I.
Caruso was waiting for me
at a small public park in Studio City not far from his girlfriend’s
house. Ex-girlfriend’s house, to be
precise. About an hour earlier she threw
him out and took away his car keys because she owned the car he had been
driving. The finality of their
separation was certified by the ugly bruise on the left side of Caruso’s
face. The bruise was still spreading
like a lunar eclipse when he limped to my car from one of the picnic tables
near the parking area.
“Frying pan?” I asked after he planted
himself in the passenger seat.
“Magazine,” he said.
I
took another quick look at his purple cheekbone. “Must have been Vogue.”
“Didn’t notice,” he sighed, “but the damn
thing was thicker than a surfboard. I
really didn’t expect it. Marina was
holding it with both hands, like she was about to open it and read something. I was in the middle of a sentence when she
just swung it with a two-handed grip and whacked me in the face.”
“And the limp?”
“Tripped on something in the hallway. I was in a hurry.”