She Smiled at Me That Way
Even now I can’t forget
The night she smiled at me that way
That was the evening that we met
And had so much to say
We talked of Lord knows what and when
We knew we’d talked the night away
We said goodnight and once again
She smiled at me that way
I shook her hand and shyly said
I’ll call tomorrow, if I may
She told me, darlin’ go ahead
I’ll be around all day
And so for years it seemed so right
We were together every day
I’m pleased to say, and every night
She smiled at me that way
That lady taught me how to write
The words to use and what to say
I’d work until I got it right
To please her night and day
She was the muse who gave me art
She taught me work was full of play
And when I opened up my heart
She smiled at me that way
But now she’s gone. She’s gone out west
For every lady has her day
To leave, to lie in heaven’s breast
But she’s not far away
For even though I’ve lost my love
I think about her every day
And know that still, from up above
She smiles at me that way
When she realized she was washed up in New York, Heidi sold her house in Connecticut and moved back to Santa Barbara. I suppose she thought she could still make a big splash in her small West Coast pond. She called me up the day she got back to town. Carol answered the phone.
Wait. Back up.
Meanwhile, Guy Mallon Books had grown. I got out of the used book business and sold what was left of the front-room stock to Eric Kelly of the Book Den. He didn’t pay me a lot for the books, but he was fair, and it was enough to finance another Arthur Summers collection, the one that got short-listed for the National Book Critics Circle Award. I still had my postwar poets in the back room, but I didn’t do much trading in that area anymore. No, it was publishing for me from then on. What was formerly Guy Mallon Books, a bookstore, became “Guy Mallon Books, Publishers.” I bought shades for the storefront windows and painted “By Appointment Only” on the front door.
Back up some more. In the four short years since Heidi Yamada walked into my shop and turned my life upside down, I had brought out over a dozen books. I started by publishing a few local poets, including Arthur Summers of course, and then began signing up poets from farther afield, poets I had read and collected, met and liked: Charles Gullans, Janet Lewis, Kingsley Tufts, Hildegarde Flanner, Judson Jerome. I became what Lin Rolens in the Santa Barbara News-Press called “a cross between an oxymoron and a dinosaur—a successful small-press publisher.” And this without the help of the National Endowment for the Arts. The secret was that I was filling a niche: good poetry, by good poets, published by a serious publisher and sold to a subscriber list of enthusiastic customers, a list that grew with each new poet. I published in small print runs for the trade, but for each title I also brought out a limited, signed, numbered edition of a hundred copies, and they all sold right away. In fact there was a waiting list of collectors who wanted to get onto that list whenever a subscriber died. I always kept copy number one, and the author always got copy number two, and of course number three went to Lawrence Holgerson. He offered to pay double for a number one, and I told him I’d think about it, but of course I never will.
As the business grew, I needed help, and once again I hired a woman. Carol Murphy, a tall, brainy blonde five years older and half a foot taller than I, was the third and final and greatest discovery of my life among books. She had owned a small bookshop in Dallas, Texas, and I first hired her to mind the front room when I still had used books for sale. But she was quick to encourage me to sell the stock to the Book Den and concentrate on my newfound passion. She then took on the role of business manager for Guy Mallon Books, and sales manager too. We became partners with a handshake. It’s a move I’ve never regretted.
A few months later I realized I was eager to get to work each morning for the sake of work but more for the sake of spending another day with Carol. I took the biggest risk of my life so far and declared my love over a glass of wine at the Paradise Cafe.
“You damn fool,” she responded from her lofty height on the other side of the table. “What took you so long?”
We dated, if that’s what you call it, for a couple of weeks, then I moved my few possessions out of the Schooner Inn and into Carol’s bungalow on the east side of town, where we’ve been ever since. It’s crowded, and that suits me. I think it suits her, too. So for the past seven years, we’ve worked together and slept together, and the lines between work and play and love have all but disappeared.
***
So that’s how it was when I got the call in late spring, 1984. Actually, it was Carol who answered the phone, and when she told me to pick it up, she said, “It’s her.”
“Herself?”
“Her Highness.”
I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, Heidi.”
“Guy, honey, you gotta rescue me from this place I’m in.”
“What kind of place is that?” I asked.
“It’s a place without love. A place without you. I’ve come home, Guy. Take me back.”
“Uh Heidi…”
“I’ll be good to you, Guy baby. You don’t know the things I’ve learned. I’m going to make you feel like a hundred bucks. Oh, Guy, I need you. I want your arms around my thighs. I want your nose in my nest.”
“Stop,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Heidi, there’s another woman in my life now.”
“Better than me?”
“Different,” I said.
