The Devil You Know (22 page)

After
a few minutes, she felt the nurse’s hand on her shoulder, and she looked up to
see the woman’s compassionate expression. “Perhaps you should come away for a
minute,” she said. “You don’t want to upset him any more than he already is.”

Marie
nodded and kissed Tom’s hand one more time before laying it gently in his lap
again and standing up. She followed the nurse out of the gazebo. The detective
who had been poking at flowers came over now and stood with them. They spoke in
hushed voices, as if to keep Tom from hearing their conversation, but he was
really only just a few feet away; the charade was almost laughable to Marie.

“Do
you know what’s wrong with him?” the detective asked. “Is he always—”

Marie
cut him off. “He was in the war.” She looked at the nurse. “You’ve heard of
battle fatigue?” The nurse nodded. “That’s what they say he has. He told me he
used to be like this a lot when he first came home, but this is the first time
I’ve seen it.” She turned now to look at him, but he was staring straight
ahead, oblivious to the conversation taking place only a few feet away.

Now
the detective spoke to the nurse. “Will he snap out of it?”

The
nurse shrugged. “He should. But it’s hard to say how long.”

“His
grandfather was taking care of him,” Marie said. “Tom wouldn’t have come as far
as he has without him. He’s in shock now.” She put her hand on the nurse’s
forearm, saying, “Please. Don’t let them take him away from here. Don’t let
them lock him up somewhere. He’ll be all right. He just needs to let this pass.
He won’t be able to if you take him away.”

“It’s
not up to me, honey. If the officers say he’s a danger to himself, we’ll let
him recover in the county hospital.”

“I’ll
take care of him,” Marie said without even thinking about it. “He can come stay
with me, or I can stay--”

“Uh,
excuse me,” the uniformed officer cut her off. The three of them turned in his
direction, and Marie was relieved to see that Tom had stood up and walked
across the gazebo to lean on one of its white posts. He stared not quite so
blankly at the rows of rose bushes on the other side of the lawn.

“Tom?”
Marie asked quietly. She smiled when he turned his head slightly toward her.
“Tom, are you okay?”

He
shook his head. When he spoke, it was with very little expression, but Marie
was thrilled to hear his voice. “My grandfather always said we should put some
of those roses on his grave,” he said. “He tended them all the time. Do you
think we can just bury him here? He loved this place.”

Marie
ran the few steps back to the gazebo and threw her arms around him. After
several seconds, he raised his arms and returned her embrace, lightly at first.
Then she felt him squeeze her hard, and she noticed he was shaking. After a few
more seconds, he dropped his head onto her shoulder and wept. They stood that
way for several minutes, neither saying a word, and when Tom raised his head,
Marie looked up at him with a comforting smile and then turned to see that the
policemen and the nurse had walked quietly away to give them privacy.

“I’m
so sorry, Tom.”

He
could only nod.

She
touched his cheek with the back of her hand and gently wiped at the tears. “If
you’ll let me, I’ll try to help you the way he did.”

He
nodded again and now said, “Thank you.” With a sad smile, he added, “You know,
he really thought you were something else. Talked about you all the time when
you weren’t here. If I didn’t have you around now, I’d just…I don’t know.”

“I
know.” She kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to make it all
right again.”

Tom
looked at her without speaking for a moment and then stared out at the roses
again. “We’ll have the funeral,” he said, his voice stronger now, more normal
with every breath he took. “And we’ll go from there. It’ll be hard to know
where to start.”

“I
have some ideas,” Marie said. Then she took his hand, and they walked out of
the gazebo and toward the waiting detective.

Chapter Twenty

Bezgerek
liked the smile Julian had helped him shape. It was charming, disarming. With
the body’s dark hair and strong chin, he could look serious and determined
without trying, giving off the confidence women loved. But when he smiled, the
confidence was tempered with kindness. It touched a part of them that most
would not have been able to articulate, and they were in his grasp with ease.
It helped that he looked amazingly like the movie star the humans called Tyrone
Power. He had gotten good at denying that he was the real thing, but he enjoyed
telling women he had met the actor and found him not very personable. It
shattered the women’s illusions, but left Bezgerek standing tall in their
minds, and in their fantasies he stepped in to fill the gap and form new illusions,
the last they would ever know.

He
was particularly fond of seeking victims at Grauman’s Chinese or Schwab’s
drugstore on Sunset; these were the places most often frequented by the
wide-eyed tourists he most enjoyed corrupting and for whom his resemblance to
Power was most effective. Today, he chose Schwab’s, and the counter was packed
with young women and men who had made the pilgrimage to the famous soda
fountain.

