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“Her?”
“It’s always a mistake”—Queen Califia cast a glance toward the crystal balls—“to guess futures and, damn fool, tell them. I give hints, not facts. I won’t tell people what stocks to buy, what flesh to borrow. Diets, yes, I sell vitamins, Chinese herbs, but not longevity.”
“You just did.”
“You’re different.” She leaned. The rollers under her massive chair squealed.
“The future lies ahead of you. I’ve never seen a future so clear. But you are in terrible danger. I see all the time that you have to live, but someone could destroy it. Be careful!”
She paused for a long moment, closed her eyes, and then said, “You her friend? You know who I mean.”
I said, “Yes—and no.”
“Everyone says that. She’s black and white and wild all over.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“We don’t need names. I wouldn’t let her in. An hour ago.”
I looked at Crumley. “We’re catching up, getting close.”
“Don’t,” said Califia. “The way she yelled I thought she might have a knife. ‘I’ll never forgive you!’ she screamed. ‘You gave us the wrong road maps, down instead of up, lost instead of found. May you roast in hell!’ Then I heard her drive away. I won’t sleep at all tonight.”
“Did she say—this sounds crazy—where she was going?”
“Not crazy at all,” said Califia. “I would think that since she went first to that old fool on Mount Lowe who she dropped after one bad night, then me who put her up to it, well, next, why not the poor sap who performed the ceremony? She wants to get us all together, to push us off a cliff !”
“She wouldn’t do that.”
“How would you know? How many women you had in your life?”
At last I said, sheepishly, “One.”
Queen Califia mopped her face with a handkerchief big enough to cover half her bosom, regained her composure, and slowly advanced on me, propelling herself on glider wheels with dainty pushes of her incredibly small shoes. I could not take my eyes off how tiny her feet were compared with the vast territory above, and the great lunar face that loomed on that expanse. I saw the ghost of Constance drowned beneath that flesh. Queen Califia shut her eyes.
“She’s using you. You love her?”
“Carefully.”
“Keep your clothes on and your motor running. She ask you to get her with child?”
“Not in so many words.”
“No words, just bastard stillborns. She whelped monsters down the whole L.A. basin, lousy Hollywood Boulevard, dead-end Main. Burn her bed, scatter the ashes, call a priest.”
“Which priest, where?”
“I’ll put you in touch. Now …” She paused, refusing to spit out the name. “Our friend. She’s always missing. One of her dodges, to make men panic. One hour with her does it. They riot in the streets. You know the game Uncle Wiggily? Well, Uncle Wiggily says jump back ten hops, head for the Hen House, quit! ”
“But she needs me!”
“No. She dines on spoilage. Blessed are the wicked who relish wickedness. Your bones will knead her bread. If she were here, I’d run her down with my chair. God, she made Rome’s ruins. Hell,” she added. “Let me see your palm again.” Her massive chair creaked. Her wall of flesh threatened.
“You going to take back what you saw in my hand?”
“No. I just say what I see in an open palm. You will have another life beyond this! Tear up that newspaper. Burn the wedding invitation. Leave town. Tell her to die. But tell her cross-country by phone. Now, out!”
“Where do I go from here?”
