I'll Let You Go (61 page)

It would have been easy to enlist one of the men in suits for this particular bit of business, but Mr. Trotter's unfailing instincts told him otherwise. Because the Monasterio brothers were busy enough with dynastic chores, he called up Sling Blade and for a not inconsequential “palming” had him escort Marcus to SeaShelter. (The moonlighting caretaker had been forced to call in sick; and while Dot Campbell was displeased, she strenuously offered to bring chicken soup to his Culver City apartment—an offer as strenuously rebuffed.) Some of the more conservative advisers warned that an outside visit was premature and that he should be accompanied by two guards at least. The old man waved them off. He had his concerns but was learning to let go; if Marcus ran away again, perhaps then it had been in the stars all along. Louis Trotter would do his best and could do no more.

When they arrived at the Olympic Boulevard sanctuary, things were as they had always seemed. The hangar was mostly empty, as residents were not allowed indoors during the day. The skeleton staff greeted Marcus
with vacant looks. They didn't recognize him, for he had lost a great deal of weight (less as a consequence of imprisonment than of the nefarious conspiracies of nutritionist and trainer). He still wore donated clothes, but of a different ilk than prior castoffs; Mr. Trotter's tailor, Ray Montalvo, had made stylishly incremental adjustments to a number of long dark coats and crisp white shirts sent over from Barneys and Maxfield's.

The quondam boarder finally introduced himself, but that was no good either, because he used “Marcus Weiner.” A few of the staffers squinted hard before moving closer. “It's William!” he shouted at last—they recoiled, startled and uncomprehending, yet captivated nonetheless. Sling Blade handily jumped in to clarify, and had never strung more words together in his life: Mr. Weiner—
William
—had subsequently been cleared of all charges, he said officiously, and was now a free man. On recovering from their initial shock (having long since envisioned their once-favorite “guest” to be comfortably ensconced on death row), the staffers extended a warm and courteous welcome, and soon a half-dozen gathered around. Curiously, they asked no details of crime or exoneration but
did
somewhat skittishly presume that he had returned to pick up where he left off. The counselor who not long ago had scanned Le Marmiton's shelves for tainted treats spoke up, half joking that an official notice of his “acquittal” would have to be presented before William—
Mr. Weiner
—might actually be reassigned bed and locker. Before Marcus could respond, Sling Blade, with great aplomb, said the gentleman would most definitely
not
be returning, for his benefactor had arranged that he be
well
taken care of pending the results of a “massive action against the state involving matters of false arrest, false imprisonment and police brutality, not to mention libel, slander and defamation of character.” The staff took this bulletin with appropriate solemnity.

Now off the hook, they let Marcus know their outrage at the Gestapo-like actions of the SMPD and their cynicism upon hearing the charges proffered. They were free to share with him their hysteria after he'd been hauled away—they were only human!—and how anxious they had been for a while about the, ahem,
quality
of his desserts, for they wondered if, aside from being an (alleged) strangler and a rapist, he wasn't a (potential) poisoner to boot—it all sounded so silly now, so screwball!—and how they'd been unsuccessful in their attempts to retrieve the cookies and pastries, because there weren't any left. That's
how popular the damn things were! (There was money lying around somewhere for William, they assured, royalties on goods sold.) And how they checked the newspaper each day for reports of victims … the lawsuits they imagined! Did you ever see the Keystone Kops? asked one of the staffers, rhetorically. Well, that was us—for a while, anyway.

Even Marcus joined in the laughter.

As Sling Blade had remained stoic, one of the counselors on a more serious note reminded that they had become purveyors of his confections because they wished him to get a leg up, and their intentions had been pure from the beginning—and that he had been the most successful guest to have ever passed through shelter doors. Seeing how at least
William
was still convivial, they pulled up chairs as he extemporized on his prison ordeal.

“They call the place Twin Towers, and a more evil set of twins you're unlikely to meet! It wasn't easy receiving visitors, and frankly, I'm glad for it—I wouldn't have wanted Janey to see me that way, all shackled up. It would have upset her no end.”

