Any Resemblance to Actual Persons (28 page)

It's all right there, the ocular and audible proof, indisputable and irrefutable, that identifies Welles—not my father—as the real killer!

I have to water the lawn.

When she moved out, Julia left Chris instructions to water the new lawn, and when Chris moved out he left the instructions for me. Simple enough instructions, but I've been forgetting about it until just now, so I ran out and cranked on the water, just watched it for a while, the sprinkler screwed to the end of the hose, waving its lazy curtain of water back and forth, the midday sun making rainbows in the mist, and I walked over and lowered my head and let the water splash over my face, starting at the top of my head, moving down to my chest, then moving back up my face, gurgling into my nostrils, and it felt good. I'm dripping water on the keyboard, should get a towel before I short-circuit my Wheelwriter.

Just got off the phone with Dean Hockney at COLA. By “just,” I mean about an hour ago. Been doing a lot of pacing since then. Since last sitting down at this typewriter been in a bit of a panic. The fall semester starts in a week and still haven't received my fall teaching schedule. Usually get it midsummer, should have gotten it a while ago, but been too busy with this to notice. Yesterday, was toweling off my head and saw the light on the answering machine blinking and pushed play, heard Rory saying he found the flashlight and was glad to have it back but that if I came around their home again without being invited
they were going to call the police. Next message was Julia awkwardly asking what my teaching schedule for the fall would be, asking that we keep things nice and professional if we bump into each other in the halls. Thought about calling her back—I now have an answer to her “why” question—but I got distracted, realized I didn't have my teaching schedule for the fall. So I called Dean Hockney, but he was already gone for the day, had to wait until this morning to call him back. His receptionist tried to block me with excuses, said he was out, but she's a terrible liar—I could actually hear the sound of her looking into Hockney's windowed office, seeing him sitting there with his Hush Puppies resting up on his metal desk, and formulating that lie—and I was persuasive enough that she eventually, after a few callbacks, patched me through. Asked Hockney where my teaching schedule was, hadn't received it yet. Hockney said he needed to talk with me. I said we are talking. He said over half my English 1 students dropped in the spring semester. I explained they couldn't handle the new workload, that I was shifting pedagogical paradigms. He said look. At what? He said listen. I said I am. He said if a business lost half its customers, that business would not be in business anymore. He said if a worker lost half his clients, that worker should not be working anymore. He asked if I agreed. I asked him who he was talking about. Listen, he said. I am, I said. “In this economic environment, COLA cannot tolerate a fifty percent customer attrition rate. I cannot offer you any classes for the fall semester. I'm sorry, Paul.”