“Different how?” she asked.
“Better,” I answered.
“That woman who answered the phone?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought so. I knew it. I could tell by the way she answered the phone.”
“Sorry, Heidi, but.…”
“It’s okay, Guy. These things happen. Will you publish my new book?”
“No,” I said.
“I’m calling it Random Thoughts.”
“No.”
“Or we could call it Out of My Face. I’ve got a great cover idea for that one.”
“Good-bye, Heidi.”
“God damn it, Guy, after all I’ve done for you?”
“Someone else is doing that now,” I said.
“You are such an asshole, you know that, Guy?”
“Good-bye, Heidi.”
***
So she left Santa Barbara. Next I heard she was a presenter at the Yellow Lake Writers’ Conference in Great Falls that summer. She was still somewhat of a celebrity, and since nobody really knows what a poet really is, she could pass herself off as one wherever people were willing to let her perform in public. That’s where she met Maxwell Black.
Most of what we’ve heard about Max Black is probably true. Born in Milwaukee and became a westerner by going to the University of Montana at Missoula. Dropped out of college to be a ski bum in Sun Valley, then farmed a small marijuana plantation in Colorado for a while, then ended up a bartender in Great Falls. Poured generous daquiris for a famous poet one night and it changed his life. The poet stayed till the bar closed, took him back with her to the Holiday Inn where she was staying, and made a writer out of him.
A cowboy poet.
I can just imagine it:
“Max, honey, I want you to write me a poem.”
“Shit, I can’t write.”
“Sure you can, baby. If you write me a poem, I’ll do that for you again.”
“Aw, Heidi…”
“I want you to write lots of poems. I’m going to make you a famous poet.”
“I don’t know how.”
“How difficult could it be? Look at me.”
“What would I write about?”
“Write about what you know. That’s what they all say.”
“Bartending?”
“No. The cowboy life. Nights under the stars. Camping out. Herding cattle. Stuff like that.”
“I hate camping out. I hate cows.”
“What difference does that make? Do you have a good-looking hat?”
I just made that up of course, but I bet it’s mostly true. In any case, Max Black, poet, got himself a sponsor, and Heidi Yamada, celebrity, got herself an ornamental poet. She moved him back to Santa Barbara with her.
They became regulars at the Wednesday lunches at the Miramar, and the Santa Barbara writers took kindly to Max. He was a bit of a cartoon, the way Heidi had him dressed: polished boots and pressed jeans and starched chambray workshirts with a floppy yellow bandanna always tied around his neck. None of the other writers took him seriously as a poet, any more than they had taken Heidi seriously as a poet, but they liked Max as a beer-drinking, slow-talking, wisecracking fellow, and they put up with Heidi mainly for his sake.
It was clear that he adored her, and it was clear that she had big plans for him.
Perhaps he was more of a poet than we thought, or perhaps Heidi still had more influence than she deserved, but anyway, Max started getting published. He was a vanguard in the cowboy poetry movement, and his first book from Gibbs Smith was a hit. The Yellow Bandanna didn’t make any bestseller lists, but it was kindly reviewed by PW and Kirkus and of course Library Journal. They noted his competent rhymes, his narrative gift, and most of all his sincerity, which Library Journal assumed must have come from his working knowledge of rodeos and bordellos and the backside of the Sawtooth Mountains.
Heidi, meanwhile, praise the Lord, had stopped writing. She devoted herself full time to managing Max’s career, and she was brilliant. She got him hired on as a regular faculty member of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, where she made sure he chatted up the right editors and publishers. The next book, Howdy, Mr. President, was published by Chronicle Books in San Francisco; it was a gift book full of sunset photos and hokey couplets, but it sold well. Some of the images and couplets were bought to sell Toyotas on television, and Max started selling song lyrics to Garth Brooks and George Strait. HarperCollins brought out Gol Dern It. Bestseller, Costco, Bantam trade paperback, the works.
Through it all, Max remained a quiet, self-effacing fellow with a bottle of beer in his hand and a yellow bandanna around his neck. The shit-kicking cowboy image was phony, but he was genuinely pleasant and witty, and he always let Heidi be the one to brag about him. He seemed to enjoy the life of a poet, never let fame go to his head, and never took his eyes off his beautiful patroness. As for Heidi, she was through writing poems. She had her hands full managing Max’s career and dressing him in prefaded jeans from top designers.
Beatrice Knight offered to take Maxwell Black on and be his agent, and Heidi told Beatrice to get real, give her a break, take a hike, and piss up a rope.
