held padlocks, corroded, one at waist level, one at shoe-top level. “Tire iron?” he asked Cecil. Cecil fetched a brand-new tire iron. Dave pried the hasps loose on the top lock. Cecil wedged the iron under the other hasp, yanked, and it came loose too. Dave gripped the edge of the right-hand door and pulled. There were rusty squeaks up on the roller rail but the door didn’t budge. Cecil took hold of the door with him and they hauled at it together. It didn’t yield.
“I’m going to smash out that window,” Cecil said.
“I think I saw a door along the side,” Dave said.
They trudged through weeds—last year’s tall, brown, brittle; this year’s short, feebly green; trash in the weeds, beer cans, dusty wine bottles—between this building and the next. The passageway was cold, as if the sun never reached it. Dave climbed plank steps to a rickety stoop that trembled under him. The door was thin, an ordinary room door, old. He tried the gritty knob. The door was locked. He stepped back and aimed a kick with his heel just below the knob. The door didn’t fly open. Instead, one of its panels fell out with a clatter that echoed. He knelt.
“Don’t go in there,” Cecil said. “Let me do that.”
Dave poked his head inside. The light was poor but there was enough to show him the place was empty. He withdrew his head. “Never mind,” he said. He got to his feet and descended the steps, brushing dirt off his hands, off the knees of his pipestem corduroys. “There’s nothing in there—not even a broken crate.”
“What did they bring that truck here for?” Cecil said.
Dave headed for the sundown street. Cecil followed. Dave said, “Lyle can tell us.”
“You said you don’t know where he is.”
Dave opened the van door. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go ask him.”
Cecil slouched in a deep chair alone in a far corner of the room and watched the news on television. At this end of the room were laughter, the tinkle of ice in glasses, the munching of dim sum. Amanda and Miles Edwards had brought the food, warm in foil, and had unwrapped it in the cookshack. It was being consumed in the long front building of Dave’s place, which Amanda had made interesting by raising and lowering floor levels, expanding the fireplace, and adding clerestory windows so daylight could get in, because Dave refused to cut the trees that surrounded the place. It was past seven, yellow lamplight bloomed softly in the room, there were bays of velvety shadow, and the trees couldn’t be seen now through the french windows.
What could be seen, reflected in the small square panes, were strangers who belonged to Edwards and Amanda—young fair faces, middle-aged glossy faces, vaguely familiar from television shows that depended for laughs on pratfalls and odd costumes—and friends who belonged to Dave. Mel and Makoto. Ray Lollard, plump and matronly, a telephone-company executive who sometimes helped Dave out with numbers hard to get, had brought Kovaks in clay-stained workclothes and two days’ beard stubble. Kovaks was a potter who had set up shop in a stable back of Lollard’s expensively restored 1890s mansion on West Adams, and who seemed to make Lollard happy. A lean, dark, intense man talked with Amanda. He was Tom Owens, an architect Dave had narrowly saved from being murdered a few years back. Doug Sawyer, neat and slight, chatted with a pair of young actors. Happily, Christian hadn’t come. Madge Dunstan stood with Dave—bony, freckled, her honest laughter showing long, horsey teeth. She was a very old friend, a successful designer of fabrics and wallpapers, an unsuccessful lover of beautiful young women whom she never could hold on to for long. Tonight’s was tall, blond, boyish, famous from television commercials for a shampoo.
Dave hadn’t caught her name. Nor was he listening to her while she talked at him. He was pretending to listen. He was watching the back of Cecil’s
“I’m going to smash out that window,” Cecil said.
“I think I saw a door along the side,” Dave said.
They trudged through weeds—last year’s tall, brown, brittle; this year’s short, feebly green; trash in the weeds, beer cans, dusty wine bottles—between this building and the next. The passageway was cold, as if the sun never reached it. Dave climbed plank steps to a rickety stoop that trembled under him. The door was thin, an ordinary room door, old. He tried the gritty knob. The door was locked. He stepped back and aimed a kick with his heel just below the knob. The door didn’t fly open. Instead, one of its panels fell out with a clatter that echoed. He knelt.
“Don’t go in there,” Cecil said. “Let me do that.”
Dave poked his head inside. The light was poor but there was enough to show him the place was empty. He withdrew his head. “Never mind,” he said. He got to his feet and descended the steps, brushing dirt off his hands, off the knees of his pipestem corduroys. “There’s nothing in there—not even a broken crate.”
“What did they bring that truck here for?” Cecil said.
Dave headed for the sundown street. Cecil followed. Dave said, “Lyle can tell us.”
“You said you don’t know where he is.”
Dave opened the van door. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go ask him.”
Cecil slouched in a deep chair alone in a far corner of the room and watched the news on television. At this end of the room were laughter, the tinkle of ice in glasses, the munching of dim sum. Amanda and Miles Edwards had brought the food, warm in foil, and had unwrapped it in the cookshack. It was being consumed in the long front building of Dave’s place, which Amanda had made interesting by raising and lowering floor levels, expanding the fireplace, and adding clerestory windows so daylight could get in, because Dave refused to cut the trees that surrounded the place. It was past seven, yellow lamplight bloomed softly in the room, there were bays of velvety shadow, and the trees couldn’t be seen now through the french windows.
What could be seen, reflected in the small square panes, were strangers who belonged to Edwards and Amanda—young fair faces, middle-aged glossy faces, vaguely familiar from television shows that depended for laughs on pratfalls and odd costumes—and friends who belonged to Dave. Mel and Makoto. Ray Lollard, plump and matronly, a telephone-company executive who sometimes helped Dave out with numbers hard to get, had brought Kovaks in clay-stained workclothes and two days’ beard stubble. Kovaks was a potter who had set up shop in a stable back of Lollard’s expensively restored 1890s mansion on West Adams, and who seemed to make Lollard happy. A lean, dark, intense man talked with Amanda. He was Tom Owens, an architect Dave had narrowly saved from being murdered a few years back. Doug Sawyer, neat and slight, chatted with a pair of young actors. Happily, Christian hadn’t come. Madge Dunstan stood with Dave—bony, freckled, her honest laughter showing long, horsey teeth. She was a very old friend, a successful designer of fabrics and wallpapers, an unsuccessful lover of beautiful young women whom she never could hold on to for long. Tonight’s was tall, blond, boyish, famous from television commercials for a shampoo.
Dave hadn’t caught her name. Nor was he listening to her while she talked at him. He was pretending to listen. He was watching the back of Cecil’s
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