ELEVEN

Rose may be trouble, but she’s right that unless her ex-husband was lying—and he didn’t seem like the type who would bother—that it’s not the post office who took Howard and the books, and without the post office, I doubt any other government agencies would know about them. Which means right now, the only other option is the mob. I’m tempted to go right to the casino, but Bridges would just put on his mask and tell me nothing again. I need more information on the book, and its author. Joe, the missing mobster, seems the most obvious candidate, but I’m not sure, and neither was DeeDee, which means Howard was keeping it secret. Even from her.

I wonder if that was at Joe’s request. Or just Howard trying to protect her. A gay mob memoir means angry mobsters. I wonder if Joe might be having second thoughts himself, and decided to cancel publication—which Howard objected to. Writing it in the first place seems like suicide … though the way DeeDee talks about Howard, getting caught up in ideas, schemes … if he heard a bunch of stories from Joe, maybe he wrote them up himself. That would be suicide, too.

And I know a thing or two about suicide, the games I’ve been playing with the loaded gun that is Rose Rainmeyer. I’ll need to investigate Joe and Howard more, but I want to check her out before she turns up around another corner. I head over to the library, the periodicals section. It doesn’t take much digging to find Rose Rainmeyer’s published pieces. There’s the one she did on Jan Westman, where she interviewed me, and then going back about fifteen years there’s more—some puff pieces or profiles of important women in the city, and then some of the crime writing she prefers to do—profiles of victims, mostly. Her work is sporadic, and credit is often shared with a man, even the one about the wiretapping that got her ex fired. There’s even a few by R. Rainmeyer, like they didn’t want anyone to see her name and know she was a woman. But the stories are always good. I take the time to read all the crime pieces; several on the mob, with surprisingly candid quotes from “unnamed sources” who are clearly high up in the Mafia. Or maybe just the one source, who she makes sound like a bunch of different guys. He’s chatty, too, revealing a lot more than Bridges ever has to me.

There are also lots of interviews with victims of muggings, robbery. She has an ability to coax them, or maybe just an intuition for where the story really is, but she focuses on their experiences. She tells their stories compellingly, and paints them as fully realized people, complex, and undeserving of what’s been done to them. And that makes the crimes seem that much worse.

It would all be swell, I suppose, except for those stories that clearly prioritize the truth, and her complex writing, over people’s safety. A piece where she talks to Black dockworkers and quotes one by name saying they should be paid more—I’ll bet that got him fired, or worse. An interview with a man in Chinatown who claimed his landlord refused to repair anything, and the police wouldn’t help. He and his store are named. I wonder where his store is now, if he even has one. Even in the Jan Westman case, she spoke to a friend of Jan’s, Amelia Carson, and then revealed that she had also been involved in the pornography Jan was forced into. That would probably ruin her life. The story takes priority over the people. Which is just what Rose has been telling me this whole time.

I can’t find anything by her before 1936, but she might have been writing under her maiden name then, or maybe that’s when she started—though she said it was when she was much younger. It doesn’t matter—I know what I came to find out for sure; that under all the charm, she’s just as dangerous as I thought she was. She might have been helpful, with her mob contacts, and under different circumstances, I might even like her. But I can’t let Rose Rainmeyer keep digging into this story. I need to find Howard to find the list, or it’s going to be much worse than that list getting out—it’ll be me on the front page, and all my clients in danger.

Leaving the library, I half expect her to be there, waiting with a smile on her face and wiggling her fingers in a smile. But it’s just the city, chilly and gray. I’m not better prepared for her, I realize. I just know even more what kind of threat she is. I need to focus on the case, the list, and that means I need to know more about the missing book, and there’s one place I haven’t looked yet.

I feel in my pocket for the key DeeDee gave me, and hop the streetcar back up to the bookstore, but walk past it, to where she said Howard’s apartment was. It’s afternoon now, and the neighborhood still smells like smoke and sweat, and the vague smell of drugs. I see a few kids in black reading a book together on a stoop, passing a cigarette between them. They look up when I walk past, and laugh. A few buildings down from them is Howard’s building—star on the door, like DeeDee had said.

