Shalimar The Clown_ A Novel Part 7

Exactly one year later-one year to the day!-they were in Latuan, to the east of Isabela, and had just finished burning a rubber plantation called Timothy da Cruz Filipinas. Against an apocalyptic backdrop of flame Abdurajak Janjalani turned to him wearing a red and white Palestinian keffiyeh and the sudden glory of his big smile. "Wonderful news! My friend! I keep my word." Shalimar the clown took the envelope the ustadz ustadz was holding out. "The amba.s.sador, no?" Janjalani grinned. "His picture, his name, his home address. Now we will send you on your mission. Look inside, look inside! Los Angeles, my friend! Hollywood and Vine! Malibu Colony! Beverly Hills 90210! We will send you to become big big movie star and soon to be kissing American girls on TV and driving fancy motorcars and making stupid thank-you speech at Oscars! I am man of my word, don't you agree?" was holding out. "The amba.s.sador, no?" Janjalani grinned. "His picture, his name, his home address. Now we will send you on your mission. Look inside, look inside! Los Angeles, my friend! Hollywood and Vine! Malibu Colony! Beverly Hills 90210! We will send you to become big big movie star and soon to be kissing American girls on TV and driving fancy motorcars and making stupid thank-you speech at Oscars! I am man of my word, don't you agree?"

Shalimar the clown looked at the envelope. "How did you do this?" he asked. Janjalani shrugged. "Like I say. Maybe we got lucky. Filipinos are everywhere, with eyes to see and ears to hear." A thought struck Shalimar the clown. "How long have you known? You've known all along, haven't you?" Ustadz Abdurajak Janjalani pretended to look remorseful. "My friend! Fighter killer! Please forgive. I needed you for one year. Thank you! This was the deal. And now I send you where you need to go. Thank you! Our stories touched. Okay. It's enough. This is my good-bye gift."

And after another plunge into the phantom world, after boats, cars and planes, after a Canadian border crossing by helicopter shuttle from Vancouver to Seattle and a bus ride south, after a strange a.s.signation at the IHOP on Sunset and Highland with his local contact, a middle-aged Filipino gentleman sporting slicked-down hair and a silk smoking jacket, after a night's sleep in a downtown flophouse across the street from the Million Dollar Hotel, he stood in his business suit outside high gates on Mulholland Drive and spoke open-sesame words into an entry-phone. I am for Amba.s.sador Max and my name is Shalimar the clown. No, sir, not tradesman. Sir, I am not understanding. You please to inform Amba.s.sador Max, sir, wait on sir, sir, please, sir. And on the second day, again, the speech to the unnamed voice, the hostile, aloof, dismissive voice, the voice of security, taking no risks, considering the worst-case scenario, taking steps. On the third day there were dogs on the other side of the gate. Sir, he said, no dogs, please. I am known to Amba.s.sador Max. No trouble, sir, please. Only please to inform Excellency and I will wait on his pleasure.

He slept in the rough gra.s.ses below the road's rim, keeping out of sight of the cruising patrol cars. He was trained in many things. He could have caught the dogs by their jaws and ripped their heads in half. He could have faced the security voice and shown it some tricks, could have forced it to roll over like a dog and play dead like a dog. It was a dog's voice and its owner could be killed like a dog. But he controlled himself, was humble, supplicant, mild. When the amba.s.sador's Bentley came out through the gates on the fourth day Shalimar the clown rose into view. Security guards raised their weapons but he had a woollen Kashmiri hat in his hands, his head was bowed and his demeanor was wors.h.i.+pful and sad. The window of the car came down and there was the target, Amba.s.sador Max, old now but still the man he wanted, his prey. One's prey can be hunted in many ways. Some of these are stealthy. Who are you, the amba.s.sador was saying, why do you keep coming here. Sir, he said, my name is Shalimar the clown and once in Kashmir you met my wife. She danced for you. Anarkali. Anarkali. Yes, sir, Shalimar. Yes, sir, Boonyi, my wife. No, sir, I don't want trouble. What's done is done. No, sir, unfortunately she is deceased. Yes, sir. Some while back. Sad, yes, sir, very sad. Life is short and full of sorrow. Yes, sir, thank you for asking. I am happy to be here in land of frees home of braves. Only I am in need of employment. This, for her sake, sir, I ask. Sir, if you are able, for love. G.o.d bless you, sir. I will not disappoint. Yes, sir, Shalimar. Yes, sir, Boonyi, my wife. No, sir, I don't want trouble. What's done is done. No, sir, unfortunately she is deceased. Yes, sir. Some while back. Sad, yes, sir, very sad. Life is short and full of sorrow. Yes, sir, thank you for asking. I am happy to be here in land of frees home of braves. Only I am in need of employment. This, for her sake, sir, I ask. Sir, if you are able, for love. G.o.d bless you, sir. I will not disappoint.

Come tomorrow, the amba.s.sador said. We'll talk then. He bowed his head and backed off. On the fifth day he buzzed again. I am for Amba.s.sador Max and my name is Shalimar the clown.

The gates opened.

He was more than a driver. He was a valet, a body servant, the amba.s.sador's shadow-self. There were no limits to his willingness to serve. He wanted to draw the amba.s.sador close, as close as a lover. He wanted to know his true face, his strengths and weaknesses, his secret dreams. To know as intimately as possible the life he planned to terminate with maximum brutality. There was no hurry. There was time.

He knew the amba.s.sador had a wife, from whom he was estranged. He knew there was a daughter who had been raised by the wife but now lived in Los Angeles also. Mr. Khadaffy Andang, the odd-looking Filipino gentleman, was a connection of the ustadz ustadz's connections, a long-term sleeper planted in California by the operatives of the Base, and had been activated by the Sheikh at the ustadz ustadz's request, to a.s.sist Shalimar the clown. By chance, or divine intervention, the sleeper resided in the same apartment building as the Ophuls girl. He talked to her at the laundry machines and his gentle courteous old-world manner put her at her ease. This was how the information about the amba.s.sador had come to light. This was the way of the world. Sometimes your heart's desire hung from the highest branch of the highest tree and you could never climb high enough to reach it. Or else you just waited patiently and it fell into your lap.

The amba.s.sador kept no framed photographs of his family on his desk. That was his preference, to be low key in family matters. Then it was his daughter's birthday and the amba.s.sador sent him up to her apartment with flowers. When he saw her, when those green eyes speared him, he began to tremble. The flowers shook in his hands and she took them quickly from him, looking amused. In the elevator he couldn't take his eyes off her until she saw him staring and then he dragged his gaze away and forced himself to look down at the floor. She spoke to him. His heart pounded. The voice was incredible. It was the amba.s.sador's voice on the surface but beneath the English words he could hear a voice he knew. He was from Kashmir, he said, answering her question. He made his English sound worse than it was, to prevent a conversation from beginning. He couldn't speak to her. He could barely speak. He wanted to reach out to her. He didn't know what he wanted. She let her hair down and there were tears in his eyes. He watched her drive away with her father and all he could think was, She's alive. He didn't know what he wanted. She was living in America now and by some miracle she was twenty-four years old again, mocking him with her emerald eyes, she was the same and not the same, but she was still alive.

