West of Paradise (30 page)

“Not a clue. He still gets a letter once in a while, from some university. I never know what to do with it. Got one last week, as a matter of fact.”

“You don't still have it, by any chance?” She tried not to let her eagerness show.

“No. I threw it in the paper recycle bin, end of the block. Have to, or I catch hell from Miss Hepburn.”

“She's still a feisty old lady,” Sarah said, remembering an era of moviemaking that had ended when she was just a child. The memorable movies of that age gone, with nothing to take their place but blockbusters, mindless violence, and the occasional effort to create films with meaning, all the more dispiriting because of how little meaning there usually was. The truly great dinosaurs vanished, in their place the mechanical, computerized ones which were part of the blockbusters. “Last of a breed.”

“They threw away the mold,” the janitor said.

She thanked him for trying to help, waited till the door was closed before she literally bolted down the stairs, and breaking into a run, raced around the block like someone training for the marathon in the wrong shoes. She found the recycling bin. It was two car lengths long, black, taller than she was by a head, and deep. But standing on her toes she could see it was full. Maybe the letter was still in there.

She would have to find a way to get into it. Waiting until dusk she supposed would make sense. It might look more than odd in the daylight, what she intended to do.

She circled the bin, as an Indian might have a wagon train. Oops, she thought. A Native American. If there was one thing Sarah was selective about, it was picking her targets.

*   *   *

The private detective Norman Jessup had hired to find Tyler was no dummy. He dressed like a dummy, because he knew people were more comfortable when a man with his job looked like a cliche. Few people understood detectives were just ordinary guys who'd probably done police work in the past. His police work had been in San Francisco, where it was who you knew just as much as it was in Hollywood, only for less money. He'd considered having a discussion with Jessup about this, except he knew Jessup wouldn't be interested in his way of looking at things. The producer wanted him to find the kid, and that was the end of it.

Like the good investigator he was, he'd learned to know his new locale as well as he had San Francisco, studying it in the same way. He walked every block of Manhattan, feeling it, sensing where the bad spots were even without the confirmation of angry faces. He made a tour of the churches, the ethnic halls (the Bohemian National Hall being his favorite), and a lot of the crummier restaurants. And because there were always runaway teenagers, and finding them had become a principal source of income, he'd also checked out the Hare Krishnas, yoga studios, and various meditation centers. He'd come to call such places Soul Massage Parlors.

So the minute Norman Jessup talked about the kid Om-ing, Hallowell had some idea where to go. He had only said that stuff about the eight million newsstands in the naked city so Jessup would have some inkling how difficult the job was going to be, which it might have been, were Hallowell less savvy. First thing he did after their meeting was draw up a list of the Buddhist places. Out of deference to the clue Jessup had given him about the magazines, he did cruise around town checking out the major sidewalk newsstands and the coffeehouse portions of some giant bookstores, where the young cappuccinoed and read magazines.

But when morning came, he started making the rounds of places on his list. “Have you seen this young man?” he asked the people in charge, showing Tyler's picture

One of them, a towering bear of a man at the third place, an officially sanctioned offshoot of the nearby university, quietly reacted when he saw the photo. He was neatly dressed in western clothes that more or less contained his oversized body, and had one wild eye that seemed to travel to far-flung places even as he looked at you with the controlled one.

“What's he supposed to have done?” the big man asked Hallowell. His voice was very soft, as though the sound of him came from a secret cave.

“Nothing. Somebody just wants to find him.”

“Who?”

“Well, I'd be violating my client privilege if I told you that,” said Hallowell. “But he's an alright guy.”

“I like to try and see the good in everybody,” the giant said, gently. “But I think it's up to individuals to decide who they want to see, and who they don't. I find it disturbing when someone hires a … you did say you were a private detective?”

“That's right.”

“Somehow, I find the terminology odious.”

“I used to be a cop.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, I was a good cop.” Hallowell grinned, starting to feel easy in a way he hadn't been able to do with Jessup. The presence of the big man relaxed him, for in spite of his clearly being in opposition to whatever it was Hallowell wanted, obviously the man knew the kid. So it was a question of winning his confidence. “I know to a lot of people who were there in the sixties—”

“I was everywhere in the sixties. I am everywhere now. As far as I'm concerned it could still be the sixties.” He was smiling, toying, but his crazy eye looked serious.

“So you consider me a pig?”

“I didn't say that,” the big man said.

“I wasn't a cop yet. I was younger than this kid in the sixties.”

“We were all younger than this kid in the sixties.”

“Then you know him?”

“I see how young he is in the picture.” He looked at it respectfully and handed it back to Hallowell. “If I see him, I'll call you. I have your card.”

So the guy knew Tyler. He was protecting him. Maybe the kid was even staying there. It was one of those places where it was okay to flop, kind of a YMCA for the ones who found the established Judeo-Christian religions too confining. Many of them came to live at the center. An Om away from Om.

Hallowell's car was around the corner. He moved it and parked it across from the entrance to the center. He didn't have to wait long.

The boy came out wearing his backpack. Ready for a journey, it looked like. But they were always ready for a journey, these kids, all their possessions on their backs. Except he was also carrying something. A box.

Hallowell picked up his binoculars. A carved wooden box, with a leather strap around it so it hung from Tyler's wrist, like the old-fashioned way students used to carry books. He stopped and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. He squinted, as though the sun were in his eyes, which it wasn't. Then his glance moved directly to the binoculars, and he looked at them dead on, sought out the eyes peering through them.

He crossed the street to Hallowell's car. The detective put the binoculars down.

“You the guy asking questions about me?” Tyler said, leaning into the open window.

“Yes, I am.” He held out his card.

“I already saw that,” Tyler said. “What do you want?”