His apartment is on the ground floor, in the back. It’s small and crowded, which makes it feel smaller. I call out Howard’s name, but there’s no reply. There’s a little kitchenette, but the table and counters are all covered in books and papers, so I can’t imagine he cooks much. The living room has a worn floral sofa with a dent on one side, and a coffee table in front of it. Both of those are also covered in books, letters, papers. On the table, there’s an empty teacup with a picture of a knight on it, and next to that, a typewriter on the table, no paper in it, the ribbon worn and loose, faint imprints of all the words shared still on it. There’s a radio, but no TV, and the brown carpet underfoot smells like dust. I open the door to the bedroom: an unmade bed, shelves of books, some lying on the bed itself, some on the ground. The one on the bed is Tales of King Arthur and the Round Table. The bathroom is the only place without any papers in it, but there’s two books piled on the back of the toilet. The windows look out on a little garden behind the building. The shades are all drawn, and without the lights on, the place is dark. He probably turned on every lamp as soon as he got home, and then wandered around, reading his books, his letters. And he clearly hasn’t packed up, running from the mob, or away with a lover. Wherever he is, he wasn’t expecting to be there this long.

I poke in the drawers and cabinets, looking for the list—a little brown address book, DeeDee had said—but I don’t find one. No address books at all—which, when I look at all the letters around the place, means he either had it on him, or he really is as good at remembering addresses as everyone’s said. Neither are comforting thoughts. I try looking for signs to his whereabouts outside the letters, hoping for matchboxes, ticket stubs, receipts from his favorite spots, but it soon becomes clear that if I want to figure out what was going on in his life, how he spent his time aside from reading, I need to go through his mail. I don’t love the feeling, it’s somehow a more intimate invasion than rifling in his underwear drawer; it’s exactly what Rose Rainmeyer’s ex-husband talked about doing, what I thought could have started all this. But if Howard’s alive, and I find him through these letters, and keep him from turning over addresses—like Pat’s—then it’ll be worth it.

I start on the sofa, just trying to get a sense of what all the letters are. Many of them seem to be from subscribers to the book service: letters about books they loved, people thanking him for recommendations, their feelings on what they’ve read, how they loved it, or hated it, how they cried or threw the book across the room. Several thank him for introducing them to other pen pals—other people Howard was writing. They’re friends now, too, through the letters, through Howard. Some are even more than friends. The letters also talk about books, about being gay, about how reading makes them feel, about movies, TV, theater, art, family. It’s like a tapestry of readers—one Howard wove himself. A whole community, across California and a few other states, too. Joined by being gay, and stories about being gay. It’s like the Ruby, but in writing. It’s beautiful. I know I’m just a voyeur here, but reading them all, I feel like I’m part of something, a new family I didn’t know about. I feel the sagging sofa grow more comfortable as I settle in, reading, becoming part of something, even just on the outside.

Some of the letters are romantic, or at least flirtatious. “Your mind is beautiful, Howard, I wish we could meet in person so I could see if your face matches.” “Oh, Howie, I dream about us meeting in person someday, and drinking cocoa while talking books at a café, or maybe at my place?” I snort a laugh at that one, flipping through them. I wonder why he left these out if he was bringing Merle over. Maybe he trusted that Merle couldn’t read them … but he could have been wrong. Merle seems fragile, but I’ve seen fragile people kill.

I keep looking through the letters, hoping for evidence of … what? A sign of where Howard could be? Something that would make Bridges tell me if he had him? Joe, maybe? There are a lot of letters from Joes.

It takes me about an hour just to go through every letter, looking at the names at the bottom of them. I divide all the Joes and Josephs in their own pile and read those first. Most of them are just thank-you notes, for books or recommendations. A few are flirty. None mention publishing a memoir, or being in the mob. Though I’d be surprised if they wrote that down.

I put the flirty ones aside, then go through all the rest of the letters. One letter, signed only M, says that he’d love to see more stories about criminal men—“we’re all criminals, anyway”—and talks about organized crime. One talks about having fun at a casino with Howard, but it’s from someone named Arthur, not Joe. A few letters talk about memoirs, though, and one of those is signed J.

DEAR HOWARD,

I agree with you that more gay memoirs need to be published. I’ve often thought of writing one myself. My life is very interesting, you understand. And the men I’ve been with—the things I’ve done. I’d show you, if you wanted. But how does one go about writing a memoir? Do I just buy an electromatic typewriter and start clacking away? There must be more to it than that, right? Some art? Do you know the secret? I’d love to discuss this in person. Stop by the milliner sometime!

