"Even though he'll always be in my heart and I do think of him, I mean a lot. But I refuse to make a career of grieving, like an old Greek woman with worry beads, mourning my way through a boring life."
"But you haven't told him."
"Not yet, but I will."
"What are you waiting for," Foley said, "his permission?" She didn't answer. He saw she was looking at the rocking chair, no longer rocking.
Now it was Danialle asking, "How did you do that?"
EIGHTEEN
LAST NIGHT ON THE WAY HOME DAWN SAID, "THE NEXT time you want me to do the chores, let me know beforehand. I'll remind you I don't do house cleaning, even with a spiritual purpose."
Foley said, "I couldn't see myself smudging the house."
Dawn had explained how Foley was to open all the windows and go through the Karmanos home with a bundle of dry sage burning in a smudge pot, "To rid the house," Dawn said, "of stagnant energies." Foley was to recite the words of expulsion, "Begone, negative energies and the spirits responsible," swinging the smudge pot like an altar boy dispensing incense. This was the part that gave Foley trouble, reciting the incantation, talking out loud to a ghost.
"It's only been the accepted custom since the Middle Ages," Dawn said, cruising along Sunset Boulevard toward the 405, her tone only somewhat condescending. Dawn's irritation showed in the way she gripped the steering wheel, like you'd have to pry her hands from it. She didn't look at him when either of them spoke, not giving Foley, alone in the dark with her, even a glance.
HetoldDawnabouttherockingchairandshesaid,"Yes…?"
"Who was doing it?"
"Who do you think?"
"She said it was Peter letting her know he was there."
"Or," Dawn said, "was it the poor little rich widow?"
"She asked if I thought she was making it move."
"Have you considered," Dawn said, "she was, but didn't know she was doing it? How would you describe her state of mind?"
"She's convinced Peter's making her miserable. I told her, let him know how you feel and he'll back off. She thought I was the one made the chair stop rocking."
"What did you tell her?"
"I let her believe it."
"Good," Dawn said, "you're catching on," still without looking at him.
"I feel sorry for her," Foley said. "She's doing this to herself."
"It doesn't matter where the energy comes from, as long as you become her savior."
"I don't know," Foley said.
"Why? No sign yet of your charm working?"
"I mean I don't like the idea of faking her out."
"That means you're confident," Dawn said, "your charm is working. But you're just a humble bank robber, you don't want to sound conceited, toot your horn."
What was she doing?
A few days ago she'd make fun of him, but with a look of love in her eyes, and she was funny in an easy way. Foley and the psychic who'd found each other dreaming up a score. Even if it was making less sense to him now, he was curious, waiting to hear what Dawn had in mind.
She said, "It's eleven-thirty. Raffish Cundo Rey, the midget lover, will now be standing on his tiptoes waiting for me."
Foley didn't say anything. A few days ago he would've thought it was funny.
At half past ten the next morning a different Dawn spoke to him on the phone.
"Jack, I'm sorry if I woke you. Cundo would like you to come have breakfast with him. If you've already had it, come anyway, I'll make you an espresso." Dawn sounding breezy, Cundo nearby. She said, "Guess what? Danialle Karmanos called. She wanted your address so she can send you a thank-you note. She said for solving her problem. She hasn't heard a word from Peter-may he rest in peace and quit fucking around-since our visit."
"All I told her," Foley said, "was let him know how you feel."
"Well, evidently, she told him off. Wait a minute." Dawn came on again saying, "Cundo wants to know if you told Peter to begone. He can't see you talking to a ghost. I said don't worry about Jack, he's sly, comes up with tricky ideas." She said, "Listen, I told Danialle you're staying right across the canal, feel free to drop by whenever you want-when she gets the wim-wams. She said, 'Oh, really?' I told her you were always home, you're writing a book on identifying signs of ghosts. How to tell when they're watching you take a bath." Dawn said, "Jack, we have to stretch this one out a bit, not make exorcising a ghost look so easy. The next time we visit Danialle you'll have to spot Peter hanging around and talk to him." She said, "Wait, here's Cundo."
"You coming over?"
"I had breakfast two hours ago."
"You don't keep prison time no more? Listen, I told her, I can't see you talking to a fucking ghost, man."
"I don't think I've ever said 'begone' to anybody."
"No, now you say, 'Get the fuck out.' But listen, how does this broad Miz Karmanos look to you?"
"She seems nice."
"Tha's what you want, a nice girl? Listen, I won't stick my nose in your business, you know, your private life, whatever you get going on the side…»
"And I don't stick my nose in yours?" Foley said, "something you're gonna spring on me? Can I tell you to get fucked if I don't
like it."
Cundo said, "What?" He said, "The fuck are you talking about? You think I won't say to your face anything I want? Tell me what you think I said."
"I got the wrong idea, I'm sorry," Foley said. "I'll be over in a few minutes."
He said it, but couldn't help thinking she was up to something. Dawn. Dawn telling Cundo, "Jack's sly." Comes up with tricky ideas, because she was still pissed off from last night.
He phoned their house. Dawn answered and he said to her, "Hold the espresso, I'm going for a walk."
She said, "Antsy, Jack?"
He went out the front and followed the walk toward Dell Avenue, a narrow street that humped in turn over all four canals. He wondered if he might see Tico hanging out. Two figures stood on the bridge that crossed the canal, one leaning on the low concrete wall, his necktie hanging over the side. Foley knew it was Lou Adams before Lou stood up and raised his hand. Foley wasn't sure about the guy with him, wearing a sport shirt with his sunglasses, relaxed, hands in his pockets, but took him to be a cop. He saw no problem with that and he went up the steps to the street. Lou
Adams was leaning on the concrete wall again looking this way past his shoulder. Waiting. If you walk over, Foley thought, he'll think you're wondering what he's up to. Well, he was, so he walked over.
Lou straightened, turning to Foley.
"Jack, this is Ron Deneweth, just recently retired after going on thirty years with the LAPD. Ron helped me sign Tico as my second in command. Works with me other ways too."
Deneweth said, "How you doing?" without stepping over to shake Foley's hand. "I've been reading about you-good stuff, going back to Angola, man, twenty-two months in that stink hole. I believe you were driving for your uncle Cully, the one got you started."
"Ron looked that up for me," Lou said, "helping me with my book. Now I got notes on you go all the way back to your first communion."
Foley said, "You're writing a book?"
"I thought I told you. I know I told Tico. I have your early life, your prison life, and what you're up to now."
Deneweth was grinning at him. "Lou says he's waiting for you to go down one last time."
"That's right," Lou said, "as the most notorious bank robber in the history of our country, put away for good."
Foley said, "You're writing a book about bank robbers?"
"I mention some others, but it's about you."
"The book's finished?"