then around the north end of the reservoir. It was about an hourâs ride. When they reached Stone Canyon Road, a driver picked them up in the powder-blue Rolls and whisked them away through Bel-Air. The crowd at the gate was never the wiser. Vivien made the trek twice, to get out to dinner on Wednesday the fifth, and Thursday morning to shop for black.
It was just gone midnight Wednesday when she led the way uphill on Jasperâs buff-and-spotted horse. Carl and Artie were fifty yards behind her, arguing what would have happened if. An hour ago, sheâd sat with them in the Hamburger Hamlet in Beverly Hills. Rough and sweaty in her riding clothes and wearing mirror glasses, she listened while they blamed it all on Harry Dawes. The worst they could summon up to pin on Jasper was keeping Harry secret. Vivien wasnât buying their scenario, though she hadnât said a thing at dinner. If they were going to be strictly accurate, she thought, Jasper was more to blame for the boy than the boy was for Jasper.
She looked off across the ghostly outline of the bowl of hills that cupped the canyon. It looked like a mountain lake tonight, with the desert vegetation high and green around it. The sage was heavy in the April air, and something white beside the trail had broken into bloom. By the time she reached the top, she was far ahead of the others. She did not linger to watch the night. She ducked and clung to the horseâs neck so they could shortcut, coming in through the moon gate and along the length of the Japanese garden. She called out Jasperâs groom from the stables, gave over the horse impatiently, and fled inside. It was simpler to be alone.
Harry Dawes was not what he ought to have been, and Carl and Artie knew it. They made a show of his being a zero. They wanted him half whore, half messianic crazy, so they could put the whole thing down to Jasper under pressure. Vivien had seen the type herself, wandering openmouthed on the upper terrace by the pool, the morning after. She had no idea where Jasper ran across them. They seemed to understand theyâd be wise to get a good look while they could. Sometimes, sheâd almost wanted to give them coffee. Then Artie would come and tap them on the arm and drive them off, while Jasper slept in until midafternoon. Ideally, Harry Dawes should have been that sort.
Vivien wasnât sure what she wanted him to be. From what she read, he was the Huck Finn of a small Wisconsin town that had lowered all its flags to half-staff and now stood waiting at the depot while the Willis Company shipped the body home, free of charge. The way it was being pitched in the tabloids, heâd announced to his widowed dad that he planned to spend his twenties finding out why the world didnât work. It was hard to see through shit like this, but Vivien had a built-in periscope from lifelong study of the pitch on her. He seemed quite nice, quite likable and real, this Harry Dawes of Turnerâs Falls, Wisconsin, son of a heavy-equipment man.
He only came to L.A., it seemed, to get to the harbor at Long Beach. Heâd been on the road two years, and he thought it was time to sign on a freighter bound for the islands. But he got to L.A. and fell for the climate and the rootlessness, which matched his own exactly. He decided to give it a yearâabout seven months gone when he died.
Vivien didnât see how she could go along with the Steep-side line, which made him sound like a sullen drifter. The kid loved animals. He lived on books. She decided he would have been good for Jasper Cokes. As the week rolled on, as she paced her bedroom and took no calls, she brooded more and more about the boy from Turnerâs Falls. It was as if Harry Dawes could have told her why. Could have told her who to blame.
Artie rode sidekick Thursday morning. They left the house just after seven and resumed the downhill trail as if theyâd stopped the night at an inn. It had
It was just gone midnight Wednesday when she led the way uphill on Jasperâs buff-and-spotted horse. Carl and Artie were fifty yards behind her, arguing what would have happened if. An hour ago, sheâd sat with them in the Hamburger Hamlet in Beverly Hills. Rough and sweaty in her riding clothes and wearing mirror glasses, she listened while they blamed it all on Harry Dawes. The worst they could summon up to pin on Jasper was keeping Harry secret. Vivien wasnât buying their scenario, though she hadnât said a thing at dinner. If they were going to be strictly accurate, she thought, Jasper was more to blame for the boy than the boy was for Jasper.
She looked off across the ghostly outline of the bowl of hills that cupped the canyon. It looked like a mountain lake tonight, with the desert vegetation high and green around it. The sage was heavy in the April air, and something white beside the trail had broken into bloom. By the time she reached the top, she was far ahead of the others. She did not linger to watch the night. She ducked and clung to the horseâs neck so they could shortcut, coming in through the moon gate and along the length of the Japanese garden. She called out Jasperâs groom from the stables, gave over the horse impatiently, and fled inside. It was simpler to be alone.
Harry Dawes was not what he ought to have been, and Carl and Artie knew it. They made a show of his being a zero. They wanted him half whore, half messianic crazy, so they could put the whole thing down to Jasper under pressure. Vivien had seen the type herself, wandering openmouthed on the upper terrace by the pool, the morning after. She had no idea where Jasper ran across them. They seemed to understand theyâd be wise to get a good look while they could. Sometimes, sheâd almost wanted to give them coffee. Then Artie would come and tap them on the arm and drive them off, while Jasper slept in until midafternoon. Ideally, Harry Dawes should have been that sort.
Vivien wasnât sure what she wanted him to be. From what she read, he was the Huck Finn of a small Wisconsin town that had lowered all its flags to half-staff and now stood waiting at the depot while the Willis Company shipped the body home, free of charge. The way it was being pitched in the tabloids, heâd announced to his widowed dad that he planned to spend his twenties finding out why the world didnât work. It was hard to see through shit like this, but Vivien had a built-in periscope from lifelong study of the pitch on her. He seemed quite nice, quite likable and real, this Harry Dawes of Turnerâs Falls, Wisconsin, son of a heavy-equipment man.
He only came to L.A., it seemed, to get to the harbor at Long Beach. Heâd been on the road two years, and he thought it was time to sign on a freighter bound for the islands. But he got to L.A. and fell for the climate and the rootlessness, which matched his own exactly. He decided to give it a yearâabout seven months gone when he died.
Vivien didnât see how she could go along with the Steep-side line, which made him sound like a sullen drifter. The kid loved animals. He lived on books. She decided he would have been good for Jasper Cokes. As the week rolled on, as she paced her bedroom and took no calls, she brooded more and more about the boy from Turnerâs Falls. It was as if Harry Dawes could have told her why. Could have told her who to blame.
Artie rode sidekick Thursday morning. They left the house just after seven and resumed the downhill trail as if theyâd stopped the night at an inn. It had
Similar Books
