Perfect Sax Read Free

to process the scene, I became angrier with the mess. Dozens of papers had been dumped in my driveway and beyond, like someone had maliciously emptied a wastepaper basket out their car window as they drove by. I had been out front only ten minutes before with Wesley and Holly, and the street had been quiet and neat and clean. Few people come all the way up this street, anyway, since there is no outlet. So whatever was this paper attack about?
    I opened up the back of my old Jeep Grand Wagoneer and pulled out an empty carton marked louis roederer 1995 Brut, removed the inner cardboard partitions that had cushioned and separated the champagne bottles a few months back when I first bought them for a wedding shower, and then, with distaste, began picking up trash off the asphalt. As I tossed handfuls of paperwork into the carton, I was thankful the stuff wasn’t filthy. In fact, it was an odd assortment of officelike documents.
    Hey, now. Wait a minute. Was that an actual U.S. passport tucked between the sheets of paper I just dumped? I pawed through the pages and fished out the navy blue booklet. Amazing. It looked real. I flipped it open and stared at the two-inch photo of a vital, lean man in his early sixties, judgingby his iron-gray buzz cut and allowing for the standard ten years one must always add to the estimated age of anyone one meets in Hollywood. The name on the passport was Albert Grasso. His date of birth proved I could peg ages in this town with the best of them. He would be sixty-three next month. His address was on Iris Circle, the next street up the hill.
    I leaned against my Jeep, resting the carton on the hood, and filtered through some of the other items I’d just gathered into the box. There was a handful of framable-size photos that had clearly fallen out of a manila folder marked photos. I quickly sorted them so they made a neat stack and all faced the same direction, but I could barely finish the task once I caught a glimpse of the glossy side of one of the pictures. It was an eight-by-ten color print, a glamorous studio shot of a seventies icon, autographed To Albert — singing your praises! With love, Cher. Cher. I mean, really ! Whose trash was this?
    Another photo was signed “Love, Michael,” and showed a very young Michael Jackson. A third featured the cast of the Oscar-winning movie musical Chicago. Everyone in the cast had signed it to “Albert,” offering an assortment of warm thanks and good wishes. Look at that. Richard Gere had mentioned their mutual interest in the Dalai Lama.
    I became more enchanted with my trash find by the minute, shuffling through photos of David Bowie, Avril Lavigne, and Charo. The last of the photos proved more intriguing still. It was a shot of two people, one famous, one not. The young, dark-haired girl, maybe twenty or so, was smiling into the camera so hard you could see her back teeth. The older man with his arm around her had a face no one could help but recognize. It was President Clinton. They were standing close together in the Oval Office. The picture had a personal inscription, To Teresa, with thanks. And then the initials B.C.
    Wesley’s voice came from far away. I looked up and shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun. He was standing up at the top of the landing by the open front door. “Hey, Mad,” he called down. “What’s up? You need some help?”
    “You’ve got to see what I found. All this stuff was littered all over the place. It seems to belong to a guy on Iris Circle.”
    “What is it?”
    “Private papers and photos.” I picked one item at random from the carton, a letter, and read it aloud.
Dear Mr. Grasso,
    Enclosed please find my report on your psychiatric condition. You’ll note the diagnosis code represents a diagnosis of anxiety-stress disorder, for which I’ve been treating you for the past seven years. If you have any questions, or if your insurance carrier requires any further information, please let me