He had warned Boonyi against leaving him. In Khelmarg long ago he promised her, "I'll never forgive you. I'll have my revenge. I'll kill you and if you have any children by another man I'll kill the children too." And here now was that child, the child she had concealed from him until the end, the child in whom the mother was reborn. How beautiful she was. He would love her if he still knew how to love. But he had forgotten the way. All he knew now was slaughter. I'll kill the children too. I'll kill the children too.

What was justice, the old ladies chorused, the toothless old ladies from Croatia, Georgia, Uzbekistan, the widows in their dark ca.s.socks swaying in slow unison with Olga Volga the house super naked at their head, grinding her hips, rotating her lumpy white body like a giant peeled potato, there was no justice, the women keened, your husbands died, your children abandoned you, your fathers were murdered, there was no justice but revenge.

After a while India Ophuls didn't even have to be asleep to see the dream, it came to her whenever she closed her eyes, whenever she sat stiff-backed in a Shaker chair in her little vestibule, waiting for whatever she was waiting for. When she saw the gossipy old ladies in the corridors now she immediately pictured them dressed in ca.s.socks and when she ran into Olga Simeonovna she imagined her without her clothes on, which made an intimacy between them. The former Astrakhani sorceress had taken the grief-distracted younger woman under her wing, becoming her newest surrogate mother, tidying her apartment for her while she stared silently into s.p.a.ce, and cooking her thick-gravied meat stews with dumplings and potatoes, or potato soup, or, when time was short, getting organic vegeburgers and Ore-Ida french fries out of the freezer. She was putting potatoes to work in other, more occult ways as well. The manhunt for Shalimar the a.s.sa.s.sin was coming up empty, infuriating Olga. "The LAPD, excuse me, they couldn't catch a cold in a Russian draft," she said contemptuously. "But by the power of potato magic we will haul in that a.s.shole's a.s.s."

In a distant part of her consciousness India knew that she was filling the hole in Olga Simeonovna's heart left behind by the two departed daughters whose names she never spoke, the twin sisters who had offended against their mother's moral code by posing for saucy pictures and developing an innuendo-rich blond bombsh.e.l.l sister act to go with them, and who were probably languis.h.i.+ng now in some Vegas flea pit or worse, some Howard Johnson h.e.l.l of multiple ruinations, their noses ruined by drug habits, their mouths and b.r.e.a.s.t.s ruined by cheap plastic surgery gone wrong, their finances ruined by the managers slash husbands who ran off with such pathetic a.s.sets as they had managed to ama.s.s. They had dropped off the map, probably too ashamed to come home and face the mother who daily cursed their names but in whose ample bosom they might nevertheless find redemption, or, at least, themselves.

People were moving out of the building in a hurry, and some of the remaining tenants had suggested unkindly that India should be the one to move, that she was putting them all in danger by staying. Olga reacted to these suggestions with unconcealed maternal fury. "They say me it once, maybe, if they dare," she told India, bridling, "but, I swear, they don't gonna say me it twice." There was a large sign outside the apartment building advertising vacancies but blood takes time to wash away. The arrest, or, to use his preferred word, the word his lawyer used, the surrender surrender of Mr. Khadaffy Andang had spooked many residents already rendered fearful by the murder on their doorstep, the, to use a word that had appeared in the newspaper, of Mr. Khadaffy Andang had spooked many residents already rendered fearful by the murder on their doorstep, the, to use a word that had appeared in the newspaper, execution. execution. The word The word sleeper sleeper was frightening. "All that time I thought he was only waiting for his wife," Olga Simeonovna marveled in her dark apartment with postcards of Roublev icons and travel agency posters of the Caspian Sea pinned to the wall, pouring India many cups of dark tea-the cups were gla.s.ses, really, gla.s.s receptacles held in beaten-metal frames-and sighing a deep, Caspian sigh. "Turns out he was a bad guy in spite of his silk dressing-gowns. Asleep, like Rip Van Winkle, but gone over to the Dark Side." Mr. Khadaffy Andang had shouted up at India as she stood on her balcony and watched his last shuffling exit, his hands cuffed behind his back, the burly LAPD officers ungentle all around him, the street ablaze with the flas.h.i.+ng lights of police cars and journalists' cameras, the air full of megaphoned orders and microphoned reports, was frightening. "All that time I thought he was only waiting for his wife," Olga Simeonovna marveled in her dark apartment with postcards of Roublev icons and travel agency posters of the Caspian Sea pinned to the wall, pouring India many cups of dark tea-the cups were gla.s.ses, really, gla.s.s receptacles held in beaten-metal frames-and sighing a deep, Caspian sigh. "Turns out he was a bad guy in spite of his silk dressing-gowns. Asleep, like Rip Van Winkle, but gone over to the Dark Side." Mr. Khadaffy Andang had shouted up at India as she stood on her balcony and watched his last shuffling exit, his hands cuffed behind his back, the burly LAPD officers ungentle all around him, the street ablaze with the flas.h.i.+ng lights of police cars and journalists' cameras, the air full of megaphoned orders and microphoned reports, everybody go inside, everybody go inside, but she stayed on her balcony with her arms crossed over her heart, with her hands hugging her shoulders, not caring about the upturned snouts of the cameras in the street, looking at the police operation, the white vans of the information media with the uplink dishes on their roofs, the police snipers on the building across the road, the crime reporters filing copy, the pool photographers taking her picture; and because she was out there, floating above the event, feeling a little crazy, she heard what Mr. Khadaffy Andang shouted out, twisting himself around and looking right at her just before a police officer put a hood over his head, but she stayed on her balcony with her arms crossed over her heart, with her hands hugging her shoulders, not caring about the upturned snouts of the cameras in the street, looking at the police operation, the white vans of the information media with the uplink dishes on their roofs, the police snipers on the building across the road, the crime reporters filing copy, the pool photographers taking her picture; and because she was out there, floating above the event, feeling a little crazy, she heard what Mr. Khadaffy Andang shouted out, twisting himself around and looking right at her just before a police officer put a hood over his head, I don't buzz him in, Miss India, I don't buzz him in, Miss India, he shouted. he shouted. Miss India, he want me to buzz him but I don't buzz. Miss India, he want me to buzz him but I don't buzz.

She guessed then that Mr. Khadaffy Andang might have surrendered in part on her account, partly because he had chatted to her in the laundry room and she had listened to his tales of his homeland and he didn't want her blood on his hands, but probably also because he was just a silver-haired cuckolded old gent nowadays, a loser with a fondness for silk who might have agreed to be a sleeper years ago but who never expected to "awake," and he just wanted out of the sleeper business, because it scared him, too.

