Nelson was moving toward the door through which Doc and I had just come.
“Who” asked Doc.
“Last night, Mr. Claude told me a name. Then I came back before and Mr. Claude was, was, was …”
“Dead,” I said.
Martin Sawyer looked frightened. His eyes moved to Sheriff Nelson, who was coming out of the door.
“What was the name Mr. Claude told you, Martin?”
“Gregory Novak,” said Martin. “Mr. Claude said, ‘Gregory Novak wants to kill me, but I’ll fool him.’”
“What?” asked Nelson. “Martin Sawyer, go home to your sister. There is nothing here for you.”
Sawyer rubbed his head and looked at Nelson.
“Gregory Novak,” he said.
Nelson shook his head and pushed past Sawyer, heading toward Hijo’s bar.
“Martin just told us that Claude believed someone named Gregory Novak was planning to kill him,” said Doc.
“Hold it,” I put in. “Juanita said someone would be killed by a guy called Guy or Greg, a guy with a beard.”
“Juanita?” asked Doc.
“Fortune teller in L.A.,” I explained.
Sheriff Nelson stopped, his back to us, paused for a beat and turned to look at the three of us.
“Gentlemen,” said Nelson, “I anticipate both an eventful confrontation with my spouse and a future of less than cordial social interaction with the brothers Rangley. The respite of a bottle or two of Drewery’s will be most welcome. It is my opinion that Gregory Norvell-”
“Novak,” Martin Sawyer corrected helpfully.
“Novak,” Nelson said with a weary sigh. “I stand corrected. It is my opinion that Gregory Novak is the name of a character on
Doc touched Martin Sawyer’s arm and told him softly to get in Doc’s car and wait for him. Then we joined Nelson in the bar.
6
At a table, one of four in Hijo’s, Doc gave me a handful of aspirin for my head. I downed them with a bottle of some unknown and unnamed yellow liquid with a faint taste of beer. We sat drinking while Sheriff Nelson brooded over life, his wife, and the brothers Rangley. The radio behind the bar played a Treasury War Bond show. Jane Froman and Lanny Ross sang a duet-“This Love of Mine”-followed by a sketch with Betty Grable and Preston Foster as a married couple trying to get ready for a dinner while their maid, played by Joan Davis, gave them a hard time.
I got on the road as soon as I could and headed north. The Crosley wasn’t in a hurry and my head had a lump the size and shape of a yucca leaf. I pulled in at South Carlsbad Beach just before Oceanside, had a hot dog at a shack called Hernie’s, looked at the ocean and a white wooden naval lookout tower on stilts. I sat on a piece of driftwood and helped the tower look for the Japanese armada for about an hour. When I got up, my head throbbed and my back twinged, but it could have been worse.
I passed San Juan Capistrano as the sun was going down. The written history of California began at the Mission San Juan Capistrano. History was the one subject I had enjoyed in high school. In my one year and a little more at the University of Southern California, the only class I could pay attention to was history. I remembered one afternoon when Father Zephpyrin Engelhardt, the historian of the California Missions, had come to class complete with dark robes tied with a white rope and a little black skullcap on his head. He had a long white beard and carried an ancient book. I’d looked up Father Z in 1936 on my way through San Juan Capistrano, but he had died two years earlier.
It was Father Z who told us how California got its name. Father Z said, I’ve still got the notes somewhere, that a novel called
No one knows for sure how the western coast of North America picked up the name. It might have come with Spanish explorers in the sixteenth century. I like to think it came with Hernando Cortez, who conquered Mexico and spent some time slaughtering Aztecs in the Baja. It might have come with Juan Cabrillo, who in 1542 landed near what became San Diego.
It wasn’t till more than two hundred years later, in August 1769, that some Spanish missionaries and soldiers made an expedition north and found a valley. They made camp by a river. Friendly Gabrielino Indians brought them gifts of shell beads and the next day the Spaniards moved on. They were the first non-Indians to spend a night in what is now downtown Los Angeles.
I stopped following the path of the missionaries into Los Angeles and headed for my brother’s house in North Hollywood. Nothing was open but I stopped at a park I knew and picked some flowers.
When I got to the house, I knocked and Ruth answered.
“It’s still Sunday,” I said.
She smiled and I handed her the flowers.
“Thanks, Toby,” she said, kissing my cheek as we stepped in.
The radio was on. A voice I recognized said something about U.S. bombers battering the Japanese on Wake Island.
Ruth was wearing a short-sleeved white-and-purple dress with fluffy shoulders. Her yellow hair was pulled back and tied with a purple ribbon. Strands were creeping out all over the place. She didn’t look sick, but it wasn’t easy to tell with Ruth, who was swizzle-stick thin and pale at the best of times.
“Kids up?”
“I told them this morning you’d be coming,” she said, leading me through the small living room. An ancient photograph of my mother and father sat on top of the radio, which was now telling us to smoke Old Gold because it was lowest in irritating tars and resins and lowest in nicotine.
“From coast to coast,” the voice said happily, “the swing’s to new Old Gold.”
We moved into the small kitchen, where Phil was sitting at the table over a bowl of cereal. A box of Wheaties sat next to his bowl. Cereal was the one passion we shared. Phil was still wearing his rumpled suit. His tie was loosened. He didn’t say anything.
“Look what Toby brought me.” Ruth said.
Phil paused in his crunching, looked at the flowers, and said, “Pretty.”
“You’d better see the kids before they’re asleep,” Ruth said. “Phil will get you a bowl.”
As we left the kitchen, Phil made a grunting noise and pushed his chair back. We went to Lucy’s room first. Lucy was somewhere between waking and sleep. She blinked at me and clutched her stuffed rabbit. We moved to the boys’ room. Both Nat and Dave were in bed but awake.
“Uncle Toby,” said Dave, sitting up. “You were supposed to be here to take us to see Abbott and Costello.”
“Couldn’t help it,” I said with shrug. “I was in jail.”
“He’s kidding,” said Nat.
“No,” I said. “I found a dead guy and the sheriff arrested me. Then a state trooper named Rangley hit me in the back of the head. Here, have a look.”
Nat looked. Dave reached over to touch my lump.
“I wish I could have seen,” Dave said. “Uncle Toby, all the good stuff happens to you.”
“I’ve got to go talk to your dad,” I said. “Let’s shoot for Abbott and Costello next Saturday.”
“If you’re not in jail,” Nat said cynically.
