Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [74]
Red closed his eyes. “Libby,” he said, “how long did you leave that thing in your box?”
“Just a few days, I think.”
“I’d say more like two weeks.”
“Don’t go bawling me out.”
“I’m not bawling anybody out. I’m just amazed. You better give it to me.” He went to pluck it from her palm, but she was quicker, and shoved it back in her purse.
“What do you want it for, anyway?” she asked.
“As your legal counsel, I want to be sure it’s in the right hands.”
Billie returned, sliding her chair out and sitting down. “Rogelio found a company to haul your trailer away. Is Thursday morning okay?”
“Fine,” Libby said. “If the insurance inspector gets there by then.”
Billie lifted her burrito, paused. “What’s going on? Did I miss something?”
Libby lowered her forehead to the tabletop.
“Billie,” Red said. “Eat your lunch.”
She obediently took a bite, and started talking with a full mouth. “If what I think is happening is happening, you have to let me know. I got fifty bucks riding on you two over at the grocería.”
“Eat,” said Red.
Libby, her face resting on the cool Formica, confronted these questions: Can a person change just like that? Can Red Ray go from being the fat old sidekick to someone’s favorite living thing?
IN L. A. it was the dregs of summer. Ninety-five degrees, with filthy, red-brown air and yellowing lawns. Never was Lewis so happy to see smog, and traffic, and poor Central American boys selling maps to the stars’ homes on Sunset Boulevard. In fact, only the stoplights bugged him. From Round Rock, it was four miles to the nearest stoplight, in downtown Rito; from Rito, another nine miles to the first Buchanan light. In Westwood there were stoplights on every corner, every few hundred yards something telling him what to do.
His philosophy professor’s house was barely visible from the street. Set back, shaded by enormous oaks, overgrown with ivy and shrubs, this was what real estate agents called a “hideaway charmer,” the perfect choice for an academic embarking on a second marriage with his student bride.
The yard was dusty, the leaves pinched from lack of water; hollyhocks were brown and long on the stalk. Ivy climbed over oak trees, camellia bushes, porch supports, alike. Sam’s vintage yellow-and-white Rover was in the driveway, its right fender battered and rusting from when he’d gone after it with a hammer one morning after it refused to start one time too many. Ringing the doorbell, Lewis could hear a television or radio humming loudly within. When nobody answered, he walked around to the side, tapped on the kitchen window. No response. The back door, however, was open.
His professor was asleep on the sofa in the living room, the TV blaring a talk show. A glass sweated on the end table.
“Yo, Sam,” Lewis said.
Sam opened his eyes. “Lewis,” he growled. “Shit, man.” He stood up, stretched for half a second, then walked over to give him a hug. Sam was a hugger. He was okay at it, nothing clingy or sexual. Like you were on his baseball team. Still, Lewis’s skin constricted: the guy reeked.
“When did you blow in?”
“Today. It was time to come home.”
“Terrific. Great to see you. I hope you’re staying here.” Sam picked up his sweating glass, drained it. “What do you want to drink?” Starting for the kitchen, he spoke over his shoulder. “Amanda’s gone, by the way.”
Lewis followed him. “On a trip?”
“Gone.” Sam stood at his kitchen counter and gave an unconvincing laugh. He scratched his stomach through his T-shirt. “She fell in love with her boss at the studio. Some asshole hyphenate. That’s writer-hyphen-producer.” He rubbed his head so his hair stood on end. He looked like a little boy.
“Sorry, man,” said Lewis.
Sam shrugged. “At least now you won’t have to stay in the garage. You can have her office.”
In the kitchen, Sam opened the cupboard where single-malt scotch, rare clear brandies, and private-stock bourbons were lined up like books on a shelf. Lewis stared, not so much with longing as with attention and respect: O beautiful