After that she accepted she was possibly in danger herself, just as the police officers had told her she was, she knew she should move out in spite of her obstinate desire to stick around here just to spite her cowardly neighbors, Maybe a few weeks with a family member or friend, Maybe a few weeks with a family member or friend, the police officers suggested, the police officers suggested, you could use the emotional support, you could use the emotional support, she was her father's only heir, the lawyers told her, all of it came to her, starting with the big house on Mulholland Drive, fully staffed, with all the latest high-security equipment and twenty-four-hour Jerome security, all the codes had already been changed, procedures reviewed, and personnel numbers would be augmented if she moved in, so Shalimar's inside knowledge of the property, of security configurations and staffing levels, wouldn't help him. But she wasn't ready to move back, to live up there on the skyway again, to step into her dead father's outsized shoes and sleep in his bed and go through the papers in his mahogany-paneled study, she wasn't ready for the smell of his cologne or the secrets in his safe, so she stayed on in her apartment and found herself thinking that if the killer showed up to finish the job she really didn't care, let him come, she might even welcome him in. she was her father's only heir, the lawyers told her, all of it came to her, starting with the big house on Mulholland Drive, fully staffed, with all the latest high-security equipment and twenty-four-hour Jerome security, all the codes had already been changed, procedures reviewed, and personnel numbers would be augmented if she moved in, so Shalimar's inside knowledge of the property, of security configurations and staffing levels, wouldn't help him. But she wasn't ready to move back, to live up there on the skyway again, to step into her dead father's outsized shoes and sleep in his bed and go through the papers in his mahogany-paneled study, she wasn't ready for the smell of his cologne or the secrets in his safe, so she stayed on in her apartment and found herself thinking that if the killer showed up to finish the job she really didn't care, let him come, she might even welcome him in.

The world does not stop but cruelly continues, the widows chorused in the hallways. At a time of tragedy you wonder at it, the world's capacity for continuing. When our husbands left us we expected the planet to cease its spinning so we could all float off into s.p.a.ce, we expected silence, respect, but the traffic doesn't care what the heart needs, the billboards don't care, things move right along. There's a new giant lady holding a golden beer bottle up near the Chateau. There's a new place a mile east, women dance on the bar while the smart kids howl with l.u.s.t. l.u.s.t continues, sure it does, honey, power continues, bargains are struck, hands are shaken and arms are twisted, winners and losers continue, honey, dog walking continues, right on our block the dogs walk past the scene of the crime every morning, dogs don't care, they move on. The new horror movies open every Friday, business is business, and real-life horror continues too, here it is on TV, the unexplained sacrifice of goats at the Hollywood Bowl in the middle of the night, the discovery in the morning of maybe forty stinking carca.s.ses and the blood, all that congealing blood, craziness continues, black magic continues, the darkness never ends. Clothes are on sale all around. Clothes go on, also goes on the hunger of the citizens and the relief of hunger. There is fine pizza to be had. Valet parking continues. The stars come out to play. A woman's father dies, she mourns alone. His death is already old news.

After her father died she sat on the Shaker chair in the vestibule of her apartment, for how long, an hour, a year, looking straight ahead, seeing nothing, while in the corridors and by the courtyard pool the old ladies gossiped and on the sidewalk the "guy community" of whom Olga Volga idly and not ill-naturedly complained came to scope out the scene of the crime, the guy gym rats, the guy girls in the haircut business, the guy Hispanic builders whose work a block away was never done, the guy Emperor of Ice Cream who woke the street up every morning when he reversed his van out of its parking bay, its tinkling ice-cream melodies turned up high like a mechanical dawn chorus or his empire's national anthem. The (straight) young man who wanted to marry India had climbed across onto her balcony from the apartment next door and hammered on her sliding gla.s.s doors but he was an irrelevance now, she was done with him, he didn't even have a name, and what did he think he was doing hammering like that out there, what was she supposed to do, open up and put out? open up and put out? but that was disgusting, this was no time for s.e.x. but that was disgusting, this was no time for s.e.x.

Where was justice? Shouldn't justice be done? Where were the forces of justice, where was the Justice League, why weren't superheroes swooping down out of the sky to bring her father's murderer to justice? But she didn't want the Justice League, really, those goody-goodies in their weird suits, she wanted the Revenge League, she wanted dark superheroes, hard men who wouldn't meekly hand the killer over to the authorities, who would gladly kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, who would shoot him down like a dog, or like wild dogs themselves tear him to b.l.o.o.d.y bits, who would take his life from him slowly and with pain. She wanted avenging angels, angels of death and d.a.m.nation, to come to her aid. Blood called out for blood and she wanted the ancient Furies to descend shrieking from the sky and give her father's unquiet spirit peace. She didn't know what she wanted. She was full of thoughts of death.

We don't fully understand his motivation, Ms. Ophuls, it looks political at this point, your father served his country in some hot zones, he swam for America through some pretty muddy water, yes ma'am, and the a.s.sa.s.sin's a pro, no doubt. Used to be the case that they didn't make war on women and children, it was kind of a code-of-honor thing, the target was the target and you got no points in heaven for killing kids or spouses. But things are rougher now, some of these guys aren't so squeamish anymore, and in this case there's some stuff we don't understand yet, we have some blanks to fill in, so we've got to have a degree of concern, ma'am, we respect your feelings but we want to get you to a secure location.

Stern men offered her stiff-backed police-officer comfort and advice, some of them-all of them-secretly wanting to offer comfort of a more personal, informal kind: uniformed police officers and plainclothesmen from previously-unknown-to-her counterterrorist outfits, hunting for answers and issuing disgraceful interim warnings. of them-secretly wanting to offer comfort of a more personal, informal kind: uniformed police officers and plainclothesmen from previously-unknown-to-her counterterrorist outfits, hunting for answers and issuing disgraceful interim warnings. You owe it to the neighborhood. You owe it to the neighborhood. They were siding with the jumpy residents. This wasn't right. She was an innocent woman. She owed n.o.body anything and to suggest otherwise was ugly. It was, gentlemen, They were siding with the jumpy residents. This wasn't right. She was an innocent woman. She owed n.o.body anything and to suggest otherwise was ugly. It was, gentlemen, unattractive. unattractive. She imagined the circling officers in oiled She imagined the circling officers in oiled Full Monty Full Monty undress, wearing police hats and studded leather posing pouches with their badges pinned on the front, imagined them swarming around her seated body, caressing her without touching her, and placing, against her unsurprised cheek, their cold, long-barreled guns. She imagined them in white tie and tails, soft-shoe shuffling undress, wearing police hats and studded leather posing pouches with their badges pinned on the front, imagined them swarming around her seated body, caressing her without touching her, and placing, against her unsurprised cheek, their cold, long-barreled guns. She imagined them in white tie and tails, soft-shoe shuffling-gumshoe shuffling-or tap-dancing with top hats and canes, imagined herself a ginger to their freds, being tossed lightly about from hand to manly hand. She imagined them as a second chorus to go with the ca.s.socked gossips. Her thoughts were acting up, she couldn't help it. She was a little crazy right now. shuffling-or tap-dancing with top hats and canes, imagined herself a ginger to their freds, being tossed lightly about from hand to manly hand. She imagined them as a second chorus to go with the ca.s.socked gossips. Her thoughts were acting up, she couldn't help it. She was a little crazy right now.

