"Did you have to write term papers on them?"

"A few."

"What grades did you get?"

"I passed."

"Then fuck you, you didn't understand a thing."

I brought him his drink. He drained it and held out his glass. I refilled it. He took longer with the second drink, staring at the whisky, sipping, lifting a leg, and passing gas with satisfaction. I thought of all he'd written about heroism and finally understood the word fiction.

He tossed the glass away. His throw was weak, and the tumbler landed near the wheel of his chair and rolled on the rug.

He said, "The girl tried to end it all because she's empty. No passion, no pain, no reason to keep going. So anything you do with her will be worthless. You might as well be psychoanalyzing a tadpole in order to prevent its froggy fate. I, on the other hand, have a surplus of passion. Spilling over, as it were." He made slurping sounds. "The only thing that can save her is getting to know me."

I tried not to laugh or scream. "Getting to know you will be her therapy."

"Not therapy, you limited gowk. Therapy is for moral anencephalics and hamstrung aerobi-geeks. I'm talking about salvation."

Leaning forward. "Tell her."

"I'll let her know," I said.

He laughed and raised the pitch of his voice. "Does she hate me?"

"I'm not free to talk about her feelings."

"La da la da la da la da. You claim you read Dark Horses. What was the point there?"

"The racetrack as a mini-world. The charac-"

"The point was that we all eat horseshit. Some dress it up with béarnaise sauce, some nibble, some hold their noses, some stick their faces right in it and wolf, but no one plays hooky. Best novel of the millennium. Flew out of me; my cock tingled every day I sat down at the typewriter."

He looked at the glass on the floor. "More."

I obliged him.

"Pulitzer capons thinking they were giving me something." He finished the whisky. "She hates me. I don't give a shit about her feelings. Hatred's a great motivator. I've always hated writing."

I looked over his shoulder at the animal heads, the leering warthog.

He said, "No attention span, Veal-chop? They came with the place. I considered adding to the collection- critics with glass eyes. Know why I didn't?"

I shook my head.

"No taxidermist would take on the job. Too hard to clean."

He laughed and demanded another drink. The Chivas was gone, and I poured him cheap scotch. With his body weight, his blood had to be pickled, but he showed no effects of the alcohol.

"Have you ever looked into the toilet after you've shat?" he said. "The bits of crud that are left sticking to the porcelain? Next time, scrape some of that off and place it in a dish of agar-agar. Feed it more shit and anything foul you can find, and in no time at all you'll have cultured yourself a critic."

More laughter, but strained. "A criminal- the vilest child-fucking inchworm of a mother-raper- is entitled to a trial of his peers. Do you know what kind of justice artists merit? Trial by cretin. Dickless, decorticate, petty-ante pissbladders who'd give their glands to have the gift but don't, so they take out their frustration on the blessed. Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who lack the tongue motility to lick the arseholes of teachers, write reviews."

He'd finally produced saliva. A strand trickled down the side of his mouth.

He stared at me. I readied myself for another outburst.

But he grew very quiet and his eyelids started to droop.

Then he fell asleep.

I listened to him snore. Nova came in, as if summoned by the noise. She'd changed into a filmy, collarless white blouse that barely reached her waist and black shorts that showed off beautiful legs. Her breasts were large and soft and unfettered, the nipples darkly evident through the thin fabric.

She said, "No sense in your staying, he'll be that way for a while."

"Does he do that often? Just nod off?"

"All the time. He's tired all the time. It's the pain."

"Is he on painkillers?"

"What do you think?"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Everything. His heart and his liver are bad, he's had several strokes, and his kidneys are weak. Basically, he's just falling apart."

Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"Are you a nurse?"

She smiled. "No, his assistant. He won't accept nursing, would rather drink and do things his way. You'd better be going."

I walked to the door.

"Are you bringing the daughter back?" she said.

"That'll be up to the daughter."

"She should meet him."

"Why's that?"

"Every daughter should meet her father."

29

"A caricature," said Lucy, trying to smile. But there was fear in her eyes.

Outside, the sun hid behind a cloud bank and the ocean was a restless gray curdle. Very low tide. I heard the breakers die far back, slapping the sand like slow, monstrous applause.

It was eight in the morning; I'd just finished telling her about my visit. Nicolette Verdugo's murder was all over the news. Jobe Shwandt was giving death-row interviews, lecturing on astrology and utopianism and the proper way to cut up a side of beef. One of the Bogettes had told the Times the day had come for all victims to rise up and slaughter the oppressors. Lucy had come in holding the morning paper, but she hadn't wanted to talk about any of that.

"So what's his angle?"

"I don't know," I said. "In his own bizarre way, he may be reaching out. Or just trying to regain some control."

She shook her head and smiled. Then her mouth turned down. "See any lacy trees?"

"There are trees all over the place. The house is set into a forest."

"A log house."

"Yes," I said. "Like a giant log cabin. Ken told me that's where you and Puck slept. You were being cared for by a nanny. Any memory of that?"

"I know," she said. "He told me, too. Some woman with short hair, and he remembers her as being grumpy. But that didn't trigger anything for me."

"Has he come up with anything else about that summer?"

She shook her head. "Apparently we had nothing to do with each other. It's frustrating. Why would I block out something like a nanny?"

"Maybe she wasn't with you very long. Not every memory registers."

"Guess not." The tendons in her neck were stretched tight. "Maybe I should jog my memory directly- go up there. From what you've told me, I should be able to handle him."

"Let's not rush things," I said.

"I need to know the truth."

"He's old and feeble but far from innocuous, Lucy. Remember how manipulative he was with Puck."

"I understand that. I'll go in expecting a total monster. And no matter what he tries, it's not going to work. Because I'm not Puck. He doesn't have anything I need. I just want to look for those trees."

The tide broke thunderously and she jumped.

I said, "Humor an overcautious therapist, Lucy. Let's take our time."

She was looking at the water. "Does it get that loud often?"

"Once in a while. Is there anything else you want to talk about?" I said.

"I want to talk about putting together a battle plan. Going up there and learning what happened."

"Going up there doesn't mean you'll learn anything."

"But not going up there means I definitely won't. He's a crippled old man. What can he do to me?"

"He has a way with words."

"That's all a writer ever has."

"The point is, he may be reaching out to you because he's dying."