Read Online A Thousand Pardons by Jonathan Dee - Free Book Online Page B

meeting with the ranch foreman,anyway—that today would end like this; still, he was bathed in shame, so much so that he heard a little catch in his own voice. “Kevin is a rare soul, man. An old soul. Still, he’s just a kid, and it kills me to think of what’s going to happen to him, people like you, all the pressure on him, pressure if the movie is a flop but even more pressure if it’s a hit, you know? He is totally faithful to the moment, to the process, he gave me everything, every single thing I needed to be who I needed to be when I was in that particular space. You follow what I’m saying?”
    “Not all of it,” the voice said, “but you know what? Really all I needed was one usable quote, and I’m sure I’ve got that, so—”
    “Nobody understands a guy like Kevin. Nobody understands what’s required. You are so vulnerable when you put yourself in the hands of a director. You never know what you’re buying into. You have this place you need to get to, like I was talking about, a place that’s both inside yourself and somewhere far away from yourself, and you need his help to do it, but he could be anybody, you know? You hold hands and jump off this cliff together, and only after you’ve jumped, only when you’re plummeting through the air, do you get to turn and look at this guy you’re holding hands with and say, ‘Hey, not for nothing, but who the fuck are you?’ ”
    The truck had slowed way down, so much so that he thought maybe he was out of gas, but no, there was still a quarter of a tank. He had to close one eye to read the gauge. That last shot with the bartender—he thought it was one; he remembered one—that was the Eticket shot, the one there was no coming back from until probably tomorrow. That bartender hated him. It was right there on his face. Maybe Hamilton should have punched him in that face instead of buying him a drink, even if it meant getting his ass kicked. Sometimes it was worth it to get your ass kicked. Ain’t no sign . Didn’t that hayseed, Marlboro Man–looking motherfucker even know who he was?
    He drifted to a stop on the side of the road. His foot just wasn’t applying any pressure anymore. He cut the engine but left the headlights on; he couldn’t see one foot past them. He lowered his window and listened to the dark desert. It sounded like a riot.
    “Hamilton?” the voice was saying. “Hamilton? You still there?”
    And just then—it was as perfect as if he’d scripted it—a coyote split the darkness wide open with a long, soulful howl.
    “Jesus Christ!” said the voice. “Are you okay? I thought you said you were in upstate New York!”
    Hamilton smiled and snapped the phone shut. His consciousness was separating like the stages of a rocket, and he saw that he was probably not going to remember any of this tomorrow, not how lucid and how reborn he felt right now, not even how he got here; he often blacked out when he drank like this. What a shame. Not being able to recall it meant he would only have to go off in search of it again. He lay down across the front seat; it was cold now, but the air was so amazing there was no question of rolling up the windows. Besides, somebody would come looking for him. They were probably out looking for him already.
    SHE’D LAID EYES ON MICHAEL AARON for the first time four days ago, at Harvey’s funeral: scruff-bearded, balding, a little doughier than a young man his age should have been—in most respects, she had to admit, a considerably less charismatic figure than his proud father had led her to expect—but her heart went out to him anyway because of the way he had to carry the burden of mourning all by himself. Harvey had no other family, save for a sister with Alzheimer’s who was in a home and had forgotten her brother’s face many years ago. And Michael had no wife, no girlfriend, no partner if he was gay, which he might have been for all Helen knew. He was the Aaron family. He shook every hand,