Things You Should Know(67)

There are escort cars front and rear, small unmarked sedans—white on the West Coast, black on the East.

“Trash day,” one of the agents in the back seat says, trying to make conversation. All along the curb are large black plastic trash cans and blue recycle bins. The path is narrow, the van takes the curves broadly, swinging wide, as though it owns the road.

Something happens; there is a subtle shift, a tremor in the tectonic plates below, and the trash cans begin to roll. They pick up speed, careening downhill toward the motorcade.

“Incoming on the right,” the agent shouts.

The lead car acts like a tank, taking the hit head on, the trash can explodes, showering the convoy with debris: empty Tropicana containers, Stouffer’s tins, used Bounty. Something red gets stuck on the van’s antenna and starts flapping like a flag.

“Son of a bitch,” she says.

In the lead car, an agent whips a flashing light out of the glove compartment, slaps it down on the roof, and they take off, accelerating rapidly.

The motorcade speeds in through the main gate. Agents hover in the driveway and along the perimeter, on alert, guns drawn.

“The Hummingbird has landed. The package has been returned. We are at sea level.” The agents speak into their lapels.

The gates automatically pull closed.

“What the hell was that—terrorists on St. Cloud Road?” she asks.

“Earthquake,” the agent says. “We’re confirming it now.” He presses his ear bud deeper into his ear.

“Are you all right, sir?” they ask, helping him out of the van.

“Fit as a fiddle,” he says. “That was one hell of a ride, let’s saddle her up and go out again.”

His eye catches the shiny red fabric stuck on the antenna. He lifts it off with his index finger, twirling it through the air—bright red panties, hooked on their lacy trim. The underpants fly off his finger and land on the gravel. Whee.

“Where are we?” he asks, kicking gravel in the driveway. “You call this a quarry? Who’s directing this picture? What the hell kind of a movie is this? The set is a shambles.”

The problem isn’t taking him out, it’s bringing him back.

“Home,” she says.

“Well, it’s no White House, that’s for sure.” He pushes up his sleeve and picks at the Band-Aid covering the spot where they injected the contrast.



Earlier, at the doctor’s office, two agents waited in the exam room with him, doing card tricks, while she met with Dr. Sibley.

“How are you?” Sibley asks when she sat down.

“Fine. I’m always fine, you know that.”

“Are you able to get out at all?”

She nods. “Absolutely. I had lunch at Chasens with the girls earlier this week.”

There is a pause. Chasens closed several years ago. “Nothing is what it used to be,” she says, catching herself. “How’s he?”

Dr. Sibley turns on the light boxes. He taps his pencil against the films. “Shrinking,” he says. “The brain is getting smaller.”

She nods.

“Does he seem different to you? Are there sleep disturbances? Does he wander? Has he ever gotten combative? Paranoid?”

“He’s fine,” she says.



Now he stands in the driveway, hands on his hips. Behind him is blue sky. There is another tremor, the ground vibrates, shivers beneath his feet.

“I love that,” he says. “It reminds me of a carnival ride.”

She puts her arm through his and leads him into the house.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but any which way, you’ve got the wrong idea.”

She smiles and squeezes his arm. “We’ll see.” Soledad, the housekeeper, rings a bell.

“This must be lunch,” he says when Soledad puts a bowl of soup in front of him. Every day they have the same thing—routine prevents confusion, and besides they like it that way; they have always liked it that way.

If you feed him something different, if you give him a nice big chef’s salad, he gets confused. “Did they run out of bread? What the hell kind of commissary is this?”

“What’s the story with Sibley?” he asks, lifting his bowl, sipping from the edge.

She hands him a spoon. She motions to him how to use it. He continues drinking from the bowl.

“He doesn’t seem to be getting me any work. Every week I see him; squeeze this, lift that, testing me to see if I’ve still got the juice. But then he does nothing for me. Maybe we should fire him and get someone new. How about the folks over at William Morris—there has to be someone good there. How about Swifty Lazar, I always thought he was a character.” He puts the bowl down.