Gravedigger Read Online Free PDF

said. He took in some whiskey and lit another of Amanda’s cigarettes. “And while I was sitting here boozing with dead friends and lovers, what were you doing with those thirty-four years?”
    Edwards grinned. “Only thirty,” he said. “I’m a lawyer. Entertainment personalities, TV, pictures.”
    “Would you believe?” Amanda said.
    She meant that he looked like a film star. That didn’t surprise Dave. Carl Brandstetter had looked like a film star too. But Carl Brandstetter had been sixty-five when Amanda married him. So what surprised Dave was Edwards’s youth. He was still older than Amanda but not much. It was only a surprise. It wasn’t important. What was important was that he earned a living and probably a good one. He wasn’t after Amanda for her money.
    Dave wasn’t only old enough to be Amanda’s father—he worried about her like a father. The way she had moped around that big, empty Beverly Glen house after Carl Brandstetter’s sudden death had troubled him, and he’d tried to take her mind off her loss by putting her to work, remodeling and decorating the ramshackle place he’d bought to live alone in up Horseshoe Canyon. When that was done, he’d talked her into opening a business, and in no time she’d got more clients than she could handle, and was too busy to mourn. But he was uneasy that she seemed to shun all men except him, an aging homosexual. Now here she came with a man, and Dave was jealous. Ridiculous. He laughed at himself.
    “Dave?” Amanda’s eyes were bright. “We’ve got something to tell you.”
    But Mel Fleischer arrived, tall, balding, patrician, in dark green tweed, lavender shirt, pale green tie. He was a heavy contributor to the philharmonic and the museum, collected California painters, and was a senior vice-president of Proctor Bank. He and Dave had been lovers—though that was a flowery word for it—in high school, when the world was young. They had remained friends. Trailing Mel came Makoto, the Japanese college boy he slept with, stocky, broad-faced. A shiny red jacket was open over his muscular brown torso. He wore red jogging shorts, white gym socks with red trim, and no shoes. Roller skates dangled from his square, brown hand—white tops, red wheels. From across the room, Max watched Makoto with a sad shake of the head, mourning a restaurant dress code long defunct.
    Dave made introductions. Makoto sat down, dropped the skates on the thick carpet, lounged in the chair. Mel sat straight, a Renaissance cardinal holding audience.
    Amanda told Makoto, “Those are beautiful skates.”
    Makoto nodded a head of shaggy black hair and showed terrific teeth. He didn’t talk much. Spoken English was not easy for him. Amanda handed him her menu. Edwards tried to give his to Mel. Mel smiled and shook his head.
    “Scallops,” he said. “They sauté them beautifully here, in brown butter.” He passed Dave an envelope. “The sad story of Charles Westover—financial only, but I often think a good novelist could reconstruct a whole life from a study of a man’s bank statements, don’t you?”
    “Balzac,” Makoto said. He pronounced it Borzock. “ César Birotteau.” The last name was easy for him.
    Dave put on glasses and peered at the pages from the envelope. “Credit check here, too. Thanks. I see he’s keeping up the house payments. Jesus, a third mortgage!”
    “He’d better. But, as you can see, his debts elsewhere are staggering. In round figures, two hundred thousand dollars. The house and car are all he has.”
    “Ahem!” Amanda said. Dave laid down the papers and took off the glasses. She was holding Edwards’s hand on the table, and she was radiant. “I have an announcement, please. Miles and I are getting married.”
    “Ho!” Dave was startled. She’d never kept a secret before. “Wonderful. Congratulations.” He kissed her cheek and shook the hand of Edwards, who grinned happily.
    “Champagne!” Mel waved his arms.