Jeez! What are you supposed to make of that? You are still trying to interpret the nuances of Diamonds latest pedagoguery-could this be a veiled invitation for you to enlist his aid in your oil futures play?-when you arrive at the barricades around the Sorrento Hotel.
TWELVE FORTY-FIVE P.M.
First Hill has neither physical nor thematic connection to First Avenue. The two are separated by nearly a dozen blocks. Moreover, many Seattleites are disposed to refer to First Hill as Pill Hill, a tribute to its high concentration of hospitals, clinics, medical offices, and pharmacies. Harborview, in whose public mental wards that rude Cecil and Smokey would confine you, is on Pill Hill, as is the Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. And on the extreme northwestern rim of the hilltop, high above downtown and Puget Sound, so is the Sorrento, a lovely, smallish, turn-of-the-century, Mediterranean-style hotel favored by guests seeking privacy, calm, and refinement in an urban setting. Perhaps those are the very qualities Motofusa Yamaguchi looks for in lodging, but more than likely his hosts booked him into the Sorrento because of its proximity to the Hutchinson laboratories. In any case, although many a show biz celebrity has successfully hidden away at the Sorrento, Dr. Yamaguchis residence there has shattered any pretense of privacy or calm.
A crowd quadruple the size of the audience at the frog lecture is milling around in front of the hotel, and while four hundred people is hardly a multitude, they are more than enough to overrun the Sorrentos serene little garden entrance, with its fountain, spiked iron fence, and hardy palms. Whether seeking last-ditch medical attention, business association, or merely curiosity, the visitors have clogged the courtyard and spilled over onto Madison Street, as well as onto Terry around the corner. An overworked and depleted police department has erected barriers about the hotel proper, and two cops are directing and deflecting traffic, concentrating on keeping Terry Avenue clear, for Terry is the direct ambulance route to the Swedish Hospital emergency room, only a block away.
You nose the Porsche into a parking lot off Terry. Every stall is occupied, but you only require space to stop long enough to discharge your passenger. Diamond powers down his window and asks a passerby what is going on. The frail, elderly woman replies that Yamaguchi has been whisked off to lunch somewhere but is expected back around three.
What will you do? You cant help but notice that opals of perspiration are studding his brow once again, and as anxious as you are to get rid of him, you are not without mercy.
First, Ill battle my way into the lobby. If management refuses access to a toilet, Ill come back out here and squat between parked cars. He pulls a Ziploc bag of Comanche leaves from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. It isnt the pain that bothers me so much as it is the banality.
Im sorry, Larry. You dont have cancer, but you know what he means.
Then Ill wait around with these other needy nonentities to see if I cant steal a word with Yamaguchi-san.
I hope hell talk to you.
Itll be good theater, in any case. He turns to face you. Before I take my leave, however, let me attempt very briefly to answer your other questions, though probably not in the order that you asked them. You must look bewildered because he explains. The questions you posed in the lecture hall.
Oh. Those.
Nobody except the Bozo and the Dogon postulate that theres a Sirius C. But the Bozo and the Dogon have unique credibility in that area. If theyre correct, if Sirius has a second sister that astronomers dont know about, if there is a Sirius C, then the quaking custard we call reality is a very quaky custard, indeed.
In that regard, and in answer to another question, I have to inform you that the way the automatic lock works at Thunder House, nobody can exit without a key. I havent the foggiest idea how Q-Jo Huffington was able to get out. I didnt want to tell you earlier, for fear of scaring you off.
You stall the car on that one and are slow to restart the engine.
Now, as for attraction, the instant I first saw you, my dear, I wanted to open your legs like a checking account at a bank that doesnt charge for overdrafts. And believe it or not, I wanted to open your mind, as well. I said to myself, Larry, wouldnt it be a fine thing, a swell thing, a boon to the community of man and to all creatures great and small, if this girls soul was as ripe and stunning as her ass. It isnt, of course, but maybe it could be. Gwendolyn, youre like a handsome, expensive television set that can only bring in two or three channels. I want to hook you up to cable, sweetheart. I want to be your satellite dish.
