HW 2: Punctuation
Shasta had mentioned a possible laughing academy angle to Mickey Wolfmann, matrimonial drama, and Doc thought it might be interesting to see how society page superstar, Mrs. Sloane Wolfmann, would react when somebody brought up this topic. If mickey was currently being held against his will in some private nuthouse, then do immediate chore would be to try and find out which one. He called the number Shasta had given him and the little woman herself picked up. “I know it’s awkward to be talking business right now, Mrs. Wolfmann, but unfortunately time is a factor here.” “This wouldn’t be another creditor inquiry, would it? There’ve been an astonishing number already. I’m referring them to our attorney, do you have his number?” Some kind of English smoker voice it seemed to Doc at the low end of the register and unspecifiably decadent.
As if auditioning for widowhood, Sloane Wolfmann strolled in from poolside wearing black spike heeled sandals, a headband with a sheer black veil, and a black bikini of negligible size made of the same material as the veil. She wasn’t exactly an English rose, maybe more like an English daffodil; very pale, blond, reedy, probably bruised easily, overdid her make up like everybody else did. Miniskirts were invented for young girls like her. In the time it took her to lead him through a dim, sunken interior full of taupe carpeting, suede upholstery, and teak which seemed to extend indefinitely in the direction of Pasadena, Doc learned that she had a degree from the London School of Economics, had recently begun studying tantric yoga, and had met Mickey Wolfmann originally in Las Vegas. She waved at a picture on the wall which looked like a blowup of an eight-by-ten glossy from the lobby area of some nightclub “Why goodness” said Doc “it’s you, isn’t it?”.
Sloane made with the half-frown half-smirk, Doc had noticed among minor and ex showbiz people trying to be modest. “My lurid youth. I was one of those notorious Vegas show girls working at one of the casinos. Up onstage in those days with the lights, the eyelashes, all the makeup, we did look fairly much alike but Michael, something of a connoisseur in these matters as I was later to learn, said that he picked me out the minute I walked on and after that I was really the only one he could see. Romantic, isn’t it? Yes, certainly unexpected. Next thing either of us knew, we were down at the little church of the west and I had this on my finger flashing a gigantic marquise cut diamond up in the double digits someplace.” With respect to carats she had told the story hundreds of times but that was all right. “Handsome stone.” Doc said. Like an actress hitting her mark, she had come to pause below a looming portrait of Mickey Wolfmann shown with a distant stare as if scanning the La Basin to its farthest for buildable lots. She whirled to face Doc and smiled socially “Here we are then.”.
Doc called Sauncho next morning and asked if he’d ever heard of a boat called the Golden Fang. Sauncho grew strangely evasive. “Before I forget, was that a diamond ring on ginger last episode?” “You sure you didn’t like- hey, I was on the natch, I just couldn’t get a good look and how about all those goo-goo eyes at the skipper? I didn’t even know they were dating.”. “Must’ve missed that.” said Doc “I mean I always figured she’d end up with Gilligan somehow.” “Nah, nah, Thurston Howell III!” “Come on, he’d never divorce Lovey.”. There was a pulse of embarrassed silence as both men realized that this could all be construed as code for Shasta Fay and Mickey Wolfmann and incredible, even Doc himself. “The reason I was asking about this boat” Doc said finally “is- is that, okay how about Sauncho?” A little abrupt, “You know the yacht harbor in San Pedro? There’s a local fish place called the Belaying Pin. Meet me there for lunch, I’ll tell you what I can.”.
Waiting on Doc Doorsill at work was a postcard from some island he had never heard of, out in the Pacific Ocean, with a lot of vowels in its name. The cancellation was in French and initialed by a local postmaster along with the notation “Courier par Lance Coco” which as close as he could figure from the Petit Larousse, must mean some kind of catapult mail delivery involving coconut shells. Maybe as a way of dealing with an unapproachable reef. The message on the card was unsigned, but he knew it was from Shasta. “I wish you could see these waves, it’s one more of these places.”. A voice from somewhere else tells you “You have to be remember that day with the Ouija board, I miss those days and I miss you. I wish so many things could be different. Nothing was supposed to happen this way Doc, I’m so sorry.”.