After a further while-a week, or a decade-she picked up her golden bow and drove to Elysian Park and rained arrows on a target hour after hour. She opened the little wall-safe where she kept her firearms and drove the DeLorean, her father's absurd last gift to her, into the desert for a weekend at Saltzman's range. She taped her hands and booked ring time at Jimmy Fish, where the other boxers watched her with the deferential respect accorded to those wearing the numinous mantle of tragedy, with the religious adoration accorded to those who have had their picture on TV and in People People magazine as well. They looked like the citizens of Mycenae scrutinizing their grief-maddened queen after her daughter had been sacrificed, Iphigenia offered to the G.o.ds by Agamemnon to summon up a wind to blow his fleet to Troy. She felt like Clytemnestra, cold, patient, capable of anything. She went back to her Wing Chun master to practice her close combat skills and he spoke appreciatively of the new venom of her forehand smash. (Her defensive weaknesses, however, continued to be a concern.) She couldn't sleep until she was physically exhausted and when she finally slept she dreamed of circling choruses. Her younger self was being reborn in her. She went out by herself at night looking for trouble and once, twice, had rough s.e.x with strangers in anonymous rooms and came home with dried blood under her fingernails. She showered and went back to Elysian Park, to Santa Monica and Vine, to 29 Palms. Her arrows hissed into the heart of the target. Her handgun shooting, never of the highest quality, always a tad wild, grew a little more accurate. In Fish's boxing ring she ordered her instructor to glove up, to put down the pads he wore on his hands, the flat pads she was supposed to hit without being at risk of being hit back. That was bulls.h.i.+t, she told him. She wasn't showing up for exercise anymore. She was showing up to fight. magazine as well. They looked like the citizens of Mycenae scrutinizing their grief-maddened queen after her daughter had been sacrificed, Iphigenia offered to the G.o.ds by Agamemnon to summon up a wind to blow his fleet to Troy. She felt like Clytemnestra, cold, patient, capable of anything. She went back to her Wing Chun master to practice her close combat skills and he spoke appreciatively of the new venom of her forehand smash. (Her defensive weaknesses, however, continued to be a concern.) She couldn't sleep until she was physically exhausted and when she finally slept she dreamed of circling choruses. Her younger self was being reborn in her. She went out by herself at night looking for trouble and once, twice, had rough s.e.x with strangers in anonymous rooms and came home with dried blood under her fingernails. She showered and went back to Elysian Park, to Santa Monica and Vine, to 29 Palms. Her arrows hissed into the heart of the target. Her handgun shooting, never of the highest quality, always a tad wild, grew a little more accurate. In Fish's boxing ring she ordered her instructor to glove up, to put down the pads he wore on his hands, the flat pads she was supposed to hit without being at risk of being hit back. That was bulls.h.i.+t, she told him. She wasn't showing up for exercise anymore. She was showing up to fight.

She had been planning a doc.u.mentary feature called Camino Real, Camino Real, the Discovery Channel had been this close to green-lighting it. The idea was to examine the contemporary life of California by following the trail of the first European land expedition, from San Diego to San Francisco, an expedition led by Captain Gaspar de Portola and Captain Fernando de Rivera y Moncada, whose diarist had been Fray Juan Crespi, the same Franciscan priest who named Santa Monica after the tears of St. Augustine's mother, and who, for good measure, named L.A. as well. She hadn't thought of the historical angle as much more than a hook, she wasn't really interested in the twenty-one Franciscan missions established along the trail, because the now stuff was what she was after, the changing gang culture of the barrios, the trailer-park families in the shadow of the freeways, the swarming immigrant armies that fed the housing boom, the new pleasantvilles being built in the firetrap canyons to house the middle-cla.s.s arrivistes, the less-pleasantvilles in the thick of the urban sprawl filling up with the Koreans, the Indians, the illegals; she wanted the dirty underbelly of paradise, the broken harp-strings, the cracked haloes, the narcotic bliss, the human bloat, the truth. Then her father died and she stopped working on the film and sat on her Shaker chair and got up and went out and shot arrows and bullets and worked the punchball and tangled with her martial arts teacher and f.u.c.ked strangers once each and drew blood and came home to shower and what she kept thinking was where are the angels, where were they when he needed them, the truth being that there weren't any, no winged marvels keeping watch over the City of Angels. No guardian spirits to save her father. Where were the G.o.dd.a.m.ned angels when he died. the Discovery Channel had been this close to green-lighting it. The idea was to examine the contemporary life of California by following the trail of the first European land expedition, from San Diego to San Francisco, an expedition led by Captain Gaspar de Portola and Captain Fernando de Rivera y Moncada, whose diarist had been Fray Juan Crespi, the same Franciscan priest who named Santa Monica after the tears of St. Augustine's mother, and who, for good measure, named L.A. as well. She hadn't thought of the historical angle as much more than a hook, she wasn't really interested in the twenty-one Franciscan missions established along the trail, because the now stuff was what she was after, the changing gang culture of the barrios, the trailer-park families in the shadow of the freeways, the swarming immigrant armies that fed the housing boom, the new pleasantvilles being built in the firetrap canyons to house the middle-cla.s.s arrivistes, the less-pleasantvilles in the thick of the urban sprawl filling up with the Koreans, the Indians, the illegals; she wanted the dirty underbelly of paradise, the broken harp-strings, the cracked haloes, the narcotic bliss, the human bloat, the truth. Then her father died and she stopped working on the film and sat on her Shaker chair and got up and went out and shot arrows and bullets and worked the punchball and tangled with her martial arts teacher and f.u.c.ked strangers once each and drew blood and came home to shower and what she kept thinking was where are the angels, where were they when he needed them, the truth being that there weren't any, no winged marvels keeping watch over the City of Angels. No guardian spirits to save her father. Where were the G.o.dd.a.m.ned angels when he died.