-J

I’m not sure what a milliner is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not where a mobster would be hanging out. Still, I make a note of it, and all the others. Only a few have addresses on their stationery, and only a few of those are even in the city, but visiting them feels like a waste. What I’ve found here isn’t clues, it’s a community. My community, I guess, if I read more. And this almost makes me want to. The people talk about books and the way they see themselves in these stories when they can’t see themselves anywhere else. It reminds me of the first time I went to a gay bar, back in LA. I was nineteen, terrified. I had walked by the place a few times and it wasn’t until the week before that I’d sensed something different about it. The men going in felt familiar in a way I couldn’t place, like the guys I sometimes locked eyes with in regular bars, in the locker room in school, that electricity. I’d been afraid and drawn to it all at once, and told myself it was just a bar, there was no harm. Inside I realized exactly what kind of a place it was, though. The men let their fingertips brush each other, they laughed in high voices and let their wrists slope beautifully, terrifyingly, down to the ground.

I knew what a faggot was, of course. And I knew I might be one. But I never knew that we could get together in groups and laugh. I’d stood in the door for what felt like an hour before one man with a pencil mustache came over and laid his hand on my arm and said, “Don’t be shy. You’re new?”

I’d looked at him, and he looked at me, and I knew he saw me the way I saw him. I turned around and left. I heard him sigh as I did.

I wonder if I would have been braver if I’d seen myself not in a bar first, but in a book. With a book, I would have seen myself without feeling like someone else could see me. Safer. I envy these people, this group of gay book lovers. Maybe I will read more. When the case is over.

But if Howard knew all these people, and he had a real memory for addresses, then all the more reason to find him, and soon. It’s not just Pat and baby Rina at stake. It’s everyone writing these letters. Enough people to fill the Ruby twice over.

It’s fragile, too. It may not have a central meeting spot like the Ruby, where the cops could find everyone, but if the police were to come in here, read these letters, see these names … a lot of people could be in trouble. All it would take is one of them mentioning the letters, the book club, and all these people … all of them would be in danger. But I don’t think any of them would have done it. Not with the way they write Howard, with so much affection and appreciation. There are no threats, nothing angry, not even in the trash bin.

There are really only three suspects left; Bridges is the most obvious choice, or at least some mobster, who got wind of the book and decided to cancel its publication, or found out about the affair with Merle and decided to protect the family. This is the most frightening option, too, because they could easily already have dozens of names for blackmail, if they thought to ask. It could be Joe himself, having second thoughts about the memoir and deciding to go back on the deal. He could have taken Howard and the books and run, in which case Howard is probably already dead. This one I’m not sure about, because Joe is a big question mark in my mind. What kind of man would be a gay mobster? Violent? Or more like I was as a cop—arrogant, so proud of his hiding? Until I know more about Joe, I can’t be sure. And then, it could have been Merle, in an act of jealousy. Did he know about the memoir? Did he know Joe? There was something so unsteady in his eyes, his wispy body. Howard was his only lifeline to the world outside the mob. He was everything to him. If Merle felt Howard had betrayed him in some way … well, all it would take would be one moment—Howard wasn’t young, and Merle might be weak, but he’s strong enough to hold a gun, and there are guns aplenty in his world.

But all roads lead me back to the Shore Club. I don’t know how I’ll get anything else out of Bridges, but I need to try. Maybe something else about Joe. If I knew more about him, I might know what’s in the book that makes it worth taking all the copies of it. I pack up my notes and stare at the pile of letters. When they’re stacked up, they look small. Paper is thin. But I can’t just leave them here. If people are after Howard, just leaving them in plain sight isn’t safe. Someone could come in and suddenly have so many names. Even though most of the addresses are gone, there are details in the letters. Enough to paint pictures. And they talk so openly. Too openly. One ripped envelope, and too much blood would pour out. I roll them up and stuff them in my inside pocket. They bulge a little.

The sun went down as I read the letters, and it’s cool out and starting to rain, just a sad drizzle, but the kind that clings to your skin and gets inside and chills you. I wrap my coat tight against my body as I run down the street to Walt’s.

I walk in the back door, not wanting to be too conspicuous, hoping to just leave the letters on the desk there. But DeeDee is back here, sitting at the desk, and turns with a gasp as I come in.

“Oh,” she says, taking me in, her hand at her chest. “I thought you were … I thought…”

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to draw too much attention. You thought I was Howard coming back?”

