Los Angeles Stories (26 page)

“The man's nothing but a simpleton. You never tire of throwing other men in my face, it seems.”

“Oh, I don't know; he's some kind of a man. Brave, even. You, on the other hand, remind me of a bowerbird who collects shiny things so he can admire himself. I'm sure the Sponsors won't object to your staying here, and you can play doctor to your heart's content. The Sponsors have ordered me to move, not you.”

“And you expect me to step gracefully off? ‘Thanks ever so much, don't mind me?' I rescued you, I brought you into the organization, I'm still Divisional Superintendent!”

“The Sponsors have decided to close down the division. We need to move the organization forward. People are frightened of Communism; it's a perfect time for us to reappear,” Bari said. “And as far as throwing men in your face is concerned, at this point in my life, I just might prefer the simpleton with the cane to a spiritual cripple like yourself. In any case, I'm leaving.”

“What about Atkins? The police are looking for him. What would the Sponsors like me to tell them?”

“Woody is like a bad dog that wants to sleep on the couch. Tell him if he doesn't get down off the couch, you'll take him to Seven. The police aren't coming here, why would they?”

“My dear, you are perfect, promise me you'll never change. Stephenson did a magnificent job. The Sponsors have nothing to fear.”

Nurse Bari and Dr. Cross finished their talk, and there was silence for a while. They seemed to understand each other. I walked back down the hall to the office. The window was open and Houseley was gone. It was just getting light in Chavez Ravine.

The day I left the army hospital for the last time was a great day. It had been raining, and the clouds were big and fat over San Diego. I picked up my duffel bag from the redistribution station and caught the first thing smoking, which was a Greyhound bus bound for Los Angeles. A buddy of mine had given up his place on Monte Vista Street, in Highland Park. It was just a two-­room shack behind a grocery store, but I wouldn't have to climb stairs, and the rent was so low, I didn't have to worry. Riding north on that Greyhound, I felt like a million, who knows why. I didn't have a job, or a girl, or friends, or anything except my old Fender Stringmaster, but I felt good just to be alive. All us G.I.'s thought we'd licked the bastards for good, and the world could stop worrying about Hitler and Hirohito and even Joe Stalin.

I drove down the hill and headed for Chinatown. A double order of pork ­fried rice will just about fix it, I thought. I had heard about Communism, but I didn't understand it, so I wasn't going to worry about that, or anything. I had made up my mind to quit worrying. Los Angeles was the Land of the Brighter Day, something good was bound to turn up.