Sirens seize the sudden bus and it stands still. A chorus of burning horns bleat mournfully until the whole lot sings in unison, then grows mute, one after the other. It's enough to break Muriel Sparks's sputtering heart. Pings and pips of broken glass and blistering steel. Ashes steam and smell like mildewed Cadillacs, gutted and reduced to ugly shells, up to their rearview mirrors in rubble. Orange smog hovers between Hollywood and the volcanic horizon. Long ago Dudley gave up trying to find himself based on looks. It is the picture of a man who didn't consider limb-bursting winds and subzero temperatures. He reads the city like trappers read signs in wilderness. A magic castle, purple mountains, pointed spiked and smiling sun. A game of hangman in thirteen blanks.

Dudley often comforts himself by knowing where he isn't, but tonight he is where he is--walking in through the gates of the Blue Motel--where his neighbor can't change a light bulb. On the other side unborn twins paint masterpieces for the Madonna. He hears Socco say he died and couldn't save the baby. Everyone knows Pretty Mary is childless, but Socco loves inventing reasons why the child is gone. He doesn't know why, he says, but he found Death. A car backfires and the guests all turn in time to see Warren Beatty driving down the road like Sunday in a dream boat, and he is so pretty, has so much healthy hair they feel pity. In Dudley's drawer a brittle garden at Marilyn's feet--the shade of Ada's undies. His guilts and fears are sanded smooth.



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