bag filled with keys and flash cards and volunteered to make the first run to the car. He was carrying two small lamp bases, metal, maybe brass, accented with a deep orange ring, maybe Bakelite. He waved another bag—pointed out their next meeting place—and sprinted off.
She started down the next aisle, pausing at a table with old autograph books. Jane picked up one with a heavy blue cardboard cover, dated 1928, and paged through it, trying to focus on the rhymes and spidery signatures that usually delighted her.
May your cheeks retain their dimple,
May your heart be just as gay,
Until some manly voice shall whisper,
Dearest, will you name the day?
Manly voice? Why hadn’t Jeb just called her and asked her, point-blank, to come out to L.A. and work on this?
Once upon a time,
A chicken found a dime,
She gave it to the rooster
And the rooster said, “It’s mine.”
Isn’t that just like a rooster? Of course Jeb couldn’t ask for her help. He couldn’t even ask her why she walked out on him all those years ago. He had shrugged it off and acted all manly and roostery about it. So this was a perfect plan—let Bix ask Jane and Tim to come out here under the pretense of the movie deal, and while they were here, rope them into whatever was going on with the B Room. When Jane dated Jeb in college, he rarely said anything directly.
Do you know how to make grits?
he had asked her one night and she had answered,
No, how?
He told her it wasn’t a riddle, he just liked grits with eggs in the morning and he could handle scrambling the eggs. At the time, his convoluted proposal that she spend the night at his place seemed charming.
“Passive-aggressive bullshit,” she said out loud, recognizing it for what it was.
“Now are you talking on the phone?” asked Louise, who had once again come up behind her.
Jane sighed and handed over three dollars for the autograph book without blinking. Its wisdom was priceless. And if Louise was back to chat, Jane figured this might be her last opportunity for a purchase. When she turned around, she was even more certain that she was done for the day. Rick and Greg were standing with Louise, who apparently had gone to gather them. She pointed to a group of tables and chairs near a refreshment stand.
“Jeb said he’d meet us over there,” she said.
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” Jane muttered under her breath.
Jane dropped the blue autograph book into her bag and spotted a table that looked like it had more of the small volumes. She said she’d be right over to the snack area and zigzagged across the aisle. She picked up a zippered brown leatherette journal with a fifteen-dollar price tag on it. Without even looking through it, she replaced it on the table and saw some battered cardboard-covered books in a small case on top of a trunk a few feet back. Stepping over to the shelves, she pulled out the stack of autograph books and found herself staring at a face. At first she thought it was someone looking at the same books from the other side; then she noticed that the eyes were not studying book titles. In fact, these eyes were not searching for any flea market treasures, since these eyes belonged to the face of a man no longer browsing, bargaining, or buying. This was the face of a dead man.
Jane opened her mouth, hoping she would be able to scream, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Just behind her, the B Room had gathered with their leader, Jeb Gleason. Jeb was so close behind her that Jane heard his statement as a low whisper in her ear.
“Look, gang, Lou Piccolo’s back from Ojai.”
Jane, realizing, if only for one lucid second, that this must be the “Pix” of Bix Pix Flix, Lou Piccolo, studied the face, her open mouth still poised for a scream. Lou Piccolo had brown straight hair, a bit shaggy, and what had been, she felt sure, a handsome tanned face, with perhaps just a touch of cosmetic work. Although features and faces might grow rigid without life, Lou’s eyes were
She started down the next aisle, pausing at a table with old autograph books. Jane picked up one with a heavy blue cardboard cover, dated 1928, and paged through it, trying to focus on the rhymes and spidery signatures that usually delighted her.
May your cheeks retain their dimple,
May your heart be just as gay,
Until some manly voice shall whisper,
Dearest, will you name the day?
Manly voice? Why hadn’t Jeb just called her and asked her, point-blank, to come out to L.A. and work on this?
Once upon a time,
A chicken found a dime,
She gave it to the rooster
And the rooster said, “It’s mine.”
Isn’t that just like a rooster? Of course Jeb couldn’t ask for her help. He couldn’t even ask her why she walked out on him all those years ago. He had shrugged it off and acted all manly and roostery about it. So this was a perfect plan—let Bix ask Jane and Tim to come out here under the pretense of the movie deal, and while they were here, rope them into whatever was going on with the B Room. When Jane dated Jeb in college, he rarely said anything directly.
Do you know how to make grits?
he had asked her one night and she had answered,
No, how?
He told her it wasn’t a riddle, he just liked grits with eggs in the morning and he could handle scrambling the eggs. At the time, his convoluted proposal that she spend the night at his place seemed charming.
“Passive-aggressive bullshit,” she said out loud, recognizing it for what it was.
“Now are you talking on the phone?” asked Louise, who had once again come up behind her.
Jane sighed and handed over three dollars for the autograph book without blinking. Its wisdom was priceless. And if Louise was back to chat, Jane figured this might be her last opportunity for a purchase. When she turned around, she was even more certain that she was done for the day. Rick and Greg were standing with Louise, who apparently had gone to gather them. She pointed to a group of tables and chairs near a refreshment stand.
“Jeb said he’d meet us over there,” she said.
“Cock-a-doodle-do,” Jane muttered under her breath.
Jane dropped the blue autograph book into her bag and spotted a table that looked like it had more of the small volumes. She said she’d be right over to the snack area and zigzagged across the aisle. She picked up a zippered brown leatherette journal with a fifteen-dollar price tag on it. Without even looking through it, she replaced it on the table and saw some battered cardboard-covered books in a small case on top of a trunk a few feet back. Stepping over to the shelves, she pulled out the stack of autograph books and found herself staring at a face. At first she thought it was someone looking at the same books from the other side; then she noticed that the eyes were not studying book titles. In fact, these eyes were not searching for any flea market treasures, since these eyes belonged to the face of a man no longer browsing, bargaining, or buying. This was the face of a dead man.
Jane opened her mouth, hoping she would be able to scream, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Just behind her, the B Room had gathered with their leader, Jeb Gleason. Jeb was so close behind her that Jane heard his statement as a low whisper in her ear.
“Look, gang, Lou Piccolo’s back from Ojai.”
Jane, realizing, if only for one lucid second, that this must be the “Pix” of Bix Pix Flix, Lou Piccolo, studied the face, her open mouth still poised for a scream. Lou Piccolo had brown straight hair, a bit shaggy, and what had been, she felt sure, a handsome tanned face, with perhaps just a touch of cosmetic work. Although features and faces might grow rigid without life, Lou’s eyes were
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