One
woman caught his eye, not because she was prettier than the others or looked more
vivacious. It was just the opposite, really. She was a plain looking little
thing with no make-up and clothes that looked like she had slept in them. More
significantly, she looked incredibly sad as she stood next to the rack of
postcards beside the door, languidly turning the wire frames that held pictures
of the Hollywood sign, the Chinese theater and other Hollywood landmarks.

Bezgerek
got off his stool and approached her. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said
when he got beside the rack.

She
looked up at him with surprise; her daydreaming had kept her from noticing that
anyone was near. “I wasn’t gonna steal anything, honest,” she said quickly.

“I
know,” he said, putting out a finger to give the rack a light spin. “That’s not
what you were thinking.”

She
looked a bit relieved. He could smell alcohol on her breath, and he saw now the
glassy look in her eyes. “You were thinking,” he said, “that there’s someone
back home who would be awfully surprised to get a postcard from you in
Hollywood. Isn’t that right?”

Her
eyes regained some of their luster and opened wider. “How’d you know?” she
said.

Bezgerek
shrugged. “I just know. Would you like me to buy you one?”

“Oh,
no….I couldn’t.”

“Of
course you could,” he said. “Pick one. How about this? Ought to get a laugh
from the folks back home.” He had selected a postcard with a picture of a hot
dog stand built in the shape of a giant dog. The actual hot dog stand was not
far from Schwab’s.

She
giggled at the ridiculous image and nodded her agreement at his choice. Not
wanting to let her out of his sight, Bezgerek led her to the cashier where he
paid for the post card, and then the two walked out.

On
the sidewalk, she turned to him and offered her hand in an exaggerated show of
decorum. “Francine Shaefer,” she said.

Impulsively,
he responded, “Pleased to meet you, Francine. I’m Tyrone Power.”

The
second the words were out of his mouth, he regretted having spoken. Francine’s
eyes seemed to double in size, and her mouth dropped open for a moment before
she covered it with her hand. He feared she would scream in delight, and the
last thing he wanted was more attention drawn to himself on the busy sidewalk.
He quickly placed a finger to his lips and looked nervously around, hoping she
would see that he did not want a crowd to gather. Bending close, he whispered,
“I don’t want anyone else to know. We won’t get a moment’s peace.”

The
message got through, and she took her hand away from her face, a sly,
conspiratorial grin on her face. But a moment later, she asked, “You’re not
really, are you? I mean, you don’t look quite the same.”

“Make-up,
lighting. Movie magic, you know,” he explained, and then half turned as though
he intended to start walking, hopeful that she would stop scrutinizing his
face.

Francine
did not fall into step beside him, and he feared he would lose her. Silently,
he cursed himself for the stupid blunder of actually claiming to be Tyrone
Power, and he stopped to look back at her. Her mind still besotted from
whatever she had been drinking, Francine returned his gaze and then took the
few steps to catch up to him. As they put Schwab’s behind them, Bezgerek told
himself that he might have her after all, but then she said, “So tell me
something, Mr. Tyrone Power.”

“What
is it?”

“What
was the last movie you made?”

He
clenched his jaw.
Bitch!
he thought
as he struggled to remember anything he had learned about the actor. After a
few more paces, he said, “You’re testing me, are you?”

“Yes,
I am.” She sounded pleased with herself.

“Why?”

“You
never know what a man will say to a pretty girl in Hollywood.”

Don’t flatter yourself
, he thought as he
glanced at the nose that was a bit too pointed and the eyebrows a bit too
severe. Hoping to distract her, he said, “I didn’t stop to talk to you because
you’re pretty.”

“No?”

“No.
It’s because you looked sad. And a little lonesome.”

She
nodded, but said nothing.

“Tell
me your troubles, Francine. Maybe I can help.”

Drunk
enough to feel uninhibited, she poured out her whole story. Four months ago,
she had traveled by bus all the way from Arkansas, hoping to get work in the
movies. She didn’t want to be famous, she told him. It would have been nice,
she added, but her main goal was just to be in the movies. They were so
glamorous, and everyone who worked in the movies seemed to be so rich and happy
and drive big cars and live in fancy houses with maids and lots of furniture
and little dogs that sat at the breakfast table and ate chunks of bacon that
you threw to them and….

She
went on, and Bezgerek had to steer her back to talking about her problems. “It
didn’t work out for you, did it?” he asked.

