"Yes."

"I have a good idea. Your middle name was his first. Ralph Contreras. He was a gardener at the Lutheran Church. He used to watch us when we came home from school. Every day. Your mother was very pretty, you know. Not in a movie-star kind of way, like Arleen, but with dark eyes...you've got her eyes...a sort of liquid look in them. I think she was always the one Ralph loved. Not that he said very much. He had a terrible stammer."

Howie smiled at this.

"Then it was him. I inherited that."

"I don't hear it."

"I know, it's strange. It's gone. It's almost like meeting Fletcher took it out of me. Tell me, does Ralph still live in the Grove?"

"No. He left before you were even born. He probably thought there'd be a lynch-mob out after him. Your mother was a middle-cla.s.s white girl, and he..."

She stopped, seeing the look on Howie's face.

"He?" Howie said.

"-was Hispanic."

Howie nodded. "You learn something new every day, right?" he said, playing lightly what clearly went deep.

"Anyway, that's why he left," Joyce went on. "If your mother had ever named him I'm sure he'd have been accused of rape. Which it wasn't. We were driven, all of us, by whatever the Devil had put inside us."

"It wasn't the Devil, Momma," Jo-Beth said.

"So you say," she replied, with a sigh. The energy suddenly seemed to go out of her, as the old vocabulary took its toll. "And maybe you're right. But I'm too old to change the way I think."

"Too old?" said Howie. "What are you talking about? What you did last night was extraordinary."

Joyce reached across and touched Howie's cheek. "You must leave me to believe what I believe. It's only words, Howard. The Jaff to you. The Devil to me."

"So what does that make Tommy-Ray and me, Momma?" Jo-Beth said. "The Jaff made us."

"I've wondered about that often," Joyce said. "When you were very young I used to watch you both all the time, waiting for the bad in you to show. It has in Tommy-Ray. His maker's taken him. Maybe my prayers have saved you, Jo-Beth. You went to church with me. You studied. You trusted in the Lord."

"So you think Tommy-Ray's lost?" Jo-Beth asked.

Momma didn't answer for a moment, though not, it was clear when the answer came, because she felt ambiguous on the subject.

"Yes," she said finally. "He's gone."

"I don't believe that," Jo-Beth said.

"Even after what he was up to last night?" Howie put in.

"He doesn't know what lie's doing. The Jaff's controlling him, Howie. I know him better than a brother-"

"Meaning?"

"He's my twin. I feel what he feels."

"There's evil in him," Momma said.

"Then there's evil in me too," Jo-Beth replied. She stood up. "Three days ago you loved him. Now you say he's gone. You've let the Jaff have him. I won't give up on him that way." So saying, she left the room.

"Maybe she's right," Joyce said softly.

"Tommy-Ray can be saved?" Howie said.

"No. Maybe the Devil's in her too."

Howie found Jo-Beth in the yard, face up to the sky, eyes closed. She glanced around at him.

"You think Momma's right," she said. "Tommy-Ray's beyond help."

"No, I don't. Not if you believe we can get to him. Bring him back."

"Don't just say that to please me, Howie. If you're not on my side in this I want you to tell me."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Listen," he said, "if I'd believed what your mother said then I wouldn't have come back, would I? This is me remember? Mister Persistence. If you think we can break the Jaff's hold on Tommy-Ray then we'll d.a.m.n well do it. Just don't ask me to like him."

She turned round fully, brushing her hair, which the breeze had caught, from her face.

"I never thought I'd be standing in your momma's backyard with my arms around you," Howie said.

"Miracles happen."

"No they don't," he said. "They're made. You're one, and I'm one, and the sun's one, and the three of us being out here together is the biggest of the lot."

III.

Grillo's first call, after Tesla's departure, was to Abernethy. Whether to tell or not to tell was only one of the dilemmas with which he was presented. Now more than ever the real problem was how. He'd never had the instincts of a novelist. In his writing he'd sought a style that set the facts out as plainly as possible. No fancy footwork; no flights of vocabulary. His mentor in this was not a journalist at all but Jonathan Swift, author of Gulliver s Travels, a man so concerned to communicate his satire with clarity that he'd reputedly read his works aloud to his servants to be certain his style did not confound his substance. Grillo kept that story as a touchstone. All of which was fine when reporting on the homeless in Los Angeles, or on the drug problem. The facts were plain enough.

But this story-from the caves to Fletcher's immolation-posed a knottier problem. How could he report what he'd seen last night without also reporting how it had felt? He kept his exchange with Abernethy oblique. It was useless to try to pretend nothing at all had happened in the Grove the night before. Reports of the vandalism-though not a major story-had already been carried on all the local newscasts. Abernethy was on to it.

"Were you there, Grillo?"

