King Perry by Edmond Manning Read Free Book Online Page B

south part of the island, fondling the low-hanging leaves, admiring flowers, and watching gulls hop around on one foot. We discuss the merits of hot dogs in general and climb the steep, twisting stairs up the landscaped terrace facing the San Francisco skyline. After admiring the city from a few strategic spots, we stroll through an empty foundation, a great cement slab on the southeast side of the island, perfect for valet parking if that were remotely feasible. Or useful.
    I lead us around the perimeter of the foundation, pointing out heron nests as I spot them among the rubbery honeysuckle, and we contemplate four or five enormous debris hills dotting the parking lot foundation. Entangled with giant metal rods and crumbling cement blocks, these things could pass as modern sculpture. Instead they suggest a hellish, futuristic landscape built on the ruins of a previous hellish landscape.
    I have a nice little “I’ll be back” moment for Perry tomorrow. It doesn’t have to work out that way, that tone exactly. But let’s see if this is a hit.
    I say, “I heard they’re thinking about making another Terminator movie.”
    “Never saw the first two. Were they any good?”
    “ T2 was awesome, but I think they should leave well enough alone and skip the third.”
    He says, “Yeah, they always do that.”
    Okay, no Arnold Schwarzenegger lines. I guess the guy doesn’t have much impact on Perry’s world of finance. Chatting about movies, we wander further and descend a half dozen stone steps to a vista facing east, right to the edge of a low stone wall with a wide, flat top. Another lovely view, more bay than skyline, beautiful for different reasons.
    “Join me,” I suggest, crawling on the wall and dangling my feet over the edge.
    Perry nods in acknowledgement of my suggestion but makes no move. He says, “See that gold dome? I actually knew a—”
    “Perry.” I pat the space next to me. “When I suggest you do something this weekend, I expect you to do it.”
    Perry stiffens and remembers, glancing in all directions before awkwardly hoisting himself to sit by my side. He drags his legs to dangle over the wall facing the bay. Except for the rare appearance by one or two people a good distance away, we’re fairly isolated. After all, we arrived on the last tour of the day.
    I say, “This reminds me of the wall in the Charlie Brown comic strip.”
    Perry looks around and says, “Yeah, I guess.”
    I say, “Who’s your favorite Charlie Brown character?”
    “Marcie.”
    “Lemme guess. Her glasses?”
    “I liked how she called Peppermint Patty ‘Sir’ all the time.” Perry smiles and says, “Don’t read too much into that. Your favorite?”
    “Sherman.”
    Perry’s face scrunches. He has no clue.
    “Black-haired kid, lanky, sometimes with Violet and Frieda. He didn’t interact much with Charlie Brown or Linus.”
    “I don’t even remember him.”
    I say, “Nobody does.”
    I hop down three feet to a ledge below us. “Let’s go.”
    Perry jumps immediately, perhaps extra sensitive to suggestion after my recent rebuke.
    I still haven’t figured out the original purpose of the giant limestone blocks beneath the Charlie Brown wall. Perhaps they were dumped here, or, more likely, they’re from an older wall. Of everyone I’ve asked, nobody is sure. Perhaps they’re a fossilized circus train from prehistoric days.
    I put my hand behind me, and when he doesn’t grab it right away, I snap my fingers. His fingers find mine, and I lead him downward. Our ancient circus train winds down a couple of hundred feet toward the gravel shore, following the island’s curve. After a moment, we’re not visible from the Charlie Brown wall. But before we get close to the smashing waves, still a hundred feet away, I guide Perry to a patch of green earth.
    I love this spot, the Hammock. Roughly the size of a small bedroom, it’s plenty big enough—I’m delighted to confirm—for both of us to lie here