They had a good thing going, Heidi and Max, until Mitzi Milkin came along and wrecked it all by tempting Heidi to start writing again. At that point Max found himself back in the backseat again, which he didn’t really mind until people like Beatrice Knight, Charles Levin, and Linda Sonora began to convince him that his talent was more important than Heidi’s ego.
***
Carol went to our booth early on Monday morning because I told her I needed an extra hour of sleep. As soon as she had left the room, I placed a call to Detective Dan Plumley. The receptionist asked my name, then put me right through.
He didn’t say hello, he said, “It’s all over, Guy. It was an accidental death, a great shame, but these things happen. You’re free to come and go as you wish. I want to thank you for your cooperation while this matter was being resolved.”
“Resolved?” I responded. “You think it’s resolved?”
“Yes sir,” he said. “Heidi Yamada took an overdose of sedatives. Whether or not she did it intentionally is moot now, and out of respect for her family—”
“She has no family.”
“—we’re calling it an accident. Damn shame. Again, Mr. Mallon, many thanks for your cooperation.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Don’t hang up.”
“Mr. Mallon—”
“Do you know where Marjorie Richmond is?” I asked him. “Have you heard anything?”
“No, I haven’t spoken to Miss Richmond since we said goodnight on Saturday. Of course she’s free to go, too.”
“I have a feeling she is gone,” I said. “I also have a feeling she’s not free.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you care what I’m talking about?”
“Mr. Mallon,” Detective Plumley said, “I am relieved that this case is closed. I have a lot of other stuff on my plate right now. What happens to you and Miss Richmond is now entirely up to you. Again, I appreciate your help in bringing this matter to a close. I advise you to respect that, and to understand that a closed case is a good case. I have another call waiting. You enjoy the rest of your stay in Las Vegas, okay?”
“Okay,” I told the dial tone.
Shit, I thought. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.
I finished dressing and went downstairs to the front desk. I rested my elbows on the counter, which was at the level of my shoulders, dinged the call bell, and waited. The desk clerk emerged slowly from behind the scenes, a pimply teenager in a black suit who had the eyes of a basset hound. “Yes, sir? May I help you?”
“I’m concerned about the woman in the room next to mine,” I told him. “Marjorie Richmond? Room twelve-twenty-four? She was supposed to meet me this morning, and she didn’t show up and there’s no response when I knock on her door.”
“I’m afraid that’s between she and you, sir. The hotel can’t, like—”
“Hold on,” I said. “Okay, listen. I have her room key, okay? I went into her room when she didn’t respond. It’s a mess in there. I mean the place is in shambles. Something’s going on, and I think you should investigate. Looks like violence, okay?”
The desk clerk danced his fingers on the keyboard of his computer, frowned, and then went through an upright file on the counter. He looked at me and said, “Miss Richmond checked out yesterday, sir. One p.m. It says here.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said.
“Says here, sir.” He tapped his monitor. He pulled a page out of his file, looked at it closely, then put it back without showing it to me.
“It may say that,” I said, “but that’s not what happened. What happened is that your guest was kidnapped and robbed, and if you don’t investigate this, I’ll make a big noise about it.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out Dan Plumley’s business card. “I’m working with the Las Vegas police on something pretty important, and they’ve asked me to keep them informed.”
“Well, sir, there’s not much I can do.”
“Is there anybody else I can talk to? Your supervisor? Who’s in charge here?”
“I am, sir.” He yawned and tilted his head back, and I had the pleasure of looking up his nostrils.
“Then you’re the person elected to come with me to room twelve-twenty-four, right now, so I can show you the problem. Believe me, you have a problem on your hands. What’s your name?”
“Robert, sir.”
“Come with me, Robert.”
Robert looked at his watch, lifted the phone, and told somebody, “I need you to cover me on front desk. I’ll be back in about five minutes.”
“It may take longer, Robert,” I said.
“I doubt it, sir.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a key.
“That won’t be necessary,” I told him. I jingled Marjorie’s key.
He put a key in his pocket anyway and came out from behind the counter. “Let’s go, sir,” he said, and we walked together to the elevator.
The gears of the elevator ground especially loudly as we rose. I said, “You really ought to do something about that noise. Just some WD40 or something, so your guests won’t think the building’s falling down.”
“I’m not in charge of maintenance, sir,” Robert said. He was one of those teenagers who look taller than they will ever look as adults. His shiny suit didn’t quite fit him, and his tie was knotted limply. He didn’t look at me once during the ride, which was just fine with me.
The elevator stopped within a few inches of the twelfth floor, the door opened, and we stepped up and walked down the hall to Marjorie’s room. He got there first, so he used his key and entered the room without waiting for me. I followed him in.