The city's angels were far away, in another earthquake zone. They were Italian and had never seen the city. Along with the Virgin Mary they were painted on the altar wall of St. Francis of a.s.sisi's first, little church of La Porziuncola, porciuncula porciuncula in Spanish, meaning the "very small plot of land." On Wednesday, August 2, 1769, the Portola expedition had reached the purlieus of what was now Elysian Park and made camp on Buena Vista Hill, and Fray Juan Crespi, struck by the beauty of the valley, named the river after St. Francis's church, whose memory he carried with him like a cross. He was forty-eight years old and already bore within himself the worm of a slowly approaching death, but whenever the worm stirred in him the image of the angels of La Porziuncola acted as an antidote, pus.h.i.+ng away morbidity and reminding him of the joyous and everlasting life to come. He named the Los Angeles River after the angels of a.s.sisi and their holy mistress and twelve years later, when a new settlement was established here, it took its t.i.tle from the river's full name, becoming El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula, the Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels of the Very Small Plot of Land. But the City of Angels now stood on a Very Large Plot of Land Indeed, thought India Ophuls, and those who dwelt there needed mightier protectors than they had been given, A-list, A-team angels, angels familiar with the violence and disorder of giant cities, b.u.t.t-kicking Angeleno angels, not the small-time, underpowered, effeminate, h.e.l.lo-birds-h.e.l.lo-sky, love-and-peace, sissy-a.s.sisi kind. in Spanish, meaning the "very small plot of land." On Wednesday, August 2, 1769, the Portola expedition had reached the purlieus of what was now Elysian Park and made camp on Buena Vista Hill, and Fray Juan Crespi, struck by the beauty of the valley, named the river after St. Francis's church, whose memory he carried with him like a cross. He was forty-eight years old and already bore within himself the worm of a slowly approaching death, but whenever the worm stirred in him the image of the angels of La Porziuncola acted as an antidote, pus.h.i.+ng away morbidity and reminding him of the joyous and everlasting life to come. He named the Los Angeles River after the angels of a.s.sisi and their holy mistress and twelve years later, when a new settlement was established here, it took its t.i.tle from the river's full name, becoming El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula, the Town of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels of the Very Small Plot of Land. But the City of Angels now stood on a Very Large Plot of Land Indeed, thought India Ophuls, and those who dwelt there needed mightier protectors than they had been given, A-list, A-team angels, angels familiar with the violence and disorder of giant cities, b.u.t.t-kicking Angeleno angels, not the small-time, underpowered, effeminate, h.e.l.lo-birds-h.e.l.lo-sky, love-and-peace, sissy-a.s.sisi kind.

The murder of Amba.s.sador Maximilian Ophuls was being mourned worldwide. The French government officially lamented the fall of one of the last surviving heroes of the Resistance, and the French press glowingly retold the story of the flight of the Bugatti Racer. India's fragmenting, infighting leaders.h.i.+p united to praise Max as a true friend of the country, committed to "an honorable Indo-Pak detente," and the scandal that had ended his amba.s.sadors.h.i.+p was barely mentioned. There were tributes from the White House and from the U.S. intelligence community as well. As with the invisible man in the movie, death restored Max to something like full visibility, decla.s.sifying many details of his life; the lengthy obituaries and effusive encomia revealed his long service to his country at the heart of the invisible world during his last, hidden career as a senior spook, in the Mideast, the Gulf, Central America, Africa and Afghanistan. Three years after the ignominious termination of his New Delhi posting he was deemed to have atoned for his sins, to have been cleansed by the temporary withdrawal of power, and he was offered a chance to serve in a new capacity. The post of U.S. counterterrorism chief, which Max agelessly went on to hold for longer than anyone else, under several different administrations, was of amba.s.sadorial rank, but was never spoken of in public. The person who held the job could not be named, his movements were not mentioned in the newspapers; he slipped across the globe like a shadow, his presence detectable only by its influence on the actions of others. India Ophuls had believed herself to have grown close to her father in his last years but she learned, now, of another Max, about whom the Max she knew had never spoken, Max the occult servant of American geopolitical interest, Your father served his country in some hot zones, he swam for America through some pretty muddy water, Your father served his country in some hot zones, he swam for America through some pretty muddy water, Invisible Max, on whose invisible hands there might very well be, there almost certainly was, there had to be, didn't there, a quant.i.ty of the world's visible and invisible blood. Invisible Max, on whose invisible hands there might very well be, there almost certainly was, there had to be, didn't there, a quant.i.ty of the world's visible and invisible blood.

What then was justice? Was she, in mourning her butchered parent, crying out (she had not wept) for a guilty man? Was Shalimar the a.s.sa.s.sin in fact the hand of justice, the appointed executioner of some unseen high court, was his sword righteous, had justice been done to Max, done to Max, had some sort of sentence been carried out in response to his unknown unlisted unseen crimes of power, because blood will have blood, an eye demands an eye, and how many eyes had her father covertly put out, by direct action or indirect, one, or a hundred, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, how many trophied corpses, like stags' heads, adorned his secret walls? had some sort of sentence been carried out in response to his unknown unlisted unseen crimes of power, because blood will have blood, an eye demands an eye, and how many eyes had her father covertly put out, by direct action or indirect, one, or a hundred, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, how many trophied corpses, like stags' heads, adorned his secret walls?

The words right right and and wrong wrong began to crumble, to lose meaning, and it was as if Max were being murdered all over again, a.s.sa.s.sinated by the voices who were praising him, as if the Max she knew were being unmade and replaced by this other Max, this stranger, this clone-Max moving through the world's burning desert places, part arms dealer, part kingmaker, part terrorist himself, dealing in the future, which was the only currency that mattered more than the dollar. He had been a puissant speculator in that mightiest and least controllable of all currencies, had been both a manipulator and a benefactor, both a philanthropist and a dictator, both creator and destroyer, buying or stealing the future from those who no longer deserved to possess it, selling the future to those who would be most useful in it, smiling the false lethal smile of power at all the planet's future-greedy hordes, its murderous doctors, its paranoid holy warriors, its embattled high priests, its billionaire financiers, its insane dictators, its generals, its venal politicians, its thugs. He had been a dealer in the dangerous, hallucinogenic narcotic of the future, offering it at a price to his chosen addicts, the reptilian cohorts of the future which his country had chosen for itself and for others; Max, her unknown father, the invisible robotic servant of his adopted country's overweening amoral might. began to crumble, to lose meaning, and it was as if Max were being murdered all over again, a.s.sa.s.sinated by the voices who were praising him, as if the Max she knew were being unmade and replaced by this other Max, this stranger, this clone-Max moving through the world's burning desert places, part arms dealer, part kingmaker, part terrorist himself, dealing in the future, which was the only currency that mattered more than the dollar. He had been a puissant speculator in that mightiest and least controllable of all currencies, had been both a manipulator and a benefactor, both a philanthropist and a dictator, both creator and destroyer, buying or stealing the future from those who no longer deserved to possess it, selling the future to those who would be most useful in it, smiling the false lethal smile of power at all the planet's future-greedy hordes, its murderous doctors, its paranoid holy warriors, its embattled high priests, its billionaire financiers, its insane dictators, its generals, its venal politicians, its thugs. He had been a dealer in the dangerous, hallucinogenic narcotic of the future, offering it at a price to his chosen addicts, the reptilian cohorts of the future which his country had chosen for itself and for others; Max, her unknown father, the invisible robotic servant of his adopted country's overweening amoral might.

