She hesitated. "I know you crossed paths with Eric on your way down the drive. I appreciated your keeping quiet on the subject of me and Mickey. You could have caused me a lot of trouble."
"You made the trouble. I didn't have anything to do with it."
"I'm aware of that. I know. But I've never been sure if Eric knew about what happened."
"He never mentioned it?"
"Nothing."
"Consider yourself lucky. I'd leave it at that, if I were you."
"Believe me, I will."
I felt myself subdivide, one part fully present, the other part watching from a distance. What she'd said so far was true, but there was bound to be more. Lacking my native talent in the liar-liar-pants-on-fire department, she couldn't help but color slightly, a bright coin of pink appearing on each cheek.
I said, "But what? You want assurances I'll keep my mouth shut from here on out?"
"I know I can't ask."
"That's correct. On the other hand, I don't know what purpose it would serve. Believe it or not, just because you 'done me wrong' doesn't mean I'd turn around and do likewise. Is there anything else?"
Dixie shook her head. "I should probably go." She picked up her handbag and began to search for her keys. "I know he invited you to dinner. Eric's always been fond of you. ."
I thought, He has?
"He's anxious to have you over, and I hope you'll agree. He might think it odd if you refused the invitation."
"Would you give it a rest. I haven't seen either one of you in fourteen years, so why would it seem odd?"
"Just think about it. Please? He said he'd probably call you early in the week."
"All right. I'll consider it, but no guarantees. It seems awkward to me."
"It doesn't have to be." She stood and held out a hand to me. "Thank you."
I shook hands with her, though I wondered in the moment if we'd made some unspoken pact. She moved to the door, turning back, her hand on the knob.
"How'd you do in the search for Mickey? Any luck?" she asked.
"The day after I talked to you, a couple of LAPD detectives showed up on my doorstep. He was shot last week. "
"He's dead?"
"He's alive but in bad shape. He may not survive."
"That's awful. That's terrible. What happened?"
"Who knows? That's why they drove up here to talk to me."
"Have they made an arrest?"
"Not yet. All I know about it is what they told me so far. He was found on the street a couple of blocks from his apartment. This was Wednesday of last week. He's been in a coma ever since."
"I'm, I don't know what to say."
"There's nothing required."
"Will you let me know what you hear?"
"Why would I do that?"
In a fragile voice, she said, "Please?"
I didn't bother to reply. Then she was gone, leaving me staring at the door. I resented her thinking she had equal grieving rights. More than that, I wondered what she was really up to.
FIFTEEN.
Friday morning, I woke up at 5:58, feeling logy and out of sorts. Every bone in my body was begging for more sleep, but I pushed aside the covers and reached for my sweats. I brushed my teeth and ran a comb through my hair, which was sticking out in all directions as though electrified. I paused near the gate and did an obligatory stretch. I started with a fast walk and then broke into a trot when I reached the beachfront park that runs along Cabana Boulevard.
The morning sky was dense with cloud cover, the air hazy. Without the full range of sunlight, all the warm reds and yellows had been leached from the landscape, leaving a muted palette of cool tones: blues, grays, taupe, dun, smoky green. The breeze blowing off the beach smelled of wharf pilings and seaweed. In the course of my run, I could feel the interior fog begin to lift. Intense exercise is the only legal high I know, except for love, of course. Whatever your inner state, all you have to do is run, walk, ride a bike, ski, lift weights, and suddenly your optimism's back and life seems good again.
Once recovered from my run, I drove over to the gym, which is seldom crowded at that hour, the prework fanatics having already come and gone. The gym itself is spartan, painted gunmetal gray, with industrial carpeting the same color as the asphalt in the parking lot outside. There are huge plate-glass mirrors on the walls. The air smells of rubber and sweaty armpits. The prime patrons are men in various stages of physical fitness. The women who show up tend to fall into two categories: the extremely lean fitness fiends, who trash themselves daily, and the softer women who arrive after any food-dominated holiday. The latter never last, but good for them anyway. Better to make some effort than do nothing for life. I fell somewhere between.