The room was immaculate. It showed no signs of having been occupied recently, let alone torn apart by violence. The beds were made, the drawers were all closed, the counters and tables dusted. It was a freshly cleaned, vacant room, waiting for its next occupant.
Robert finally looked at me, his eyebrows high on his forehead.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Sir?”
“This room was a mess last time I saw it. I want to know who cleaned it up, and why.”
“Like I told you, sir, Miss Richmond checked out yesterday in the early afternoon. The maids cleaned it up after she left. It’s a vacant room.”
“I’m telling you, Robert, that this room was a disaster zone at midnight last night. I saw it myself, so don’t tell me it wasn’t.”
“I thought you said you were inside the room this morning,” Robert said.
“Well, it was after midnight, actually. That’s morning.”
“Sir, all I know is what I see, and what I see is a vacant room, ready for occupancy. You tell me you were in this room, but I have no proof of that.”
“What about this key?” I countered. “Why else would I have this key?” I held the key up in front of his face.
Robert snatched the key from my hand and said, “That’s hotel property. Thank you sir. Now, Mr. Mallon, I have to get back to the front desk.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You told me you were in the room next to this one. I checked on the computer. Let’s go.”
“Robert—”
“Let’s go.” He took my arm and led me out into the corridor, then turned and locked the door to 1224 behind him.
On the elevator going down, I said, “I’d like to speak with whoever was on the desk when Marjorie Richmond checked out.”
“They’re not here today, sir. That was the weekend shift. They won’t be back until Saturday.”
“You guys really have this whole thing covered, don’t you?” I said.
Robert said, “Sir?”
“Never mind.”
***
I left the Landmark and walked away from the convention center until I reached the Strip. I went into Fast Foto and gave the clerk the roll of exposed film that I’d been carrying around for what felt like days. In fact that film was less than thirty-six hours old, but I was glad to have the weight out of my pocket. The clerk assured me the prints would be ready by noon and I thanked her and asked her to change a dollar into quarters for me.
Outside, on the sidewalk of the Strip, I fed fifty cents each into two newspaper boxes and got two copies of the Las Vegas Review-Journal. I tucked them under my arm and went into the nearest eating establishment for some breakfast. It happened to be an Arby’s. I was the only customer, which was fine with me. Even in Las Vegas they don’t sell a whole lot of ersatz roast beef sandwiches for breakfast. And coffee.
The story of Heidi’s death was not on the front page of the paper. It was not in Part I either. The story showed up on page 4 of Part III, and it commanded less than three inches of ink.
Poetess Heidi Yamada died Saturday night of an apparent drug overdose. Her death occurred at a party held in the Elvis Presley Mansion on Strong Drive. The party was hosted by Random House, a New York publishing company. Yamada was the author of three books of poetry in the early 1980s. She was well known among poets at that time but went into semi-retirement in the mid-1980s. “She had her 15 minutes of flame,” said Carol Maloney, the business manager of a small publishing company that had done business with Yamada. Maloney said that Yamada appeared heavily sedated on the evening of the party. “She had been battling depression for quite some time,” Maloney added.
It didn’t bother me much that Guy Mallon Books wasn’t mentioned by name. It didn’t bother me that they got Carol’s last name wrong. It didn’t really bother me that the newspaper was joining the police force and some other force in covering up a murder by calling it an accident and implying that it was a suicide. I didn’t even care that they used the word “poetess,” which usually sends me into fits.
I guess what disturbed me, so much that I couldn’t even finish my breakfast, was that Heidi had died such a has-been. Not just because she was my first poet, not just because she was my friend, not because her poetry was any good, but just because the world doesn’t care about poets. So she had her “fifteen minutes of flame”—did Carol really say that? I doubt it—and appeared on Johnny Carson. The truth is, nobody remembered her anymore.
Going through the paper backwards, I learned that George Gobel was in the hospital in Palm Springs, David Nelson gave a speech to a PTA in Pennsylvania, and Freddy Cannon had canceled a performance in Laughlin, Nevada. They all got bigger stories than Heidi Yamada. That’s Las Vegas for you.
That’s the world for you.
***
When I got to the booth I found Carol standing there, not even trying to smile for the public. I plopped the newspapers down on our display table, opened one of them up and spread it out, pointed to the article about Heidi, and said, “Take a look.”
Carol picked the paper up and read it, then folded it and put it back on the table. She looked at me with white fury in her eyes. “This is horrible,” she said. “I feel violated.”
“They got your name wrong,” I agreed.
“Oh who cares? I could give a shit about that,” she said. “Guy, I never said those things.”
“No?”
“I didn’t say she appeared heavily sedated. I said she appeared highly agitated. And I never said she’d been battling depression, either. What a crock of shit.”