Her telephones rang but she didn't answer them. Her buzzer buzzed but she didn't respond. Her friends were concerned, they left urgent expressions of concern on her voice mail, they shouted their concern from the street below her balcony, Come on, India, let us in, you're scaring us here, Come on, India, let us in, you're scaring us here, but she kept her defenses up, her defenses being Olga Volga and the pairs of police officers guarding her floor in two-hour s.h.i.+fts, but she kept her defenses up, her defenses being Olga Volga and the pairs of police officers guarding her floor in two-hour s.h.i.+fts, No visitors, No visitors, she told them, banis.h.i.+ng her increasingly angry friends from her presence. Her beloved friend the high-powered executive headhunter, a gesticulating Italian woman with acute foot-in-mouth disease, sent her an e-mail expressing the general exasperation, she told them, banis.h.i.+ng her increasingly angry friends from her presence. Her beloved friend the high-powered executive headhunter, a gesticulating Italian woman with acute foot-in-mouth disease, sent her an e-mail expressing the general exasperation, Okay, darling, so your dad is dead, okay, it's sad, I agree, it's horrible, no question about it, but what, are you going to kill us all as well, we're dying here with worry, how many deaths do you want on your conscience? Okay, darling, so your dad is dead, okay, it's sad, I agree, it's horrible, no question about it, but what, are you going to kill us all as well, we're dying here with worry, how many deaths do you want on your conscience? But even her closest intimates didn't feel real to her anymore, not even her film producer friend who had only just survived a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight and who now, restored to health, had taken to recommending the quadruple-bypa.s.s operation enthusiastically to all his colleagues, not even her friend the personal trainer, presently unattached, whose eggs had made babies for four other women but who had no children of her own, not even her friend (and former lover) who managed a band whose name changed every day and who kept signing contracts with indie outfits that immediately went belly-up so that the band was getting an unfortunate reputation as a jinx, not even her friend who broke up with her husband because he got angry when she complained about his snoring, not even her friend who left his wife for a man of the same name, not even her geek friend who was losing his dot-com fortune, not even her broke friends who were always broke, not even her cameraman, her sound guy, her accountant, her lawyer, her therapist, these were stories she couldn't relate to right now, she was the only person who felt real to herself, apart from her dead father and the a.s.sa.s.sin, they were real, and when she was in the ring with her instructor Jimmy Fish he briefly felt real as well. But even her closest intimates didn't feel real to her anymore, not even her film producer friend who had only just survived a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight and who now, restored to health, had taken to recommending the quadruple-bypa.s.s operation enthusiastically to all his colleagues, not even her friend the personal trainer, presently unattached, whose eggs had made babies for four other women but who had no children of her own, not even her friend (and former lover) who managed a band whose name changed every day and who kept signing contracts with indie outfits that immediately went belly-up so that the band was getting an unfortunate reputation as a jinx, not even her friend who broke up with her husband because he got angry when she complained about his snoring, not even her friend who left his wife for a man of the same name, not even her geek friend who was losing his dot-com fortune, not even her broke friends who were always broke, not even her cameraman, her sound guy, her accountant, her lawyer, her therapist, these were stories she couldn't relate to right now, she was the only person who felt real to herself, apart from her dead father and the a.s.sa.s.sin, they were real, and when she was in the ring with her instructor Jimmy Fish he briefly felt real as well.

Fish was a stocky middle-aged man with thick bottle-black Italian hair, heavy in the gut, his face still handsome in a flat-nosed Marciano way, and he was pulling his punches, which didn't mean they didn't hurt. The first time he hit her, in the stomach, avoiding her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she was badly shocked and a little scared, but she stayed calm, the ice didn't leave her veins, and moments later she connected with a pair of fast left jabs to the chin and had the satisfaction of seeing the anger flare up in his eyes, seeing him working to fight it down. He called a time-out. They were both breathing heavily. "Listen," he said. "You're a beautiful lady, you don't want me to damage anything you can't fix." She shrugged. "Seems to me," she said, "that you're the one who just got himself cl.u.s.ter-punched in the mouth by a woman." He shook his head mournfully, and spoke more slowly, like a parent. "You're not paying attention," he said. "I was a ranking light-heavy. You know this. I was ranking. ranking. I got in the ring with people you don't want to even imagine getting in the ring with, not even to hold up the card saying what round. You think you can take me? Lady, I'm a professional fighter. You follow? You're a Sunday driver. Don't make me hit you. Let me put the pads back on my hands and you can get yourself a great workout, tone that body you got there, that's like a national treasure. You work with what G.o.d gave you and stop dreaming. You think I'm fighting you here? Baby, you can't fight me. You fight me, you're dead. Pay attention now. This is serious. You're not in the family business. You're a civilian. You're Kay Corleone. You can't fight me." I got in the ring with people you don't want to even imagine getting in the ring with, not even to hold up the card saying what round. You think you can take me? Lady, I'm a professional fighter. You follow? You're a Sunday driver. Don't make me hit you. Let me put the pads back on my hands and you can get yourself a great workout, tone that body you got there, that's like a national treasure. You work with what G.o.d gave you and stop dreaming. You think I'm fighting you here? Baby, you can't fight me. You fight me, you're dead. Pay attention now. This is serious. You're not in the family business. You're a civilian. You're Kay Corleone. You can't fight me."

She touched gloves with him and backed off, going into her crouch, shuffling, dancing. "I've got nothing to say to you," she said. "I don't come here to talk."