She
wiped at her eyes again and shook her head. “No work,” she said, “and now no
money. All gone.”

“Everything?”
he asked.

“I’m
a week behind at the hotel, and this morning the manager locked me out of my
room. Everything I have is still in there.”

“You
didn’t even have enough for that post card, did you?”

She
shook her head. “Not even enough to send home for bus fare. I guess I was
wishing I could get home just as easily as this post card could.” She waved it
like a fan in front of her face for a moment.

They
had been walking along Sunset as they talked, tourists and locals passing them.
Bezgerek had noticed several who stared at him, taken aback by his resemblance
to Power. He had learned that the curious would not venture to make contact
with him if he did not meet their gaze, so he kept his eyes on the street or
the sidewalk as they walked. Now he asked Francine, “And what’s waiting for you
in Arkansas?”

She
opened her purse and took out her wallet. Bezgerek noticed that the purse was
almost empty with the exception of a nearly spent bottle of liquor. Francine
took a small, edge worn snapshot out of her wallet and handed it to Bezgerek.
It was a picture of a strapping farm boy of eighteen or so, standing in front
of a tractor with his legs wide and his arms folded across his broad chest. His
face looked weathered, but he had a kind smile. “He’s waiting,” she said. “I
hope.”

“Suppose
I pay your hotel bill for you, Francine, and give you bus fare home? How would
that be?”

She
stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared up at him, her mouth hanging
open. He merely smiled in response. Then another thought seemed to cross her
mind, and she closed her mouth, her expression suddenly serious and almost
fearful. “What would you want in exchange?” she asked.

He
gave her a kind, fatherly smile and said, “Absolutely nothing.”

Tearfully,
she accepted. Bezgerek led her to the curb and looked for a cab among the waves
of oncoming traffic. The cars that rolled by on Sunset were loud, their big
engines rumbling in unison; he soon saw a yellow one and raised a hand to hail
it. The door squeaked as he opened it, and he stood aside to let Francine climb
in first. Once inside, she gave the cabby the name of her hotel, and they sat
back on the worn seat, the car’s interior smelling musty. As they rode,
Francine kept repeating, “You’re an angel. You must just be an angel.”

The
hotel was a dump, a little two-story affair with peeling paint on the exterior
and a courtyard parking lot that had probably not been paved in twenty years.
Bezgerek assumed Francine had been able to stay here quite a while on not much
money. It was the sort of place where she would have quickly come to realize
that not everyone who worked and lived in Hollywood was glamorous or happy.

Leaving
her outside the office, he went in and paid her bill, adding one more night’s
lodging. “She won’t be here any longer than that,” he assured the manager, who
handed him a key.

Once
they got into Francine’s room, he looked around at the squalor and realized
what a favor he truly was doing her. The place was filthy. She had been living
out of her cardboard suitcase, it appeared, and the trash she had let pile up
in the room included dozens of empty liquor bottles. The drink more than
anything had most likely driven her from Arkansas and had kept her from finding
the glamour she craved.

Francine
had her back to him, trying to straighten some of her things where they were
piled on the bed. “I’m so embarrassed to have you see how I’ve been living,”
she said with a nervous laugh.

“Don’t
be embarrassed. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. This is a hard town for
someone not used to it.”

“I’ll
say.”

Bezgerek
had decided in the taxi that he should just have her once, that she was too
pathetic to string along. It would almost be merciful, he thought and tried not
to grin too maliciously. Trembling with anticipation at how decadent it would
be to take her completely, he prepared to transform himself.

“I’m
afraid I have a confession to make, Francine,” he said serenely.

She
turned quickly to look at him, fear and suspicion registering on her face once
more. Bezgerek could see that she’d dealt with predators before, probably not
always successfully.

“I’m
not really Tyrone Power,” he said, and in that instant he changed.

Her
mouth dropped open as she beheld him. He glowed now and had given himself a
pair of white wings that spread out behind him.

“You
really are an angel,” she gasped.

He
drew in a deep breath to expand his chest even more and watched in exhilaration
as she got on her knees before him, tears glistening in her eyes. He could see
that she believed she was saved, that this was nothing less than divine
intervention. Her adoration filled him with such a sense of his own power that
he trembled, and knew he could wait no longer to have her. Overwhelmed with the
desire to consume her, he transformed again into the corn fed farm boy from the
picture she had shown him.

“Walter,”
she murmured in disbelief.

Then
he was on her.