Read Online Manifesto for the Dead by Domenic Stansberry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Domenic Stansberry
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Cadillac was still there, the girl curled in the trunk.
A patrol car pulled over the rise. A couple of young blues sat in the front seat. The cops were everywhere, it seemed, watching your every move. The one in the driverâs seat gave him a little wave of the hand, telling him to cross. He went ahead, obliging the copâgoing in a direction he had not intended to go. Up the hill, towards the Cadillac. Meanwhile, he felt the cops looking him over. He could guess what kind of sight he made. An old man in sagging pants and a knit shirt. I worked the Texas oil fields, Thompson wanted to tell them. I hung out with the Wobblies, I hopped the rails. It was what men did during the depression. Not just me, but thousands, all looking for work to feed the wife and kids back home. A person my own age, why, he would recognize that. These young cops, these nobodies, why â¦
The road climbed steeply. Thompson heard the squad car down below him, idling in the intersection. He worried somebody had seen him coming off Beverly Drive, and reported his description. The cops could be listening to it right now. Two seconds, the big red lights would come on. And here heâd be, cornered by happenstance.
At the top of the hill, he braved a look back.
The squad car was gone.
He stood on Whitely Terrace, alone, on a rise looking down toward the Ardmore and the rest of Hollywood. Just around the corner, the asphalt turned to gravel.
Maybe the Cadillac was still there. Either way it would be foolish to go see. The cops could be on a stake out, for all he knew.
He would not be standing here if that young cop had not motioned him to cross the street. Coincidence, inevitabilityâhe wondered if there were a differenceâcompelled him forward. He stopped. His hands trembled. Maybe the Cadillac had never had been there at all. The incident was a dream, a drunken hallucination. Then why not go forward, under the eucalyptus. Down the gravel road. Dismiss it once and for all. But he wasnât that far off the beam, not yet. Heâd seen the girl. Thinking about her, he all but saw her again. He could see too the empty trench further down the hill, and the shovel in the trunk.
The air tremored with unfinished business.
No!
A shiver ran through his body. The world shimmered and the leaves whispered. Then he pulled himself together and hurried down the hill. He would gather his things and go to the coast. Escape.
Inside the Ardmore penthouse, Thompson rummaged for some clean clothes, and for the key to the Ford. The apartment itself had the look of a world about to be forsaken. There were boxes stacked all about, and Albertaâs clothes lay strewn on the bed. He went to his closet and took among other things the white jacket heâd worn years ago to the premier of The Killing, a movie heâd written with Stanley Kubrick. The son of a bitch.
Alberta wasnât anywhere around. Out on an errand, he guessed. Himself, he was going to the ocean.
He lugged his suitcase to the elevator. Outside, he found the Ford parked at the rear of the building, gleaming under the thin shade of a giant yucca, but its engine wouldnât turn for him. It made an unhappy noise that grew steadily fainter and died away.
Then he saw Alberta emerge from Mrs. Myersâ green sedan. Mrs. Myers emerged too, a neighbor woman with whom Alberta sometimes went shoppingâand the pair stood talking. Alberta wore a white blouse and black slacks. She held her hands up on her hips, and her breasts jutted against her white blouse. It was a posture heâd seen hundreds of times, and it always stirred his desire.
The women sauntered on towards the door. At the last minute, Alberta turned on her heels, as if surveying the parking lot.
Thompson was tempted to call out. In the old days, they would fight and afterwards it would be okay. Theyâd cuddle like teenagers, full of syrup, full of endearments:
Honey pumpkin. Sweet Dick. Lover girl. Joy of
A patrol car pulled over the rise. A couple of young blues sat in the front seat. The cops were everywhere, it seemed, watching your every move. The one in the driverâs seat gave him a little wave of the hand, telling him to cross. He went ahead, obliging the copâgoing in a direction he had not intended to go. Up the hill, towards the Cadillac. Meanwhile, he felt the cops looking him over. He could guess what kind of sight he made. An old man in sagging pants and a knit shirt. I worked the Texas oil fields, Thompson wanted to tell them. I hung out with the Wobblies, I hopped the rails. It was what men did during the depression. Not just me, but thousands, all looking for work to feed the wife and kids back home. A person my own age, why, he would recognize that. These young cops, these nobodies, why â¦
The road climbed steeply. Thompson heard the squad car down below him, idling in the intersection. He worried somebody had seen him coming off Beverly Drive, and reported his description. The cops could be listening to it right now. Two seconds, the big red lights would come on. And here heâd be, cornered by happenstance.
At the top of the hill, he braved a look back.
The squad car was gone.
He stood on Whitely Terrace, alone, on a rise looking down toward the Ardmore and the rest of Hollywood. Just around the corner, the asphalt turned to gravel.
Maybe the Cadillac was still there. Either way it would be foolish to go see. The cops could be on a stake out, for all he knew.
He would not be standing here if that young cop had not motioned him to cross the street. Coincidence, inevitabilityâhe wondered if there were a differenceâcompelled him forward. He stopped. His hands trembled. Maybe the Cadillac had never had been there at all. The incident was a dream, a drunken hallucination. Then why not go forward, under the eucalyptus. Down the gravel road. Dismiss it once and for all. But he wasnât that far off the beam, not yet. Heâd seen the girl. Thinking about her, he all but saw her again. He could see too the empty trench further down the hill, and the shovel in the trunk.
The air tremored with unfinished business.
No!
A shiver ran through his body. The world shimmered and the leaves whispered. Then he pulled himself together and hurried down the hill. He would gather his things and go to the coast. Escape.
Inside the Ardmore penthouse, Thompson rummaged for some clean clothes, and for the key to the Ford. The apartment itself had the look of a world about to be forsaken. There were boxes stacked all about, and Albertaâs clothes lay strewn on the bed. He went to his closet and took among other things the white jacket heâd worn years ago to the premier of The Killing, a movie heâd written with Stanley Kubrick. The son of a bitch.
Alberta wasnât anywhere around. Out on an errand, he guessed. Himself, he was going to the ocean.
He lugged his suitcase to the elevator. Outside, he found the Ford parked at the rear of the building, gleaming under the thin shade of a giant yucca, but its engine wouldnât turn for him. It made an unhappy noise that grew steadily fainter and died away.
Then he saw Alberta emerge from Mrs. Myersâ green sedan. Mrs. Myers emerged too, a neighbor woman with whom Alberta sometimes went shoppingâand the pair stood talking. Alberta wore a white blouse and black slacks. She held her hands up on her hips, and her breasts jutted against her white blouse. It was a posture heâd seen hundreds of times, and it always stirred his desire.
The women sauntered on towards the door. At the last minute, Alberta turned on her heels, as if surveying the parking lot.
Thompson was tempted to call out. In the old days, they would fight and afterwards it would be okay. Theyâd cuddle like teenagers, full of syrup, full of endearments:
Honey pumpkin. Sweet Dick. Lover girl. Joy of
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