"Afterwards. Only afterwards. I heard the alarms and-"

"And?"

"There's not much to report. There were some windows broken."

"h.e.l.l's Angels on the rampage."

"Is that what you heard?"

"Is that what I heard? You're supposed to be the f.u.c.king reporter, Grillo, not me. What do you need? Drugs? Drink? A visit from the f.u.c.king Mude?"

"That's Muse."

"Mude, Muse; who the f.u.c.k cares? Just get me a story the people want to read. There must have been injuries-"

"I don't think so."

"Then invent some."

"I do have something..."

"What? What?"

"A story n.o.body's reported yet, I'll bet."

"It better be good, Grillo. Your job's on the f.u.c.king line here."

"There's going to be a shindig up at Vance's house. To celebrate his pa.s.sing."

"OK. So you get inside the place. I want the works on him and his friends. The man was a no-good. No-goods have no-good friends. I want names and details."

"Sometimes you sound like you saw too many movies, Abernethy."

"Meaning what?"

"Skip it."

The image lingered, long after Grillo had put down the phone, of Abernethy sitting up nights rehearsing lines from newspaper epics, refining his performance as a hard-pressed, hard-bitten editor. He wasn't the only one, Grillo thought.

Everyone had a movie playing somewhere at the back of their heads in which they were the name above the t.i.tle. Ellen was the wronged woman, with terrible secrets to keep. Tesla was the wild woman of West Hollywood, loose in a world she never made. Which line of thought invited the obvious question: what was he? Cub reporter on a hit scoop? Man of integrity, dogged by crimes against a corrupt system? Neither part suited him the way they might have done when he'd first arrived, hot foot from his hovel, to report the Buddy Vance story. Events had somehow marginalized him. Others, Tesla in particular, had taken the starring roles.

As he checked his appearance in the mirror he mused on what it meant to be a star without a firmament. Free to take up another profession perhaps? Rocket scientist; juggler; lover. How about lover? How about the lover of Ellen Nguyen? That had a nice ring.

She was a long time coming to the door, and when she arrived it seemed she took several seconds to even recognize Grillo. l.u.s.t as he was about to prompt her a smile surfaced, and she said: "Please...come in. Are you recovered from the flu?"

"A little shaky."

"I think maybe I'm catching it too..." she said as she closed the door. "I woke feeling...I don't know..."

The curtains were still drawn. The place looked even smaller than Grillo remembered it.

"You'd like coffee," she said.

"Sure. Thanks."

She disappeared through to the kitchen, leaving Grillo abandoned in the middle of a room in which every article of furniture was piled high with magazines, or toys, or unsorted washing. Only as he moved to clear a s.p.a.ce for himself did he realize he had an audience. Philip was standing at the head of the pa.s.sage that led to his bedroom. His outing to the Mall the evening before had been premature. He still looked frail.

"Hi," Grillo said. "How you doin'?"

Surprisingly, the boy smiled; a lavish, open smile.

"Did you see?" he said.

"See what?"

"At the Mall," Philip went on. "You did see. I know you did. The beautiful lights."

"Yes, I saw them."

"I told the Balloon Man all about it. That's how I know I wasn't dreaming."

He crossed to Grillo, still smiling.

"I got your drawing," Grillo said. "Thank you."

"Don't need them now," Philip said.

"Why's that?"

"Philip?" Ellen had returned with coffee. "Don't bother Mr. Grillo."

"It's no bother," Grillo said. He returned his gaze to Philip. "Maybe we can talk about Balloon Man later," he said.

"Maybe," the boy replied, as though this would be entirely dependent upon Grillo's good behavior. "I'm going now," he announced to his mother.

"Sure, sweetie."

"Shall I tell him h.e.l.lo?" Philip asked Grillo.

"Please," Grillo replied, not certain of what the boy meant, "I'd like that."

Satisfied, Philip made his way back to his bedroom.

Ellen was busying herself clearing a place for them to sit. With her back to Grillo she bent to her work. The plain kimono-style dressing gown she wore clung. Her b.u.t.tocks were heavy for a woman of her height. When she turned back the sash of the gown had loosened. The folds fell away at her breastbone. Her skin was dark, and smooth. She caught his appreciation as she handed him his coffee, but made no attempt to tie the gown more tightly. The gap tempted Grillo's eye every time she moved.

"I'm glad you came around," she said once they were seated. "I was concerned when your friend-"

"Tesla."

"Tesla. When Tesla told me you were ill. I felt responsible." She took a sip of coffee. She made a sharp backward motion when it touched her tongue. "Hot," she said.

"Philip was telling me you were down at the Mall last night."

"So were you," she replied. "Do you know if anybody was hurt? All that broken gla.s.s."

"Only Fletcher," Grillo replied.