Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

It would have been easy to enlist one of the men in suits for this particular bit of business, but Mr. Trotter’s unfailing instincts told him otherwise. Because the Monasterio brothers were busy enough with dynastic chores, he called up Sling Blade and for a not inconsequential “palming” had him escort Marcus to SeaShelter. (The moonlighting caretaker had been forced to call in sick; and while Dot Campbell was displeased, she strenuously offered to bring chicken soup to his Culver City apartment — an offer as strenuously rebuffed.) Some of the more conservative advisers warned that an outside visit was premature and that he should be accompanied by two guards at least. The old man waved them off. He had his concerns but was learning to let go; if Marcus ran away again, perhaps then it had been in the stars all along. Louis Trotter would do his best and could do no more.

When they arrived at the Olympic Boulevard sanctuary, things were as they had always seemed. The hangar was mostly empty, as residents were not allowed indoors during the day. The skeleton staff greeted Marcus with vacant looks. They didn’t recognize him, for he had lost a great deal of weight (less as a consequence of imprisonment than of the nefarious conspiracies of nutritionist and trainer). He still wore donated clothes, but of a different ilk than prior castoffs; Mr. Trotter’s tailor, Ray Montalvo, had made stylishly incremental adjustments to a number of long dark coats and crisp white shirts sent over from Barneys and Maxfield’s.

The quondam boarder finally introduced himself, but that was no good either, because he used “Marcus Weiner.” A few of the staffers squinted hard before moving closer. “It’s William!” he shouted at last — they recoiled, startled and uncomprehending, yet captivated nonetheless. Sling Blade handily jumped in to clarify, and had never strung more words together in his life: Mr. Weiner— William —had subsequently been cleared of all charges, he said officiously, and was now a free man. On recovering from their initial shock (having long since envisioned their once-favorite “guest” to be comfortably ensconced on death row), the staffers extended a warm and courteous welcome, and soon a half-dozen gathered around. Curiously, they asked no details of crime or exoneration but did somewhat skittishly presume that he had returned to pick up where he left off. The counselor who not long ago had scanned Le Marmiton’s shelves for tainted treats spoke up, half joking that an official notice of his “acquittal” would have to be presented before William— Mr. Weiner —might actually be reassigned bed and locker. Before Marcus could respond, Sling Blade, with great aplomb, said the gentleman would most definitely not be returning, for his benefactor had arranged that he be well taken care of pending the results of a “massive action against the state involving matters of false arrest, false imprisonment and police brutality, not to mention libel, slander and defamation of character.” The staff took this bulletin with appropriate solemnity.

Now off the hook, they let Marcus know their outrage at the Gestapo-like actions of the SMPD and their cynicism upon hearing the charges proffered. They were free to share with him their hysteria after he’d been hauled away — they were only human! — and how anxious they had been for a while about the, ahem, quality of his desserts, for they wondered if, aside from being an (alleged) strangler and a rapist, he wasn’t a (potential) poisoner to boot — it all sounded so silly now, so screwball! — and how they’d been unsuccessful in their attempts to retrieve the cookies and pastries, because there weren’t any left. That’s how popular the damn things were! (There was money lying around somewhere for William, they assured, royalties on goods sold.) And how they checked the newspaper each day for reports of victims … the lawsuits they imagined! Did you ever see the Keystone Kops? asked one of the staffers, rhetorically. Well, that was us — for a while, anyway.

Even Marcus joined in the laughter.

As Sling Blade had remained stoic, one of the counselors on a more serious note reminded that they had become purveyors of his confections because they wished him to get a leg up, and their intentions had been pure from the beginning — and that he had been the most successful guest to have ever passed through shelter doors. Seeing how at least William was still convivial, they pulled up chairs as he extemporized on his prison ordeal.

“They call the place Twin Towers, and a more evil set of twins you’re unlikely to meet! It wasn’t easy receiving visitors, and frankly, I’m glad for it — I wouldn’t have wanted Janey to see me that way, all shackled up. It would have upset her no end.”

They looked at him, and looked away too.

“What is it, then?”

The one who had first discovered his talents with a saucepan took Marcus by the arm and walked him away. “There is bad news.”

“Let me have it, man!”

“Jane … is dead. She was murdered. It happened the day after your arrest.”

“My arrest?” He repeated it, as if it related to someone else. “How—”

“In the old Tropicana … that’s where they found her. A man killed her—”

“The Tropicana? A man … — what man?”

“I don’t know. She killed him, too — stabbed him dead.”

“Stabbed him—” He said the phrase over and again, like someone frantically trying to recall a crucial code by saying key words aloud. “Stabbed who ?—”

“The man who attacked her.”

Sling Blade, that Ph.D. of misery, had been eavesdropping, and moved closer to put a hand on Marcus’s biceps for support.

“We’re sorry, William. She was doing so great. Of course, she wasn’t happy about you being arrested … When I went to identify her — one of the officers who found the body recognized Jane from having seen her on the night they took you —I claimed her property. She had a knapsack, and that was all. We’ve got her hearing aids, if you want them. She had something of yours — she was on her way to the jail to give it to you.”

An associate had already fetched the item, stowed in a slick gray garbage bag with a built-in bright yellow cinch, and passed it to the one doing all the talking. It was handed to Marcus, who gingerly looked inside.

“That’s it, no?” asked the counselor. “What we gave her from your locker?”

Marcus reached into the bag and pulled out his diary, still wrapped in grocery paper and hemp. There was a brown smear of blood on it.

“Isn’t that what you asked Jane to bring you? She was probably on her way when she got mixed up with the man who attacked her.”

Slipped beneath the frayed string was an envelope addressed “To my Darling Will.”

Toulouse fled to Stradella House for Thanksgiving supper as the mood at Saint-Cloud was forbidding. His mother had taken to bed, and the self-righteous boy guessed drugs were at fault. Bluey was dragged kicking and screaming all the way to Alzheimer’s World; Grandpa Lou took her absence hard.

We lied when saying Toulouse “fled”—the old man ordered him to go, knowing the domestic air to be clouded even more than usual. The truth was he didn’t want Trinnie blabbing to the boy about the reappearance of his dad, which in her current state she was resoundingly capable of.

The cousins took this forced reunion as a welcome rapprochement. In short order, with much thanks to Pullman (a natural icebreaker), the three were together again as if never parted. They caught up on various enterprises, and gossiped, too — about a few “pieces of intelligence” regarding Trinnie’s beaux. The first, from Toulouse, seemed anticlimactic on the telling: the detective and his mother had definitively broken it off. Lucy was particularly thrilled, never having completely gotten over her crush; now and then during class, her pulse quickened while daydreaming that she had Mr. Dowling in the 747 ready for takeoff. The second bit of news was more delicious. As it turned out, the Screenwriter Formerly Known as Rafe had struck paydirt and was now actually dating Diane Keaton. Edward said the great actress had even asked him to punch up the movie she was directing (featuring Boulder Langon as the juvenile lead). But there was no discussion of the runaway girl; the subject was too radioactive. Toulouse slept in the main house, and took great care in avoiding Olde CityWalk altogether — the mere thought of the Boar’s Head garret and the perfect picture of that sad-eyed gamine staring down through its trapdoor were enough to cause a catch in his throat.