"Shit," the old-timer said, getting up from his chair and walking to a row of filing cabinets. "That was no burglary caper, if you ask me. My partner and I wrote that report." He handed me a manila folder containing three typewritten pages. "There was nothin' missin', accordin' to the landlady, and she knew the stiff good. Could be the guy panicked. Don't ask me."
The report was written in the usual clipped department style, and everything from cat food to detergent was listed—but no mention was made of a diamond brooch, or any other jewelry.
There was a signed statement from the landlady, a Mrs. Crawshaw, stating that although the apartment had been in complete disarray, nothing seemed to be missing. She also stated that Maggie Cadwallader, to her knowledge, had not owned jewelry or stocks and bonds, nor had she secreted in her apartment large sums of money.
The old cop was looking at me. "You want a copy of that?" he asked wearily.
"No," I said, "you were right, it's a dull report. Thanks a lot, I'll see you."
He looked relieved. I felt relieved.
It was twelve-forty-five and I knew I couldn't sleep now even if I wanted to. I wanted to think, but I wanted it to be easy, not filled with panicky speculation over the dangerous risks I was taking. So I decided to break my silent vow of abstinence and drove out to Silverlake, where I knocked on the door of an old buddy from the orphanage.
He was mildly glad to see me, but his wife wasn't. I told them it wasn't a social call, that all I wanted was the loan of his golf clubs. Incredulous, he turned them over. I promised to return them soon, and to repay him for his favor with a good restaurant dinner. Incredulous, his wife said she'd believe it when she saw it, and hustled her husband back to bed.
I checked the clubs. They were good Tommy Armours, and there were at least fifty shag balls stuffed into the pockets of the bag. I went looking for a place to hit them, and to think.
I drove home and picked up Night Train. He was glad to see me and hungry for exercise. I found a few cold pork chops in the ice box and threw them at him. He was gnawing the bones as I attached his leash and slung the golf bag over my shoulder.
"The beach, Train," I said. "Let's see what kind of Labrador you really are. I'm going to hit balls into the ocean. Little chip shots. If you can retrieve them for me in the dark, I'll feed you steak for a year. What do you say?"
Night Train said "Woof!" and so we walked the three blocks down to the edge of the Pacific.
It was a warm night and there was no breeze. I unhooked Night Train's leash and he took off running, a pork chop bone still in his mouth. I dumped the balls onto the wet sand and extracted a pitching iron from the bag. Hefting it was like embracing a longlost beloved friend. I was surprised to find I wasn't rusty. My hiatus from golf hadn't dulled that sharp edge my game has always had, almost from the first time I picked up a club.
I hit easy pitch shots into the churning white waves, enjoying the synchronization of mind and body that is the essence of golf. After a while the mental part became unnecessary, my swing became me, and I turned my mind elsewhere.
Granted: I had passed myself off as a detective twice, using my own name, which might cost me a suspension if it were discovered. Granted: I was going strictly on hunches, and my observations of Maggie Cadwallader were based on her behavior during one evening. But. But. But, somehow I knew. It was more than intuition or deductive logic or character assessment. This was my own small piece of wonder to unravel, and the fact that the victim had given me her body, tenuously, in her search for something more, gave it weight and meaning.
I whistled for Night Train, who trotted up. We walked back to the apartment and I thought, Wacky was right. The key to the wonder is in death. I had killed, twice, and it had changed me. But the key wasn't in the killing, it was in the discovery of whatever led to it.
I felt strangely magnanimous and loving, like a writer about to dedicate a book. This one's for you, Wacky, I said to myself; this one's for you.
8
It was strange to be sitting in a bar looking for a killer rather than a woman.
The following night, free of the obsession that usually brought me to such places, I sat drinking watered-down Scotch and watched people get drunk, get angry, get maudlin and pour out their life stories to perfect strangers in alcoholic effusiveness. I was loking for men on the prowl, like myself, but the Silver Star on that first night held nothing but middle-aged desperation played to the tunes of the old prewar standards on the jukebox.
I closed the place, walking out at 1:00 A.M., asking the bartender if the place ever picked up.
"Weekends," he said. "This joint really hops on weekends. Tomorrow night. You'll see."
The barman was right. I got to the Silver Star at seven-forty-five Saturday evening and watched as the joint started to hop. Young couples, servicemen on leave—easily recognizable by their short haircuts and plain-toed black shoes—elderly juiceheads, and single men and women casting lonely, expectant glances all competed for bar and floor space.
The music was livelier this evening, and tailored for a younger clientele; upbeat arrangements of show tunes, even a little jazz. A good-looking woman of about thirty asked me to dance. Regretfully I turned her down, offering a bad leg as an excuse. She turned to the guy sitting next to me at the bar, who accepted.
I was looking for "operators," "lover-boy" types, "wolves"—men who could gain a woman's confidence as well as access to her bed with surpassing ease. Men like myself. I spent three hours, sitting, changing seats from bar-side to table-side, sipping ginger ale, always looking. I began to realize that this might be a long, grueling surveillance. For all my eyeball activity, I didn't see much.
I was starting to get depressed and even a little angry when I noticed two definite lowlife types approach the bar and lean over to speak in undertones to the bartender, whose face seemed to light up. He pointed to a door at the rear of the place, next to a bank of phone booths and cigarette machines. Then all three walked off in that direction, the barman leaving the bar untended.
I watched as they closed the door behind them, then waited two minutes. I went over to the door and knelt down, sniffing at the crack where it met the floor. Reefer smoke. I smiled, then transferred my gun from its holster to the pocket of my sports coat, flipped open my badge's leather holder and very casually but forcefully threw my right shoulder into the doorjamb, splintering the wood and throwing the door wide open.
The noise was very sharp and abrupt, like an explosion. The three grasshoppers were standing against the back wall next to a ceiling-high collection of whiskey crates, and they jumped back and threw up their hands reflexively when they heard the noise and saw my badge and gun.
I looked back into the bar. No one seemed to have noticed what had happened. I closed the door behind me, softly. "Police officer," I said very quietly. "Move over to the left-hand wall and place your hands on it, above your heads. Do it now."
They did. The smell of the marijuana was rank and sensual. I patted the three men down for weapons and dope, but came up with nothing except three fat reefers. All the guys were shaking and the bartender started to blubber about his wife and kids.
"Shut up!" I snapped at him. I pulled the other two guys back by their shirt collars, then shoved them in the direction of the door. "Get the hell out of here, you goddamn lowlife," I hissed, "and don't ever let me see you in here again."