fettucine Alfredo because, like Mount San Jacinto, it was there. He finished up with half a pound of marzipan and a flambe crepe because he wanted something they set on fire.
Sidney Blackpool, realizing that he was way past his limit of Johnnie Walker Black, had only one glass of champagne, veal piccata with lemon and capers, a Bibb lettuce salad and no dessert.
Otto was halfway through the crepe, saying, "Sidney, you gotta relax and let yourself go," when he started to hiccup.
"Damn," he said.
"Let's order you some bitters and lime. It works for me," Sidney Blackpool said.
"These hiccups feel funny," Otto said, his upper lip beading with sweat. "I think I'll run to the john and . . ."
He barely made it. Otto upchucked for ten minutes. When he returned, he was pale and shaky.
"You're a little green around the gills," his partner observed.
"I just lost a hundred bucks worth a fancy groceries!" Otto moaned.
"Well, it was your first time, Otto. You'll do better tomorrow. Your tummy's a rookie on this beat."
"O000h, I'm sick," Otto said. "And now I'm hungry!" "Let's go to sleep," Sidney Blackpool said.
"But I wanted to see the night life."
"Let's get a good night's rest. Tomorrow you can order breakfast in bed. You'll be a new man."
"Tomorrow I'm sticking to grease," Otto said.
"I'll have room service bring you a plate a grease first thing in the morning," his partner promised.
A deluge. There had never been so much rain in the desert. Sidney Blackpool watched a terrifying flash flood swell like a tidal wave on the very crest of Mount San Jacinto, then cascade down on the hotel. Men and women were screaming. It was awful, and though his own life was in jeopardy, he had to stand and face the next wall of water because he could see it riding the crest: a coffin. The lead-lined coffin rode like a fiberglass surfboard. Sidney Blackpool was weeping with the other doomed hotel guests, but not for his imminent death. He wept because he knew the coffin bore the half-drowned body of Tommy Blackpool who, wearing a red-and-black wet suit, clung like Ishmael as the coffin suddenly began cartwheeling away, down the Coachella Valley.
"Tommmmmmmyr he sobbed, and then he was awake. It was dawn. He hadn't awakened at the dreaded drinker's hour as he deserved, having put away so much Johnnie Walker Black. The bed was soaked as always after a recurring dream about Tommy Blackpool.
In the dream, Tommy would often be clinging to his coffin, or sometimes to his surfboard, which had been torn from his ankle strap by the huge wave in Santa Monica that drowned him.
Sometimes Sidney Blackpool would dream simply that Tommy was getting soaked to the skin lying in that coffin in the cold ground. This, during rainstorms. Sidney Blackpool hated rainstorms now and had begun to wish that he'd had Tommy cremated. His ex-wife had suggested it, but deferred when he insisted on burial in the ground. Like many lapsed Catholics he could not entirely escape the tenets drilled into him in grammar school. Even though the modern Church no longer cherished mystery and ritual and burial in the ground. The dead with bones intact to await the Redeemer? He never really knew why they used to demand it, but he had buried Tommy in the ground. And now he regretted it every time it rained. He used to read weather forecasts even before the headlines in the days when he was going mad.
In all his years as a cop--even during the Watts Rio t w hen he was trapped inside a burning warehouse believing he'd be burned alive--he'd never awakened in what they call a cold sweat. Dreams of fire had never tormented him. It was these dreams of water, and Tommy so cold. The detective was shivering as he plodded toward the shower, feeling very old, hoping he could stem the headache starting at the base of his skull.
Cold sweat. A parent who dreamed of something as outrageous, as unnatural as his eighteen-year-old child lying in the ground, that's who coined that one. He showered,
Sidney Blackpool, realizing that he was way past his limit of Johnnie Walker Black, had only one glass of champagne, veal piccata with lemon and capers, a Bibb lettuce salad and no dessert.
Otto was halfway through the crepe, saying, "Sidney, you gotta relax and let yourself go," when he started to hiccup.
"Damn," he said.
"Let's order you some bitters and lime. It works for me," Sidney Blackpool said.
"These hiccups feel funny," Otto said, his upper lip beading with sweat. "I think I'll run to the john and . . ."
He barely made it. Otto upchucked for ten minutes. When he returned, he was pale and shaky.
"You're a little green around the gills," his partner observed.
"I just lost a hundred bucks worth a fancy groceries!" Otto moaned.
"Well, it was your first time, Otto. You'll do better tomorrow. Your tummy's a rookie on this beat."
"O000h, I'm sick," Otto said. "And now I'm hungry!" "Let's go to sleep," Sidney Blackpool said.
"But I wanted to see the night life."
"Let's get a good night's rest. Tomorrow you can order breakfast in bed. You'll be a new man."
"Tomorrow I'm sticking to grease," Otto said.
"I'll have room service bring you a plate a grease first thing in the morning," his partner promised.
A deluge. There had never been so much rain in the desert. Sidney Blackpool watched a terrifying flash flood swell like a tidal wave on the very crest of Mount San Jacinto, then cascade down on the hotel. Men and women were screaming. It was awful, and though his own life was in jeopardy, he had to stand and face the next wall of water because he could see it riding the crest: a coffin. The lead-lined coffin rode like a fiberglass surfboard. Sidney Blackpool was weeping with the other doomed hotel guests, but not for his imminent death. He wept because he knew the coffin bore the half-drowned body of Tommy Blackpool who, wearing a red-and-black wet suit, clung like Ishmael as the coffin suddenly began cartwheeling away, down the Coachella Valley.
"Tommmmmmmyr he sobbed, and then he was awake. It was dawn. He hadn't awakened at the dreaded drinker's hour as he deserved, having put away so much Johnnie Walker Black. The bed was soaked as always after a recurring dream about Tommy Blackpool.
In the dream, Tommy would often be clinging to his coffin, or sometimes to his surfboard, which had been torn from his ankle strap by the huge wave in Santa Monica that drowned him.
Sometimes Sidney Blackpool would dream simply that Tommy was getting soaked to the skin lying in that coffin in the cold ground. This, during rainstorms. Sidney Blackpool hated rainstorms now and had begun to wish that he'd had Tommy cremated. His ex-wife had suggested it, but deferred when he insisted on burial in the ground. Like many lapsed Catholics he could not entirely escape the tenets drilled into him in grammar school. Even though the modern Church no longer cherished mystery and ritual and burial in the ground. The dead with bones intact to await the Redeemer? He never really knew why they used to demand it, but he had buried Tommy in the ground. And now he regretted it every time it rained. He used to read weather forecasts even before the headlines in the days when he was going mad.
In all his years as a cop--even during the Watts Rio t w hen he was trapped inside a burning warehouse believing he'd be burned alive--he'd never awakened in what they call a cold sweat. Dreams of fire had never tormented him. It was these dreams of water, and Tommy so cold. The detective was shivering as he plodded toward the shower, feeling very old, hoping he could stem the headache starting at the base of his skull.
Cold sweat. A parent who dreamed of something as outrageous, as unnatural as his eighteen-year-old child lying in the ground, that's who coined that one. He showered,
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