turned to Stokowski. “She gave me the dog. I couldn’t follow her into the toilet could I?”
“You could,” Stokowski said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“See,” said Shelly. “Even Toscanini says I couldn’t help it.”
The place went dead. Eyes turned to the Maestro. He shook his head, turned his back, and moved back toward the stage.
“Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly.
“What did I say?” whined Shelly, sensing blunder, a sensation familiar to him. “I said something?”
“Jeremy will explain,” I said. “I’m going to find Raymond.”
“Raymond?” asked Shelly. “Who the hell is Raymond?”
“The man who knows where everything is around here,” I said, moving toward the exit. “Might know something about projectors.”
8
F inding Raymond left me tired, dirty, and a little confused. I got lost in dusty corridors and dead ends. Then I borrowed a flashlight from a reluctant painter. Raymond had said something about living in the tower. There were five towers in the Opera. All of them were up wooden stairways.
The first stairway I tried was at the end of a narrow corridor. The walls were decorated with blue and white plaster drapes that wouldn’t have fooled Shelly with his glasses off, even if there weren’t chunks gouged out of the plaster. Between the plaster drapes were paintings of overstuffed horses and guys dressed in red uniforms, little hats, and boots. Shelly would have liked the horses. They all had big teeth and looked as if they were familiar with bad breath. The corridor looked like the lobby of the Chinese Theater in L.A. in the middle of a renovation.
The stairway was rotten, but I made it to the top and found a padlocked room. The lock was rusty. I pulled at it and it came off. It took two kicks to get the door open wide enough for me to get in.
Enough light got through the dirty windows to show me that someone back in the bad old days had used the place to entertain himself and whatever ladies he could lure to his red velvet lair. There were mirrors as high as a basketball net at angles surrounding a big square bed. The mirrors were smoked and dirty but showed the image of the bed behind their cloud cover. There were indentations in the ancient mattress, the memory of bodies, proving that sex wasn’t invented in the Roaring Twenties. The couch and two chairs were covered in red velvet, and on the wall hung the portrait of a man with his hands on his hips, his long hair combed back, his head cocked to one side. He was a little on the heavy side, but he made up for it in confidence. His smile was all teeth and phony.
The second tower had fewer ghosts and no portraits. It took me a while to get there, but I finally found a hallway with statues of old men draped in stone robes. I half-expected to run into Billy Batson. The steps to this tower were in no better shape than the first one I’d tried, but the room at the top wasn’t locked. It was filled with magazines—piles of magazines, magazines toppled over, magazines scattered. All covered with a layer of gray dust.
I picked up a Popular Mechanics from 1913 and discovered that submarines would be the most important weapon of the twentieth century and that someone was planning a cruise ship with more space inside it than Yankee Stadium. A 1905 Police Gazette with the cover missing had a story about how much it would cost to keep the Chinese out of the U.S.A., and suggested that it would be worth every penny. I tried one more magazine. It was Casket and Sunnyside , the undertakers’ journal. I threw it in a corner, hoping the tower I was looking for wouldn’t be the fifth one.
It wasn’t.
The third tower was Raymond’s. I could tell because the stairs were not as covered with dust, and the door at the top was locked.
Music was coming from behind the door, a violin. I knocked and the music stopped. I knocked again. No answer.
“Raymond,” I called. “I know you’re in
“You could,” Stokowski said, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“See,” said Shelly. “Even Toscanini says I couldn’t help it.”
The place went dead. Eyes turned to the Maestro. He shook his head, turned his back, and moved back toward the stage.
“Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly.
“What did I say?” whined Shelly, sensing blunder, a sensation familiar to him. “I said something?”
“Jeremy will explain,” I said. “I’m going to find Raymond.”
“Raymond?” asked Shelly. “Who the hell is Raymond?”
“The man who knows where everything is around here,” I said, moving toward the exit. “Might know something about projectors.”
8
F inding Raymond left me tired, dirty, and a little confused. I got lost in dusty corridors and dead ends. Then I borrowed a flashlight from a reluctant painter. Raymond had said something about living in the tower. There were five towers in the Opera. All of them were up wooden stairways.
The first stairway I tried was at the end of a narrow corridor. The walls were decorated with blue and white plaster drapes that wouldn’t have fooled Shelly with his glasses off, even if there weren’t chunks gouged out of the plaster. Between the plaster drapes were paintings of overstuffed horses and guys dressed in red uniforms, little hats, and boots. Shelly would have liked the horses. They all had big teeth and looked as if they were familiar with bad breath. The corridor looked like the lobby of the Chinese Theater in L.A. in the middle of a renovation.
The stairway was rotten, but I made it to the top and found a padlocked room. The lock was rusty. I pulled at it and it came off. It took two kicks to get the door open wide enough for me to get in.
Enough light got through the dirty windows to show me that someone back in the bad old days had used the place to entertain himself and whatever ladies he could lure to his red velvet lair. There were mirrors as high as a basketball net at angles surrounding a big square bed. The mirrors were smoked and dirty but showed the image of the bed behind their cloud cover. There were indentations in the ancient mattress, the memory of bodies, proving that sex wasn’t invented in the Roaring Twenties. The couch and two chairs were covered in red velvet, and on the wall hung the portrait of a man with his hands on his hips, his long hair combed back, his head cocked to one side. He was a little on the heavy side, but he made up for it in confidence. His smile was all teeth and phony.
The second tower had fewer ghosts and no portraits. It took me a while to get there, but I finally found a hallway with statues of old men draped in stone robes. I half-expected to run into Billy Batson. The steps to this tower were in no better shape than the first one I’d tried, but the room at the top wasn’t locked. It was filled with magazines—piles of magazines, magazines toppled over, magazines scattered. All covered with a layer of gray dust.
I picked up a Popular Mechanics from 1913 and discovered that submarines would be the most important weapon of the twentieth century and that someone was planning a cruise ship with more space inside it than Yankee Stadium. A 1905 Police Gazette with the cover missing had a story about how much it would cost to keep the Chinese out of the U.S.A., and suggested that it would be worth every penny. I tried one more magazine. It was Casket and Sunnyside , the undertakers’ journal. I threw it in a corner, hoping the tower I was looking for wouldn’t be the fifth one.
It wasn’t.
The third tower was Raymond’s. I could tell because the stairs were not as covered with dust, and the door at the top was locked.
Music was coming from behind the door, a violin. I knocked and the music stopped. I knocked again. No answer.
“Raymond,” I called. “I know you’re in
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