Was standing in the middle of the living room, the phone still at my ear, listening to the growl of Hockney's post-hang-up dial tone for so long I no longer heard it. The TV was on, didn't remember turning
it on. Had been watching something the night before, a painting show hosted by a man with a soothing voice, had thought it might help me fall asleep (woke up on the couch this morning, guess it worked), so it's possible the TV had been on all night. Now one of those morning shows was on, maniacally cheery hosts wearing pastels and bleachy smiles, sipping from coffee mugs, saying
good morning
so frequently and insistently that it was unclear if it was a greeting, a command, or they were simply and insanely repeating the name of the show, some sort of existential reassurance: I am here, this is the show I am on, this is the world in which I am existing. The orange-faced host introduced a movie clip featuring Winona Ryder. I wondered why I was having trouble hearing the dialogue, realized I was still listening to the dial tone, hung up the phone, massaged my ear, and watched the rest of the clip: Ryder in a glossy black wig and a glossy black dress, her skin so white you half expect to see a network of blue veins beneath it, sitting at the counter of what must be Schwab's Pharmacy, flirting with a fat, gangsterish man. The clip was suddenly over and the host was in the studio, sitting on plush but unforgiving-looking chairs with a man definitely not from the
good morning
universe: no pastels, no smile visible beneath his Stalinesque moustache, just beady eyes behind round black-rimmed glasses, wearing a rumpled gray suit and a fedora. A ribbon rolled across the bottom of the screen, introducing me to “Thomas Cooley, author of
Dahlia
.” Host gave some incongruently cheery-sounding exposition to the camera about Cooley's long and illustrious career writing novels that “expose the dark underbelly of the Los Angeles underworld,” comparing him to a latter-day Chandler or Hammett, and that his first and most popular novel
Dahlia
was now
a major motion picture, itself a fictionalized re-creation of the famous Black Dahlia murder. Cooley didn't blink. What was it like watching your novel hitting the silver screen? the host wanted to know. I was expecting Cooley to just mumble monosyllabically and continue to stare murderously at the host. Instead, he took a breath and launched into: “They call it the silver screen, sir, because supposedly—silver thread once laced the screen so as to better reflect the lily-light faces of Mansfield and Monroe—a glowing light, a pure light.” He spoke in a quavering voice, pausing Shatner-like several times in a single sentence. “But Mansfield lost her head, and Monroe—her heart. The silver web in that screen—catches even the wiliest waifs—and doesn't let them go. Such is the tale—of Miss Short. Caught in the silver-spooled gossamer—of Hollywood, only to find herself bitten—by a sinister spider.” Elmore Leonard adapted the novel for the screen, the host continued, and the two of you are seen as contemporaries. What was it like to work with him? “The Dahlia has haunted me since—I was a boy,” Cooley continued, in a voice that seemed to be providing its own reverberation. “Just as her killer—fed on her soul, I too—have stolen a part of her. Just as her killer—turned her into his plaything, I too—have turned her into mine, by writing—my masterpiece,
Dahlia
.” The host then asked if Cooley thought the popularity of the film might cause the police to relaunch the investigation. “No one,” Cooley said, “can know the Dahlia, but—no one knows her better—than I.” The host then recapped the details about the movie and threw to a lady at a desk who began talking about how I might spruce up my house with some fun fall colors. I turned off the TV, but perhaps I should have kept it on and listened to the decorating advice. My living room is not looking very seasonal these days. I
stripped the east wall of all its clutter—mostly framed black-and-white photos of French bistros that I'd bought because I thought they looked authentic, but also a few family photos, me and Chris—and replaced it with a Black Dahlia timeline: a fifteen-foot-long strip of electrical tape, the start of which I labeled
1941
, the end
1965
, and in between I've tacked every photo I've found, every bit of evidence scrawled on an index card, a length of yarn connecting it to its precise moment on the timeline. The 1947 part of the timeline is so crowded, all the evidence branching out like a sunrise on the horizon, that I've had to devote the opposite wall to a 1947 inset. Julia was right: Getting organized has really helped. And I now know what I need to do with all this evidence. Cooley said it himself: No one knows the case better than him. Sure, he was a little nervous in the interview, perhaps, and had prewritten all his answers, which didn't always align with the questions, but he was out of his element. His real element isn't TV—it's this case. He clearly cares more about it than any cop or true crime publisher. And with that fucking blurb he gave his seal of approval to Edie's book, endorsing my father as the real killer. He's the real judge and jury, he's the one the public will believe. I need to find him. He needs to see the evidence on Welles.

Having trouble finding him.

Not in the phone book, of course. Not sure where else to look. Never went looking for anyone before.

Talked to a neighbor today, the one whose drained pool is starting to fill up with pine needles. She asked where Chris is these days. I asked her how you go about finding someone you can't find. She looked worried, said if Chris has gone missing, I should call the police.
No, no, not Chris, a famous person, or moderately famous person, moderately famous in certain circles, I need to find a person who is moderately famous in certain circles. She suggested the Internet. Of course—Chris helped me find Oliver like that. But Julia took her computer with her. Chris took his computer with him. No computers in the house. Heading to the library.

