and nearly tore the place apart.'
'What did he look like?' William asked, thinking that junkies were more polite than he'd remembered, or maybe just the ones down here in the Sunshine State.
'Like you,' the other one said.
So pet lover Goldblum had been there too.
Later William found himself back at the National Inn, staring at plane after plane taking off into a nearly indigo sky, and wishing silently that he was on one.
He found something. Remember-he'd looked like he found something.
But what?
And even if he found what it was, would he know what it meant?
He had one hope, one admittedly, frail, feeble-assed hope: that Jean would somewhere, somehow, show him the way. Okay, Jean, I'm waiting.
And now, clinging to this hope the way people his age tend to cling to religion, reality intruded. His shoulder began to throb, to scream, to make a god-awful racket. Slowly, gingerly, he unbuttoned his shirt, then walked into the bathroom where he ran a towel under a warm tap.
The problem was, they'd left the bullet in, not all of it, but most of it, enough of it so that it hurt whenever the weather turned humid, or turned cold, or, in fact, turned. Sometimes it hurt in the morning, and sometimes it hurt at night, and though sometimes it didn't hurt for weeks at a time, sometimes it did. It was, he thought now, hard to predict.
There was a pink and wrinkled scar there, as if they'd gone and shot him a new asshole. He pressed the towel directly onto the pain with his right hand, then walked back out into the room.
He stood before the dresser mirror and stared at himself. He generally avoided mirrors the way he'd once avoided obituaries, but now that he'd looked at one he thought he might as well see the other. It wasn't, he thought now, a pretty sight. They say that age becomes a man, but the they who said it must have been guys as old as him, because while it might be true of middle age- this improving-with-years business-it definitely stopped there. It was kind of sad that at the very time in life when you stop thinking of yourself as a physical entity, your physical limitations force you to think of yourself as nothing else. One sad-ass poor physical entity at that. An entity that seemed to be caving in on itself, the top of his chest seemingly trying to touch the bottom, his skin starting to hang on his bones like wet laundry. Age doesn't become a man; it humiliates him.
Once, along with his Social Security check, they'd sent him a brochure on something called the Senior Citizen Workshop, a place, he supposed, where you learned to be a senior citizen. The brochure referred to something called the prime of your life and talked about being free from work and free from raising a family and free from building a future. And yet, as he was reading it, all William felt was free from hope. He'd thrown it into the trash out front-though later he'd seen it pressed between the pages of one of Mr. Wilson's Harlequin Romances. Mr. Wilson, free from raising a family, from work, and from building a future, and now free from getting beaten to death as well.
Outside, another plane was taking off, heading nearly straight up now, so that it looked for a moment like one of those visions you read about in the paper. You know the kind. Christ's face in a cornfield, or on a can of Campbell's soup, or on some billboard in Appalachia. This looked suspiciously like the cross itself, the red taillights like spots of blood on wrists and ankles. It looked that way at least until it flattened out over Biscayne Bay and disappeared into a bank of thunderclouds. And William, tired now as tired can be, fell asleep for the second time that day.
The first break came with his third stop of the day.
Follow the list, William, it's all you have.
His first two stops had been much like yesterday's-a candy store in the let's kill whitey part of town-Mr. Who?-the proprietor asked William, and a vacant lot, which according to a homeless person named Queen, had once been a hooch house for the rich. How long ago was that, William asked him. Let's put it this way, the man said, longer than I can count.
William, however, had no trouble counting. The vacant lot had made it five. Five addresses: no one home. He was slowly exhausting the list, playing connect-the- dots on his smudged and sweat-soaked map, but all he was getting was crayon scrawl.
Who are they, Jean?
Samuels-Shankin-Timinsky-Palumbo. Who are they?
His third stop of the day: 1021 Coral Avenue.
The first good omen he had was that it actually ex- isted-a rather chichi-looking place guarded by a black brass jockey and tall hedge. The second good omen was that when the lady of the house heard who he was looking for, she didn't turn away, or scratch her head, or ask him to get lost.
'Funny,' she said. 'I think I've heard that name before. Mrs. Winters-is that who you said?'
Samuels-Shankin-Timinsky-Palumbo-Winters.
William nodded; that's who he'd said.
The woman before him had reached a sort of limbo between youth and middle age-it all depended on how the light hit her, and where. It reminded him of those Empress Nera rings he'd had as a kid, where the Empress changed position every time you moved the ring. Now smiling and confident, now in desperate peril.
'I'd ask you to come in,' she said, 'but I don't know you.'
'Yeah.'
'Who did you say you are? Her lawyer?'
'Not her lawyer. It concerns an inheritance. Mrs. Winters has some money coming to her. We heard she used to live here.'
'I don't think so. I've been here, let's see… six, seven years. We got the house from an Italian family.' She pronounced it eyetalian. 'I can't remember their name, but trust me-it wasn't Winters.'
'You said something about having heard that name before,' thinking now that she'd probably heard it from Jean, that in a minute she'd remember all about it and tell him about the other old man who'd come to her door asking for Mrs. Winters.
But no.
'A card,' she said. 'That's it.'
'A card?'
'Yeah. Someone sent us a card. I think it was to a Mrs. Winters-you know, a Christmas card.'
William felt the faintest hint of… what? Excitement? Maybe just relief.
'Did you send it back?'
'Uh uh. Who has the time?'
'You kept it then? You still have it?'
'I doubt it. But you never know. Look-why don't you come in… you look like you're about to keel over. I'll take a look.'
Yes, why not. He probably was about to keel over. When he walked in he was slapped by a blast of central air-conditioning gone amok; it felt like the meat section at Pathmark.
She was gone about two minutes. Two minutes William spent slumped in a wicker chair suspended from the ceiling by long white chains. No kidding. He felt kind of precarious and completely silly. All that was missing was a playground buddy to push him back and forth.
'Here,' she said, reentering the room. 'The truth is, I never throw anything out-not if I can help it.'
The truth was, William felt like thanking her for that. But he didn't, of course. Instead he took the off-white card from her hand and looked at it carefully.
Dear Mrs. Winters, it said inside. Merry Christmas. Signed Raoul. That was it, all she wrote, as if it was sent by someone used to paying by the word.
'The envelope?' William asked.
'Well, I don't keep everything.'
'Sure. But maybe you remember where it was posted from?'
'Absolutely. New York.'
'And the address…?'
'Are you kidding? I didn't get it yesterday.'
