Laughing Boy Read Free Page B

cool, clear night, and the roads were busy with people doing the rounds that everybody needs to do the day before Thanksgiving. Through Arcadia a police car tailed him for a while and he realised that they’d have a bonanza if they pulled him over, what with the vodka he’d consumed before the concert and the king-size joint he had in his pocket. He slotted into the right-hand lane behind a 1960 Eldorado Biarritz with bigger fins on its tail than Apollo 11 and the cop car cruised by without a glance. Tim turned off at the next exit, heading north into the San Gabriels.
    He parked in a viewing area overlooking the reservoir and lit the joint. Away to his right were the lights of town; behind, before and to his left was the empty blackness of the reservoir, the mountains and the desert; above him the Milky Way trailed across the sky like the train of a bride’s dress.
    City of angels, city of dreams. Less than an hour ago he’d held them in the palm of his hand. Every jerk of his head, every strangulated vowel, and they’d bayed their approval. And now he was up here, alone, destroyed by those he thought were friends. Judases, every one of them. People down there were doing deals, pulling fast ones, making money by the strength of their talents. Or, for some, by selling their souls and their bodies. He took a long pull on the joint and closed his eyes. They’d learn, he thought. They’d learn. It could all come crashing down. Los Angeles might be the dream factory, but it was surrounded by desert. And it was built on an earthquake zone.
     
    As dawn broke he took the I-10 towards Palm Springs, drawn inland by thoughts of a reunion with a girl he’d had a brief affair with earlier in the year. Twenty miles from her home he realised that she wasn’t the type to be eating alone, and in any case he didn’t have the gall to arrive at her door and invite himself in for Thanksgiving lunch. He made a U-turn  and drove all the way back to La Habra, the suburb of LA where his parents lived.
    “Hi, Mom, hi Dad,” he said as he breezed into the house. “Is my room still vacant?” Ten minutes later he knew it was a big mistake, but it was too late now.
    He was the best Thanksgiving present they could have had, his mother kept telling him, between enquiries about his wellbeing and relating items of gossip. They were so proud of him, and he didn’t come visiting anywhere near often enough. He took refuge in the bathroom, having a long shower and a shave with his father’s spare razor. When he went downstairs an hour later lunch was ready.
    Tim’s father asked him what he’d like to drink with his meal, and was surprised when his son told him Jack Daniels. When pressed, Tim agreed that wine would be fine.
    “Dad…” Tim began before they took their places at the table.
    “Yes, Son.”
    “I was wondering. About my car. If people see it there they might realise I’m home, you know, and kinda come visiting . I was hoping for some peace and quiet. Would you mind if I swapped it with yours in the garage?”
    “No problem, Son. You know where the keys are. Only trouble is, er, my gun’s in the glove compartment. Bring it in, will you. Can’t leave it there if the car’s parked outside. I’d be in big trouble if that got stolen.” Mr Roper owned two shoe shops, and habitually carried the day’s takings in his car. The gun was a sensible precaution.
    Tim’s mother came in bearing a steaming bowl of pumpkin soup. “No time for that, now,” she stated. “It’s eating time.”
    Mr Roper said grace and Mrs Roper handed a basket of corn bread first to Tim, the prodigal son, and then to her husband. “I told Aunt Jessie you were home, Tim,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’re so proud of you. She said she might drop by, later, and bring Shiralee withher. She’s such a nice girl.”
    Tim winced at the prospect. Cousin Shiralee wasn’t his proper cousin, unfortunately, so was considered a prospective