“Still,” Ben said, and although he didn’t add anything else, Hudson knew what he meant. There was a mystique that surrounded John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts. They were the quintessential buddy team, reckless and without fear. They were hard drinkers and harder workers, paragons of the romantic scholar adventurers. Suggesting that they might also have been bedmates would, for many of their admirers, be too much to imagine.

“I just want to know,” Hudson said. “That’s all. I just want to know.”

“You might never get that answer,” Ben told him.

“But you don’t think it’s crazy?” asked Hudson hopefully.

“No,” Ben said. “I don’t think it’s crazy.”

“Did Steinbeck see him before he died?” asked Hudson.

“He couldn’t get here in time,” said Ben. “He was living in New York then. You know that when he got back, his wife told him she wanted a divorce. He moved back here to Pacific Grove.”

“To be near Ricketts,” Hudson suggested.

“Maybe,” said Ben.

“General opinion is that his writing was never the same after Ricketts died,” said Hudson. “Whatever inspiration he got from him, it left with Ricketts.”

The sun, almost gone, was now nothing but a thin glow on the horizon. The streetlights had come on, their artificial shine harsh and cold. The bust, caught in a circle of light, looked at Hudson and Ben in bemused silence. Hudson knew that, halfway down Cannery Row, Steinbeck was doing the same.

“Would you like to read some of the manuscript?” Hudson asked Ben. He couldn’t believe he was making the offer. No one except him and Paul had read it, at least no one since it had come into their possession. He hadn’t even let Marty see it. Hell, Marty didn’t even know what it was about. But he’d told Ben everything.

“I would,” said Ben.

They left, walking to Hudson’s temporary home. Inside, he turned on a light in the living room while Ben took a seat on the couch. Then, going into the other room, he returned with the manuscript. He started to hand it to Ben.

“Why don’t you read me your favorite part,” Ben suggested.

Hudson sat down. “Okay,” he said. “Let me think about what that is. They’re all good.” He leafed through the pages, looking for something that wouldn’t require a lot of explanation. Finally, he settled on one. Sitting back, he cleared his throat and started to read.

Tom was flirting with the girl. He touched her arm as he talked to her, and she laughed and didn’t pull away. Charlie, watching them, found himself hating them both. He picked up his glass, wet with sweat in the hot air of the bar, and drank half of it.

“We oughta be going,” he said, loud enough for Tom to hear him.