A Graveyard for Lunatics

?Run,? whispered J. C. from the sky.

I could not run. I simply wandered off away.

51

I met Doc Phillips coming out of Notre Dame. He was carrying a plastic bag and had the look of one of those men who roam through public parks with nail sticks, jabbing trash to thrust in bags to be burned. He looked startled, for I had one foot up on the steps as if I were going to mass.

?Well,? he said, much too quickly and heartily. ?Here?s the boy wonder who teaches Christ to walk on water and puts Judas Iscariot back in the criminal lineup!?

?Not me,? I protested. ?The four apostles. I just pick up their sandals to follow.?

?What?re you doing here?? he said bluntly, his eyes flicking up and down my body, and his fingers working on the trash bag. I smelled incense, and his cologne.

I decided to go whole hog.

?Sunset. Best time to prowl. God, I love this place. I plan to own it someday. Don?t worry, I?ll keep you on. When I do, I?ll tear down the offices, make everyone really live history. Let Manny work over on Tenth Avenue, New York, there! Put Fritz in Berlin, there! Me, Green Town. Roy? if he ever returns, the nut. Build a dinosaur farm yonder. I?d run wild! Instead of forty films a year, I?d make twelve, all masterpieces! I?d make Maggie Botwin vice president of the studio, she?s that brilliant, and haul Louis B. Mayer out of retirement. And??

I ran out of gas.

Doc Phillips stood with his mouth dropped as if I had handed him a ticking grenade.

?Anyone mind if I go in Notre Dame? I?d like to climb up and pretend I?m Quasimodo. Is it safe??

?No!? said the Doc, much too quickly, circling me like a dog circling a fire hydrant. ?Not safe. We?re doing repairs. We?re thinking of tearing the whole thing down.?

He turned and walked away. ?Nuts. You?re nuts!? he cried and vanished in the cathedral entrance.

I stood watching the open door for about ten seconds, then froze.

Because from inside I heard a sort of grunt and then a groan and then a sound like cable or rope rattling against walls.

?Doc?!?

I stepped into the entrance, but could see nothing.

?Doc??

A shadow ran up into the cathedral heights. It was like a big sandbag being hauled up in shadows.

It reminded me of Roy?s body hung swinging over on Stage 13.

?Doc!??

He was gone.

I stared up in darkness at what looked like the bottoms of his shoes sliding higher and higher.

?Doc!?

Then, it happened.

Something struck the cathedral floor.

A single black slip-on shoe.

?Christ!? I yelled.

I pulled back to see a long shadow hauled into the cathedral sky.

?Doc?? I said.

52

?Catch!?

Crumley threw a ten-dollar bill at my taxi driver, who hooted and took off.

?Just like the movies!? Crumley said. ?Guys throw money at taxis and never get change. Say thanks.?

?Thanks!?

?Christ,? Crumley examined my face. ?Get inside. Get that inside.? Crumley handed me a beer.

I drank and told Crumley about the cathedral, Doc Phillips, hearing some sort of cry and a shadow sliding up in shadows. And the single black shoe falling to the dusty cathedral floor.

?I saw. But who could tell?? I finished. ?The studio is nailing itself shut. I thought Doc was a villain. One of the other villains must have got him. By now, there?s no body. Poor Doc. What am I saying? I didn?t even like him!?

?Christ almighty,? said Crumley, ?you bring me the New York Times crossword puzzle, when you know all I can do is the Daily News. You drag dead bodies through my house like a cat proud of its kills, no rhyme, no reason. Any lawyer would heave you out the window. Any judge would brain you with his gavel. Psychiatrists would refuse you shock privileges. You could motor down Hollywood Boulevard with all these red herrings and not get arrested for pollution.?

?Yeah,? I said, sinking into depression.