“A friend of yours was worried about you, that's all.”

“What friend?”

“Norman Jessup.”

“Maybe he should worry less and be decent more.”

“That's probably what he was thinking,” said Hallowell. “That's maybe why he hired me to look for you. Whatever it was he did—”

“He canceled my credit.”

“Well, he's sorry.”

“Not me. I wasn't that happy to be having credit where he sent me.”

“He'd like to make it up to you.”

“There's nothing to make up,” Tyler said. “People are how they are. And things are the way they're supposed to be.”

“He'd like to make them better. I'd have to guess it wouldn't take much for a man like Jessup to make life easier.”

Tyler squinted again. “Your card said you were a private detective. Is it part of your job to make a case for him?”

“I get paid more if I deliver you,” Hallowell said.

“That's honest. Where are you supposed to deliver me to?”

“He's at the Carlyle.”

“I guess
his
credit is still good.”

“You want me to drive you there, or you want to call him?”

“What if I don't want either of those options?”

“What's in the box?” Hallowell asked.

“A friend.”

Hallowell hesitated. “Give Jessup a break, kid. He really cares about you.”

“How do you know?”

“I thought … well, a couple of times he was close to tears when he talked about you.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“I don't remember the words, but he was … full of…”

“Shit?” asked Tyler.

“Feeling, I was going to say.”

“I think he's full of shit,” said Tyler.

“I thought you people were so into forgiveness and not judging.”

“Well, I haven't gotten there yet,” Tyler said. “I'm not the guy in the box.”

*   *   *

In the end, Hallowell persuaded Tyler to take a ride with him to the Carlyle. Jessup wasn't in his room. They left word for him at the front desk, and waited in the lounge adjacent to the dining room, with its semicircle of upholstered love seats.

“You want something to eat?” Hallowell asked. “I'm on expenses.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said. “So am I.” He sat back and fingered the carved teak of the little box.

“Good friend?” Hallowell asked.

“The best.”

“What are you going to do with the box?”

“Take it to someplace transcendent.” He looked up at Hallowell. “You know what that means?”

“I wasn't born a detective,” he said. “I read.”

“Did you by any chance read
Ulysses?
”

“I tried to.”

“Stephen Daedelus goes everywhere carrying an ash plant. It symbolizes his search for his father. I'm one symbol and one reality up on him. I found my father, and I'm carrying his ashes.”

Hallowell felt a twist of pity. No matter how these kids tried to act like everything was no big deal, that whatever happened was cool and a part of the process, death was still a big deal. A terrible loss.

He studied Tyler out of the sides of his eyes. The boy was exactly as Jessup had described him. He had a kind of sparkle, Hallowell could see that. Women entering the lounge would halt for a moment on the top step leading down into the sunken dining room, as though they had forgotten something, or suddenly remembered. The old ones, the young ones, the ones in between, caught, every one of them. A few men paused as well.

Still, there was a hint of sadness underneath the young man's … what was it?… charisma. That was it. Charisma. A word they were always throwing around, but a quality that few people really had. Still, no matter how much light you gave off, losing your father was a dark one. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said. “But don't be sorry. He had a great run. Left a big trail. My only job is to find the place to put him.” He fondled the box.

“Well, I guess that's where I come in,” said Norman, from the entryway.

*   *   *

“You did a great job,” Jessup said, shaking Hallowell's hand. “Your check will be in the mail.”

“I'd ask for it now,” advised Tyler. They had moved up to Norman's suite, overlooking what overlooked Madison Avenue. The view past the rooftops went clear to Central Park, greening in the sunlight.

“I'm okay with your sending it,” Hallowell said. “Let me know if there's ever anything else you need.”

Norman closed the door behind him. He turned to Tyler. “I haven't been very nice to you.”

“I'd have to agree with that,” Tyler said.

“But I want to make up for it.” He walked to the window and looked out at the park. “I realize I was wrong to involve you with anything … unsavory.”

“Thank you,” said Tyler, and exhaled, kind of a whalespout blow of air, like he'd been holding it in for a long time. “It's big of you to admit it.”

“I'd like to do something bigger. I'd like to undo New York and give you a trip to Paradise.”

“Where's that?”

“Bali.” Norman jumped on the name, even as he stretched it out, filling it with mystery and drama. “You ever been?”

“No.”

“Ever thought you might like to go?”

“Who hasn't?”

“I'm thinking of setting a movie in Bali. I need someone to scout the locale. Take pictures. Look for great settings. Record how hot it is, find the clearest water in case we want to do underwater stuff. Check out the food, so I'm sure the crew will eat okay.”

“Sounds like a really rough assignment,” Tyler said.

“Well, it isn't following Sarah Nash, but it'll do. There's a hotel called the Oberoi, right on the edge of the Indian Ocean, as beautiful as anyplace in the world. Palm trees. Moist, gentle breezes. I'd like you to go there, stay as long as you like, get a really good read on the place.”

“What's the catch?”

“No catch.”

“There's always a catch with you, Norman. At the moment of my greatest ecstasy, do I get eaten by a tribe of cannibals?”

“I guess I deserve that. But this time there isn't any downside.”

“Bali, huh?” Tyler fingered the carved teak box. “That has to be pretty transcendent. I mean, a soul that wanted to sail from the top of the earth to a place in the sky, that might be a good jumping-off place, don't you think?”

“Better than perfect,” said Norman, and took out his cell phone. “I'll book you a ticket.”

*   *   *

The baseball field of Beverly High School had an oil rig pumping at the far end of it, beyond which football practice was held in the fall season. The high-rise that cornered the field housed a hospital and a spate of medical suites. So patients visiting a psychiatrist, for example, could look down and see the children playing who had sent them there, all the while the steady flow of the wealth that characterized the community continued.