Chapter 29

Judy’s singing to the song, “Dedicated to the One I Love.” It’s a nice piece, a little sappy. Otis did this whole stupid opening about how it goes back way before The Mamas and the Papas. John Phillips adapted it, and Otis wanted everyone to hear the original version by The “5” Royales. “This was recorded by King Records back in the fifties,” he says. “John Phillips was still doing his wacky doodle folk stuff. Listen to this version, folks. I ain’t got nothin’ against The Mamas and the Papas. I had a good little cry when Mammy Cass choked on that chicken sandwich.”

Judy laughed and then sang along. She loves to sing. She just can’t carry a tune. As much as I love Judy, I’d like to put her out in the garage when she sings. She’s making Meek and Beek all flappy, probably figuring she sounds like a hawk, one of their sworn enemies. At least The Rec Room of Sound is expanding her repertoire. When she first arrived, she kept singing that if you want it, you need to put a ring on it or something. I asked Muller what that meant, but he’s as clueless about modern music as me. He also tends to morph songs together when he sings, which bugs the crap out of Otis. “You ain’t got a dang full song in that head of yours, do you?” Otis told him the other day. Muller was bringing the brownies out of the oven. Otis gets all dreamy-eyed when the oven door opens, smacking his lips. “At least you can bake,” Otis said. “You sure can’t sing worth a shit.”

We’re finishing this place on Carlyle, so this morning I tell Muller we’d better get going early. Then Judy says, “Can I help you paint?” and Muller gets all fidgety.

“You have to wear painter’s pants,” he tells her, acting like there’s no way around Ruby’s rules.

“It’s Ruby, for God’s sake,” Judy says. “What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t like to buck authority.”

Mary wants to pick up the new barbecue today, so Judy goes with her. They walk out the door singing about love making a woman. It seems pretty obvious from a breeding perspective, but somebody puts it out on a record and suddenly it’s an inspired thought.

On the drive to work, I tell Muller he’s a sneaky shit. “I know what you did back there,” I say.

“I can’t help it, Sam.”

“Yes you can, you dumb bastard. Krupsky says this is just a crush. Well it’s getting old. I’m sick of this cow-eyed crap.”

“I’ve tried to stop. I feel awful.”

“What was all that shit the other night? I just want to make you happy, Judy. You’re so full it, Muller.”

“I do want to make Judy happy.”

“By thinking about Ruby? You really are one fucked up asshole. Maybe you should go back to Seattle.”

“Judy doesn’t want to.”

“I mean you. Leave Judy here. You don’t deserve her.” He looks out the window. “I’m serious, Muller. You don’t deserve Judy.”

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Cut out that sorry shit.”

“I can’t help how I feel.”

“Ever since you showed up here, you’ve been telling me how you feel. Forget how you feel. Nobody cares. Try not feeling for a change. Try not even thinking.”

It works for most men in America.