One morning, last February, while hiking in the San Jacinto mountains, just across from the condo we rent, I bumped into a gregarious Jew about my age who introduced himself as Ray Burns, a coin dealer from Cleveland. He asked where I was from and what I did.  When I told him I was a former lawyer and writer his eyes lit up.

 

“Would you like to meet Herman Wouk?” he offered. They not only went to the same temple but were neighbors. “I bought Al Jolson’s house,” he said, obviously hoping to impress me.

 

“No kidding,” I said, impressed. 

 

As we emerged onto South Palm Canyon Drive, Ray Burns asked if I’d to see the place, which was just a few blocks away from where I was staying, on the opposite side of the street. Our complex faced the mountains and Jolson’s old house was at the foot of the mountains, in an area called The Mesa. I was all sweaty and wanted to have a swim before lunch so I asked for a rain check. He gave me the address and directions.

 

By the time I finished lunch I’d forgotten the name of the street, but I remembered the house number, so I took a little walk. After going up several blind alleys and dead end streets, where there was no house with that number, I found it on an old iron gate. Behind it, hidden by a tangle of dessert greenery and cacti that looked like they hadn’t been tended since Jolson died, was a beige stucco cottage with large windows. I opened the gate, went up to the front door, and rang the bell. No answer. I shaded my eyes and looked through the glass door panel. The place was reasonably neat but didn’t look lived in. I went back out the gate to the mailbox. There was a dusty vintage ford in the driveway with a Pennsylvania license plate. Cleveland is not in Pennsylvania. Maybe I had the wrong house. I looked both ways, to make sure no one was around, and opened the mailbox. I pulled out a couple of flyers and letter from Time Warner addressed to Ray Burnswieg. Aka Ray Burns.

 

Well, maybe I’d try again tomorrow.