I paused and half turned and looked back at him and the still motionless Chollo.
”Si,“ I said.
Chapter 38
I TOOK Jill up to Maine, to a cabin on a lake that I’d built with Paul Giacomin nine years before. The cabin belonged to Susan, but she let me use it. We got there on a Thursday, driving straight from the airport, and on Saturday morning while I was making breakfast Jill still hadn’t spoken.
The snow was a foot deep in the woods, and the other cabins were empty. Nothing moved but squirrels and the winter birds that hopped along the snow crust and seemed impervious to cold. I kept a fire going in the big central fireplace, and read some books, and did push-ups and sit-ups. I would have run along the plowed highway, but I didn’t want to leave Jill.
Jill was silent. She sat where I put her, she slept a lot, she ate some of what I gave her. She smoked and had coffee and in the evening would drink some. But she didn’t drink a lot, and she spoke not at all. Much of the time she simply sat and looked at things I didn’t see and seemed very far away inside.
I ate some turkey hash with corn bread, and two cups of coffee. Jill had some coffee and three cigarettes. It didn’t seem too healthy to me, but I figured this might not be the time for rigorous retraining.
”I came up here, about nine years ago,“ I said, ”with a kid named Paul Giacomin.“
It was not clear, when I talked to her, if Jill heard me, though when I offered her coffee she held out her cup.
”Kid was a mess,“ I said. ”Center of a custody dispute in a messy divorce. It wasn’t that each parent wanted him. It was that neither parent wanted the other to have him.“
I put a dab of cranberry catsup on my second helping of hash.
”We built this place, he and I. I taught him to carpenter, and to work out, read poetry. Susan got him some psychotherapy. Kid’s a professional dancer now, he’s in Aix-en-Provence, in France, performing and giving master’s classes at some dance festival.“
Jill had no reaction. I ate my hash. While I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes, the phone rang. It was Sandy Salzman.
”Studio’s up my ass,“ Salzman said. ”Network is talking cancellation. Where the fuck is she?“
”She’s with me,“ I said.
”I know that, when the hell does she reappear?“
”Later,“ I said.
”I’ve got to talk with her,“ Sandy said. ”Put her on the phone.“
”No.“
”Dammit, I’ve got to talk with her. I’m coming up.“
”I won’t let you see her,“ I said.
”For crissake, Spenser, you work for me.“
”You can’t see her,“ I said.
”Somebody from the studio, Riggs, somebody from business affairs?“
”Nobody,“ I said.
”Dammit, you can’t stop me.“
”Yes, I can.“
”I’ll bring some people.“
”Better bring a lot,“ I said.
”Spenser, I’ve got authorization, from Michael Maschio himself, to terminate your services as of this moment.“
”No,“ I said. ”You don’t see her. Her agent doesn’t see her. Michael Maschio doesn’t see her. Captain Kangaroo doesn’t see her. Just me, I see her. And Susan Silverman. Nobody else until she’s ready.“
”Spenser, goddammit, you got no right… “
I hung up. In fifteen minutes I had a similar conversation with Jill’s agent, who must have been calling before sunrise, West Coast time. At 9:45 I talked on the phone with Martin Quirk.
”We got the gun killed Loftus,“ he said without preamble when I answered the phone. ”Registered to a guy named William Zabriskie. LAPD found him in the trunk of a stolen car parked in the lot of Bullocks Department Store on Wilshire Boulevard. Gun was on him. Been shot once through the heart.“
”How’d they come to check with you?“ I said.
”Anonymous tip,“ Quirk said.
”Got a motive?“
”No,“ Quirk said. ”Why I’m calling you. Ever hear of this guy?“
”He’s Jill Joyce’s father,“ I said.
”The hell he is,“ Quirk said.
