Dead Lines

‘Heart attack or stroke.’

Death was new to Hank. He tried to find something appropriate, some sentiment, and his face worked through a range of trial emotions for several seconds. ‘You going to the funeral?’

‘I haven’t heard about a funeral yet,’ Peter said.

‘Lydia will want one,’ Hank said with assurance. ‘Or at least a wake. But I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be able to come … I could …’

Phil had introduced Peter and Hank. Hank had stayed with Phil and Lydia for a few weeks as a teenager. It had been a seminal moment for Hank Wuorinos, young runaway from Ames, Iowa. Lydia had probably shoplifted Hank’s virginity. Phil had never much held it against Hank. Lydia was what she was. A real Hollywood career, after such an introduction to Los Angeles, was a sign of persistence and genuine talent.

‘Go to work,’ Peter said. ‘Phil would understand.’

‘Besides, I couldn’t face Lydia,’ Hank said.

‘She’d want you to stay over and console her,’ Peter said.

‘Shit,’ Hank said, crestfallen. ‘She would. You know she would.’

Peter held up the cardboard box. ‘You’ll need one of these to keep in touch,’ he said. ‘Take your pick.’

Hank peered. ‘What are they, Japanese Easter eggs?’

‘They’re called Trans. They’re like cell phones but they’re free. You’ll love them. They use a base-12 number system.’

‘Wow! They actually work?’

‘I just took a call on one.’

Hank picked the red unit and twisted it with delight in his hands. Hank’s dark emotions were wonderfully transient. He had a job, he was about to see the world, and that easily trumped the death of poor, hapless Phil.

‘No long-distance charges?’

‘Not so far. They’re demos.’

‘Let’s try.’

Peter indulged him. Just being around Hank cheered him. Peter showed him the help button and they took down the numbers of all the phones on two pieces of paper. Then they tried calling the different units from various rooms in the house, like boys with cans on strings. The sound was crystal clear. Hank was thrilled.

‘They are so cool,’ he said. ‘They’re like Interociters.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Peter said.

‘How many can I have?’

Peter overcame an odd twinge of greed. ‘Take two,’ he said. ‘One for your girlfriend.’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ Hank said seriously, ‘but I will find one in Prague. I’ve been reading Kafka just to get in the mood. The tourist brochures say Prague is supposed to be the most haunted city in Europe. City of ghosts. A church made of bones. That’s what the DP told me. Who ya gonna call?’ The dark emotions returned and Hank picked up his cup of coffee in a toast. ‘To Phil. Is this what it’s like to get old, your friends start dying?’

‘Something like that,’ Peter said.

After Hank left, Peter checked his answering machine in the kitchen. A red 1 flashed on the display. He rolled back the tape – it was a very old unit, he seldom bought new appliances – and listened.

It was Lydia. She had a voice like the young Joanne Woodward, honey and silk and baby’s breath. She told him she was already in Marin – she had taken the train – and she had finalized arrangements. She said she would be at Phil’s house and gave his address and phone number. The wake would be late tomorrow. ‘No funeral. Phil wanted to be cremated. Just a few friends, mostly from the time we were married.’

He listened to the message again. Double whammy: Lydia had used a phone, and Phil had a house in Marin.

‘Who’d of thunk it?’ Peter asked. His voice sounded childish, even petulant, as if he were resentful that Phil had kept secrets. Phil had kept secrets from his best friend and then ditched him.

He went to pack his bag.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_303b92f0-68d8-5370-ae2d-409913fba6e0)

Joseph stretched out on a lounge chair with a florid towel spread over his legs. He listened to Peter’s report with a grey, still face. Not even the sun shining through the sunhouse glass over the pool could improve his pallor. He looked impassive, like an old king who has seen and done it all.

When Peter finished, Joseph started to tap his thumb on his draped knee. Peter did not tell the rest of the story. He still had not made any sense of that part of the night’s events.

‘Sandaji took my money?’ Joseph asked.

‘Her assistant did,’ Peter said.

‘All God’s children need money,’ Joseph said with yielding disappointment. Peter had never heard such a tone of defeat coming from the man.

‘Actually, I forgot to hand it over and had to go back,’ Peter said. ‘I thought about just keeping it.’ Sometimes Joseph was cheered by confessions of human greed and weakness.

‘I would have,’ Joseph said. ‘What did she mean by that answer?’

Peter shrugged. ‘I’m not much on this soul business, you know that.’

‘I didn’t used to be. I’m giving it some real thought.’

‘We’re getting old,’ Peter sympathized.

‘Hell, you can still jog around the house and fuck when you want. For me, just going to the bathroom is a thrill.’

‘Bull,’ Peter said, shading his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ Joseph said. ‘Old man bullshit. I can still get it up, but I don’t know that I want to any more.’ They sat for a minute.

‘I’ve led a wicked life, Peter,’ Joseph said. ‘I’ve hurt people. Messed around and messed up every which way. Despite it all, here I am with the sun and the sea and the hills and the cool night breezes, living on twenty acres of paradise. Makes you think. What’s the downside? Where’s the comeuppance?’

Peter left that one alone. He was not in the mood for discussing ultimates.

‘Where do we all go?’ Joseph asked in a husky whisper.

‘I’m going to Marin,’ Peter said. ‘To a wake. That’s sober enough, isn’t it?’

‘Was your friend a good man?’

Peter shrugged. ‘A better man than me, Gunga Din.’