“Well—”
“It’s on Joel Silver’s desk,” she said. “My friend Arnie, he’s my writing partner, and he’s a co
urier. He dropped it off with Joel Silver’s office, like it came from a regular agent or somewhere.”
“Best of luck,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she said, and smiled with her blackberry lips.
Information had two Dundas, P’s listed, which I thought was both unlikely and said something about America, or at least Los Angeles.
The first turned out to be a Ms. Persephone Dundas.
At the second number, when I asked for Pious Dundas, a man’s voice said, “Who is this?”
I told him my name, that I was staying in the hotel, and that I had something belonging to Mr. Dundas.
“Mister. My grandfa’s dead. He died last night.”
Shock makes clichés happen for real: I felt the blood drain from my face; I caught my breath.
“I’m sorry. I liked him.”
“Yeah.”
“It must have been pretty sudden.”
“He was old. He got a cough.” Someone asked him who he was talking to, and he said nobody, then he said, “Thanks for calling.”
I felt stunned.
“Look, I have his scrapbook. He left it with me.”
“That old film stuff?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Keep it. That stuff ’s no good to anybody. Listen, mister, I gotta run.”
A click, and the line went silent.
I went to pack the scrapbook in my bag and was startled, when a tear splashed on the faded leather cover, to discover that I was crying.
I stopped by the pool for the last time, to say good-bye to Pious Dundas, and to Hollywood.
Three ghost white carp drifted, fins flicking minutely, through the eternal present of the pool.
I remembered their names: Buster, Ghost, and Princess; but there was no longer any way that anyone could have told them apart.
The car was waiting for me, by the hotel lobby. It was a thirty-minute drive to the airport, and already I was starting to forget.
On the Road to New Egypt
Jeffrey Ford
One day when I was driving home from work, I saw him there on the side of the road. He startled me at first, but I managed to control myself and apply the brakes. His face was fixed with a look somewhere between agony and elation. That thumb he thrust out at an odd angle was gnarled and had a long nail. The sun was setting and red beams danced around him. I stopped and leaned over to open the door.