Back from the library. Success. Or partial success. Searched for Cooley online, found nothing but press stuff for the books and movies. Looked at some interviews, skimmed them till I realized he would probably not mention his address or personal phone number as an aside while expounding on the fate of the crime genre. Tried searching his name plus the word “address,” only found a picture of him delivering the keynote address at the Mystery Writers Guild's 1989 conference in St. Paul, Minn. Wearing the same fedora I saw on TV. Tried searching for his literary agent. No dice. Somewhere in all that searching, I found myself reading a review of his latest novel, about a retired private eye who finds himself framed for murder. The idea of reviewing got me distracted, and I made a brief detour to
Grade-a-Prof.com
to see if there were any more positive reviews of me. None, but I did scroll back to that one kind review—
he's nice i liked the class
—dated two years ago, wondered again about the shy waif who'd posted it. Realized I needed to get back on track, clicked the back button till I was at the review of Cooley's new book again, saw the words “private eye” sprinkled across the page. Of course. I'm going to get a private eye to find Cooley for me. That's their job. I found dozens of private eyes online, wrote down their phone numbers, have the list here, going to call.

Just got off the phone. First number didn't answer. Second number said only does cheating cases, motel work. Said he just invested in an infrared camera. Third guy said he'd find Cooley, hundred bucks a day plus expenses.

Met with my PI today. Wasn't what I was expecting. Kind of fat but in that womanly way, very hip-heavy. Smelled like Starbursts. Lots of paperwork around his office, said he was also a CPA. I paid him, he handed me an envelope, said all Cooley's info was inside. Said if I did any harm to Cooley, he wouldn't take any personal responsibility. I said I wasn't going to hurt Cooley. He said if I wanted to, he could put me in touch with a guy. He also told me to keep him in mind come tax season.

Got Cooley's info here on my desk, address and phone number handwritten on a four-by-five card. Going tomorrow, spending tonight organizing my thoughts. Need to go in there ready to make a clear and concise pitch. Must have all the evidence clearly laid out, all the movie clips ready to cue up, all the photos and passages ready for him to see. My one chance, can't fuck it up. I think it's Thursday. Have to water the lawn again.

Was wrong. It's Wednesday. Had already watered the lawn when I realized it is Wednesday. Saw some sick-looking patches near the back. Brownish grass creeping in along the seams in the sod, like linoleum tiles curling at the edges. Gonna just water the fuck out of it. Maybe pick up grass food tomorrow when I see Cooley.

I didn't pick up any grass food. I completely forgot about it until just now when I sat down and saw that last sentence there. I think I had it in mind that after seeing Cooley I'd swing by the store (though
by “the” I'm not really sure which, as I have no idea where one might find grass food—a crematorium?), but by the time I left his house today I felt pretty unsettled and wasn't thinking that well. I wound up driving to Pinz and playing a few frames to clear my head. I hoped Chuck might be there, but I couldn't find him. Haven't seen him in a while. He'd be happy to see that I'm improving. Four strikes today. There's really nothing like the satisfying sound of the ball connecting with the one pin, the initial crack melding with the crash of the other pins, a perfect chain reaction, a perfectly controlled violence, a rudimentary chaos you create only to see it swept away into darkness, the pleasure of destruction meeting the pleasure of tidiness, order restored. In reducing the sport to a simple math of movement you can convince yourself that you're not really thinking anymore, that you're not really here. It wasn't working as well today though. I couldn't disappear my thoughts quite as easily. I'd gone over to Cooley's house with a clear plan, all my material ready for the pitch, the Welles evidence all laid out, but I never even got to exhibit A.

He lives off Benedict Canyon, up one of those winding streets with no sidewalks, just ancient houses whose protective phalanx of flora you can no longer distinguish from the houses themselves, where Joe Gillis might have met his end. Finding the actual house was difficult, as addresses were more often than not obscured, but after parking my car at a little overlook—the view from which you could imagine being impressive at night, when Hollywood is just a jewelry display case of glittering lights below, but at eleven in the morning the smog was so dense it turned the whole panorama sepia tone—I walked from house to house, pushing aside bougainvilleas to find addresses stenciled on
walls, and finally found Cooley's. A wall of hedges surrounded the house. I pushed open the gate and on my way to his front door passed a menagerie of what might have been unkempt topiary sculptures or simply bushes that had grown into strange Rorschach shapes: Is that a bunny rabbit, or is that my own projection of my mother's genitalia, or is that just a nice myrtle bush?