beer - and of course any soft drink you can think of.’

Barrett had forgotten they had no hard liquor here. ‘Okay, a near beer.’

As the beer foamed into the stein, Barrett scanned the scene. The performing group had segued into a new number. This one was less discordant, less onomatopoeic, less thwacking, less jarring. The number seemed to owe its ancestry to the ethnic music of Bessie Smith, sort of Negro blues and gospel mildly crossed with hillbilly. It was sad and it was message, and it echoed a generation’s disillusionment, skepticism, protest, and it called for love of man for Man. And at once Barrett welcomed and enjoyed the sounds and sights and the lost love children on the floor. Somewhere he’d read Bob Dylan’s explanation: The only beauty’s ugly, man. Yes. But it was beauty neverthless, its own beauty.

He reached for his near beer, sipped it slowly, looked up at the big posters above the bar - Harriet Beecher Stowe, John Brown and his body, Dred Scott - and he listened to the music.

After a short respite, putting down his beer mug, he faced the entire room once more, determined to search it for his quarry. In a few moments he realized that he had undertaken an impossible assignment. There were simply too many young men, and too many of these who looked like the bearded George Perkins, and not one of them could he distinguish as being George himself.

He decided to scan the club a final time, from the entrance doorway to the farthest reach of the room. His eyes shifted to the entrance, and, to his surprise, standing there inside it was a newcomer whom he recognized instantly.

The newcomer was a slim, haggard boy, neatly combed hair, sallow complexion and pinched features, sport jacket and sport shirt and pressed slacks. He was the one Barrett had never met, yet he was as familiar now as the countless pictures of him that had appeared in the press. Filled with amazement, overlaid by confusion, Barrett stared at the newcomer. Here, within distance of his voice, was Jerry Griffith, searching the club as he himself had been searching it. Barrett wondered, What in the devil was this boy, even though free on bail, doing in this public place? He couldn’t imagine Maggie Russell, let alone Frank Griffith, permitting Jerry

to leave the house and come to this place. Or didn’t they know? Had Jerry slipped out?

This was a perfect opportunity to confront him, to speak sympathetically to him, question him, yet Barrett did not move. As a person he was kept in his place by some sense of decency, and as an attorney he was kept back by some instinct that detected possible good fortune. He maintained his watch over Jerry Griffith and he waited with undefined expectancy.

Barrett tried to read Jerry’s eyes. At first they were furtive and afraid, like those of a wanted man on the run who was fearful of being recognized. Then, as if he had realized that the very numbers gave him safety, melted him into the mass, Jerry’s eyes lost their fear and became those of the hunter rather than the hunted. Plainly the boy was looking for someone, some specific person.

He was on tiptoes, examining the occupants of each table, when his head gave a short jerk of recognition and he started to wave and then apparently thought better of it. At once his entire expression had become purposeful. He had found the one he wanted.

Jerry Griffith started toward Barrett, abruptly veered between two tables, and then nimbly threaded his way between more of the seated patrons toward his objective. Picking his way forward, he slowed, and at a table of three young men and two girls he halted. He reached out toward the broad-shouldered young man who had his back to him, and he tapped the boy on the shoulder. The young man’s head swiveled around, and the bearded profile revealed itself to be George Perkins.

Squinting in the ever-changing light, Barrett tried to catch George’s reaction. In all, there were three reactions, one following the other with amazing rapidity. First, surprise. Second, worry. Third, annoyance.

From the distance of the bar, Barrett continued to follow the silent drama.

Jerry was trying to speak to George Perkins. And George wanted nothing to do with him. Jerry gripped George’s shoulder several times, whispering to him, and each time George shrugged him off. At last Jerry’s persistence appeared to win, for George came heatedly to his feet and, hulking over his friend, shook his head, refusing to listen to him further. Still, Jerry continued speaking against the din. Finally, as if in exasperated agreement, George nodded, and looked around. Just as the music stopped and a member of the performing group announced an intermission, George pointed off, and his finger was directed at a couple who had left the dance floor and were making their way to a table set on an aisle.

