tried to smile and blinky-blink her eyes.
'Oh.' I thought quickly. 'Henry just scared me in the hall, is all. You know Henry. You come along a hall and can't see him for the night.'
'You're a terrible liar,' said Fannie. 'Where have you been? I am exhausted, waiting for you to come visit. Are you ever tired, just worn out, with waiting?
I've waited, dear young man, fearful for you. Have you been sad?'
'Very sad, Fannie.'
'There. I knew it. It was that dreadful old man in the lion cage, wasn't it? How dare he make you sad?'
'He couldn't help it, Fannie.' I sighed. 'I imagine he would much rather have been down at the Pacific Electric ticket office counting the punch-confetti on his vest.'
'Well, Fannie will cheou up. Would you put the needle on the record there, my dear? Yes, that's it. Mozart to dance and sing to. We must invite Pietro Massinello up, mustn't we, some day soon. The Magic Flute is just his cup of tea, and let him bring his pets.'
'Yes, Fannie,' I said.
I put the needle on a record which hissed with promise.
'Poor boy,' said Fannie. 'You do look sad.'
There was a faint scratching on the door.
'That's Henry,' said Fannie. 'He never knocks.'
I went to the door but before I could open it, Henry's voice behind it said,
'Only me.'
I opened the door and Henry sniffed. 'Spearmint gum. That's how I know you. You ever chew anything else?'
'Not even tobacco.'
'Your cab's here,' said Henry.
'My what?'
'Since when can you afford a taxi?' asked Fannie, her cheeks pink, her eyes bright. We had had a glorious two hours with Mozart and the very air was luminous around the big lady. 'So?'
'Yeah, since when can I afford…' I said, but stopped, for Henry, outside the door, was shaking his head once: no. His finger went to his lips with caution.
'It's your friend,' he said. 'Taxi driver knows you, from Venice. Okay?'
'Okay,' I said, frowning. 'If you say so.'
'Oh, and here. This is for Fannie. Pietro said give it over. He's so crammed full downstairs, no room for this.'
He handed over a plump purring calico cat.
I took and carried the sweet burden back to Fannie, who began to purr herself when she held the beast.
'Oh, my dear!' she cried, happy with Mozart and calico. 'What a dream cat, what a dream!'
Henry nodded to her, nodded to me, and went away down the hall.
I went to give Fannie a big hug.
'Listen, oh listen to his motor,' she cried, holding the pillow cat up for a kiss.
'Lock your door, Fannie,' I said.
'What?' she said. 'What?'
Coming back downstairs, I found Henry still waiting in the dark, half-hidden against the wall.
'Henry, for God's sake, what're you doing?'
'Listening,' he said.
'For what?'
'This house, this place. Shh. Careful. Now.'
His cane came up and pointed like an antenna along the hall.
'There. You hear?'
Far away a wind stirred. Far away a breeze wandered the dark. The beams settled. Someone breathed. A door creaked.
'I don't hear anything.'
'That's 'cause you trying. Don't try. Just be. Just listen. Now.'
I listened and my spine chilled.
'Someone in this house,' whispered Henry. 'Don't belong here. I got this sense. I'm no fool. Someone up there, wandering around, up to no good.'
'Can't be, Henry.'
'Is,' he whispered. 'A blind man tells you. Stranger underfoot. Henry has the word. You don't hear me, you fall downstairs or…'
Drown in a bathtub, I thought. But what I said was, 'You going to stay here all night?'
'Someone's got to stand guard.'
A blind man? I thought.
He read my mind. He nodded. 'Old Henry, sure. Now run along. It's a big fancy-smelling Duesenberg out front. No taxi. I lied. Who would be picking you up this late, know anyone with a fancy car?'
'No one.'
'Get on out. I'll mind Fannie for us. But who'll mind Jimmy now, not even Jim. Not even Sam…'
I started out from one night into another.
'Oh, one last thing.'
I paused. Henry said: 'What was the bad news you brought tonight and didn't tell? Not to me. Not to Fannie.'
I gasped.'How did you know?'
I thought of the old woman sinking in the riverbed, silent, in her sheets, out of sight. I thought of Cal, the piano lid slammed on his maple leaf hands.
'Even though,' explained Henry with good reason, 'you chew spearmint gum, your breath was sour tonight, young sir. Which means you're not digesting your food proper. Which means a bad day for writers come inland with no roots.'
'It was a bad day for everyone, Henry.'
'I'm still huffing and puffing.' Henry stood tall and shook his cane at the darkening halls where the lightbulbs were burning out and the souls were guttering low. 'Watchdog Henry. You, now, git!'
I went out the door toward something that not only smelled but looked like a 1928 Duesenberg.
It was Constance Rattigan's limousine. It was as long and bright and beautiful as a Fifth Avenue shop window somehow arrived on the wrong side of L.A.
The back door of the limo was open. The chauffeur was in the front seat, hat crammed down over his eyes, staring straight ahead. He didn't look at me. I tried to get his attention, but the limousine was waiting, its motor humming, and I was wasting time.
I had never been in such a vehicle in my life.
It might be my one and only chance.
I leaped in.
No sooner had I hit the back seat than the limousine swerved in one boa-constrictor glide away