“Well,” I said, “Heidi had been pretty upset lately.”
“I never called her depressed,” Carol insisted. “I don’t say things like that about people. That reporter wasn’t listening to me at all.”
I shrugged and shook my head.
“This is horrible,” Carol said again. “You know what I think? I think that interview was just a sham. The police gave the paper that story, and they printed it. This looks like a cover-up to me, Guy. You know what I think? I think maybe Heidi Yamada was murdered.”
“Carol, I love you,” I said.
She frowned at me. “I love you too, Guy, but what does that have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” I agreed. “I’m just so glad to have somebody agree with me for a change.”
“Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s don’t go straight home to Santa Barbara after this show is over. I want to spend twenty-four hours in the desert, temporarily forgetting everything that’s happened.”
“I’m for that.”
“Good. I’ll make a reservation at the Nipton Hotel.” It was our favorite getaway spot in the East Mojave Desert.
I folded up both newspapers, with the story about Heidi on the outside, and put them under our table, hidden by the drop-cloth. When I straightened up I saw that she was smiling, so I walked into her arms and we kissed.
“Did you really say ‘fifteen minutes of flame’?” I asked her.
“Yeah, they got that right. Clever, huh?”
“Andy Saint Vincent Millay,” I said. “Not bad.”
I can’t remember how long our second kiss lasted, but it was interrupted by the cheerful voice of the most powerful agent on the West Coast. “My oh my,” she chirped. “Look at the lovebirds!”
There she was, standing in front of our booth with Maxwell Black by her side. They were both wearing purple bandannas around their necks, and they were both smiling. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose?” Beatrice said.
“You two don’t look that upset by it,” I observed.
“Well, so they skipped out on a meeting. He still wants to do the book.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Carol asked.
“Charles Levin and Linda Sonora,” Beatrice said. “Tell them, Max.”
Max grinned and shook his head. “They got married last night, after the Ingram party. Shit fire, talk about a surprise. Linda made an announcement from the stage, after the Remainders quit and packed their axes. There weren’t a whole lot of guests left, but her and Levin invited us all over to the Midnight at the Oasis Wedding Chapel to watch them tie the knot.”
“Ye gods,” I said. “So where are they now, the newlyweds?”
“They’ve left for Maui,” Beatrice said. “Honeymooners.”
“How convenient for them,” Carol remarked.
“How’s that?”
“Max, I thought you and Linda were becoming an item,” I said. “That’s the way it looked last night, anyway.”
“Aw that was just a publicity stunt. I guess I was getting back at old Heidi for being such a bitch lately. Naw, the item’s still me and Heidi. We’ll make up. We always do. I’ll go back to being her dumb cowboy, if she’ll ever come back to our hotel room, which she will when she gets tired of bustin’ my balls.”
Oh God.
“Max. Beatrice. There’s something I have to tell you both,” I stammered. I turned helplessly to Carol, and Carol knelt down to retrieve the Las Vegas newspapers from under the table. She stood up and handed one paper to Max and the other to Beatrice.
I’ve never seen a face change the way Max’s did as he read that article. It went from cocky and strong and easy-going to shocked, then to pained red, then to terrified white in thirty seconds. Suddenly Maxwell Black looked like a little boy and an old man, lashed together by electric barbed wire. He dropped the paper to the floor and brought his shaking clenched fists to his chin. Carol took him by the arm and led him to the metal chair in the back of our booth, where he collapsed and gasped for breath. “Oh fuck!” he wheezed, loud enough to be heard out in the aisle. “I killed her!”
“No you didn’t,” Beatrice said. She handed her newspaper to me. “I knew she’d self-destruct. It was only a matter of time.” She bent down to pick up the other paper.
“Max, what do you mean?” I asked. “You killed her? How?”
“I was the reason she was so depressed,” he sobbed. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I was always giving her shit. I’m such an asshole! Aw, Heidi!”
“Max, I don’t believe Heidi killed herself,” Carol said to him. She rubbed his shoulders. “It was an accident, honey. You’re not to blame.”
Max shook his head. “She was always taking tranks. I wasn’t any good for her. I was stingy with my love. She, she, she wanted me to, aw fuck, oh Christ that poor girl, I made her feel like shit and she took all those pills and they don’t mix with alcohol and she drank too much too and now she’s, aw Heidi, aw Heidi, I’m so fuckin’…” Now his hands were all over his face, rubbing away the tears, scrubbing at the grief-torn terrain. Carol handed him a box of Kleenex, which he squashed and threw across the booth.
Beatrice knelt before him and put her hands on his knees. “Max, stop it,” she said. “I want you to stand up and walk with me out of this building. I’m going to take you back to your hotel room.”
