She had a wonderfully expressive voice. It was high and pure but had a little roughness on its way up and down the notes. The colored geometrical shapes that poured out around her microphone were brilliant and profuse as tropical flowers. The more she sang the more they filled the air around her. Back in the old days, I might have reached out to move the shapes aside but they don’t annoy or fascinate me like they used to. Now they’re just part of what is. I’m learning to ignore them if I want to.
I sat and listened and let my mind wander, which is what it does when I hear music, or sermons in church. In the middle of her second song I became aware that she was looking at me. After that I had the odd feeling that she was singing only to me, much as I had paid attention only to her when I spoke at the San Diego Synesthesia Society meeting. It was a pleasant feeling.
Lillian’s songs ranged widely in topic, from a young girl’s relationship with her aging mother to a young woman who gets her heart broken but won’t admit it to a song called “Carefree Blonde,” in which the singer names her rivals after hair dyes, such as “Platinum Bounce,” “Cornsilk,” and “Urban Angel.” This song was funny and sarcastic, and many people sang along with the chorus.
While her songs filled the room with emotions and the shapes and colors flowed forth from her mouth, I tried to say good-bye to Gina once and for all. But you can only say good-bye to something that big a little at a time. So I said another small good-bye and I knew again in my heart that it was time to start over. I wasn’t the man for her. I thought I could change, but I never knew what to change into. I had done all I could do: I had fallen.
After the show I took a walk through the parking lot, then the nearest side streets. I located Lillian’s battered brown coupe parked under a streetlamp. I could hear the distant roar of the waves on the beach and see the downy threads of June fog riding by on the breeze. I decided against waiting for her and walked down by the beach for a while, but when I came back the car was still there.
I crossed my arms and leaned against it.
She came through the fog in her wine-colored coat, her guitar case in one hand. Behind her one of the large bouncers rolled a dolly with her monitors and another guitar case and a blue plastic milk crate filled with cords and plugs.
“Hello, Robbie,” she said.
“Hello, Lillian.”
“Want him to get lost?” asked the bouncer.
“He’s okay,” said Lillian.
“Pop the trunk, Lil,” he said.
She unlocked the car, bent inside, then stood up straight again. With the boots on she was almost as tall as I was. In her stage makeup she looked older than she had before, and the age looked good on her.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Really good. You?”
“Good, too. Still seeing voices?”
I nodded. “I really don’t mind. You kind of get used to it. Still hearing faces?”
She studied me a moment. “Yeah. I read about you and the grand jury,” she said.
“It had to happen.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“Las Vegas. It was over when I met you. I just didn’t believe it then.”
She eyed me with frank distrust.
The trunk slammed and the car rocked. The bouncer came over, hugged Lillian, and glared at me. Then he turned and aimed the empty dolly back toward the nightclub.
“Take a walk?” she asked.
“That would be great,” I said.
“Talk to me, Detective Brownlaw,” she said.
“About what?”
“Anything you want.”
Acknowledgments
Thanks again to Dave Bridgman, retired San Diego Police Department firearms instructor, for his generous information about guns and the people who use them.
Also, thanks to Officer Jeff Gross of the San Diego Police Department, for his help with SWAT tactics and capabilities.
Many thanks to San Diego Police Department public information “officer” Dave Cohen, for his help with police department helicopters.
And special thanks to Lance Evers, for his insights into the world of professional wrestling.
Theirs are the facts; the errors are mine alone.