6:29 p.m.
Mob scene. Hollywood Boulevard at Las Palmas Avenue.
The crowd ran two thousand. The cop crew ran two hundred. Note the double barricades and loudspeakers on streetlamps.
Movie spotlights swooping. A twenty-foot-high bandstand with curb-to-curb span. Geek citizens stretched out a half mile.
Cross streets blocked off. Cars diverted and rerouted. Bottlenecks south to Melrose and north to the Hollywood Bowl.
The rally started at 7:00. Ann Sheridan and Ellen Drew. Ronald Reagan and Joan Crawford. Two half-gassed Ritz Brothers.
L.A. was a cluster fuck. Miss Sheridan was a Narco snitch. Elmer Jackson was screwing Miss Drew.
Parker paced a stretch of sidewalk. Crowd noise slammed him. Ditto a hot rumor. A tong punk sliced the Dudster at Kwan’s yesterday.
Dudley survived. He was now Army-commissioned and Mexico-bound.
The celebs were ensconced at Musso & Frank’s. A “U.S.A. Buffet” was set up. The Ritz Brothers were grab-assing Miss Sheridan and Miss Drew.
His nerves were shot to shit. He was thirteen days sober. This was all shit that he didn’t need.
He ducked into Musso’s. The crowd noise abated. The bartender saw him and held up a telephone.
He walked over. The celebs had lacquered photos pinned to their coats. The pix honored Our Boys in Service. Cluster fuck. Miss Crawford’s pic noted Scotty Bennett, USMC.
The bartender passed the phone. Parker cupped his free ear.
“Yes?”
“It’s Preston Exley, Bill. I’m calling to tell you that we’re folding our tent. That means on all of it. You convinced us that it’s not worth the trouble. For what it’s worth, you won.”
Parker said, “Thank you.”
Exley said something else. The restaurant started broiling. Parker hung up and walked outside.
He stood on the sidewalk. He felt shot-to-shit numb. That big noise washed over him.
He smoked and watched the crowd. The spotlights swept low. They illuminated odd people.
He stared at the crowd. That big noise escalated. The celebs climbed the bandstand. The spotlights lit up geeks standing close in.
He caught half a glimpse. The light swerved away. He’d caught her tall sway and red hair. The light swerved back. He caught her face. He saw the gold braid on her uniform.
He ran toward her. He jumped off the curb and made the street at a sprint. People saw Cop and stepped back. People caught a blur and stood still. He saw her, he lost her, he saw her. He thought he saw her blow smoke.
He hit the crowd. He lost her. He elbowed through the crowd. People moved away and tripped away from him. He stumbled and lost his hat. He saw her, he lost her.
He elbowed people. He pushed people back. He saw her, he lost her. He shoved people. They shoved him back. He staggered and stayed upright. He saw her close, he lost her, he saw her farther back.
He tried to turn toward her. People blocked his path. He shoved them. They shoved him. He shoved harder. They shoved harder. He saw her gold uniform braid.
He caught an elbow. He caught rabbit punches. Someone coffee-doused him. Someone stuck a foot out and tripped him. He hit the pavement and heard people laugh.
He stumbled up and tried to run. He got tripped again. He got up, he fell down, he got up. He thought he saw her. He tripped and lost her. People laughed at him and kicked him. He crouched low and ran. He knocked down a fat man and made the south curb.
His trousers were ripped. His hat was gone. He stumbled to a streetlamp and pulled himself up on a ledge. He looked above the crowd and down at the crowd and tried to catch her red hair.
He lost his grip. He slid off the pole and hit the curb. People laughed at him. Patriotic music blasted. Two thousand fools screeched.
He steadied himself and walked off the boulevard. He saw a COCKTAILS sign down Las Palmas.
He beelined. The door was propped open. The bottle row above the bar was backlit.
The barman saw him and quick-read him. He laid down a napkin. Parker pointed to the Old Crow and held two fingers up.
The barman poured him a double. He downed it. The barman refilled him. He downed it. The barman refilled him. He downed it and dropped a twenty on the bartop.
The booze quick-scorched him. He walked outside with the flush. Stray spotlights hit him. He saw a cab.
He got in the back. The cabbie went Where to? He went It’s off the Strip.
The cabbie U-turned. Parker steered him around the bottlenecks and got him away from the shit. They caught a lull. They made all greens to the Strip. He pointed him up the hill.
The porch light was on. Blanchard’s car was gone. Her car was there.
He paid the cabbie and walked up. The living room was dark. The door was halfway cracked. There was just fireplace glow.
She was there. She was tucked asleep on the couch.
He stepped inside. He grabbed a stray chair and carried it over. He sat facing her. One arm was draped toward him. He saw the fresh knife nicks. Dear lord, she did it.
He pulled his chair closer. His legs bumped the couch. Her eyes fluttered. She said, “William,” and went back to sleep.
A breeze stirred the fire and lit her hair red. He smelled the prairie. He touched her face and said, “Katherine, love.”