Her father's killer was her mother's husband. The investigation had uncovered this one immense, all-explaining, devastating thing. The crime, which had at first looked political, turned out to be a personal matter, insofar as anything was personal anymore. The a.s.sa.s.sin was a professional, but the consequences of U.S. policy choices in South Asia, and their echoes in the labyrinthine chambers of the paranoiac jihadi mind, these and other related geopolitical variables receded from the a.n.a.lysis, could with a high percentage of probability be eliminated from the equation. The picture had simplified, becoming a familiar image: the cuckolded and now avenged husband, the disgraced and now very nearly decapitated philanderer, locked in a final embrace. The motive, too, turned out to be conventional. Cherchez la femme. Cherchez la femme. India had learned the murderer's real name, which sounded more like an alias than his alias, and the reports confirmed his wife's name as well, her mother's name, which India knew already because she had found it in an old copy of the India had learned the murderer's real name, which sounded more like an alias than his alias, and the reports confirmed his wife's name as well, her mother's name, which India knew already because she had found it in an old copy of the Indian Express Indian Express preserved on microfiche at the British Museum's newspaper library in Colindale. Neither India's father nor the woman she lived with when she was a child had ever spoken that name: not once in a quarter-century. Her father had once accidentally referred to his lover by the name of her greatest role, Anarkali, and India, watching him as only children watch their parents, saw an expression cross his face that only crossed it when he thought about her mother, an expression in which his undimmed desire for the young dancing girl mingled with shame, nostalgia and something darker, a premonition of death, perhaps, an intuition of how this particular Anarkali's story would end. As for the woman who was not her mother, the woman she had lived with when she was a child, on the rare occasions when that woman was forced by India's questions to allude to the birth mother she used the term preserved on microfiche at the British Museum's newspaper library in Colindale. Neither India's father nor the woman she lived with when she was a child had ever spoken that name: not once in a quarter-century. Her father had once accidentally referred to his lover by the name of her greatest role, Anarkali, and India, watching him as only children watch their parents, saw an expression cross his face that only crossed it when he thought about her mother, an expression in which his undimmed desire for the young dancing girl mingled with shame, nostalgia and something darker, a premonition of death, perhaps, an intuition of how this particular Anarkali's story would end. As for the woman who was not her mother, the woman she had lived with when she was a child, on the rare occasions when that woman was forced by India's questions to allude to the birth mother she used the term paramour, paramour, as in as in your father's paramour, your father's paramour, and when irked by India's insistence she would say in a tone of finality, and when irked by India's insistence she would say in a tone of finality, We will not speak of her. We will not speak of her. But now the wheel had turned and it was that woman's name which was never spoken, not by India, anyhow, whereas Bhoomi a.k.a. Boonyi Kaul Noman's name was traveling the world's airwaves on, for example, CNN. But now the wheel had turned and it was that woman's name which was never spoken, not by India, anyhow, whereas Bhoomi a.k.a. Boonyi Kaul Noman's name was traveling the world's airwaves on, for example, CNN.

The elite Special Forces officers, looking a little disgusted at the case's turn toward the ordinary, handed over responsibility for the investigation to Central Homicide, the regular, nonterrorist, crime-related-elimination guys, and two new detectives, Lieutenant Tony Geneva and Sergeant Elvis Hilliker, sad-eyed men with high mileage numbers on their clocks, came to inspect the murder scene, but they weren't interested in briefing India on the status of the search for the man she was now trying to think of as "Noman," maybe there was cla.s.sified material which they were keeping to themselves but the only things they came out with were bland, ready-to-wear formulations like the manhunt is intensifying, ma'am, the manhunt is intensifying, ma'am, and snippets of useless facts, and snippets of useless facts, He planned his day carefully, took a change of clothing along in the trunk, we found the soiled garments in there, He planned his day carefully, took a change of clothing along in the trunk, we found the soiled garments in there, Lieutenant Geneva said, and Sergeant Hilliker added, Lieutenant Geneva said, and Sergeant Hilliker added, He abandoned the car just a few blocks east of here, on Oakwood near Crescent Heights, and if he's on foot in this town he's going to be hard to miss, plus if he tries to steal himself a ride we'll have him in our sights, so we'll get him, ma'am, don't doubt it, this isn't Indian country, it's ours. He abandoned the car just a few blocks east of here, on Oakwood near Crescent Heights, and if he's on foot in this town he's going to be hard to miss, plus if he tries to steal himself a ride we'll have him in our sights, so we'll get him, ma'am, don't doubt it, this isn't Indian country, it's ours.

She understood their remarks to mean that they were under pressure from their senior officers and needed to sound effective. (When she innocently used the term superiors superiors to describe their bosses at City Hall, they had plenty to say, they momentarily achieved something like volubility, to describe their bosses at City Hall, they had plenty to say, they momentarily achieved something like volubility, They're not our superiors, ma'am, senior officers is all they are, They're not our superiors, ma'am, senior officers is all they are, Lieutenant Geneva rebuked her, and Sergeant Hilliker vehemently added, Lieutenant Geneva rebuked her, and Sergeant Hilliker vehemently added, Which doesn't make them our betters. Which doesn't make them our betters. Everybody was sensitive nowadays. Everybody had a vocabulary to peddle. Words had become as painful as sticks and stones, or maybe skins had grown thinner. India blamed the ozone layer, apologized and changed the subject.) Max's death was a big story, and they had more than just the commissioner on their backs, the TV audience was impatient, too, it wanted the pictures right away, a shoot-out, preferably, or a car chase with helicoptered cameras, or at the very least a good, close-up look at the captured murderer, manacled, s.h.a.ggy haired, and in orange or green or blue prison fatigues, pleading to be put to death by lethal injection or cyanide gas because he didn't deserve to live. Everybody was sensitive nowadays. Everybody had a vocabulary to peddle. Words had become as painful as sticks and stones, or maybe skins had grown thinner. India blamed the ozone layer, apologized and changed the subject.) Max's death was a big story, and they had more than just the commissioner on their backs, the TV audience was impatient, too, it wanted the pictures right away, a shoot-out, preferably, or a car chase with helicoptered cameras, or at the very least a good, close-up look at the captured murderer, manacled, s.h.a.ggy haired, and in orange or green or blue prison fatigues, pleading to be put to death by lethal injection or cyanide gas because he didn't deserve to live.

She had no way of knowing if an arrest was near because she wasn't fully in the information loop. But the truth-the impossible truth, the truth that proved to her she was more than a little crazy right now, the truth she couldn't share with anyone, and which consequently sealed her off from the people who loved her-the insane, segregating truth was that she knew things about the fugitive which the police did not, because she had begun to hear his voice inside her head. Or not exactly a voice but a disembodied nonverbal transmission, like a wild screech full of static and internal dissension, hatred and shame, repentance and threat, curses and tears; like a werewolf howling at the moon. She had not experienced anything like this before, and in spite of her occasional power of second sight she was made greatly afraid by this auditory manifestation, by her transformation into a medium for the living. She locked her apartment door and sat in darkness, doubting her own sanity, until she slowly came to terms with what was happening. The shouted, argumentative, out-of-control babble in her head was the cry of a deranged soul, a man in a state of elated horror, He might be a professional, she thought, but he's not reacting professionally this time, something about this. .h.i.t has unhinged him, this wasn't done in cold blood. This was hot.