He looked at her in horror. “I can’t go to that room!”
“No, of course,” she said. “You’re right. I’m going to take you to my room and leave you there till you cry all this guilty crap out of your system. But no more crying till we get out of the convention center. Okay?”
Max ripped the purple bandanna from his throat and blew his nose and wiped his face. “Okay.” He stood up.
Beatrice stood up with him. She looked at me and said, “Poets. You gotta love ’em.” She grabbed Max’s arm and said, “Okay, cowboy. Let’s go.”
The agent and the cowboy left our booth and walked down the aisle and turned the corner.
***
The news spread. You could hear the hush and feel the chill as people streamed to our booth, slowed down, looked at the poster of the dead poet on our display wall, then moved on, shaking their heads and whispering to each other.
Carol and I stood, hand in hand, prepared to answer questions if anybody asked them, but nobody did. Not till a reporter showed up and handed me her card. “Mr. Mallon?” she said. “I’m from Publishers Weekly. Could I ask you a few questions?”
My chance to be in Publishers Weekly. How little it mattered now.
I answered questions.
“I’ve lost a dear friend,” I said. “The world has lost one of the most innovative poets of the twentieth century.”
“No, as far as I know, everyone loved and admired her,” I said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know any more than what I read in the newspaper this morning,” I said. “I gather it was an accidental overdose.”
“High-strung?” I said. “Well, maybe a bit. She was an artist after all.”
“Suicidal?” I said. “No way.”
“A great shame,” I said. “A great shame.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mallon,” the reporter said. “I really appreciate this. You don’t have a picture of Miss Yamada, do you?”
I handed her a copy of And Vice Versa. “Feel free to use that cover shot,” I said. “Heidi was proud of it. What issue of PW will this appear in?”
“Tomorrow,” she answered. “It’s for the PW ABA Daily. Thanks again.”
So much for my words showing up in Publishers Weekly. It was a relief, frankly.
***
Lawrence Holgerson showed up at the booth about eleven o’clock. His rumpled linen jacket looked as if he’d just used it to wash a Greyhound bus. He had a twitch that jerked his left eye around and he was chewing gum furiously. “You’ve heard?” he asked us.
“We’ve heard,” Carol answered. “How are you, Lawrence?”
“Heartbroken.” He pulled a bent Salem out of his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth, then pulled it out of his mouth and put it back in the pack and put the pack back in his shirt pocket. He pulled a tissue out of another pocket and got rid of his gum. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“To you?” I asked. “You?”
“Well, to us all. To Heidi of course, yes, naturally. But what will the rest of us do without her?”
“She meant a lot to you, didn’t she, Lawrence?” Carol said.
Twitch. “The focus of my collection.” His face began to crumble.
Carol put her arms around him as his body began to shake. “I loved her,” he cried. “I have every edition of every book of hers. Signed. Letters, pictures, and now…” He let his words be swallowed in sobs.
I straightened books on the display tables. It was something to do while Carol was rubbing the back of Lawrence’s head. Finally he pulled himself together and let go of Carol. He sniffed, twitched, and gave us both a shaky smile. “Thanks, you two,” he said. “You’re the best.”
“You’ll be all right?” I asked.
He nodded. “By the way, you haven’t seen Taylor Bingham today have you?”
“Nope. You asked me that yesterday. What’s up with you and Taylor?”
“Nothing. I mean nothing like that. Thanks, Carol. You two are wonderful.” Then he turned to me and said, “Do I still get the poster after the show?”
“Sure,” I told him. “Come to the booth tomorrow morning while we’re knocking down.”
As he walked away, down the aisle and into the swim, I asked Carol, “Did you know Lawrence’s gay?”
“Of course. Why?”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“It’s no secret, is it? I thought everyone knew. I don’t think he tries to hide it, and if he does, it’s not working.”
“So how do you know stuff like this? You were able to see that Marjorie Richmond was a phony, you know Lawrence’s homosexual. Are you some kind of mind reader?”
“Guy, what’s going on? Why do you care if Lawrence’s gay? What does that have to do with anything at all? Are you going phobic on me?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that he’s gay. Okay, let me ask you this. Do you think Lawrence’s a cross-dresser?”
Carol shook her head.
“No?”
“I’m shaking my head in disbelief, Guy.”
“You don’t believe he’s a cross-dresser?”
“I don’t believe this is you talking. Maybe he is, I don’t know. But why does it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t. But he keeps asking if I’ve seen Taylor Bingham, that’s all.”
“And Taylor’s a cross-dresser? I wasn’t aware.”
