Poor Butterfly

“It’ll hurt for a year or two,” said Koko, “and then it will go away.”

And Souvaine’s voice said, “The permanent discoloration is the result of an old hematoma, five years maybe, from multiple cracked ribs.”

A line of people came to watch Koko operate on me with a sharp scalpel. People marched in single file, and I looked up at their distorted faces and heard their garbled voices.

And Souvaine’s voice said, “No cartilage in the nose. Look. I don’t know what these scratches on his chest, back, and leg are. They’re recent, probably metal, nails, or barbed wire.”

Stokowski pointed at my leg, taking the baton from Koko, and said I couldn’t be in his orchestra if I had only one leg. “Nothing,” he said, “should draw the audience’s gaze from the conductor.” He handed the baton back to Koko, saying he hadn’t used one since 1921. Then he pulled the red leather-covered notebook from his pocket and made an entry about my leg.

And Souvaine’s voice said, “Did you look at the X ray? The dislocation along the vertebrae? I’d like to look at this man’s spleen.”

He was followed by John Lundeen, dressed as a streetcar conductor, a transfer punch in his hand, wearing no pants. “Better the leg than the neck,” he said, clicking his punch.

And Souvaine’s voice said, “What the hell wars has this man been in?”

Lorna was next. She held a completely shaven Miguelito up to lick my face. Miguelito was covered with tattoos, names, phone numbers, ads for movies.

“Next,” I said.

“Next what?” came Souvaine’s voice.

“Next ghoul,” I answered. “Next Phantom. Next ghost. Bring them on. I can take it. Any joke Koko’s got for me, I can handle.”

I opened my eyes and found myself looking into a craggy face.

“Your leg is broken,” he said in Souvaine’s voice. “Three places. I set it.” His voice changed and sounded more like his face, craggy and deep. “My name’s Doctor Ungurait. You’ve had a nightmare.”

“No,” I said. “It was the real thing.”

16

Vera came to say good-bye the next morning. She was wearing a little black hat shaped like a “V.” I was in a private room. I found out later she had paid for it. She leaned over to kiss my forehead and wake me from a dreamless nap.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Lovely.”

She bit her lower lip.

“They’re all dead,” she said.

I wasn’t sure whether she had read the morning Chronicle or was referring to Lorna, Griffith, and Lundeen. I nodded. I could tell from the fact that she was biting her lower lip that something other than death was on her mind.

“You’re leaving,” I said.

“I’ve got a possible … an audition for a new company in Seattle,” she said. “My agent says we’ve got to get there by tomorrow.”

“We?” I asked.

“Marty Passacaglia and me,” she said, blushing. “His voice is coming back, and he knows the major donator to the company. Marty’s not a bad person.”

“Yes he is,” I said.

“He and his wife aren’t …” she began, but I stopped her.

“It’s okay, Vera. I’m going back to Los Angeles tomorrow. If you ever get there, look me up in the phone book under Private Investigators or Dentists.”

“I will,” she said with a tear in the very corner of her left eye.

I reached for a Kleenex. The move hurt my leg. She dabbed at her eyes daintily. I was sure I’d seen her rehearse this scene the day before.

“You’re going to be a star,” I said. If she could do Cio-cio-san, I could do Norman Maine in A Star is Born.

“Wherever I go,” she said, “the tragedy of the past days will haunt my career.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said. “A legend like this must be great for an opera singer.”

The smile came. “Good-bye, Toby.”

I dabbed the corner of my eye with a Kleenex and she laughed, a very musical laugh, and was gone.

About ten minutes later Lawyer Flores showed up, dressed in his finest, carrying his briefcase. He surveyed my crushed and scarred body and shook his head a few times.

“All charges against you have been dropped,” he said. “If you like, I can institute a charge of false arrest, which I will take on a contingency basis for 50 percent of all restitution. I advise you, however, not to institute such charges, since they will bring up the fact of your escape from custody, which was illegal whether or not you were guilty. Still, I think we could get the police to settle out of court.”

“Forget it,” I said.

“Good,” said Flores, opening his briefcase. “That will make it easier to pursue my case. I’d like you to read the statement I have prepared for your signature, and sign it.”

I read. It was a statement saying I had heard Inspector Sunset insult Flores and his cultural background and ethnicity. I signed.

“You think you can win this?” I asked him when he took back the signed statement and pen.

“No,” he said, “but I can make an issue of it I can make an issue each time, and if enough of us make an issue, it will stop. In return for your cooperation in this matter, I will not bill you for my services.”

“Thanks,” I said.

We shook hands and he left.

I listened to the radio the rest of the day. I slept through Mystery Man, answered a few questions on Quick as a Flash, had a few chuckles with Henry Aldrich and Homer, who tried to find a way for Henry to earn enough money to take a new girl at school to the big dance. I liked the way Ezra Stone’s voice cracked. It soothed me to sleep.

In the morning, Gunther, Shelly, and Jeremy arrived. I didn’t like it, but the only one of the trio who could drive my Crosley was Shelly. Jeremy couldn’t fit into the driver’s seat and it wasn’t propped up for Gunther, who informed me that Gwen would, indeed, be attempting to transfer from San Francisco University to the University of Southern California at the end of the semester to complete her graduate work.

“This is not a good town for a creative dentist,” Shelly complained as Jeremy picked me up out of the bed. Shelly trotted at our side. Gunther moved ahead opening doors. We hit the sidewalk in front of the hospital; my Crosley and Gunther’s Daimler were parked at the curb. Shelly went on, “The people who most need serious oral care keep murdering each other, leaving town, or going to jail. In Los Angeles, they stay put. I think my plan for branching out into dog dental hygiene has promise here; though.”

“Right, Shel,” I said. “Drive carefully.”

I’m not sure if Shelly answered. He climbed into my Crosley, ground the gears, and pulled away. Jeremy put me in the back seat of the Daimler, put my suitcase on the floor, and joined Gunther in front.

We drove through town and over the Oakland Bay Bridge. I sat with my legs on the seat and my back to the window. I drifted in and out of sleep and ate a sandwich with a Pepsi somewhere along the way. I tried to read Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript for a while, but darkness came. I popped a pill Doc Ungurait had given me and sweated off to sleep.

Sometime during the night we went through Santa Barbara, and the next morning we hit Los Angeles and drove to Heliotrope. Jeremy lifted me from the back seat and carried me down the walk and up the steps to the porch, where Mrs. Plaut stood, hands in apron pockets, blinking at us.