Automatically Barrett’s attention shifted to the couple. For a moment, the boy blocked the view of his female partner. The boy was clean-shaven except for his long sideburns, and he was husky, Then the girl was in the open. She was Darlene Nelson, none other.

still wearing the dungarees and loose shirttails she had worn earlier, during her hospital visit.

Now a third figure crossed swiftly into view. It was that of Jerry Griffith again, almost bowling over customers as he fought his way through the returning dancers to catch Darlene Nelson. Just as Darlene approached her empty chair, Jerry Griffith intercepted her.

Once more, for Barrett, dumb show.

Jerry was blocking the girl from her seat, seeming to introduce himself, trying to address her. Darlene’s displeasure was even more clearly visible than George Perkins’ had been moments before. She tried to ignore Jerry, push past him to reach her chair, but still he tried to impede her progress long enough to get her to listen to him. With a final effort, she slipped past him. He had begun to follow her, still speaking, when she stopped and did an about-face. She appeared to be speaking sharply, curtly, in an undertone, her face close to his. Whatever she said to Jerry had the effect of a slap in the face. Jerry recoiled, looking stricken, then he tried to say something to her as she sat down, but no words seemed to come. Instead, there was only a kind of breathless mouthing and gesturing in place of the missing words.

Suddenly Jerry seemed to petrify, features livid, and he stared down at her as she gaily resumed conversation with her companions. For a second, Barrett wondered whether Jerry might strike her or attempt to strangle her, but he did neither. His arms went slowly down to his sides. His face went slack. His body appeared to wilt. Dazed, he backed away, turned away, wandered into the passage between the tables, until he seemed to remember where he was and who he was. Then, as if galvanized, in a spurt, he charged past new arrivals and dashed to the entrance and was gone.

Observing Jerry’s frantic exit, Barrett remained rooted to his spot at the bar. One thing was evident. Jerry’s friend George knew Darlene, or at least knew what she looked like. Jerry, on the other hand, plainly had not known Sheri’s friend Darlene before. But what had he said to her, and what had she said to him, that had so infuriated him, finally crushed him and made him flee? That instant, Barrett decided that he must find out. A confrontation with Jerry was not only in order but essential.

Barrett pushed himself from the bar, but before taking three steps he was brought to a standstill by a noisy bevy of teenage girls who had just entered the club. Trapped in their midst, he found it difficult to escape. And now one little Kewpie-doll blonde in sweat shirt and shorts had discovered him.

She reached up to bring him closer. ‘Girls,’ she shrieked, ‘look what I found - the genuine thousand-year-old man, the missing link! Ain’t he the cutest ?’ She planted a kiss on Barrett’s chin, imploring him, ‘Dance with me, link, come on, let’s dance.’

Her arms were wrapped tightly around him and she shimmied in semblance of a dance.

‘Honey, I was just on my way to the men’s room,’ Barrett protested. ‘Give a guy a break.’

She grinned up at him. ‘That’s more fun than girls ?’ She released him. ‘At your age, I guess it is.’

Barrett broke away. By the time he had reached the sidewalk, breathless, he knew that he had lost five minutes. He looked up and down Melrose, but no one resembling Jerry Griffith was in sight. There were more youngsters in line, waiting to get inside the club. Barrett approached them. He explained to the ones at the head of the line that he was searching for someone who’d left the club a few minutes earlier. He tried to describe Jerry Griffith. He found he could not do so effectively. The only outstanding describable feature that Jerry had might well be his neatly combed hair. Even that brought no recognition.

‘Well, he came out of the club on the run,’ added Barrett. ‘Does that ring a bell?’

‘He was running?’ chirped a long-tressed girl. ‘Yeah, there was one kid who came out fast, ‘cause I remember saying, “Maybe the Chant scared him.” ‘ The others in line laughed, and then the girl said to Barrett, ‘I think he went thataway.’ She pointed west, and there was more laughter. Barrett thanked her and started up Melrose toward La Cienega Boulevard.