“No, he’s not,” I said. “Or maybe he is, but that’s not the point.”
“I don’t get it, Guy. What is the point? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t either,” I said.
***
Beatrice came back to our booth and said, “Max is sleeping off a Valium, poor boy. How are things going here? Are people paying homage?” She nodded at the poster.
“A few,” I said. “Beatrice, tell me something. All those yellow bandannas. You were giving them away at the Random House party, right?”
She laughed. “What a mistake that was,” she said. “I wanted everyone to pay attention to Max. It was a way of announcing that I had this hot new client. Then Lawrence Holgerson told Max the yellow bandanna had something to do with urine, and Max told me he was done with them forever, but I said he had to wear one for the Rock Bottom Remainder show, so he—”
“Fine,” I said.
“So now we decided purple. It’s a brand-name imaging type thing, honey. Whatever works.”
“Fine,” I repeated. “Now tell me about the invitations.”
“What invitations?”
“Were you the one passing out all the invitations to the Random House party?”
“Lord, no.”
“Where did you get yours?” I asked.
Beatrice gave me a get-serious look. “Charles gave me an invitation. I want to remind you, Guy, that I am a major player in this industry. I go to the best parties every year. You know that, or you would if you were at the right parties.”
“Fine,” I said. “So you don’t know who was passing out all those invitations? I mean to all the California riffraff?”
“Absolutely no idea. Carol, honey, I have to be running along. I just wanted to let you know Max will be all right. What a shame about Heidi! Bye-bye, you two. I’ll catch you later. Are you going to the small press party tonight?”
“Probably,” I said.
Carol said, “I doubt it.”
***
Arby’s sandwiches are like Chinese food: you don’t eat them for breakfast, and if you do, you’re hungry again an hour later. By the time two o’clock came around I was starved, so I offered to go stand in line and get hot dogs, potato chips, and beer for both of us.
It was one of those snaky lines that goes back and forth around posts and between heavy red cloth ribbons. Just like at Disneyland: you move forward slowly, and sometimes it seems like you’re moving backwards because you’re seeing the faces of people ahead of you in line, and then you’re looking at their backs again. I saw, a couple of bends in the road ahead, Mitzi Milkin. She was overdressed as usual, in a gold lamé blouse and navy slacks, with globs of garnet jewelry hanging on her wrists, her ears, and her chest. If she had heard the news about Heidi, it didn’t show on her face, which was cheerfully animated as she talked to her companion, a bald, brawny fellow in a rugby shirt who sported a bushy Stalinesque moustache. I had seen that man before, but I couldn’t remember when.
Just my luck. When I was finally rounding the last bend and in the home stretch for hot dogs, the Kindly Uncle spoke over the PA system. “Mr. Guy Mallon,” he intoned. “Will Mr. Guy Mallon please come immediately to the ABA office on the second floor. Mr. Guy Mallon, please come to the ABA office. We have an urgent message for you. Thank you. I hope you folks are enjoying the show.”
So I left the line and found the nearest escalator, then negotiated the long mezzanine and followed signs down hallways to the ABA office. There were at least a dozen people in the office, all of them munching hot dogs and sipping coffee and beer. The far side of the office was a bank of windows overlooking the convention floor. The cafeteria was directly below, and the display halls stretched out right and left from there. I looked down and spotted Mitzi and her companion having lunch. That face…
A young woman asked if she could help me and I told her my name.
“Oh yes,” she said. She went to a desk and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to me. “You need to call this number right away. Sunrise Hospital. They said it’s urgent.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Of course. Dial nine.”
I called the number and asked for the extension. I was put through, and after a number of buzzes, a tired voice answered. “Nurses’ station.”
“My name is Guy Mallon,” I said. “I was told to call this number.”
“Right. Mr. Mallon. Do you know a Taylor Bingham?”
“Yes,” I said. “Now what?”
“Mr. Bingham was brought in here an hour ago. He came to emergency, and he’s been transferred to our ward. We need you to come in and sign a few papers.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “What happened?”
“We just need your signature, sir. The patient can’t sign because he’s too heavily sedated, and we’re not allowed to provide care unless we have some proof of insurance or the signature of somebody who will—”
“Okay, I’ll be right over, but—”
“Otherwise we have to send him over to County. Not a good option.”
“I said I’d come.”
“Nurse’s station, third floor.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened? How is he? What happened?”
“Injuries to the neck, sir. It looks as if the patient tried to hang himself.”
“Oh my god.”
“So if we could just have you sign a few papers—”
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you get my name?”
“He wrote you a note,” the nurse told me. “The ambulance driver found it on the desk in his motel room. It was addressed to your booth number at the convention center.”
