NINE
DINNER NEXT DOOR
Kendall returned to his studio apartment and worked through the night to finish the sequence, putting his brain on autopilot and slamming coffee. He finished around three, tried to sleep, fell into that shallow hell that is neither sleep nor wakefulness, finally got up, and picked up a stack of comics he’d brought with him from Omaha.
On top was COPRA, Michel Fiffe’s oddball superhero affair. Fiffe’s graphics reminded Kendall of Steranko. He read the whole thing, not really paying attention to the story, studying the innovative graphics. Like most comic geeks, Kendall could rhapsodize for hours about his favorite artists. His own work had been compared to Steranko, Michael L. Peters, and Whilce Portacio.
He dozed off on the sofa and when he woke it was four thirty. He’d slept for eight and a half hours. Kendall showered, grabbed his portfolio and overnight case and booked. Those boxes weren’t going to unload themselves.
He arrived at his house—HIS HOUSE—at five thirty, parked on the street, and went up the stairs. He planned to push the Corvette deeper into the garage so he could fit his car in. Kendall let himself in, inhaling that exotic scent. Cinnamon from the Casbah, frangipani from Costa Rica, Egyptian sands, Martian air, a piece of every movie ever made. Kendall was the master of a house where Robert Mitchum, Ida Lupino, and Sammy Davis Jr. had partied. A piece of Movie History.
He started with the kitchen, slicing the boxes open with a pocket knife, stacking the dishes, glasses, pots, and pans where they belonged. He hooked most of his metal cookware to a redwood rack suspended horizontally over the stove. There were three sinks: a big double looking out on the courtyard and a single on the island opposite.
He unpacked his kitchen radio and plugged it in, setting the dial to WAVE. There was a surf report for the following day, Sunday. “Big breakers at Malibu . . . ”
He set some mugs in a cabinet and turned around. He nearly jumped out of his skin. A boy stood in the kitchen entrance, a tall boy with a platinum fade, tanned face of a surfer, wearing an Explorers Club T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and baggy cargo shorts.
“Hi!” the boy said brightly. “I’m Tommy from next door. The folks axed me to ax you to dinner?”
Kendall came around the island to meet him. “Kendall Coffin. Sure. That would be great. Now?”
“In about an hour. Torrance tells me you’re a comic book artist. What have you done?”
“Doc Strange, mostly.”
Tommy’s eyes went wide, and his mouth stretched revealing copious gum. “Really? I think I might have some of those! I’m sorry, I’m not good on names. What’s your name again?”
“Kendall Coffin.”
“Oh wow, man! Oh wow! I really dig your work!”
“Tell your folks I’ll be over in an hour.”
“Awesome.”
Tommy left. Kendall thought it a little odd that the kid just walked in the front door without ringing. For the next hour, he put his bedroom in shape, making the bed, hanging towels, putting his clothes away in the bureaus and closets. The master closet was itself the size of a small bedroom and contained the by now expected leftovers. Kendall checked the suits. They were of superior quality and his size. An added bonus. Eight hats sat on the hat shelf. Kendall snagged a Fifth Avenue Bond and put it on. He looked at himself in the floor-to-ceiling closet mirror. Pretty snappy. It was a narrow-brimmed fedora with a red feather. With his loose Hawaiian shirt and white T, he rocked a pose flashing a peace symbol with one hand and Hawaiian shaka with the other.
He wore the hat next door. He went down to the street and walked up the block, the houses separated by eight-foot hedges of tightly woven tensile steel strength evergreen. The Skaggs’s house was a traditional two-story Victorian with an immaculate lawn, red and yellow roses lining the stepped stone path to the front porch. The windows spilled a soft glow, and Yes’s “Close to the Edge” into the fragrant evening.
Kendall knocked on the screen door.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice sang.
He entered. A trim middle-aged woman with a tight cap of gray hair came to greet him wearing an apron. “Hello! I’m Marge. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Kendall shook her hands. She smelled faintly of clove. “Kendall Coffin. Sorry, I come empty-handed.”
