Not a dog, Joshua thought. Too damned big for a dog. Some kid. Probably up to no good. Some kid with vandalism on his mind.
"Who's there?"
Silence.
"Come on now."
No answer. Just the whispering wind.
Joshua started toward the shadow among shadows, but he was suddenly arrested by the instinctive knowledge that the thing was dangerous. Horrendously dangerous. Deadly. He experienced all of the involuntary animal reactions to such a threat: a shiver up his spine; his scalp seemed to crawl and then tighten; his heart began to pound; his mouth went dry; his hands curled into claws; and his hearing seemed more acute than it had been a minute ago. Joshua hunched over and drew up his bulky shoulders, unconsciously seeking a defensive posture.
"Who's there?" he repeated.
The shadow-thing turned and crashed through the shrubs. It ran off across the vineyards that bordered Avril Tannerton's property. For a few seconds, Joshua could hear the steadily diminishing clamor of its flight, the receding thud-thud-thud of heavy running footsteps and the fading wheeze as it gasped for breath. Then the wind was the only sound in the night.
Looking over his shoulder a couple of times, he returned to his car. He got in, closed the door, locked it.
Already, the encounter began to seem unreal, increasingly dreamlike. Was there actually someone in the darkness, waiting, watching? Had there been something dangerous out there, or had it been his imagination? After spending half an hour in Avril Tannerton's ghoulish workshop, a man could be expected to jump at strange noises and start looking for monstrous creatures in the shadows. As Joshua's muscles relaxed, as his heart slowed, he began to think he had been a fool. The threat he had sensed so strongly seemed, in retrospect, to be a phantom, a vagary of the night and wind.
At worst, it had been a kid. A vandal.
He started the car and drove home, surprised and amused by the effect Tannerton's workroom had had upon him.
***
Saturday evening, promptly at seven o'clock, Anthony Clemenza arrived at Hilary's Westwood house in a blue Jeep station wagon.
Hilary went out to meet him. She was wearing a sleek emerald-green silk dress with long tight sleeves and a neckline cut low enough to be enticing but not cheap. She hadn't been on a date in more than fourteen months, and she nearly had forgotten how to dress for the ritual of courtship; she had spent two hours choosing her outfit, as indecisive as a schoolgirl. She accepted Tony's invitation because he was the most interesting man she'd met in a couple of years--and also because she was trying her best to overcome her tendency to hide from the rest of the world. She had been stung by Wally Topelis's assessment of her; he had warned her that she was using the virtue of self-reliance as an excuse to hide from people, and she had recognized the truth in what he'd said.
She avoided making friends and finding lovers, for she was afraid of the pain that only friends and lovers could inflict with their rejections and betrayals. But at the same time that she was protecting herself from the pain, she was denying herself the pleasure of good relationships with good people who would not betray her. Growing up with her drunken violent parents, she had learned that displays of affection were usually followed by sudden outbursts of rage and anger and unexpected punishment.
She was never afraid to take chances in her work and in business matters; now it was time to bring the same spirit of adventure to her personal life. As she walked briskly toward the blue Jeep, swinging her h*ps a little, she felt tense about taking the emotional risks that the mating dance entailed, but she also felt fresh and feminine and considerably happier than she had in a long time.
Tony hurried around to the passenger's side and opened the door. Bending low, he said, "The royal carriage awaits."
"Oh, there must be some mistake. I'm not the queen."
"You look like a queen to me."
"I'm just a lowly serving girl."
"You're a great deal prettier than the queen."
"Better not let her hear you say that. She'll have your head for sure."
"Too late."
"Oh?"
"I've already lost my head over you."
Hilary groaned.
"Too saccharine?" he asked.
"I need a bite of lemon after that one."
"But you liked it."
"Yes, I admit I did. I guess I'm a sucker for flattery," she said, getting into the Jeep in a swirl of green silk.
As they drove down toward Westwood Boulevard, Tony said, "You're not offended?"
"By what?"
"By this buggy?"
"How could I be offended by a Jeep? Does it talk? Is it liable to insult me?"
