and the different yous who live in me…brush my lips across your crying eyes.’ Fucking poetry, I guess. It’s written that way, little short lines. No periods or commas. Guy’s name is Jesse Black.”
“Those are song lyrics,” said Nick. “He was up in Los Angeles eight days ago, making a demonstration tape.”
Lobdell lowered the letter. “You know him?”
“Postcard in her college book.”
“Here’s one: ‘The outline of your back is still fresh upon my hand and all the colors of your heartbreak stain the floor. I misjudged your beauty and the contour of your love like a wave that never made it quite to shore.’”
Nick saw a fist hit the back of a pale woman. Saw her dark curls shiver and shake. And red-black blood on the packinghouse floorboards.
“A demonstration tape for what?” asked Lobdell. “This guy wants to be the next Ringo or something?”
“Read another one.”
“Like this stuff, huh? ‘High heels clickin’ down the avenue, sweet new baby off to try the old soft-shoe.’ What, she’s gonna be a dancer?”
“Then what happens?”
“‘But the neon fades with sunrise and your face looks like the dead, you should be at home new baby in your very own bed. Come back baby to your very own bed.’ Hubba-hubba. See, Nicky, she stays out too late dancing. Makes her look old and ugly.”
Dancing with other guys, thought Nick.
“Here,” said Lobdell. He looked around the room like an unimpressed buyer. Dropped the letters onto a yellow and black serape on the guest bed. “I never understand this fancy stuff. I only read for facts.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah . Nick read them over. Didn’t find anything else that reminded him of Janelle’s body in the packinghouse. But that one…
He read it again. All about this guy who lets his lover go then changes his mind. Then it’s too late and he goes nuts with regret. Ends up “talking to the shadows on the walls.”
He went back to the kitchen and called the Blue Beat record store again. Craig told him sure he knew Jesse Black. Local guy, great songwriter. Great singer. All of twenty years old, if that. Janelle Vonn hung out with him some. The girls really dig him.
Nick looked across the living room to the framed pictures next to the kiss-your-ass-goodbye poster. Described them over the phone.
“Yeah,” said Craig. “That’s him. Shiny brown hair and kind of pale-looking. Strong jaw. If I remember right, Janelle carried around a camera. Shot some of his gigs at the Sandpiper, stuff like that.”
Craig told him that Jesse had left Laguna to live in Los Angeles a few months ago. Going to make it in the music business. Didn’t know how to get ahold of him, though you’d figure he’d come back after what happened. Might look at Big Red in Bluebird Canyon, a crash pad for the music scene, Craig said. Probably no phones up there. Or try Jesse’smom and dad. Local family, up on Temple Hills. In the phone book, probably. If not, the dad was a music teacher at UCI.
“You any relation to the reporter Becker? Andy?”
“We’re brothers.”
“He came by here about ten minutes ago, asking about Janelle.”
Nick thanked him again, went into the bedroom. More music posters and a James Bond Thunderball poster, too. More plants. More makeshift, thumbtacked curtains. A dresser with bottles of perfume on top, made the room smell feminine. Nick felt odd being in a young woman’s room. Unmade bed. Dirty clothes in an open hamper. Like he should have permission from her. Didn’t seem right he got to see her stuff and she never would again.
The bedsheets had galloping horses on them.
There was a collection of Troll dolls in a basket in one corner.
And hundreds of Beatle cards in a Thom McAn shoe box.
A girl, thought Nick. Just a girl.
NICK HOVERED and watched the ID men as they photographed and dusted for prints. Wished he could just pitch in and do it himself. Missed his days on the ID Bureau, the way it was all physical, the stuff
“Those are song lyrics,” said Nick. “He was up in Los Angeles eight days ago, making a demonstration tape.”
Lobdell lowered the letter. “You know him?”
“Postcard in her college book.”
“Here’s one: ‘The outline of your back is still fresh upon my hand and all the colors of your heartbreak stain the floor. I misjudged your beauty and the contour of your love like a wave that never made it quite to shore.’”
Nick saw a fist hit the back of a pale woman. Saw her dark curls shiver and shake. And red-black blood on the packinghouse floorboards.
“A demonstration tape for what?” asked Lobdell. “This guy wants to be the next Ringo or something?”
“Read another one.”
“Like this stuff, huh? ‘High heels clickin’ down the avenue, sweet new baby off to try the old soft-shoe.’ What, she’s gonna be a dancer?”
“Then what happens?”
“‘But the neon fades with sunrise and your face looks like the dead, you should be at home new baby in your very own bed. Come back baby to your very own bed.’ Hubba-hubba. See, Nicky, she stays out too late dancing. Makes her look old and ugly.”
Dancing with other guys, thought Nick.
“Here,” said Lobdell. He looked around the room like an unimpressed buyer. Dropped the letters onto a yellow and black serape on the guest bed. “I never understand this fancy stuff. I only read for facts.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah . Nick read them over. Didn’t find anything else that reminded him of Janelle’s body in the packinghouse. But that one…
He read it again. All about this guy who lets his lover go then changes his mind. Then it’s too late and he goes nuts with regret. Ends up “talking to the shadows on the walls.”
He went back to the kitchen and called the Blue Beat record store again. Craig told him sure he knew Jesse Black. Local guy, great songwriter. Great singer. All of twenty years old, if that. Janelle Vonn hung out with him some. The girls really dig him.
Nick looked across the living room to the framed pictures next to the kiss-your-ass-goodbye poster. Described them over the phone.
“Yeah,” said Craig. “That’s him. Shiny brown hair and kind of pale-looking. Strong jaw. If I remember right, Janelle carried around a camera. Shot some of his gigs at the Sandpiper, stuff like that.”
Craig told him that Jesse had left Laguna to live in Los Angeles a few months ago. Going to make it in the music business. Didn’t know how to get ahold of him, though you’d figure he’d come back after what happened. Might look at Big Red in Bluebird Canyon, a crash pad for the music scene, Craig said. Probably no phones up there. Or try Jesse’smom and dad. Local family, up on Temple Hills. In the phone book, probably. If not, the dad was a music teacher at UCI.
“You any relation to the reporter Becker? Andy?”
“We’re brothers.”
“He came by here about ten minutes ago, asking about Janelle.”
Nick thanked him again, went into the bedroom. More music posters and a James Bond Thunderball poster, too. More plants. More makeshift, thumbtacked curtains. A dresser with bottles of perfume on top, made the room smell feminine. Nick felt odd being in a young woman’s room. Unmade bed. Dirty clothes in an open hamper. Like he should have permission from her. Didn’t seem right he got to see her stuff and she never would again.
The bedsheets had galloping horses on them.
There was a collection of Troll dolls in a basket in one corner.
And hundreds of Beatle cards in a Thom McAn shoe box.
A girl, thought Nick. Just a girl.
NICK HOVERED and watched the ID men as they photographed and dusted for prints. Wished he could just pitch in and do it himself. Missed his days on the ID Bureau, the way it was all physical, the stuff
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