Lucy.”
“
Stover
,” Sam Quinn said. “I don’t think she’s worked since then. She had a speed problem and a couple of crazy boyfriends. I helped her out.”
“The kid yours?”
Quinn shook his head. “I can’t tell you whose kid that is, Gordo. Very big name. Since deceased.”
“You ought to get out,” Walker said. “I thought you’d be doing stunts forever.”
“Yeah, I was born to die in a burning stagecoach. But I’m too old for it, that’s the problem. I tell you, Gordon, this after-forty shit sucks.”
“You could coordinate. You been all over. You know a lot about filmmaking.”
“I’m associated in the industry with drugs. Once that didn’t matter.But these days it is not so good.” Quinn drained his glass and set it aside. “I ought to move. Maybe up to Newhall—I got a lot of old buddies up there might get me something. I should get Lucy out of here, get her straight. I should sell my boat, sell this place—I’d get ten times what I paid. There’s a couple of hundred goddamn things I should do. But I don’t know which, the way things are. I don’t want to be broke no more, Gordon, I ain’t used to it.”
“Well,” Walker said, “if you think of a way I can help you, let me know.” He set his own glass down. “You really think Doc Siriwai could fix me up if I stopped in Borromeo?”
“I’m sure of it,” Quinn said. “I see him once in a while.” They stood up; Quinn yawned and stretched. “Lee Verger,” he said. “Good old Lu Anne. You give her my special love, you hear.”
“I will.”
They shook hands and Walker got behind the wheel of his car. As he drove by the cottonwood trees, he passed Lucy and Eben. Lucy was smiling; she had bent over the child and was encouraging him to wave. Walker threw them a salute. As soon as he came in sight of the sea, the fog rose to meet him.
W hen they were gone she sat on the beach in front of her casita. She had not ridden to the airport, only stood in the driveway before the main building and waved them away. Lionel and the sun-ripe children, happy-eyed. Were they also pleased to be quit of her? They were sensitive children, they had seen a few things they should not have seen. Driving away, they had not turned to wave or to look back at her and it had made her feel hurt and afraid. Only their excitement, she had thought, walking back down the path. But it was as though their eyes were fixed upon some wholesome future in which she had no part.
At least there was work. But it was a few hours until her call, so she spent twenty minutes or so doing breathing exercises and then commenced swimming laps in the small patio pool. Lu Anne was a strong swimmer and the pool barely more than an ornament; she coursed the length in two strokes and flipped at ends in a racing turn. She kept at it until her breath came hard and her shoulders ached.
Overhead, the sky was leaden; distant heat lightning flashed. She could hear the men at work beside the lagoon where the Grand Isle set was. For weeks she had been listening to the trailer-truck engines and the roar of articulated loaders. Lines of peons, armed with machetes, had been chopping cactus, beating the brush for scorpions, laying track for the giant Chapman crane. Now it was ready, the ground cleared. A roadway of two-by-twelve boards, stacked three layers deep, stretched from the dunes to the mild surf. Only the odd shout or burst of laughter, the whine of a power drill or the beat of a hammer drifted across the tame surface of their civil bay. From the other direction, where the unchecked Pacific whirled in narrow canyons along the point or thrust itself against the black sand of Playa China, she could make out the crash of surf, muffled by the offshore wind and the guardian mountainside.
That would be the place to swim, she thought, to work the negativity from her frame, to contend. She sat quietly in the sun, eyes closed, imagining the half-heard surf, forcing, as well as
“
Stover
,” Sam Quinn said. “I don’t think she’s worked since then. She had a speed problem and a couple of crazy boyfriends. I helped her out.”
“The kid yours?”
Quinn shook his head. “I can’t tell you whose kid that is, Gordo. Very big name. Since deceased.”
“You ought to get out,” Walker said. “I thought you’d be doing stunts forever.”
“Yeah, I was born to die in a burning stagecoach. But I’m too old for it, that’s the problem. I tell you, Gordon, this after-forty shit sucks.”
“You could coordinate. You been all over. You know a lot about filmmaking.”
“I’m associated in the industry with drugs. Once that didn’t matter.But these days it is not so good.” Quinn drained his glass and set it aside. “I ought to move. Maybe up to Newhall—I got a lot of old buddies up there might get me something. I should get Lucy out of here, get her straight. I should sell my boat, sell this place—I’d get ten times what I paid. There’s a couple of hundred goddamn things I should do. But I don’t know which, the way things are. I don’t want to be broke no more, Gordon, I ain’t used to it.”
“Well,” Walker said, “if you think of a way I can help you, let me know.” He set his own glass down. “You really think Doc Siriwai could fix me up if I stopped in Borromeo?”
“I’m sure of it,” Quinn said. “I see him once in a while.” They stood up; Quinn yawned and stretched. “Lee Verger,” he said. “Good old Lu Anne. You give her my special love, you hear.”
“I will.”
They shook hands and Walker got behind the wheel of his car. As he drove by the cottonwood trees, he passed Lucy and Eben. Lucy was smiling; she had bent over the child and was encouraging him to wave. Walker threw them a salute. As soon as he came in sight of the sea, the fog rose to meet him.
W hen they were gone she sat on the beach in front of her casita. She had not ridden to the airport, only stood in the driveway before the main building and waved them away. Lionel and the sun-ripe children, happy-eyed. Were they also pleased to be quit of her? They were sensitive children, they had seen a few things they should not have seen. Driving away, they had not turned to wave or to look back at her and it had made her feel hurt and afraid. Only their excitement, she had thought, walking back down the path. But it was as though their eyes were fixed upon some wholesome future in which she had no part.
At least there was work. But it was a few hours until her call, so she spent twenty minutes or so doing breathing exercises and then commenced swimming laps in the small patio pool. Lu Anne was a strong swimmer and the pool barely more than an ornament; she coursed the length in two strokes and flipped at ends in a racing turn. She kept at it until her breath came hard and her shoulders ached.
Overhead, the sky was leaden; distant heat lightning flashed. She could hear the men at work beside the lagoon where the Grand Isle set was. For weeks she had been listening to the trailer-truck engines and the roar of articulated loaders. Lines of peons, armed with machetes, had been chopping cactus, beating the brush for scorpions, laying track for the giant Chapman crane. Now it was ready, the ground cleared. A roadway of two-by-twelve boards, stacked three layers deep, stretched from the dunes to the mild surf. Only the odd shout or burst of laughter, the whine of a power drill or the beat of a hammer drifted across the tame surface of their civil bay. From the other direction, where the unchecked Pacific whirled in narrow canyons along the point or thrust itself against the black sand of Playa China, she could make out the crash of surf, muffled by the offshore wind and the guardian mountainside.
That would be the place to swim, she thought, to work the negativity from her frame, to contend. She sat quietly in the sun, eyes closed, imagining the half-heard surf, forcing, as well as
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