"It's not a Mercedes."
"A Mercedes isn't a Rolls. And a Rolls isn't a Toyota."
"There's something very Zen about that."
"If you think I'm a snob, why'd you ask me out?"
"I don't think you're a snob," he said. "But Frank says we'll be awkward with each other because you've got more money than I have."
"Well, based on my experience with him, I'd say Frank's judgments of other people are not to be trusted."
"He has his problems," Tony agreed as he turned left onto Wilshire Boulevard. "But he's working them out."
"I will admit this isn't a car you see many of in L.A."
"Usually, women ask me if it's my second car."
"I don't really care if it is or isn't."
"They say that in L.A. you are what you drive."
"Is that what they say? Then you're a Jeep. And I'm a Mercedes. We're cars, not people. We should be going to the garage for an oil change, not to a restaurant for dinner. Does that make sense?"
"No sense at all," Tony said. "Actually, I got a Jeep because I like to go skiing three or four weekends every winter. With this jalopy, I know I'll always be able to get through the mountain passes, no matter how bad the weather gets."
"I've always wanted to learn to ski."
"I'll teach you. You'll have to wait a few weeks. But it won't be long until there's snow at Mammoth."
"You seem pretty sure we'll still be friends a few weeks from now."
"Why wouldn't we be?" he asked.
"Maybe we'll get into a fight tonight, first thing, at the restaurant."
"Over what?"
"Politics."
"I think all politicians are power-hungry bastards too incompetent to tie their own shoelaces."
"So do I"
"I'm a Libertarian."
"So am I--sort of."
"Short argument."
"Maybe we'll fight over religion."
"I was raised a Catholic. But I'm not much of anything any more."
"Me either."
"We don't seem to be good at arguing."
"Well," she said, "maybe we're the kind of people who fight over little things, inconsequential matters."
"Such as?"
"Well, since we're going to an Italian restaurant, maybe you'll love the garlic bread, and I'll hate it."
"And we'll fight over that?"
"That or the fettucini or the manicotti."
"No. Where we're going, you'll love everything," he said. "Wait and see."
He took her to Savatino's Ristorante on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was an intimate place, seating no more than sixty and somehow appearing to seat only half that number; it was cozy, comfortable, the kind of restaurant in which you could lose track of time and spend six hours over dinner if the waiters didn't nudge you along. The lighting was soft and warm. The recorded opera--leaning heavily to the voices of Gigli and Caruso and Pavarotti--was played loud enough to be heard and appreciated, but not so loud that it intruded on conversation. There was a bit too much decor, but one part of it, a spectacular mural, was, Hilary thought, absolutely wonderful. The painting covered an entire wall and was a depiction of the most commonly perceived joys of the Italian lifestyle: grapes, wine, pasta, dark-eyed women, darkly handsome men, a loving and rotund nonna, a group of people dancing to the music of an accordionist, a picnic under olive trees, and much more. Hilary had never seen anything remotely like it, for it was neither entirely realistic nor stylized nor abstract nor impressionistic, but an odd stepchild of surrealism, as if it were a wildly inventive collaboration between Andrew Wyeth and Salvador Dali.
Michael Savatino, the owner, who turned out to be an ex-policeman, was irrepressibly jolly, hugging Tony, taking Hilary's hand and kissing it, punching Tony lightly in the belly and recommending pasta to fatten him up, insisting they come into the kitchen to see the new cappuccino machine. As they came out of the kitchen, Michael's wife, a striking blonde named Paula, arrived, and there was more hugging and kissing and complimenting. At last, Michael linked arms with Hilary and escorted her and Tony to a corner booth. He told the captain to bring two bottles of Biondi-Santi's Brunello di Montelcino, waited for the wine, and uncorked it himself.
After glasses had been filled and toasts made, he left them, winking at Tony to show his approval, seeing Hilary notice the wink, laughing at himself, winking at her.
"He seems like such a nice man," she said when Michael had gone.
"He's some guy," Tony said.
"You like him a great deal."