While you are trying to decide whether to be flattered or insulted, he removes from his breast pocket a packet of tickets. Green stains, a result of the packets having been carried next to the medicinal herbs, almost blot out the name of the airline. Tomorrow, he says, answering your remaining question, Im going back to Timbuktu.
TWELVE FIFTY-TWO P.M.
Timbuktu? Tomorrow? You gulp and endeavor to conceal the gulping.
Yes. On the morn. Ere the cock crows thrice. I realize this is heartbreaking news, but you neednt despair. Im confident we can devise a strategy thatll render it a joy instead of a calamity. Obviously, we can devise nothing of consequence with that conga line of cretins caterwauling behind us-several cars whose futile circlings of the lot you are blocking have begun to honk impatiently-so Ill bail out knowing that love will find a way and well solve everything next time we meet.
Dont count on any next time, you start to say, but then he kisses you, and the kiss is so like a Mexican wedding dress, with layers of lace and tiers of frills, with flounces, embroidery, rows of pearl buttons and loops of bright ribbon, that the angry traffic turns into a fiesta and the parking-lot attendant waving his arms at you becomes a drunken priest bestowing a blessing. By the time Diamond slides away, trailing a thread of saliva, your gonads are riding hard toward Durango.
ONE P.M.
Solid ground. Thats what you long for. To stand for a while on solid ground. Bedrock. Terra firma. Reinforced concrete. O Gravity, where is thy hook, thy line, thy sinker?
You choose a circuitous route home, studiously circumnavigating the denser populations of street people, thereby avoiding pedestrian gridlock, possible acts of vandalism and violence, and the temptation to look at the homeless hordes through Diamonds eyes. (If they are, indeed, extras-and, at the same time, stars-in a humongous and vibrant spectacle, you would like a word with the producer, casting couch and all.)
You arrive at your building without incident, which is a triumph of sorts, although hardly a harbinger of stability, since you must now look in on AndrE, an assignment that precludes any illusion of firmness beneath the feet. Fortunately, because it is an old building, woefully dEmodE, its doors are punctured by keyholes, and it is with your eye to a worn brass aperture that you are able to peer into Q-Jos domicile and ascertain that the macaque is present, conspicuously present; is, in fact, sprawled atop the Huffs cherrywood table, tarot spread and all, like the sacrificial victim of a toupee cult. Due to your cursed myopia, you are quite unable to say for sure if AndrE is breathing, and the awful thought occurs to you that you may have killed him. Who knows how much Valium a twenty-pound monkey can tolerate?
You squint, you blink, you press so far into the keyhole that your eyeball is like a grape being forced into a peashooter. Alas, you are still unable to detect any rise or fall of hairy chest. If you have carelessly murdered Belfords little rascal-well, the consequences are too dire to consider! As you pry loose with your nail file the doornails so that you might tiptoe inside to hold a mirror to monkey nostrils, to feel for monkey pulse, your mind is already scanning for alibis, ways to pin the fatal misdeed on someone else.
Barely have you crept over the threshold, however, than AndrE startles you by grabbing at his rump in an irritated manner, a gesture that culminates in his pulling a tarot card from under him, as if it had been pinching his tight little scrotum, and casting it aside. Although he has not opened his eyes and he stirs no further, you are satisfied that he is okay (you dont consider
coma or brain damage) and are greatly relieved. The longer he sleeps, the easier it will be to contain him. At least one thing is going well. You are about to slip out of the apartment when your eye falls on the card that AndrE yanked from the spread. It has landed facedown on the floor, and you are seized by a sudden, sharp curiosity. A card picked so forcefully yet so somnambulistically must have special significance, and you wonder which card it might be. You wonder, too, if the card would pertain specifically to the monkeys subconscious, assuming that a monkey has a subconscious, or might its message be aimed at you? Might it, for example, reflect on the scheme whereby you would exploit the return of the prodigal primate to extract money-in the form of a short-term loan, of course-from Belford Dunn? The next thing you know, you are down on all fours crawling stealthily toward the fallen card.