I am for Amba.s.sador Max and my name is Shalimar the clown. The sentence with which the murderer had introduced himself and named his quarry, quoted by one of the Mulholland Drive security guards to the police, had somehow found its way into the papers, and she had been worrying away at it, trying to unlock its secrets. The sentence with which the murderer had introduced himself and named his quarry, quoted by one of the Mulholland Drive security guards to the police, had somehow found its way into the papers, and she had been worrying away at it, trying to unlock its secrets. Shalimar the clown. Shalimar the clown. What did that mean. He was her mother's husband. What was she to do with information of such power. Now she understood what he had been staring at in the elevator that first day, her birthday, he had been seeing in her what she herself could not see, what her survival instincts, her private defense mechanisms, had made her block out of her vision. He had found her mother in her and now that mother within was hearing his silent demented scream. What did that mean. He was her mother's husband. What was she to do with information of such power. Now she understood what he had been staring at in the elevator that first day, her birthday, he had been seeing in her what she herself could not see, what her survival instincts, her private defense mechanisms, had made her block out of her vision. He had found her mother in her and now that mother within was hearing his silent demented scream.

She went to her bedroom, stripped off her clothes and examined her body in the mirrored closet doors, kneeling on her bed, stretching, leaning, trying to see in her unclothed form what he had seen in her when she was fully attired, straining to look beyond the echoes of her father and find the woman she had never been able to see. Slowly her mother's face began to form in her mind's eye, blurry, out of focus, vague. It was something. A gift from a killer. He had taken her father but her mother was being given to her. She felt angry all of a sudden. In a rage she called out to him, naked, with her eyes closed, like a witch at a seance. Tell me about her, she cried. Tell me about my mother, who wanted to go back to you, who was ready to give me up, who would have left me for you if she hadn't died first. (This cruel fragment of knowledge had been imparted long ago by the woman who was not her mother, the woman who did not give her life but gave her her name, the name she did not like.) Tell me, she cried into the night, about my mother who loved you more than me. Then came a thought unbidden: She's still alive. Maybe it wasn't true about her dying, and she's still alive. She's still alive. Maybe it wasn't true about her dying, and she's still alive. Where is she, she asked the voice in her head. Is this what she wanted, to kill her lover, to allow her husband to regain his honor by murdering the man she left him for. Did she send you to do this. How she must hate me, to abandon me and then have my father killed. What is she like. Does she ask about me. Have you sent her photographs of me. Does she want to see me. Does she know my name. Is she still alive. Where is she, she asked the voice in her head. Is this what she wanted, to kill her lover, to allow her husband to regain his honor by murdering the man she left him for. Did she send you to do this. How she must hate me, to abandon me and then have my father killed. What is she like. Does she ask about me. Have you sent her photographs of me. Does she want to see me. Does she know my name. Is she still alive.

Her desire to understand the killer had been fighting against more vengeful longings. A part of her believed that the act of taking a life was never trivial, always profound, wanted to believe it even in an age of interminable slaughter, a primitive age in which hard-won ideas, the sovereignty of the individual, the sanct.i.ty of life, were dying beneath the piles of bodies, buried beneath the lies of warlords and priests, and this part wanted to know in full the why of it, not to excuse the deed but at least to comprehend, to know the other who had with such finality altered the condition of her self. For another, possibly larger part, the memory of her father subsiding in blood was all the knowledge that was required. What was justice? Was comprehension necessary before judgment could be made and sentence pa.s.sed? Had Shalimar the clown understood the man he killed? And if he felt he had, would that make his actions defensible? Did understanding drag justice in its wake? No, she told herself, understanding and justice were unrelated things, like repentance and forgiveness. An understanding man could also be unjust. A woman might see her father's killer repent, truly repent, and still be unable to forgive.

He had no answers for her. He was inchoate, contradictory, storm clouded. He was a hunted animal living in a ravine, like a coyote, like a dog. He was starving and thirsty. He was venom and blood. Is my mother here too, she asked him, over and over again. Did you bring her with you, is she waiting for you somewhere, holed up in some cheap freeway motel, to celebrate my father's death. What do you do to celebrate your kills, do you drink yourself stupid, no, you wouldn't drink, or is it s.e.x, is that how you release your brutal delight, or do you pray, you and my mother, will you both get down on your knees and bang your joyful foreheads against the floor. Where is she, take me to her, let me look her in the face. She has to look me in the face. She cut me loose and never looked back and she has to look me in the face. She's here, isn't she. She wouldn't miss this. She's here, in a neon motel, waiting. Did she ask you to cut off his head. Did she want him decapitated but he was too tough for you, he didn't give you that satisfaction. His head stayed on his shoulders and thwarted your obscene aims, your attack against humanity. Where is she. If she sent you she has to face me.

This isn't over. I'm still here. I have to be reckoned with. I will call you to account. Blood will have blood. Sooner or later I will have to be faced.

He had no answers for her. He faded, like a dream. The sudden silence in her head was like a theft. For a moment she could not breathe, and gasped asthmatically for air. Then she cried. She thrust her face into her pillow and wept the first tears she had shed since her father's death, wept for three hours and seventeen minutes without stopping and then fell into a deep sleep, from which she was only awakened fifteen and a quarter hours later by Olga Simeonovna, who had let herself into the apartment with her master key, accompanied by a specter from the past. Ma.s.sed choruses encircled her in her dreams, but the dreams were not frightening, they were entertaining, she watched them like movies and forgot them when she awoke. India Ophuls had no need for nightmares anymore. The waking world was nightmarish enough.

The ca.s.socked chorus of gossipy old women moved clockwise around her, keening softly, Ah, the orphaned princess, what will she do now, she's a little crazy, we think, she may have all the money in the world but it won't buy back what she lost, she's just human like the rest of us, she'll have to deal with that, she'll have to come down to earth; we fear she's planning to take a terrible revenge, but beware!, princess, beware!, this guy is a bad guy!, the worst!, and you're not even in the family business, you can't fight him, you're Kay Corleone. Around the first circle, the chorus of the widows, she could see a second circle, moving widders.h.i.+ns, the flaccid unhappy torsos of sack-bellied police officers, the hard-bodied Chippendales elite had disappeared, leaving these middle-aged Tonys and Elvises behind, We're closing in, ma'am, they chanted, a definite sighting on Ventura Boulevard, his days are numbered, uh-huh, uh-huh, a hundred percent make in a computer store on Pico, he may run ma'am but he can't hide, reports of a vagrant in Nichols Canyon, reports of a vagrant near Woodrow Wilson, reports of a vagrant on Cielo Drive, uh-huh, uh-huh, it's just a matter of time. And again the ca.s.socked women raised their voices, Justice would be meaningless without injustice, they first intoned, and then, secondly, Justice is strife. War makes us what we are. Even though she was asleep she recognized Herac.l.i.tus speaking through the widows' mouths-Herac.l.i.tus the Greek Buddha, the lost poet of broken wisdom, part philosopher, part fortune cookie, bubbling up from the days when she read such things, the days when she read, to add his two cents' worth. Now, around the Eastern crone and the sagging policemen, she perceived a third circle, an outer circle made up of her friends, who were moving clockwise, like the old women, and singing in electronic voice-mail voices a yearning beseec