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“Oh, yeah. Marriage. She rode up on the trolley and went wild with the weather, thought it was my creation, proposed, and after our honeymoon, one night, found out I had nothing to do with the climate, grew icicles, and vamoosed. My body will never be the same.” The old man shivered.
“Is that all?”
“What d’ya mean, all?! You ever throw her two falls out of three?”
“Almost,” I whispered.
I pulled out Rattigan’s phone book. “This clued us onto you.”
The old man peered at his name circled in red ink. “Why would someone send you here?” He mused over another swallow. “Wait! You some sort of writer?”
“Some sort.”
“Well hell, that’s it! How long you known her?”
“A few years.”
“A year with Rattigan’s a thousand and one nights. Lost in the Fun House. Hell, son. I bet she red-circled my name because she wants you to write her autobiography. Starting with me, Old Faithful.”
“No,” I said.
“She ask you to take notes?”
“Never.”
“Damn, wouldn’t that be great? Anyone ever written a book wilder than Constance, more wrathful than Rattigan? A bestseller! Lie down with Rattigan, get up with sequined fleas. Run down the hill, sign a publisher! I get royalties for revelations! Okay?”
“Royalties.”
“Now gimme another Mallomar, more beer. You still need more guff?”
I nodded.
“That other table …” An orange crate. “A list of wedding guests.”
I went to the orange crate and riffled through some bills until I found one piece of quality paper and peered at it as he said, “You ever wonder where the name California came from?”
“What’s that—”
“Pipe down. The Hispanics, when they marched north from Mexico in 1509, carried books. One published in Spain had an Amazon queen ruling in a land of milk and honey. Queen Califia. The country she ruled was named California. The Spaniards took one look down this here valley, saw the milk, ate the honey, and named it all—”
“California?”
“So, check that guest list.”
I looked and read: “Califia! My God! We tried to call her today! Where is she now?”
“That’s what the Rattigan wanted to know. It was Califia predicted our predestined marriage, but not our downfall. So Rattigan trapped me with a hammerlock and mobbed this place with bums and bad champagne, all because of Califia. ‘Where the hell is she?’ she shouted today, down the tunnel of newsprint. ‘You would kno
w!’ she yelled. ‘Not guilty!’ I yelled back up the tunnel. ‘Go, Constance! Califia ruined us both. Go kill her, then kill her again. Califia!’”
The mummy fell back, exhausted.
“You said all that,” I asked. “At noon today?”
“Some such,” sighed the old man. “I sent Rattigan off for blood. I hope she finds that damned half-ass-trologer and …” His voice wandered. “More Mallomars?”
I laid the cookie on his tongue. It melted. He talked fast.
