After my sojourn on the telephone, I ran my errands. At an electronics store in Hollywood I bought a high quality reel-to-reel tape recorder, a supply of blank tape, and a state-of-the-art condenser microphone. From Hollywood I drove to the Pico and Robertson area and leaned on Larry Willis. Larry Willis is a small-time black shoplifter, dope dealer, pimp, and food stamp recipient. He used to hang out at the Gold Cup on the Boulevard in the early ’70s when I was working Hollywood Vice and I rousted him regularly. Once he called me a pig and I kicked his ass soundly. He fears me, for good reason, and thinks I still carry a badge. Fearing the worst when I came in his front door unannounced, he was only too happy to furnish me with what I needed: a dozen one-and-a-half-grain Seconal capsules.
My last stop was at a gun shop on La Brea, where I purchased a Browning 12-gauge pump shotgun and a box of shells. I had everything I needed for Mexico.
On the way to pick up Jane I reviewed the women in my life. There weren’t many. There was Susan, a hard line San Francisco leftist eight years my senior, who I shacked up with when I was twenty-three. We met when I ticketed her for an illegal left-hand turn on Melrose and Wilton. I ran a warrant check on her and she came up dirty: a slew of unpaid traffic citations. But I couldn’t bring myself to arrest her. She was too handsome and intelligent-looking. So I cited her and showed up at her apartment two days later with a bottle of Scotch, flowers, and a smile. She ditched the flowers in the toilet bowl and we killed the Scotch and became lovers. She could drink me under the table.
Our relationship lasted a hectic eight months. I met a lot of interesting people — old time San Francisco unionists, superannuated beatniks, and dopers of all stripes. I was Susan’s live-in curio: an outsized, crewcut cop who got drunk all the time and listened to Beethoven. Gradually, our cultural differences came to the fore and it was no go. Susan’s idea of a lover’s endearment was to call me her “sociopath with a gun.”
Christine was my next inamorata: a car hop at Stan’s Drive-in, catty-corner from Hollywood High. Christine wrote incomprehensible poetry and talked in riddles and metaphors. She was insane, a profound piece of passion pie one moment, a willful shrew the next. What a body! The last I heard she was a topless showgirl in Vegas.
It was a beautiful L.A. summer evening, ideal for the Bowl. Cruising west on Sunset with the top down my mind took flight with bits and fragments of the passing scene: the Strip gearing up for another go at nightlife, the giant lighted signs proclaiming rock groups and other coming attractions, the callow idolators of electric music cliquing up in front of the Whisky A Go Go. And punk rock was out in force, well represented by skinny teenagers in ’50s garb sporting green and blue hair and wrap-around sunglasses. One distaff punk rocker led another by a leash attached to a spiked dog collar. It was very naive, and I was feeling too good to be offended.
Stopped at the light at Sunset and Doheny, I checked my watch, then hitched myself up in my seat and gulped in the moment: 6:42 P.M., Friday, July 2. I committed the night air, the cloud formations, and the faces of the passersby to memory. It was my moment, spawned by my covenant, and it would never be again. The light changed and I drove into Beverly Hills.
I parked my old Camaro in the long circular driveway behind Jane’s Cadillac. Sol Kupferman’s newer, darker one was gone. I rang the doorbell and first notes of the choral part of Beethoven’s Ninth sounded off in chimes. A nice touch, no doubt added by Jane.
She threw open the door a moment later and bid me enter. I did. The living room was huge and lavishly appointed. Jane swept an arm toward the vast room, as though encouraging me to take it all in, but all I could look at was her. Her hair was down to her shoulders and she wore only the slightest touch of makeup. She looked demure yet sophisticated, a study in feminine charisma.
“Hi,” I said. “You look good.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“Is Sol around? I want to sell him some fire insurance.”
“Very amusing. No, Sol is not around. Run into any firebugs lately?”
“No, but I have run into a few caddies who might serve in that capacity. I prowl golf courses at night, hunting for golf balls and sleeping in sand traps. Take me to your wisest golfer.”
Jane cracked up, doubled over in laughter and grabbed my arm for support. “Laughter in the face of adversity,” she said, “what a scream. It’s kind of decadent, but it feels good. Look, I’ve found two of those letters you wanted. But don’t read them tonight, okay? I don’t want to talk about the whole bum trip.”
“Okay, I was going to suggest the same thing.”
Jane squeezed my arm. “Good,” she said. “Wait here and I’ll get them. Then we can leave.” She scurried off upstairs and I eyeballed the room. Interior decoration doesn’t send me, but I can recognize superb design when I see it. The room had high ceilings; the walls were a rich mustard color. They were hung with oil paintings of sailing ships and landscapes from the last century. Large, tufted floral couches and easy chairs were arranged concentrically. Rich, dark wood was in abundance. The wide bay windows that fronted the street would provide gently reflected sunlight on bright days and a great muted view on darker ones. It seemed like a good place to live.
Jane returned with the letters and I stuck them into my back pocket without examining them. “Nice pad,” I said, “out of the low-rent district.”
Jane smiled. “I feel comfortable here,”
“I’m glad. You deserve it. Now let’s get out of here.”
We drove east. Darkness had fallen and the stars shining in the clear sky competed with garish neon for primacy and won. They didn’t usually, but the completeness of this night altered my perceptions of everything, including my city.
Jane and I talked comfortably.
“Why the cello, Jane?” I asked. “It seems an odd choice for a fledgling music lover. The piano or the violin seem more likely. Their virtuosity is overwhelming to a person just starting to appreciate music.”
“Very true. I’ve asked myself the same question a million times. With me the cello was love at first hearing. It reflected all my deep, inchoate feelings. You know, the sadness, the weltshmerz that sensitive young girls feel. And it seemed so stable, so steeped in tradition! Anyway, I just flipped for it. And I started listening selectively, too. When I came to live with Sol, he bought me a stereo and hundreds of records. And I fell in love with string quartets. Someday I’ll play with a good quartet, and that will be home.”
“You’re home now. Savor these years of practice and study. I know that when, years from now, you reflect on your life, you’ll consider them among your finest.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment, Fritz. How did you become interested in music?”
I laughed. “It was sort of funny and totally unexpected. I was twenty-one and I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. My parents had died recently and I was totally up in the air. They had wanted me to attend college and enter one of the professions. I went to Cal State for a year, to placate them, but I hated it. Their death let me off the hook. I was working for a gardener part time and living off the money from their insurance policy. One afternoon we were trimming shrubs in Pasadena and I heard thunderous, powerful music coming from the house of the people we were working for. It was the Eroica. It knocked me flat on my ass. I felt that I had come home, too.”