Back at the villa, I devoured a Wolfgang Puck pizza that I’d found in the freezer and was depositing the plate and utensils in an otherwise-empty dishwasher when Des and Fitzpatrick floated in, smelling of booze and … chlorine?
“How was dinner?” I asked.
“Uh, okay,” Fitz said. He seemed pale, even for him. And a bit unnerved.
Des said nothing. He focused on the bottle of Elevage Blanc that I’d opened earlier and resampled with the pizza, grabbed it, and headed out of the kitchen.
“He okay?” I asked Fitzpatrick.
“Gimme a minute,” he said, and followed Des from the room.
It was more like five minutes when Fitz returned with a bottle of Jameson fifteen-year-old Irish whiskey. I’d kept busy by locating and heating a Toaster Strudel, assuaging some of my caloric guilt by purposefully ignoring the icing packet.
Without a word, he walked to the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, and brought it and the whiskey bottle back to the table, where I was scarfing down my strudel. He uncapped the Jameson. He held it over my cup and, when I shook my head, reversed and poured a healthy tot of what may be the world’s best sipping whiskey into his coffee. I tried not to wince at the sight of him taking that first gulp.
“Rough night?” I asked.
“Wojus, I’d call it.”
“What happened?”
He gave me an odd half smile. “Case o’ mistaken identity.”
“Somebody take Des for Rod Stewart?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” he said.
I stared at him, waiting for the story.
He shook his head. “Tales out o’ school.”
I took a bite of strudel.
Fitz brooded for a minute or two, then said, “Mr. Max Slaughter is a bloody horse’s ass.”
“How so?”
Evidently unhappy with the whiskey-coffee ratio, he added another inch or so of Jameson. “Slaughter and that gofer of his, Trey, pick us up in a limo and take us to a pub in downtown L.A. named O’Doul’s. The joint was more Oirish than Irish. Strictly plastic Paddy. All bloody green an’ white. The Brothers Clancy singin’ from the speakers. Cheesy paper-doll shamrocks and wee folk strung from the rafters.
“The barman, who’s never even seen the Isle, gets out a tiny camera and makes a thing of getting Des to pose for some snaps, durin’ which he lets slip that Max owns the bloody place. Assumin’ that Max is usin’ him for free publicity, Des proceeds to down one pint of plain after another. This leads to him gettin’ his back up and callin’ out some boyos who’d been sittin’ peacefully at the bar. Before there be wigs on the green, Max and this Trey herd us out of there, headin’ to Hollywood for grub.
“In the limo, Des’s black mood does a sudden roundabout. Now he’s on the pig’s back.”
“Say what?” I interrupted.
“He’s happy. Ready to celebrate. Which, at that moment, means downing most of a bottle of the bubbly. By the time we pull up at the restaurant, he’s rubber, and me and Trey have to steer him in.
“The chow parlor is called In the Dark. Ever hear of it, Billy?”
“One of those restaurants that claim you get a truer dining experience by eating in pitch-black?” I ask.
“Bang on! Max says it’s to give us a taste of the O’Day at Night set. He’s got this wizard of a lighting designer on the payroll who’s usin’ darkness and shadow to come up with a look that’s different from the other talk shows. The stagehands are gonna be runnin’ around in head-to-toe black outfits, so they can move props and do stuff without the camera seein’ ’em.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll look like the invisible man.”
“Huh? Oh, I get ya.” He grinned a bit sheepishly, the way some whites do when a black man makes a joke about his color. “Well,” he continued hurriedly, “no matter what reason Max gives, I figure the choice of restaurant is one more piece of evidence that he has his head up his arse. Anyway …”
He seemed to hesitate, then took another mouthful of his doctored coffee. He swallowed it slowly, gazing across the kitchen at nothing in particular.
I prompted, “Anyway …?”
“Oh. Yeah, well, the lights go off and, soon enough, the food is served, a good thing, ’cause by then I’m so starved I could eat the lamb o’ Jesus through the rungs of a chair. It’s not easy gettin’ food to your mouth in the dark. An’ the business about tunin’ up your taste buds is bullshite.”
He drifted off again, lost in some thought that, judging by his face, was none too pretty.
“Fitz?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Billy,” he said, standing. “I gotta … I dunno, get some sleep or somethin’.”
I watched him waddle off, a bear-man with more on his mind than he cared to share with me.
I deposited the remains of my strudel in the disposal, poured off his Irish coffee, rinsed off the cups and plate, and put them in the dishwasher.
I exited the main building through the rear door and was on the path to the guesthouse when I heard Des call out, “G’night, Billy.”
He was sitting on the beach in his boxers, his body as pale as milk in the moonlight.
I walked toward him feeling the grit of the sand under my shoes. “You ought to put on a robe,” I said. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Freezin’ my arse,” he said, his teeth chattering. “It’s a Catholic thing, Billy. Penance for your sins.”
“Penance is ten Hail Marys, not pneumonia.”
“You don’t know my sins,” he said. He turned to look out at the dark sky and ocean, frowning as if searching for the horizon line. When he lifted the wine bottle to his lips, there was enough moonlight for me to see what appeared to be blood crusted on his knuckles.
“Anything happen tonight I should know about?” I asked.
“What’s me flannel-mouth friend been tellin’ ya?”
“Not much,” I said. “You guys went to a pub and had dinner in the dark.”
“That about sums it up,” he said.
“Doesn’t quite explain why you both smell of chlorine,” I said. “Or why your knuckles are busted.”
He looked at the hand holding the wine bottle. “In that feckin’ joke of an eatery, with the lights off and me in my cups, I musta dusted ’em on somethin’ rough,” he said, then returned to his contemplation of the darkness.
“Yeah, well, it’s late,” I said. “I guess I’ll go hit the hay.”
“Sleep well,” he said.
Probably better than you, I thought.