You are halfway to the card when it occurs to you that this is hardly appropriate behavior for someone who has been yearning to plant her feet on the unyielding crust of routine and reason. You pause to consider your actions and during the freeze-frame of your hesitation, hear someone clear their throat behind you.
Essie Kudahl, the retired florist who lives across the hall, is standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouth agape. It is a measure of your will, perhaps, that even in the midst of blushing violently, you have the presence to hold a finger to your lips, forestalling any exclamation from the widow Kudahl that could awaken the sleeping prince.
TWO-FORTY P.M.
As the afternoon passes, your mind strays several times to the unexamined tarot card, but having exhausted your powers of persuasion selling Mrs. Kudahl on the idea that the little scene upon which she stumbled was not as depraved as it seemed, you have no intention of reentering Q-Jos unit unless AndrE awakens and creates a ruckus. Every quarter hour or so, you do tiptoe down the hall and spy on your prisoner, but not without the distinct sensation that Mrs. Kudahl is peering out her keyhole at you peering in Q-Jos.
Even more frequently, your mind strays to Larry Diamond. To wit:
One. Having not eaten all day, you reheat some lobster bisque-and while spooning it in, wonder if Diamond has bothered to take nourishment or if the cancer has eaten his appetite as cancers are said to sometimes do.
Two. Having run out of other ideas, you call around to the hospitals to inquire if they have admitted anyone fitting Q-Jos description-and while awaiting their inevitable denials, try to picture where on Pill Hill each particular hospital is located in relation to Diamond and the Sorrento.
Three. Having owed Grandma Mati a letter ever since she left Oakland in February and moved back to the Philippines, you take out your Mont Blanc to pen her a note-and as the ink is soaking into the wood pulp, imagine the old lady throwing up her hands at the sight of Diamond and exclaiming, He look big crazy, same as you papa!
Four. Having had minimal experience in the commodities market, you remove a college textbook from the shelf-and while reviewing the chapter on futures investing, rekindle the hope that Diamond might assist you in your desperate ploy.
Five. Having reached the point where guilt and common decency will no longer allow you to ignore Belfords pathetic calls, you dial his hotel-and while the phone rings in San Francisco, find yourself wishing begrudgingly and altogether unreasonably that Diamond and not Dunn would pick up the receiver.
TWO FORTY-TWO P.M.
Belford sounds so low he would have to stand on a ladder to change the bulb in a flashlight. His meeting with the French official has just ended on a pessimistic note, and he cannot fathom why youve not returned his calls. Whereve you been? he asks, straining his larynx to the cracking point in his effort not to whine or accuse.
Why, searching for AndrE, of course, you reply so innocently that no turtledove would hesitate to build its nest among the quince blossoms of your inflection. And I have some good news.
You do?!
Well, sort of good news. Ive seen him.
You have?!
Uh, I think I have.
What do you mean?
Im pretty sure Ive spotted him in the trees near the school. Twice. And I have a plan to entice him into my car.
Oh, praise Jesus! I hope youre right. Id rush back immediately, but every flights booked solid because of the holiday. Happy Easter, by the way.
Yeah. Happy Easter, Belford.
Theres no way I can get to Seattle before ten tonight.
Good.
What do you mean?
Im sorry, I meant, thatll be good enough because it could take me awhile to, uh, corral him, but I may well have him for you when you arrive.
But howll you do it?
Never mind. Dont worry about it. Ive got a scenario. Trust me.
Oh, I do trust you, hon, I trust you explicitly, but I have to mention-and Im not saying this to hurt you-I have to mention that, well, AndrE, you know, hes not always inclined to, uh, respond to you.
AndrE and I have had our differences in the past, but I have the feeling were going to get along just fine from now on.
Ill be praying nonstop for both of you. You know, Gwen, if its really him, one thing that might help is a banana Popsicle.
Gee, yeah. Good idea, Belford. Maybe Ill try it.
