Harrison's Antiques was at the south end of Laguna Beach, on Pacific Coast Highway. It was in a stylish two-story Art Deco building that contrasted interestingly with the 18th- and 19th-century merchandise in the big display windows.
Glenda Dockridge, Hatch's assistant and the store manager, was helping Lew Booner, their general handyman, with the dusting. In a large antique store, dusting was akin to the painting of the Golden Gate Bridge: once you reached the far end, it was time to come back to the beginning and start all over again. Glenda was in a great mood because she had sold a Napoleon III ormolu-mounted black-lacquered cabinet with Japanned panels
While Hatch looked through the day's mail, attended to some correspondence, and examined a pair of 18th-century rosewood palace pedestals with inlaid jade dragons that had arrived from a scout in Hong Kong, Lindsey helped Glenda and Lew with the dusting. In her new frame of mind, even that chore was a pleasure. It gave her a chance to appreciate the details of the antiques — the turn of a finial on a bronze lamp, the carving on a table leg, the delicately pierced and hand-finished rims on a set of 18th-century English porcelains. Contemplating the history and cultural meaning of each piece as she happily dusted it, she realized that her new attitude had a distinctly Zen quality.
At twilight, sensing the approach of night, Vassago woke and sat up in the approximation of a grave that was his home. He was filled with a hunger for death and a need to kill.
The last image he remembered from his dream was of the woman from the red car. She was not in the car any more, but in a chamber he could not quite see, standing in front of a Chinese screen, wiping it with a white cloth. She turned, as if he had spoken to her, and she smiled.
Her smile was so radiant, so full of life, that Vassago wanted to smash her face in with a hammer, break out her teeth, shatter her jaw bones, make it impossible for her to smile ever again.
He had dreamed of her two or three times over the past several weeks. The first time she had been in a wheelchair, weeping and laughing simultaneously.
Again, he searched his memory, but he could not recall her face among those he had ever seen outside of dreams. He wondered who she was and why she visited him when he slept.
Outside, night fell. He sensed it coming down. A great black drape that gave the world a preview of death at the end of every bright and shining day.
He dressed and left his hideaway.
By seven o'clock that early-spring night, Lindsey and Hatch were at Zov's, a small but busy restaurant in Tustin. The decor was mainly black and white, with lots of big windows and mirrors. The staff, unfailingly friendly and efficient, were dressed in black and white to complement the long room. The food they served was such a perfect sensual experience that the monochromatic bistro seemed ablaze with color.
The noise level was congenial rather than annoying. They did not have to raise their voices to hear each other, and felt as if the background buzz provided a screen of privacy from nearby tables.
Through the first two courses — calamari; black-bean soup — they spoke of trivial things. But when the main course was served — swordfish for both of them — Lindsey could no longer contain herself.
She said, “Okay, all right, we've had all day to brood about it. We haven't colored each other's opinions. So what do you think of Regina?”
“What do
“You first.”
“Why me?”
Lindsey said, “Why not?”
He took a deep breath, hesitated. “I'm crazy about the kid.”
Lindsey felt like leaping up and doing a little dance, the way a cartoon character might express uncontainable delight, because her joy and excitement were brighter and bolder than things were supposed to be in real life. She had hoped for just that reaction from him, but she hadn't known what he would say, really hadn't had a clue, because the meeting had been … well, one apt word would be “daunting.”
“Oh, God, I love her,” Lindsey said. “She's so sweet.”
“She's a tough cookie.”
“That's an act.”
“She was putting on an act for us, yeah, but she's tough just the same. She's had to be tough. Life didn't give her a choice.”
“But it's a good tough.”
“It's a great tough,” he agreed. “I'm not saying it put me off. I admired it, I loved her.”
“She's so bright.”
“Struggling so hard to make herself unappealing,” Hatch said, “and that only made her
“The poor kid. Afraid of being rejected again, so she took the offensive.”
“When I heard her coming down the hall, I thought it was—”
“Godzilla!” Lindsey said.
“At least. And how'd you like Binky the talking goldfish?”
“Shit on the mayonnaise!” Lindsey said.
They both laughed, and people around them turned to look, either because of their laughter or because some of what Lindsey said was overheard, which only made them laugh harder.
“She's going to be a handful,” Hatch said.
“She'll be a dream.”
“Nothing's that easy.”
“One problem.”
“What's that?”
He hesitated. “What if she doesn't want to come with us?”
Lindsey's smile froze. “She will. She'll come.”
“Maybe not.”
“Don't be negative.”
“I'm only saying we've got to be prepared for disappointment.”
Lindsey shook her head adamantly. “No. It's going to work out. It has to. We've had more than our share of bad luck, bad times. We deserve better. The wheel has turned. We're going to put a family together again. Life is going to be good, it's going to be so fine. The worst is behind us now.”
3
That Thursday night, Vassago enjoyed the conveniences of a motel room.
Usually he used one of the fields behind the abandoned amusement park as a toilet. He also washed each evening with bottled water and liquid soap. He shaved with a straight razor, an aerosol can of lather, and a piece of a broken mirror that he had found in a corner of the park.
When rain fell at night, he liked to bathe in the open, letting the downpour sluice over him. If lightning accompanied the storm, he sought the highest point on the paved midway, hoping that he was about to receive the grace of Satan and be recalled to the land of the dead by one scintillant bolt of electricity. But the rainy season in southern California was over now, and most likely would not come around again until December. If he earned his way back into the fold of the dead and damned before then, the means of his deliverance from the hateful world of the living would be some other force than lightning.
