We both drank some beer.
“But I got no Susan,” Z said. “So I got to be able to stop on my own.”
“Everybody does,” I said. “Finally, it’s just you.”
“Just me,” Z said.
“Yep.”
“And you been working with me,” Z said. “So I can be a guy who can win that one.”
“According to Susan,” I said, “I’m helping you be who you are.”
“If you’d started pressing me for info,” Z said, “we wouldn’t have made no progress.”
“I know,” I said.
“Even now, I brought it up,” Z said. “You aren’t asking.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
Z held the beer bottle out a little away from him and studied it.
“When I finish this one, I’m gonna want another one,” he said.
“Me too,” I said.
“But I won’t have one,” Z said.
“Me either,” I said.
The sun had slid considerably west by now, and the harbor water was much grayer than it had been when we came in.
“Jumbo and me are sitting in his hotel living room. We done a couple Violets, and we’re drinking bourbon when the front desk calls and says there’s a Ms. Lopata to see Mr. Nelson. I tell Jumbo. I tell him. He gives me a big thumbs-up, and I tell the desk to send her up. She comes in. She looks tense, you know? Jumbo gets some champagne, and they drink it and do some lines and she eases up. I stick with the bourbon. Coke gets me crazy sometimes. Always thought it didn’t mix well with the muscle stuff I was juicing. After a couple lines, Jumbo says something slick, like, ‘Come on into the bedroom, I got something to show you.’ And he giggles — honest to God — giggles. And she looks down like she’s gonna blush, but she doesn’t, and they head on into the bedroom.”
I sipped a small sip of beer. I was trying to nurse my second bottle so I could be a good example to Z.
“I’m nibbling at the bourbon and looking at the tube. I got the sound up loud so I don’t hear nothing, and they’re in there maybe an hour. Then Jumbo comes out with no clothes on, which ain’t pretty, and a really weird look on his face. And he says, ‘Get in here, and help me.’ And I go in and she’s half on the bed, half on the floor, with this scarf around her neck, and the scarf’s tied to the bedpost. She’s naked, too... and Jumbo’s saying, ‘Get her on the bed, get rid of the scarf, get her clothes on, we gotta get her out of here.’ And I say, ‘What the hell happened.’ And Jumbo says, ‘Nothing, I didn’t do nothing.’ And I say, ‘Is she dead?’ And Jumbo says, ‘I dunno. It’s an accident.’ And I get the scarf off her neck and try to listen to her heart and I can’t find none. And I can’t feel her breathing. And I say, ‘I think she’s dead.’ And Jumbo says, ‘We gotta get her outta here.’ And I say, ‘Shouldn’t we get a doctor?’ And he says, ‘I don’t know. I didn’t do nothing. Get her dressed first. I don’t feel good.’ And he goes in the bathroom and starts to puke. And I get her up on the bed and put her clothes on her. You ever try to dress somebody like that? It is not easy. I gave up on the bra. Threw it away when I ditched the scarf. And Jumbo comes out of the bathroom, still no clothes on, and says, ‘We gotta get her out of here.’ And I say to him that the desk knows her name and knows she was here, and how we gonna get her outta here, anyway? And he shakes his head and goes out in the living room and drinks some of the bourbon out of the bottle and comes back in with his cell phone and says, ‘I gotta call Alice,’ and goes back in the bathroom and pukes again. Then he shuts the door. So I get her finished up, and now I’m pretty sure she’s dead. And he comes out and says, ‘Alice says when you got everything cleaned up, call the front desk and tell them a guest in your room is unresponsive. And then don’t say anything to fucking anybody until she gets here.’ ”
Z finished the rest of his beer and put the empty bottle down on top of Henry’s desk.
“So we tidy up, and Jumbo takes a shower and gets dressed. He tries to hide the scarf by putting it around his waist under his shirt, but he’s too fat, so he has me do it around my waist. And he calls the front desk. You know the rest.”
“Where’s the scarf?” I said.
“After everybody left, I went out for a walk and put it and the bra in a trash can outside Quincy Market,” Z said.
“Which they empty every night,” I said.
“Long gone,” Z said.
“Long,” I said. “Jumbo ever tell you what happened?”
“Said she was drinking a lot of champagne. Says they was playing games with the scarf around her neck and he had to go to the bathroom, so he gets up and goes and closes the door...”
“Always the gentleman,” I said.
Z snorted.
“Yeah, he says while he was in the bathroom she musta passed out and rolled off the bed. He found her the way I said.”
“You believe him?” I said.
“He was drunk,” Z said. “She was drunk. Hell, I was drunk. Coulda happened. Or he coulda killed her. I got no idea.”
“Only two people know,” I said. “And one of them’s dead.”
53
Jumbo’s movie was shooting on a sunny day in the Rose Kennedy Greenway, where, not so long ago, the Central Artery had cast its shadow. The producer’s name was Matthew Morrison. Z and I had coffee with him on the set, sitting in bluebacked director’s chairs near the craft-services truck. There was a platter of turnovers on the counter.
“What kind of turnovers do you suppose those are?” I said.
“Usually some raspberry and some apple,” Morrison said.
“Two of my faves,” I said.
“What are the others?” Morrison said.
“Blueberry, strawberry, cherry, pineapple, peach, apricot, mince, blackberry, boysenberry...”
“Okay, okay,” Morrison said. “I get it.”
“Worst turnover I ever had was excellent,” I said.
“Like sex,” Morrison said.
“There’s no such thing,” I said, “as a bad turnover.”
Morrison nodded. He looked at Z.
“Jumbo sees you on the set, Z,” Morrison said, “he’ll throw a shit fit.”
“Eek!” Z said.
Morrison nodded.
“Seemed like I ought to mention it,” he said.
“You know a man named Tom Lopata?” I said.
“It was his daughter... wasn’t it?”
I nodded. A big guy wearing a cutoff Red Sox T-shirt and a tool belt bellied up to the craft-services counter and acquired some coffee and a turnover.
“You know him other than that?” I said.
“As a matter of fact,” Morrison said, “I do. He was trying to sell us insurance.”
“You personally, or the production?” I said.
“Insurance on Jumbo,” Morrison said.
“Life insurance?” I said.
“Sort of,” Morrison said. “With the production company as beneficiaries, in case Jumbo died or became disabled before he finished the film.”
“Don’t most movies have some kind of completion insurance?” I said.
“Of course,” Morrison said. “But the poor dope didn’t know squat about the business. He was just trying to sell insurance.”
“What did you tell him?” I said.
“I explained to him that we had all that sort of thing in place,” Morrison said.
“But let me guess,” I said. “He didn’t want to take no for an answer.”
“He wanted to talk with Jumbo,” Morrison said. “I told him that wasn’t possible, that Jumbo didn’t talk to people. He was pretty aggressive about it.”
“Did he get to talk with Jumbo?”
“Oh, God, no,” Morrison said.
“Maybe behind your back?”
Morrison shook his head. I noticed that there were still half a dozen turnovers on the craft-services counter.