Gilbert had plenty to say the next morning on the bus north.
“It’s your fault.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You could have bit her ass.”
Cyril nodded.
“What’s his nuts liked you,” said Gilbert, a bewildered emphasis on the word liked.
“Yup.”
“Fucking up your stuff, okay, I get it, you insulted him, but why screw me around?”
Cyril felt bad.
Gilbert leaned his head in his hands.
Gazing out the window at the green wall of gnarled and impenetrable jungle sliding past, Cyril wondered what lived in there? Snakes, bugs, lizards? Maybe some of Gilbert’s birds?
They flew from Puerta Vallarta to Los Angeles. Cyril had enough money left for one bus ticket to Vancouver. He gave it to Gilbert.
Calmer now, Gilbert said no, they could hitchhike.
Cyril insisted. “Go. Please. I owe it to you. Besides, I need some time.”
Gilbert studied him. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’d say we’ve pretty much established that fact.”
“Does she know you’re coming?”
Cyril shook his head.
“My idea was sound,” said Gilbert, meaning his birds. “It was.”
“There’s real money there.”
“You can try again,” said Cyril.
They shook hands.
Wrought iron letters were bolted to a troweled arch that opened onto a quadrangle of parked cars, withered shrubs, and long-stay motel rooms. At each corner ravaged palm trees looked as though they’d been used for target practise. Some sort of flying beetle motored past his face and struck a lamp pole, reeled and then continued on. He assembled the facts: at the age of seventeen Connie had known what she wanted and had gone after it; she’d dumped him twice and now here he was about to knock on her door, an act of admirable tenacity or foolish thickheadedness. But he reminded himself that he was merely passing through town and popping in to say hello, which was the truth, sort of. He turned around. A panhandler sat cross-legged on the sidewalk; Cyril turned and faced the motel. He’d phoned but there’d been no answer, he’d written from San Vicente but never heard back. A hint? A sign? Or merely the Mexican postal system?
Scanning the second floor he spotted room 209 at the far end. His mouth was dry and his pulse pounded. Los Angeles was gritty and arid in contrast to the syrupy humidity of San Vicente. There was the racket of radios and car horns instead of the cries of gulls and throbbing of cicadas. He’d bought her a bracelet of Taxco silver, no big deal, a token, and he touched his shirt pocket reassuring himself it was still there and then reminding himself that she probably wasn’t home anyway—who was home on a Wednesday afternoon? He’d slip the bracelet under the door with a note, or maybe without a note, just let it lie there mysterious and intriguing, and when they next met, for they would meet, of that he had no doubt, he could ask her casually about her silver bracelet and tell her the story of how he took a trip from the Mexican coast up into the mountains to Taxco with its steep streets and silversmiths and bought it for her.
Leaving Connie’s, Cyril dropped the bracelet into the panhandler’s hat. At the end of the street two guys stepped from some bushes wielding sharpened pencils.
“Fuckin’ pay up, cocksucker.”
Cyril raised his hands palms outward. “I haven’t got anything.”
“Fuck you, pay up.” The mugger was lean and sunburned and grubby and his nose was running. He wiped his forearm across his upper lip then thrust the sharpened pencil upward like a knife fighter. Cyril stepped back. The other guy was big though swaying as if drunk. He made an overhand stab. Cyril raised his arm and fended off the blow and the guy stumbled past on his own momentum. The other thrust again but the pencil slid between Cyril’s ribs and elbow and Cyril found himself nose-to-nose with him, his arm clamped under his own. The guy smelled of pee and sweat. A moment passed during which neither knew what to do. Then Cyril hoistedupward on the guy’s arm hyper-extending his elbow. The guy howled and stood on his toes. They stayed this way, as if in some strange dance. The one yipping while his partner got up and advanced.
Cyril hoisted higher. “I’ll break his arm.”
The little one shrieked and the other halted.
“Get going,” said Cyril, and held on until the big guy was down the street by the panhandler who was just sitting there watching. The big mugger halted and said something to him—then grabbed the guy’s hat and ran. Cyril released the little guy, who dropped to his knees cradling his arm.
“I should have stayed in San Vicente,” said Cyril.
“What? Are you fucking nuts?”
“I must be,” he admitted.
He’d looked through a gap in the slats of Connie’s venetian blinds and seen that they were shooting a film—there was a cameraman and a sound man—and there was Connie in bed with two men, one black, one white.
THREE
CYRIL ACCOMPANIED GILBERT to the cab depot where he met Lemuel, the dispatcher, who was eating the third of five hotdogs that were laid in a row on his desk. On Gilbert’s advice, Cyril had brought along a bottle of Ballantyne’s. He gave Lemuel the whisky, Lemuel gave him a set of keys, and Gilbert led him to a car.
“I got something for you,” said Gilbert conspiratorially. Reaching into the black leather briefcase in which he carried his racing forms, his Wall Street Journal, and his Hoagie, he shoved a .38 into Cyril’s hand. “Keep it here.” He indicated a spot under the left side of the driver’s seat. When Cyril pointed out that he was right-handed, Gilbert said to start practising with his left.
“Why would I want a job like this?”
Gilbert counted on his fingers. “Be your own boss. Meet interesting people. Have time to read, draw, cogitate, harass women, whatever you want. Anyway, I’ve never had to use mine,” he said. “Consider it a guardian angel.”
Guardian angels hadn’t proven too effective as far as Cyril could see, so he didn’t put much faith in the gun. Nonetheless, he had to admit that driving was diverting, and even if he wasn’t really his own boss but more like a dog on a long leash, he enjoyed the pleasing delusion of independence, and it made a welcome change from construction. Most of the trips were short and many people were content to ride in silence which was fine with him. He thought often of Connie and felt naive at his shock at what he’d seen. He imagined the financial desperation that had driven her to it. Had her acting career tanked? The theatre tour bombed? Maybe that was why she’d never responded to his letter from Mexico. He considered driving the cab all the way down the coast to her motor court, parking right there beneath her door and honking the horn and when she stepped out asking if she’d called a cab, charming her with the sheer unabashed whimsy of the stunt.
His first week driving went well enough: people were polite, they tipped, they got out. By the end of the week he was taking his sketchbook with him and when things got slow he did a little work, street scenes, pedestrians, lampposts. Then he switched to evenings where, according to Gilbert, the good money lived. At first Lemuel fed him easy trips. He drove some suits, some office girls, ferried some Korean sailors to the Seaman’s Club. Then there was a lull. Along with his sketchpad he had a textbook on Ukrainian History because he was considering going back to school. Paul once said Ukrainian Cossacks invaded Siberia in the late sixteenth century by carrying their riverboats over the Urals. Why anyone would want to invade Siberia mystified Cyril, but it was an impressive feat that sparked his curiosity. He was flipping through a chapter titled The Glory That Was Kiev when the cab doors swung open and two guys dropped into the back and a third hit the front causing the car to lurch on its springs.