***
I rushed back to our booth empty-handed. “Carol, honey, I have to go,” I said. “Taylor Bingham tried to kill himself.”
“Oh my lord!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you a hot dog, but—”
“It’s okay. I heard you being paged. I wondered what that was about. So tell me.”
“I don’t know much. Tried to hang himself. I have to sign papers for him. I hope he has medical insurance. If not we may have to sell the company.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely,” she said. “Poor Taylor!”
“By the way,” I added. “Lawrence’s not a cross dresser. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh? Did you ask him?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not how I know. I know because until two days ago, Lawrence wore a beard. You can’t have a beard and pretend to be a woman.”
“That makes sense. Very observant of you, Watson.”
“Yeah, and another thing. I saw Mitzi Milkin having lunch with a man.”
“My, that is news.”
“Listen. This guy she was with had this huge bushy mustache, you know, like in a barbershop quartet?”
“And that’s what made you think of Lawrence’s beard?”
“Well, yes, but that’s not the point. The point is, I’ve seen that man before. I just figured it out. He was the sous-chef for Julia Child in the Knopf booth on Saturday morning.”
“Amazing,” Carol said, shaking her head. “Guy—”
“No. It is amazing. He was the one who smashed a cream pie into Charles Levin’s face. I got to go. See you. Bye.”
***
Taylor Bingham looked like shit. He was strapped into the hospital bed, tubes stretching from his arms to two separate IVs, oxygen lines stretching from his nostrils to a tank behind the bed, wires coming out from under his hospital smock and extending to a box with a screen full of wavy lines. His face was white, but his neck and chin were purple. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes half shut.
“Guy,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Taylor, what the fuck,” I answered.
“I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck?” I said again, this time a question.
“Did you get my note?” he asked. His words were slow and sloppy.
I held the note in my hand and read aloud, “‘Tell Metropolitan Book Review. Tell Publishers Weekly. Tell Newsweek. Remind them who I was. Thanks. Taylor Bingham.’ You call that a note?”
“I wasn’t feeling chatty.” Monotone.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“How do I look?”
“Probably better than you feel. Taylor, what’s going on? Why did you do this?”
“I didn’t. Better luck next time.” His voice was barely audible.
“Was it because of Heidi?”
“Isn’t everything about Heidi?” he droned. “Little JAP.”
“You can’t use that word, Taylor.”
“What? I’m calling her a Japanese American Princess, and that’s what she is.”
“Was,” I said.
“What?”
“Taylor, did you kill Heidi?”
“Hell you talking about?” he mumbled.
“Are you aware that Heidi died Saturday night?”
Taylor’s eyes opened up. “Bullshit.” His voice grew louder with each syllable.
“It’s true,” I said. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew.”
“It’s bullshit. You’re nothing. You’re a nightmare. Get the fuck out of here.” His voice was soft and dreamy again. “You’re a hemorrhoid, Guy Mallon. Go away.”
He closed his eyes, and I did as I was told.
***
“You’ll be happy to hear that people have been staying away from our booth in droves,” Carol said when I got back to the convention center. “I feel like the plague.”
“So you’ve had an easy afternoon?” I said.
“Easy? Standing on my feet smiling at nobody all afternoon, wondering if you’re okay, wondering if Taylor’s okay, wondering if Lawrence’s okay, wondering what has happened to the gentle world I thought I knew, and talking to nobody? That’s not easy, and I’m dead tired, although the word ‘dead’ has already been claimed by somebody else dear to your heart. No, I’m cranky and tired, and I really, really, really do not want to go to the small press party tonight.”
“Me neither,” I said.
“You mean that?” she asked. “I thought you were addicted to parties.”
“Things have changed,” I said. “Let’s skip it. How about we quit early, find a restaurant someplace far from the Strip, someplace that serves gin and Thai food, and have a quiet dinner, then go back to our room and watch TV.”
She put her hand on my cheek. “You’re so good to me,” she said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate that.”
“Shucks.”
“No, I mean it. And another thing,” she added. “I didn’t mean it when I said it would be lovely if we had to sell the company.”
“No?”
“No. I love our company.”
“Well, we won’t have to worry about that anyway. Taylor probably has health insurance, and if he doesn’t we’ll let Heidi pay his hospital bills.”
“Heidi?”
“She gave me the advance from Ongepotchket Press for Out of My Face. Ten grand. That’ll cover Taylor, I’m sure.”
“She gave you ten thousand dollars?” Carol asked. “What for?”
“I promised not to tell,” I said. “But Heidi’s dead, and the book’s probably dead too. Heidi paid me to ghostwrite the poems in her last book. She had dried up.”