She laughs at that, but softly. “No, no … I thought you were a mob hitman, come to take care of me.” She shakes her head. “Don’t know why I thought that … Howard … he would have come right in the front door. Whistling, probably, as though nothing had ever been wrong.”

I smile a little at that thought, and then hold back a sigh as I take out the letters. “I went by Howard’s place. He’s not there. But I found these, and thought they might be safer with you…”

I hand her the letters. She takes them, pressing the soft pile in the middle, the ends opening like wings. She looks at them a moment before realizing what they are, then glances up at the desk, where a similar pile, but unopened, sits.

“All these people…” she says.

“Maybe he still will come in whistling,” I say.

She laughs, sadly. “He always did. Even the time he forgot to lock up and we were robbed—cleaned out the till, some of the books, front door wide open. It rained that night, too. Ruined a rug by the door … He strode right in, wet rug, shelves a mess, whistling all the way to the register in the back where I was. Then he saw my face and looked around and said, ‘What’s wrong?’” She laughs again, and shakes her head.

“That doesn’t seem like it should be a happy memory.”

“It’s … a Howard memory,” she says with a shrug. “So many of them are like that. We had a different location, you know, our first year? Thought it made sense to rent from someone in the community. Young man who’d inherited the building. He liked us. Howard especially. And Howard liked him … and then he didn’t. That’s why we moved. I was furious when I found out why we were being kicked out. But Howard found us this place, bigger, lower rent, more customers, and … I could never stay mad at him too long. He was my friend. So many people’s friend…” She sighs and puts the letters on the desk in a pile, next to the unopened ones, and pats them down, like the head of a child. “I don’t know how I’ll … This is what he was good at, you know.” She taps the stack of letters again. “Talking to people about books, getting people to buy them. The one thing he always wanted to do, and has always stayed true to—selling books.”

“How about you?” I ask. “You always sell books?”

“Oh, no. I mean, always worked with them. Howard got a job right after college at a bookstore and worked at a dozen more over the years. Not me, I loved books but I tried my hand at other sides of it. After secretarial school, I worked for a publisher for twenty years, but the company closed down, so that’s when I tried being a librarian. Only started at a bookstore about fifteen years ago, and five years into that, Howard told me he wanted us to open a store together.”

“So you stayed friends through all those years, those different jobs?” I ask.

She laughs, leaning back in her chair, her feet leaving the floor for a moment. “Of course we did, of course. He was the first person I told … and I was the first person he told. A thing like that … we didn’t even meet other gay people for a decade after. We just had us, and our books, to feel less alone. We were a little book group, just the two of us, met every Sunday, like it was church. Read a gay book, talked about it. Every week. More than that, of course, we met for coffee most afternoons, and lunch when we could, and we just talked about our lives, movies, books … Howard’s problems. He always had problems. Got fired so often, and then I had to get him a new job through a friend or something.”

“What did he get fired for?”

She pats the edge of the desk, inviting me to sit, and scoots back in her chair as I do so. “Lateness, mostly. He decided to go for a walk through the park, or stayed up all night reading, and then he was late. Once he decided to repaint the store’s sign without the owner’s permission. He’s always been impulsive. Always follows his heart.”

“And you always cleaned up after him?”

She shrugs. “Like a big sister. That’s what we are, I think, after all these years. Big sister, little brother. Even if we’re the same age. And we’ve kept that book group going for decades. Even after we met other gay people, even after I met my Suzie.” She takes her purse off the desk and fishes out her wallet and from there takes out a small photo that she holds up for me. A white woman of forty or so, smiling at the camera, with a narrow face, pointed nose, and short frizzy bob. DeeDee turns the photo back to her and smiles at it, hugs it, before putting it back. “She came along, too, of course; she loved to read—she was a poet. It was a few years back when … she got sick. That’s when I decided to start trying to publish our own books, too…” She looks up at the shelves of books in the store and then, with a sad smile, walks toward one of them.

“So, it was your idea to publish your own books?” I ask, surprised.

“Well, yes, but Howard loved it. I ran it at first, mostly because I knew how it worked. Printers, typesetters, binders…” She stands suddenly and leads me out into the main shop as she talks. It’s empty, no customers, the windows dark with the rain, drops tapping on the glass. “She was so good. Used to spend time with Gertrude Stein, in Paris. Stein said she had talent!” She stops at a shelf where five or six identical books are laid. She pulls one down and hands it to me. The Last Time, Poems by Suzanne Ward. “But no one would publish her work, and so, when she got sick, I thought that if I did … maybe she’d get better.” She shakes her head.