They looked at him, and looked away too.

“What is it, then?”

The one who had first discovered his talents with a saucepan took Marcus by the arm and walked him away. “There is bad news.”

“Let me have it, man!”

“Jane … is dead. She was murdered. It happened the day after your arrest.”

“My arrest?” He repeated it, as if it related to someone else. “How—”

“In the old Tropicana … that's where they found her. A man killed her—”

“The Tropicana? A man …—
what
man?”

“I don't know. She killed him, too—stabbed him dead.”

“Stabbed him—” He said the phrase over and again, like someone frantically trying to recall a crucial code by saying key words aloud. “Stabbed
who
?
—
”

“The man who attacked her.”

Sling Blade, that Ph.D. of misery, had been eavesdropping, and moved closer to put a hand on Marcus's biceps for support.

“We're sorry, William. She was doing so great. Of course, she wasn't happy about you being arrested … When I went to identify her—one of the officers who found the body recognized Jane from having seen her on
the night they took
you
—I claimed her property. She had a knapsack, and that was all. We've got her hearing aids, if you want them. She had something of yours—she was on her way to the jail to give it to you.”

An associate had already fetched the item, stowed in a slick gray garbage bag with a built-in bright yellow cinch, and passed it to the one doing all the talking. It was handed to Marcus, who gingerly looked inside.

“That's it, no?” asked the counselor. “What we gave her from your locker?”

Marcus reached into the bag and pulled out his diary, still wrapped in grocery paper and hemp. There was a brown smear of blood on it.

“Isn't that what you asked Jane to bring you? She was probably on her way when she got mixed up with the man who attacked her.”

Slipped beneath the frayed string was an envelope addressed “To my Darling Will.”

T
oulouse fled to Stradella House for Thanksgiving supper as the mood at Saint-Cloud was forbidding. His mother had taken to bed, and the self-righteous boy guessed drugs were at fault. Bluey was dragged kicking and screaming all the way to Alzheimer's World; Grandpa Lou took her absence hard.

We lied when saying Toulouse “fled”—the old man ordered him to go, knowing the domestic air to be clouded even more than usual. The truth was he didn't want Trinnie blabbing to the boy about the reappearance of his dad, which in her current state she was resoundingly capable of.

The cousins took this forced reunion as a welcome rapprochement. In short order, with much thanks to Pullman (a natural icebreaker), the three were together again as if never parted. They caught up on various enterprises, and gossiped, too—about a few “pieces of intelligence” regarding Trinnie's beaux. The first, from Toulouse, seemed anticlimactic on the telling: the detective and his mother had definitively broken it off. Lucy was particularly thrilled, never having completely gotten over her crush; now and then during class, her pulse quickened while daydreaming that she had Mr. Dowling in the 747 ready for takeoff. The second bit of news was more delicious. As it turned out, the Screenwriter Formerly Known as Rafe had struck paydirt and was now actually dating Diane
Keaton. Edward said the great actress had even asked him to punch up the movie she was directing (featuring Boulder Langon as the juvenile lead). But there was no discussion of the runaway girl; the subject was too radioactive. Toulouse slept in the main house, and took great care in avoiding Olde CityWalk altogether—the mere thought of the Boar's Head garret and the perfect picture of that sad-eyed gamine staring down through its trapdoor were enough to cause a catch in his throat.

In the late afternoon, they gathered at table. Joyce shabbily asked where his mother was on this Thanksgiving Day, and Toulouse, not half because Amaryllis was still on his mind, spontaneously said, “A dinner for orphans.” Lucy nearly choked on her marshmallow'd yams; Edward grinned—
touché
—for his cousin had killed two birds with one stone: not only had he boldly referenced their illicit boarder, but he had also stood on Joyce's nerve by implying that Trinnie would be more inclined to help the abandoned living than the abandoned dead.