"I love him. He was a perfect partner when we worked homicide together."
They fell smoothly into a discussion of policework and then screenwriting. He was so easy to talk to that Hilary felt she had known him for years. There was absolutely none of the awkwardness that usually marred a first date.
At one point, he noticed her looking at the wall mural. "Do you like the painting?" he asked.
"It's superb."
"Is it?"
"Don't you agree?"
"It's pretty good," he said.
"Better than pretty good. Who did it? Do you know?"
"Some artist down on his luck," Tony said. "He painted it in exchange for fifty free dinners."
"Only fifty? Michael got a bargain."
They talked about films and books and music and theater. The food was nearly as good as the conversation. The appetizer was light; it consisted of two stubby crèpes, one filled with unadulterated ricotta cheese, the other with a spicy concoction of shaved beef, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and garlic. Their salads were huge and crisp, smothered in sliced raw mushrooms. Tony selected the entrée, Veal Savatino, a specialita of the house, incredibly tender white-white veal with a thin brown sauce, pearl onions, and grilled strips of zucchini. The cappuccino was excellent.
When she finished dinner and looked at her watch, Hilary was amazed to see that it was ten minutes past eleven.
Michael Savatino stopped by the table to bask in their praise, and then he said to Tony, "That's number twenty-one."
"Oh, no. Twenty-three."
"Not by my records."
"Your records are wrong."
"Twenty-one," Michael insisted.
"Twenty-three," Tony said. "And it ought to be numbers twenty-three and twenty-four. It was two meals, after all."
"No, no," Michael said. "We count by the visit, not by the number of meals."
Perplexed, Hilary said, "Am I losing my mind, or does this conversation make no sense at all?"
Michael shook his head, exasperated with Tony. To Hilary he said, "When he painted the mural, I wanted to pay him in cash, but he wouldn't accept it. He said he'd trade the painting for a few free dinners. I insisted on a hundred free visits. He said twenty-five. We finally settled on fifty. He undervalues his work, and that makes me angry as hell."
"Tony painted that mural?" she asked.
"He didn't tell you?"
"No."
She looked at Tony, and he grinned sheepishly.
"That's why he drives that Jeep," Michael said. "When he wants to go up in the hills to work on a nature study, the Jeep will take him anywhere."
"He said he had it because he likes to go skiing."
"That too. But mostly, it's to get him into the hills to paint. He should be proud of his work.
But it's easier to pull teeth from an alligator than it is to get him to talk about his painting."
"I'm an amateur," Tony said. "Nothing's more boring than an amateur dabbler running off at the mouth about his 'art.'"
"That mural is not the work of an amateur," Michael said.
"Definitely not," Hilary agreed.
"You're my friends," Tony said, "so naturally you're too generous with your praise. And neither of you has the qualifications to be an art critic."
"He's won two prizes," Michael told Hilary.
"Prizes?" she asked Tony.
"Nothing important."
"Both times he won best of the show," Michael said.
"What shows were these?" Hilary asked.
"No big ones," Tony said.
"He dreams about making a living as a painter," Michael said, "but he never does anything about it."
"Because it's only a dream," Tony said. "I'd be a fool if I seriously thought I could make it as a painter."
"He never really tried," Michael told Hilary.
"A painter doesn't get a weekly paycheck," Tony said. "Or health benefits. Or retirement checks."
"But if you only sold two pieces a month for only half what they're worth, you'd make more than you get as a cop," Michael said.
"And if I sold nothing for a month or two months or six," Tony said, "then who would pay the rent?"
To Hilary, Michael said, "His apartment's crammed full of paintings, one stacked on the other.
He's sitting on a fortune, but he won't do anything about it."
"He exaggerates," Tony told her.
"Ah, I give up!" Michael said. "Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Hilary." As he walked away from their table, he said, "Twenty-one."
"Twenty-three." Tony said.
Later, in the Jeep, as he was driving her home, Hilary said, "Why don't you at least take your work around to some galleries and see if they'll handle it?"
"They won't."
"You could at least ask."
"Hilary. I'm not really good enough."