“I’m sorry she didn’t,” I say.

“It was a foolish notion,” DeeDee says, throwing her hands up in the air, and walking to the register. I follow her, still holding the poetry book. “Silly … fantasy. But once we did one book, I thought there are so many good books out there that never get published. So I did another. Howard helped, of course, helped me find writers, but I chose the books, did the editing. I read them to Suzie, even as she … She was so proud of me.” She smiles, then plucks the book from my hands. “But then, after she passed … I decided to take some time off. Left it all to Howard. So he chose the next book…” She glances at the back room. “And look how that’s gone.”

“So the missing book was Howard’s first book?” I ask.

She takes Suzie’s book and looks at it a moment. “Well, he helped on all the others, like I said, but that was the first one he picked out, edited…” She pulls out brown paper from under the register and starts to wrap the poems. “When I finally felt up to coming back he was so excited, but wanted to keep it a surprise for a little while. Said it was going to knock my socks off. Didn’t tell me until … just before. I was tired so I let him keep his secret until then. Wanted to ease back into it, and he’d already decided to completely reorganize the books in the store, so I had to learn all that.” She chuckles, taping the paper around the book and finishing it with a ribbon. Her hands move with an ease from years of practice. “That’s Howard, though.” She hands the wrapped book to me. “A gift. For helping.”

It seems rude to refuse, so I take it. “Thank you.” It’s a small book, fits in my inside pocket. I almost want to ask her more—more about Suzie, about Howard, about their years together—but the bell rattles as a man comes in, newspaper held over his head because of the rain.

“You looking for something, or just seeking shelter?” DeeDee asks him, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiles.

“I’m looking for something for my son,” he says. “He’s nine now. Something we can read together at bedtime. He loves fairy tales and knights and all that.”

She smiles and comes out from behind the corner and goes to a shelf, pulling down a book with a shiny green-and-yellow dustjacket. The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. “I think I have just the thing.”

I leave as she walks toward him, arm outstretched with the book. Outside the rain is soft, hitting the pavement like the murmuring of people in a theater. I ride the trolley back to Fisherman’s Wharf. The rain hasn’t kept everyone inside, at least not here. Neon signs in the shape of fish are reflected in the water, distorted by the rain rippling its surface. It becomes a mess of colors and the occasional recognizable part of a sign—an eye, a fin—and makes it so when I look away, and back at the street, the real signs are too bright. People huddle under awnings, or rush between them into restaurants, sometimes laughing at the chill of the rain.

I turn down the alley and walk to the Shore Club. No awnings down here to keep me dry, and the pavement gets slick under my feet. Inside, the doorman smiles at me again.

“Getting wet out there, huh?” he asks as I shake my hat off.

“Nah, that’s just me,” I tell him. “Got my own personal rain cloud.”

He laughs as he opens the door. Inside, the band is playing on stage, but Merle isn’t up there singing. It’s more crowded than last time, swarms of people around the tables, shouting at their wins and losses. I spot one man in the corner openly sobbing into his hands. Cigarette smoke trails through the air in the shape of handwriting, cursive, old—or maybe that’s just how my eyes see things after reading all those letters. I weave my way through the crowds to the bar, and Bridges, who sits on the same stool as before, both stools on either side of him empty, even as others crowd the bar farther down. He’s smoking a cigar that veils half his face in smoke as I approach, but the other half smiles at me.

“Hello again, Andy. You think about my offer any?”

“Still working on this case,” I say. “Need to do things one at a time.”

He nods, not offended. “I understand that. I always tell the boys, one thing at a time. Do it well, then move on to the next. I thought yours might not be finished yet. Someone else was in here looking for Howard last night.”

“Oh?” I ask, trying not to look too curious.

“Some broad, just said she wanted to know if his debts were still open. I said he owed a few bucks, and she paid. I thought maybe she was the widow or something.”

I shake my head. “She paid? Was she a reporter, maybe? Rose Rainmeyer? Forties?”

He grins. “You know Rose? She’s great, but it wasn’t her. No, no, she was older, maybe sixty, short curly gray hair.”

DeeDee. She didn’t mention having come here. Made it sound like she went straight to the bookstore. I wonder why.

“Well, I guess a lot of people are missing him,” I say carefully. “Any chance he’s hiding out with Joe, wherever he is?”