But his comment had a deeper meaning—at meal's end, he promptly announced that he wished to go home.

He thanked his hosts and said heartfelt good-byes to Lucy and Edward. That was the wondrous thing of being their age; they hadn't yet the sophistication to shut a final door—whereas in adulthood bruised feelings born of shared adversity become the stuff of feud, and mysteriously acquire permanence. The spite of children is truly child's play; grown-ups hate for all eternity.

T
he light in his mother's room was on, and he decorously rapped at the door. She softly asked if it was Winter (who'd been told she could stay on indefinitely even though Bluey would not return) and was surprised when Toulouse answered.

He slipped in with her assent.

Trinnie lay in bed in the dark, in a crumb-stained Ghesquière caftan. She asked him to hand her a glass of water. She looked druggy.

“Are you sick?”

“No—why? And why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you … taking drugs?”

“No, I'm
not
taking drugs. Are
you
? You're not being very respectful. I'm tired. And I don't feel well.”

“That's what you say when you're taking drugs.”

“I thought you were with Lucy and Edward.”

“I wanted to come home. I need to talk to you.”

“You mean you need to
torture
me—I told you: I'm not taking anything, OK?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the girl.”

“What girl?”

“Amaryllis. The one Samson was looking for.”

“What about her? You didn't get her pregnant, did you?”

“No,”
he said, bringing all his youthful contempt and puritanism to bear. “I want you to talk to Samson. I need to know if they found her.”

“You really like that wild child, don't you? ‘The diplomat's daughter.' ”

He shyly nodded, averting his eyes.

“C'mere.”

He crawled into bed and snuggled up. “I'm worried about her—I just feel like it was all my fault. We could have worked it out, couldn't we? Grandpa could have made it so Amaryllis could have stayed …”

“You can't save the world, Toulouse. And you can't save everyone in it.”

“I don't
want
to save everyone—I just want to save
her
.”

“People have their own lives, their own destinies. Their own karma.”

He didn't want to hear any of her negative mysticism. “I—I just worry that I'll never
see
her again. Like—you and Dad … only I didn't get a chance to really know her. At least you and Dad—at least you got
married—
”

He didn't want to hurt her; he thought to himself how he was always ruining everything.

She blew her nose and looked at him with a face disfigured by irresolution. “Oh, Toulouse! You should know this, you should know this …—but I promised your grandfather I wouldn't say!”

His heart stuck in his throat. “They found her … something
happened
—”

“I can't, I can't!” she said, scurrying to light a cigarette. She was wild-eyed now. “I said I wouldn't, but I can't keep it from you! I promised him—but I can't!”

“She's dead, she's dead!” he cried. He stood and shouted—
demanded
to know: “Who killed her!”

“Tull, it's your father—your father came back, Tull! He came back, he came back, he came back!”

He reeled away, and only the wall held him up. His mother nattered on, sobbing and mumbling and blowing her nose as she rushed to the bathroom, then out again, inadvertently exposing one tit, then another. In his shock, he heard only a few isolated phrases: “jail for murder,” “Grandpa got him sprung,” “four hundred pounds!”

That night he stayed in the Dane's great villa, curled into the dog like a pup. As Half Dead before him, Toulouse licked his wounds in preparation for war.

L
ouis Trotter ignored the calls from his physicians. He'd been feeling much better since the emergency-room visit; his collar buttons were even fastening again. While such indifference to “follow-up” was perhaps unwise, it should not of necessity be considered a harbinger of doom—the old man had survived all manner of assault to his various systems, in degrees both large and small. It would take a lot to bring him down.

He busied himself with Bluey, who was still settling in—if that's the appropriate phrase when all the settling is done for you, and nearly against your will. He held her hand and occasionally ducked or broke away when the going got rough; then clucked and chuffed and asked of her his pet question over the years: “And how, little girl Blue, do you like your new digs?” (The thin humor of this being that she had always called him the digger.) “I don't like them at all,” she said cogently and it pierced him through and through.