Three days later, Emma sat in a red leather booth at Musso and Frank’s at Hollywood and Cherokee waiting for Uncle Strange. The reptilian waiter refreshing her water looked like an escapee from the Wax Museum down the street. She knew this place was famous but had a hard time imagining Marilyn or Douglas Fairbanks cozying up to the bar across the room. She’d read the L.A. Weekly cover to cover, laughing at the personals:
— Clooney lookalike seeks dazzling blonde with silver dollar nipples into Proust, barbeque, and moonlight walks.
— Busty iconoclast with cascading black hair and full lips looking for SWM donor into museums, cats.
— Chunky Christian Bi wants hairy Middle Eastern sophisticate who can do foot massage.
“Emma? Sorry to keep you waiting.” Uncle, wearing an aquamarine caftan, used his most soothing tone as he slid into the seat opposite her. “I wish we’d been able to get together sooner, but …” He smiled and gestured with upturned palms. She winced when she heard his feet bang into her backpack, which held her laptop and camera.
Uncle watched as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Even in the slanting late afternoon light, he could see Tabatha nineteen years ago, when a smitten Roc had introduced them backstage at the Beacon. The same deep calm, the almost placid expression, but with intense activity beneath the surface. Warm but untouchable at the same time. Uncle was intimidated by women like this, instinctively knowing that they were immune to his conman charisma. The uncomfortable silence ended with the arrival of the prehistoric server in red vest and black bow tie.
“I’ll have a diet Coke, please,” said Emma.
“Would you ask Juan if he’ll do a chamomile on ice with a dash of sarsaparilla? Anything to eat?” Uncle looked up at Emma, wondering if she’d always be pencil-shaped.
“A salad, I guess.”
“Bring the young lady the Musso mesclun.” Uncle dismissed the waiter and shifted uncomfortably while Emma sat watching him. “This hasn’t been a great year for sarsaparilla, but they don’t carry the Siberian ginseng anymore.” He rearranged the salt and pepper and sugar containers, not used to feeling the dynamic of the moment being out of his control. “Supposedly Chaplin got the idea for that scene in The Gold Rush while eating a baked potato here.” The tour guide charm rang false, and he felt it. “The driver found your place okay? Blue Jay Way is kinda tucked up there in the hills, isn’t it?”
Emma nodded and sipped on her drink. “It’s my friend Megan’s parents’ place. They’re sailing around the world and writing about it for Conde Nast Traveler.”
“Seriously?” Uncle shifted again, drawing in a long breath. “George Harrison wrote that song there, you know. ‘Blue Jay Way,’ I mean.” He continued after a silence. “Emma, I understand you wanting to come here, but realistically ... I mean, I’m sure this a very difficult time for you. Did your mother discuss any of the probate issues we’ll be dealing with? As you may or may not know, Roc … your father … is considered ‘missing’ at this time.”
“My mom is in Italy somewhere on an archeology tour with the museum. I can’t reach her. She probably doesn’t know I’m here, but I need to know what happened, and you’re the only contact I have. Uncle …” She grimaced slightly. “It’s too weird for me to call you that. Do you have another name?”
“Well, legally, but no one uses it anymore.” He paused, seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy her. “It’s Karl.”
“Hmm. Karl? Yes, that’s better. Karl, you’re my father’s best friend. I know his songs, his career; a couple of months ago I even found some really cool letters, more like stories with illustrations, that my mom kept, but I don’t know anything about him. I got gifts on my birthday and direct deposit cheques and that’s about it. But I guess you’re aware of that.”
Uncle saw an opening to go into raconteur mode, something he was comfortable with. “We met in the schoolyard at P.S. 131 in Duluth. Your dad was about to get beaten up for wearing these blue checked pants and mirror belt, and even though I was terrified, I had size working for me, and I took his side.”
Two hours, a dozen touching anecdotes, and a bottle of Chardonnay later, Uncle walked Emma to the sidewalk as the early evening scene on Hollywood Boulevard got underway. “Call me any time. I’ll have the office send over passes for the memorial concert. Can I drop you somewhere?”
Emma said no thanks, and Uncle put his arm around her thin shoulders. “I’m glad we had this time. Emma, Roc was a brilliant man and a wonderful friend. I wish you’d known him the way I did. I’m so sorry about your dad.”
As his car pulled up, she held Uncle’s focus for a long, unblinking moment. “Why be sorry, Karl? We both know he’s still alive.” She pulled on her backpack and disappeared into a group of tourists on the sidewalk.