Bridges smirks and turns away, reaching for his drink. “Could be.”

“And you don’t know where that could be?”

He shrugs theatrically. I’m really not getting any more out of him.

“Tell me this, then. Was Joe a reader?”

That seems to crack his mask for a moment, as he looks confused. “A reader? Like of obituaries?”

“No, just books.”

“I really wouldn’t know. Joe, he was a good coworker, but we weren’t pals, you know? Always did his job excellently, but we weren’t in a book club together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking if he read, maybe wrote.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think he harbored any literary aspirations, no. Not many in our business do. We like telling stories, don’t get me wrong, but there are the ones we tell each other, and the ones we tell other people. The ones we tell other people are usually pretty boring. And the ones we tell each other aren’t fit for publication.” He sips his drink. “Why do you ask?”

“There are some missing books, that’s all,” I say. “Missing Howard, and missing books. You don’t know anything about any of that?”

He smiles, the mask fully back on. “Not a thing, Detective. What would books have to do with the man?”

I can’t tell if he’s goading me with his lies or genuinely doesn’t know.

“What kind of a man was Joe, anyway?” I ask.

He considers the question, debating if he can answer it. “Like I said, he was a good coworker. Diligent. He made the headlines a while back. You can find that yourself, so there’s no harm in telling you. Someone had managed to infiltrate a piece of our organization, and Joe sniffed him out, and took care of it, made a show. Not that anyone could prove anything, of course. Had to leave town for a little while. Came back a hero. People liked him. He was a planner—always saw steps ahead. Smart, that way. We all miss him.”

“Sure,” I say, nodding. “Sounds like a good guy to have around.”

“Oh, for sure. Between his charm, his foresight, his instincts … the boss misses him something terrible.”

“Then I’m surprised he hasn’t tracked him down,” I say.

He takes a drag on his cigar, looking at the stage, but doesn’t say anything more. I follow his glance and see Merle walking out onto the stage. He looks worse than before, his bow tie undone, his face pale and sweaty. He smiles and a few people clap for him. His eyes look all around the audience, and then looks all over again, searching, but his eyes passing over everyone, including me. Eventually he stops, forcing a smile, his eyes wide with something—fear, grief, maybe both. He turns to the band, and they start playing “It Had to Be You,” skipping the prelude. Merle starts to sing, his voice as beautiful as last time, even if he doesn’t look as well.

“It had to be you,” he sings, clutching the microphone in front of him a little too hard. “It had to be you. I wandered around, and I finally found, the somebody who…” His other hand reaches up to grab the microphone, steadying himself on it. He’s wobbling. I stand up, and next to me, so does Bridges. “Could make me be true, and could make me be blue. And even be glad”—his voice is turning breathier—“just to be sad. Thinking of—” The note dies out as he collapses backward onto the stage. The band stops playing in a clamor, all of them surrounding Merle on stage. Bridges is running for him, and I follow.

“Give him some air, give him some air,” Bridges says to the band, who immediately back off. Merle is lying on the stage, his knees bent, one arm out to his side, the other curved so his hand rests over his heart. “Merle?” Bridges says, kneeling down and turning his face up. His eyes are closed. “Merle.” He lightly smacks Merle’s face, and Merle’s eyelids flutter gently, eyes opening, but not seeing yet. Bridges looks around, but the other Mafia guys are still at their posts, so it’s only me and the band. “Andy, could you give me a hand bringing him back to his dressing room?”

“Of course,” I say, kneeling to lift Merle’s shoulders. Bridges takes his legs and we walk him offstage.

“Play, just play anything,” Bridges says to the band, who scramble back to their instruments. An uncomfortable jazz starts to play as they try to find a melody, and I follow Bridges’s lead, carrying Merle to the back of the room and through a door marked STAFF.

Behind it is a hallway, dimly lit, and we go down to another door, with a star, Merle’s name carved into it. Bridges carefully twists the knob open, still holding Merle’s feet, and then leads me into a plush blue dressing room. There’s a black sofa we put Merle down on, and then Bridges rushes out without saying anything. I stare down at Merle, who looks up at me, his eyes starting to come into focus.

“You all right?” I ask, kneeling next to him.

He closes his eyes and murmurs something I can’t make out.

“What?” I lean in closer.

“’s dead,” Merle whispers into my ear. “I saw his ghost. Howard is dead.”