TWO FIFTY-FIVE P.M.
You stare out the window for several minutes before it dawns on you that its raining again. The last time you glanced at the sky, it was still largely blue. Well, thats Seattle for you. From lapis to tin in the blink of a lash. Blink once more and your espressos diluted. Quick to wet and slow to dry, the city is resigned to sudden overcast and prolonged spillage. Newcomers wring their damp mitts and fret about rot; old-timers curse and get on with business, aware that the next sunny day, although it may be weeks away, will trot out such a mountainous array of pagodas, sundaes, hero chins, and God fingers; such a sunset palette of Jell-O, Kool-Aid, Vegas strip, and carrot oil; such a sea-vista display of broad waters, firred islands, whale spouts, and sailboats thicker than triangles in a geometry book, that any and all memories of rain will fizz and implode in a blaze of bedazzled amnesia.
You have long ago grown accustomed to the witch measles of persistent drizzle, and although the assault on your makeup and hairdo never ceases to annoy you, you tend to take it in your snide. This afternoon, however, an unfamiliar ingot has been tonged onto the anvil of the gloom. You wonder if the rain has caught Larry Diamond still waiting outside the Sorrento Hotel. You picture him soaked, lonely and forlorn, risking a pneumonia that might severely complicate his malignancy and lower his resistance to its blows. Of course, Diamond is an amoral seducer and reckless weirdo who means little or nothing to you, and, besides, he is leaving tomorrow for some Timbukstupidtu, where a person would be lucky to find an unused Band-Aid, let alone chemotherapy, so how sick or how smart can he be? Nevertheless, it doesnt seem quite right just to leave him there in the rain without shelter or transportation, not in his condition. Would it hurt to give him a ride back to Thunder House? You ought to search the neighborhood around the bowling alley anyway, to see if Q-Jos car might be there. You simply refuse to believe that she passed through a deadbolted door without a key.
THREE OH-SIX P.M.
What are you gawking at? you demand of the Thriftway cashier. It is obvious what she is staring at-it is the third time on a particular Easter Sunday that you have come in and purchased unusually large amounts of banana Popsicles-but it is none of her business, and you will be darned if you will let her get away with impertinence.
Excuse me, she says, avoiding your glare while she bags your purchase. Its nice to see somebody else blush for a change.
You seize the bag. These are the only known cure for stigmata, you say sternly. If you were more than a jewelry-store Christian-you nod at the little gold crucifix around her neck-youd know that.
Yes, maam.
And next time remember to ask if I want paper or plastic.
There. That makes you feel better. You smile all the way to Belfords place to pick up the pet harness.
 
; THREE-SIXTEEN P.M.
Essie Kudahl, who had seen you drive off but missed your return, is on her knees in the hallway squinting through Q-Jos keyhole. Now it is your turn to clear your throat. My, oh my, how quickly a sallow face can redden! This is great fun for you, this spate of reverse embarrassment.
Wobbling to her fuzzy-slippered feet and gathering her bathrobe about her chest, as if she feared you were the Safe Sex Rapist, Mrs. Kudahl says, Its doing something. Its doing something funny.
Brushing her aside and pressing your own chocolate eye to the keyhole, you soon figure out that what the macaque is doing is attempting to roll another cigarette. A bit groggy, he is less successful than he was earlier, and impatient fistfuls of tobacco are spilling off the cigarette paper onto his lap and the nubby old sofa on which he sits.
Ignoring Mrs. Kudahl, although you would love to make her blush some more, you pry loose the nails and unlock the door. Hi, AndrE. Hi, honey. Did you have a good rest? You approach him cautiously, but despite his frustration with the cigarette, he seems rather docile. Look, Auntie Gwens gone and brought you another treat.
While the monkey slurps the Popsicle, you slip the harness over him and buckle it tight. Good boy. Good monkey. Here, have another one. You and Gwendolyn are going to go for a little ride. And if youre nice, you can have lots of Popsicles. Beaucoup. Okay?