“Don’t be silly. Torrance is out back. Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch on the rocks if you’ve got it.”
She stuck a tumbler under the reefer’s ice-maker, poured in a couple fingers of Macallan.
Kendall took the tumbler. “Does Torrance drink?”
Marge smiled. “Nope. Not a drop in sixteen years. This is for guests. And me. I like a tipple now and then.”
Kendall thanked her, followed the hall to a family room and from there out the sliding glass doors to the pool area where Torrance sat on a bench suspended from the eaves by two tractor chains. He had a glass of iced tea.
“Hello!” Torrance boomed. “Glad you could make it. Have a seat. Hope you like meatloaf.”
Kendall pulled up a nylon folding chair. “I love meatloaf. My mother used to make meatloaf.”
They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes listening to the susurrus of traffic on Lincoln, the distant wail of a siren.
“You still keep up with music?” Kendall said.
“Oh, hell yeah. All the good music these days is with independents. The music dinosaurs don’t know what’s going on. I still get invited to the awards shows. We’re even talking about a reunion tour.”
“That would be great. I’d come.”
“Music ain’t what I do, it’s who I am. That and the Lord.”
“I blame the Beach Boys for me moving out here.”
Marge appeared in the door. “Din-din, boys. Din-din.”
Torrance and Kendall carried their glasses into the dining room and sat at a walnut table. Marge ferried platters in from the kitchen: baked potatoes, meatloaf, salad.
“Tommy!” she called.
A stooped old man with a Smith Brothers beard hobbled in with a cane.
“Tommy can’t make it,” Tommy said in a creaking voice. “I, the Great Cornholio, will take his place.”
“Tommy!” Marge yelled. “Lose the beard and sit down.”
Torrance grinned proudly. “Tommy played Sheridan Whiteside in his school’s production of The Man Who Came to Dinner.”
“Sob!” the Great Cornholio said, peeling off the beard and sitting. He reached for the meatloaf. They loaded up their plates.
Kendall’s fork was halfway to his mouth when Torrance put his hands together and bowed his head. Tommy and Marge did likewise. Kendall hurriedly set his fork down.
“Dear Lord, for this food we are about to receive we thank you.”
“Amen,” all said.
Then they dug in. Kendall waited a few mouthfuls for ballast.
“So, Tommy. What else does the Great Cornholio do?”
“Play drums, of course.”
“He’s got a band,” Torrance said. “The Messerschmidts.”
“We write all our own material except for some Gearhead songs.”
Marge beamed proudly at Kendall. “Can you believe Gearhead is finally going to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?”
“That’s great news!” Kendall said.
Torrance waved it off. “Twenty years ago, I was mad as hell at being snubbed. These days it doesn’t matter so much. It will be a good opportunity to see the boys.”
“If you did do a tour,” Kendall said, “who would drum?”
Tommy used his fork and knife to play paradiddles on the tabletop.
“Maybe,” Torrance said. “I don’t want you interrupting your education.”
Marge circulated salad. “We wondered who would buy that house. It’s been vacant since the previous owner moved out. Four years.”
“Did you know him?” Kendall said.
“Yes. He was a writer.”
“He murdered his wife,” Tommy said.
Kendall’s fork stopped midway. “Really? In the house?”
“No,” Torrance said, “not in the house. He shot her at some restaurant in Santa Monica. She was with her boyfriend.”
“They drank,” Marge said. “They fought a lot.”
“You could hear ’em even through the hedge,” Tommy said.
“Are you seeing anyone, Kendall?” Marge said.
Torrance shot her a look. “Kendall’s wife recently died.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. I should keep my big mouth shut.”
Kendall smiled. “It’s all right. Not sure if I’m ready to date yet.”
Tommy heaped more meatloaf. “When you are, Marge will fix you up with one of her lonely, cat-loving friends.”
Everyone laughed.