I, too, pushed my plate away.
“It wasn’t like this when I started. I’d just get sent somewhere, usually a church or something, and there’d be a god, maybe getting restless, troublesome, a lot of paranormal business going on—and I’d lay the cables, mess around a bit, and, bam, stick it in the box. I never thought I’d say it, but it was pretty easy, back then. Mostly . . .”
“What changed?”
“People. Everywhere you go now, you get people, messing it up. Christ’s sake . . .”
“You know what I thought? First thing, when I saw the boy?”
“No.”
“I thought: what kind of fricking parent lets their kid out on his own in Vegas, this time of night?”
She was smiling. I smiled back.
“And what is really crazy,” she said, “I still feel that way, and the darn kid isn’t even real! Is that nuts or something, huh?”
She was at ease again. Yet I’d a feeling something had passed over us, a shadow I could neither clearly see, nor properly define. Passed over, and maybe waiting to return.
She asked me, “OK. What next then, maestro?”
“Next . . . I think we see what we can stir up, shall we?” I took my phone out of my pocket. “Let’s make a nuisance of ourselves. I’m good at that . . .”
“Second Eden.”
The woman had a shiny, feel-good voice, like Christmas tinsel.
So I put a kink in that, straight off.
“I’d like to speak to Preston McAvoy, please.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What was the name?”
“McAvoy, Preston McAvoy. Tell him it’s Copeland, from the Registry.”
That got silence: the technical equivalent of a hand over the mouthpiece.
“We’ve no one here of that name, sir.”
“I’m sure you have. Preston McAvoy. Can you check, please?”
Silence once more. I liked the silence. I could read things into silence: nervousness, uncertainty, a call to a superior . . .
Or she genuinely had no idea what I was talking about.
“Is this a guest, sir? You appreciate, we can’t give out information about guests.”
“You may know him as Johnny Appleseed.”
Another silence. Then, “Is that a stage name, sir?”
I sighed. “Tell him this is Copeland. Registry. I’m here in town to see him. Will you tell him that, please? Reg-i-stry.”
Did she draw a breath?
“I don’t believe that I can help you, sir.”
“It isn’t me you’re helping. It’s Mr. McAvoy.”
Silence.
“Look,” I said. “Why don’t you let me talk to your manager, or whoever’s there with you? How about that?”
“Thank you for calling.”
And the phone went dead.
Twenty minutes later, and I tried again. A man this time. Same routine, a bit more brisk, a bit less friendly.
We drank another cocktail. And then Angel said, “Let me.”
She used her own phone. Made her voice go slow and husky.
I had seen her do her act at Big Hollow, with Cleary’s security. This time, though—this was different.
“It’s personal,” she breathed. “Preston’s expecting me . . .”
They put her on hold. They put her on hold for ten minutes.
No one came back to her.
She hit end call.
“Promising,” she said. “They asked me what my business was.”
“I’d ask the same! Jesus—”
She smiled, tucking her phone away.
“I did acting classes, once upon a time,” she said. “I thought it’d be good for opera.”
“Acting what, for God sake?”
“Shakespeare. Ibsen. You know? But I was pretty broke, and I knew this girl, did film and TV work, and she got me a few auditions. Never made any money. But—you know. Young black woman, total unknown—two kinds of parts, basically. Maybe you can guess which that one was? If you try hard?”
Chapter 51
Tell Him It’s Copeland
There was nothing very flashy about Second Eden.
The frontage would have fitted any middle range hotel. The Johnny Appleseed cartoon leered down at us in bas-relief, wielding an apple the size of my fist.
I asked her, “Ready?”
“Give me a minute.”
“You’re OK? I’m not being patronizing, honest. But I think we’re close to a god here. If it sparks off any, you know, any reaction, or you don’t feel right—”
“Chris,” she said. She took her phone and makeup from her purse. “I’ve been acting like I’m this guy’s entertainment for the night. I think I ought to touch my face up. Don’t you?”
“Well, you probably shouldn’t take the role so seriously . . .”
“Jealous?” She dabbed a lipstick at my nose, and I ducked back. “Maybe I’m a method actor? Thought of that?”
Then she was business-like at once. “All right. Let’s get this done, OK?”
Cool air blew across the lobby. I hesitated, relishing the AC, taking in the new surroundings: soft lights, pop music, and rich, deep carpeting . . .
A woman lay upon the floor, some ten yards in. She wore a pink dress and her hair was streaky-blond. She looked as if she’d fainted, but no one went to help her. People just stood around, chattered, stared at her.