Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

Not all that far from the house on Saint-Cloud, on Santa Monica Boulevard’s verdant north side, walked a bearded giant all in tweed. His gait slowed while he thought of his mentor John Ruskin’s descent to madness — the great beacon of his generation and author of The Stones of Venice hallucinating in Derbyshire, foaming at the mouth in Brantwood, mute and occluded on the Kent Sands — and while he feared the same, he was willful enough to determine that would not be his fate. He must take care, if only for the girl’s sake. His stride was festive and leisurely now, as one who arrives at a pleasure faire, though the ocean was really his destination. Perhaps he wasn’t as vigilant as he should have been, having surmised the police would not look for him this far west.

In Beverly Hills, he paused at a “pocket park” on South Reeves to catch his breath. Other homeless were there, roosting with the requisite shopping carts and rags. He thought it made him less noticeable.

After the unfortunate summit with the baker and his wife, Will’m had returned to Angelino Heights beside himself with rage. He tore at his beard and battered his head against fragile walls like a wounded rhinoceros. He bellowed in the garden. He fell to his knees and beseeched the skies: “O darlin’, darlin’ girl, what have I done! What have I done!” It would not have been a good thing for a mortal to meet him during those imprecations, but there came Fitz to run his hand through Will’m’s hair, with unexpectedly palliative effect.

“You’ve got to leave,” said the pasty caseworker. Today, there seemed to be no blood in him. “The flatfoot was asking for you — look out. He will find you. Knew me by name he did, me, your ‘running partner’—knew more about me than I know myself! So, look out, that’s a wily man. I’d go north, Will’m — Bay Area. Big population. Cut the hair, trim the beard … get yourself a new set of clothes. Lay low awhile, then settle down in San Rafael or Sebastopol. I hear there’s a vagrants’ camp in Occidental—”

Will’m unhappily agreed, and they sat to a makeshift meal, consumed in silence.

Then he retired and plunged into sleep. A carousel of grueling, tenebrous images swam before his rhino eye, a virtual News from Nowhere newsreel: the Pre-Raphaelite orphan girl with nail-bitten hand resting upon a shit-stained illuminated manuscript. He heard his voice in the dream, but without English accent — the woman calling to him was not, for once, his Janey. He stood in a meadow. A man on a tractor rolled toward him, raffish cigarette stuck on lower lip. The tractor-man opened his mouth and spoke in Frankish tongue: “Monsieur,” he said, “would you be so kind to consider the appointment of Chairman of the Disembodied?”

He awakened feverish. The cracks of the garage hemorrhaged cold, blinding light. Fitz was gone — nor did his faithful partner lay on the familiar bed of onerous glad rags. Will’m gathered his carpetbag and strode to the courtyard to tell his friend good-bye. No sign of him. The house was peaceful as a grave. Into the drawing room he went, calling the name of his benefactor.

The body was in the parlor, one shoe on, one shoe off, a note pinned to the grimy seersucker lapel. He stooped prayerfully to read.

Will’m—

I’m sorry we parted in such a way but you slept so soundly (I know how upset you were about the girl) I didn’t have the heart to wake you for goodbyes. I didn’t have the heart to tell you over dinner about Half-Dead either. I found him in the river, and know who is the culprit; he will surely get his due but not by my hand. I have run out of time. I buried our fighting friend at the old encampment. There never was nor ever will be a braver, nobler soul. My “better” Half was the best of dogs and I gave him my best, too — and that , you will always have from me: my best. Take my advice, Will’m, and leave this city. You are a gentle, special man and I would wish no harm come your way … Half and I will welcome you, but not before your time has come. And Jesus, man! destroy this note , won’t you? It is incriminating.

Yours,

Geo. Fitzsimmons

A clump of excess rope lay on Fitz’s shoulder like an improbable epaulet. He tenderly pressed a knuckle to a cold cheek — the distended eyes looked straight ahead and would not be closed. Will’m tore the note into bits and stuffed an envelope, also addressed to him, into a pocket without opening, then broke from the house.

He stood from the park bench and walked north on a street called Charleville, past Beverly Drive. He knew this refined village — whence? His feet, propelled by habit or instinct, marched him to a brick building on a tree-strewn avenue called El Camino. He slowed, fixing an eye on the sleek structure’s entrance. There, he saw the symbol— —and read with astonishment the legend above the doors:

The William Morris Agency

He gathered his courage and went in.

When Tull heard that Boulder had left her manager and was interviewing at various agencies, William Morris among them, he asked if he might tag along. He was, after all, writing a paper about the Industry; Four Winds had already bestowed curricular credits for his field trip to the teen star’s downtown set. Lucy tried to glom on to the Morris outing, but Tull nixed it (three was a crowd). He put her on the investigative trail of the Redlands Weiners instead. Boulder was amused, mistakenly thinking the scion’s intentions were romantic — she wasn’t interested.

But maybe he would make a good boyfriend. Her mom said you could never sneeze at that much money. She said the Trotter family was “dynastic,” so Boulder thought maybe they could just do the quirky dynastic thing — marry, then live apart. She’d keep the hugest loft in New York (like Claire Danes), and have Tull stay in a separate room whenever he came to town. Maybe not so separate; he was kind of cute … though she didn’t see in him what Lucy saw — but oh my God! Claire Danes’s loft! There was a photo spread in one of her mother’s “shelter” rags, and it was amazing! The article said Ms. Danes stayed in the “SoHo aerie” when she wasn’t busy attending Yale — that’s where Jodie used to go, and Boulder was sure Jodie and Claire knew each other and that Jodie probably gave Claire constant shit about keeping up her grades and staying out of trouble … Boulder so wanted to live the bookish, ivied life during hiatuses from film. She had it all planned: during the week, she would sleep at the dorm, but Friday nights she’d take a train to her own private urban palace near the cool people like Christina (Ricci), Benicio and Drew. (She heard Benicio had the biggest cock, bigger even than Tobey Maguire’s.) She’d live in SoHo or Chelsea, like Winona and Selma and Kirsten … she could probably marry Tull and get him to agree to let her even keep dating! Then she’d be a billionaire but still be able to sleep with Spanish boy-singers or anyone she pleased — and go out with famous older girlfriends to movie premieres while getting degrees in linguistics and art history and drama.

Tull’s train of thought was less frivolous. As the Volvo sludged through traffic — it seemed like every street in the city was being torn up — Mrs. Langon’s chitchat ran the gamut from his cousin’s medical problems (“Poor boy! But to everything there is a reason”) to Trinnie’s Carcassone maze (“Katrina has always been a fascinating woman”). She even managed to rope in Dodd and Lucy. The woman loved having this boy in the car; it was like bagging Prince William.