He walked and walked, poking into open stores, crossing and recrossing the street, but nowhere was Jerry Griffith to be seen. After fifteen minutes, he was back where he had started.

Disconsolately, Barrett acknowledged defeat. He headed into the darkened dirt parking area. Nearing his convertible, he realized that in his frustration and haste he had overlooked the most obvious lead to Jerry’s whereabouts. This parking lot. If Jerry had not left the neighborhood in a rush, his car would have still been parked here when Barrett had come out. He could have waited by the lot entrance until Jerry came by to get the car and drive home. By now he had probably long since taken his car and left.

Yet, small hope, maybe the boy’s car was still here. Barrett tried to recall the make of the vehicle. He had seen it noted in his office file folder on the Griffith boy. It was a British automobile. Definitely. At once it came back to him. A recent-model white Rover sedan.

He halted and glanced about. There was a gray Thunderbird, and there was an old dirty white Jaguar, and there was a recent-model white Rover sedan. His hope quickened. Probably dozens of newish white Rover sedans were out tonight in Los Angeles. Nevertheless, this might be Jerry’s own.

Barrett moved toward the Rover. As he came up behind it, even in this poorly lit corner of the parking area, he could see that there was someone in the front seat. He circled the car cautiously, in case the person were two persons and they were making out.

Arriving at the rolled-up window of the front door, he could see

that it was one person. It was a young man, and he was slumped over the steering wheel, very still, as if in sleep. The hair, the side of the face - enough to tell him that it was Jerry Griffith.

Barrett hesitated, then a terrible thought entered his head, and he hesitated no longer. He rapped on the glass. The figure draped over the wheel did not move.

Hastily Barrett tried the front door. It opened, and as it opened, Jerry Griffith’s limp form slid off the wheel and began to fall sideways. Barrett caught him and with an effort shoved him upright. The boy was unconscious, his eyes closed, his face as ashen as a mask of death.

‘Jerry,’ Barrett whispered to him, ‘Jerry, can you hear me?’

There was no answer.

The inert form remained lifeless.

Barrett bent into the car, trying to determine whether the boy was breathing and whether any pulse beat could be detected in the wrist. Doing so, he realized that the open door had lighted the car’s interior, and for the first time he could see what lay on the front seat beside Jerry. There was an empty pill container. On the car floor, an empty soda bottle, the chaser.

Jerry Griffith had attempted suicide.

Had he succeeded ?

Still not sure, Barrett pressed his ear against Jerry’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. He could hear none over the sounds of Dylan’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ seeping out of the rear of The Underground Railroad. Barrett concentrated on the pulse again. At first his fingers felt nothing, but then there was a tiny jump, and he couldn’t be certain whether it was from the boy’s pulse or was due to his own fingers’ nerve ends.

Instantly Barrett’s brain received and sorted the alternatives for his next act. He could summon the Fire Department’s emergency squad or he could try to resuscitate the boy himself by getting him on his feet and inducing him to vomit or he could speed him to a private doctor.

Each possibility provided a risk. The Fire Department offered the most expeditious help - and the guarantee of a second scandal visited upon the boy, a second death without dying, presuming he was still alive. An attempt to resuscitate the boy by himself was the fastest kind of first aid, but it was also the most amateurish and inadequate. A private doctor was the slowest but the safest course -and immediately Barrett’s mind was made up, for he had thought of a physician who was near and would help. Doc Quigley, his own physician ever since he had made his home in Los Angeles, had his residence on North Arden Drive, in Beverly Hills, just a quick, short drive away. He had called Doc Quigley only last week and set up a dinner date, because he had wanted to ask the Doc some questions about the pathology of rape. Quigley had made the d ate, busy though he was, working long evenings at home on a professional paper he was soon to deliver. More likely than not, he would be at home. And, no matter what happened, he would be discreet.