The big man said: Lets go, pally. Away from here. I think maybe a little air will help you to get straightened out.
Okey, Hemingway.
Hes doing that again, the big man said sadly. Calling me Hemingway on account of there are ladies present. Would you think that would be some kind of dirty crack in his book?
The man with the mustache said, Hurry up.
The big man took me by the arm and we went over to the little elevator. It came up. We got into it.
24
At the bottom of the shaft we got out and walked along the narrow hallway and out of the black door. It was crisp clear air outside, high enough to be above the drift of foggy spray from the ocean. I breathed deeply.
The big man still had hold of my arm. There was a car standing there, a plain dark sedan, with private plates.
The big man opened the front door and complained: It aint really up to your class, pally. But a little air will set you up fine. Would that be all right with you? We wouldnt want to do anything that you wouldnt like us to do, pally.
Wheres the Indian?
He shook his head a little and pushed me into the car. I got into the right side of the front seat. Oh, yeah, the Indian, he said. You got to shoot him with a bow and arrow. Thats the law. We got him in the back of the car.
I looked in the back of the car. It was empty.
Hell, he aint there, the big one said. Somebody must of glommed him off. You cant leave nothing in a unlocked car any more.
Hurry up, the man with the mustache said, and got into the back seat. Hemingway went around and pushed his hard stomach behind the wheel. He started the car. We turned and drifted off down the driveway lined with wild geraniums. A cold wind lifted off the sea. The stars were too far off. They said nothing.
We reached the bottom of the drive and turned out onto the concrete mountain road and drifted without haste along that.
How come you dont have a car with you, pally?
Amthor sent for me.
Why would that be, pally?
It must have been he wanted to see me.
This guy is good, Hemingway said. He figures things out. He spit out of the side of the car and made a turn nicely and let the car ride its motor down the hill. He says you called him up on the phone and tried to put the bite on him. So he figures he better have a looksee what kind of guy he is doing business with if he is doing business. So he sends his own car.
On account of he knows he is going to call some cops he knows and I wont need mine to get home with, I said. Okey, Hemingway.
Yeah, that again. Okey. Well he has a dictaphone under his table and his secretary takes it all down and when we come she reads it back to Mister Blane here.
I turned and looked at Mister Blane. He was smoking a cigar, peacefully, as though he had his slippers on. He didnt look at me.
Like hell she did, I said. More likely a stock bunch of notes they had all fixed up for a case like that.
Maybe you would like to tell us why you wanted to see this guy, Hemingway suggested politely.
You mean while I still have part of my face?
Aw, we aint those kind of boys at all, he said, with a large gesture.
You know Amthor pretty well, dont you, Hemingway?
Mr. Blane kind of knows him. Me, I just do what the orders is.
Who the hell is Mister Blane?
Thats the gentleman in the back seat.
And besides being in the back seat who the hell is he?
Why, Jesus, everybody knows Mr. Blane.
All right, I said, suddenly feeling very weary.
There was a little more silence, more curves, more winding ribbons of concrete, more darkness, and more pain.
The big man said: Now that we are all between pals and no ladies present we really dont give so much time to why you went back up there, but this Hemingway stuff is what really has me down.
A gag, I said. An old, old gag.
Who is this Hemingway person at all?
A guy that keeps saying the same thing over and over until you begin to believe it must be good.
That must take a hell of a long time, the big man said. For a private dick you certainly have a wandering kind of mind. Are you still wearing your own teeth?
Yeah, with a few plugs in them.
Well, you certainly have been lucky, pally.
The man in the back seat said: This is all right. Turn right at the next.
Check.
Hemingway swung the sedan into a narrow dirt road that edged along the flank of a mountain. We drove along that about a mile. The smell of the sage became overpowering.
Here, the man in the back seat said.
Hemingway stopped the car and set the brake. He leaned across me and opened the door.
Well, its nice to have met you, pally. But dont come back. Anyways not on business. Out.
I walk home from here?
The man in the back seat said: Hurry up.
Yeah, you walk home from here, pally. Will that be all right with you?
Sure, it will give me time to think a few things out. For instance you boys are not L.A. cops. But one of you is a cop, maybe both of you. Id say you are Bay City cops. Im wondering why you were out of your territory.
Aint that going to be kind of hard to prove, pally?
Goodnight, Hemingway.
He didnt answer. Neither of them spoke. I started to get out of the car and put my foot on the running board and leaned forward, still a little dizzy.
The man in the back seat made a sudden flashing movement that I sensed rather than saw. A pool of darkness opened at my feet and was far, far deeper than the blackest night.
I dived into it. It had no bottom.
25
The room was full of smoke.
The smoke hung straight up in the air, in thin lines, straight up and down like a curtain of small clear beads. Two windows seemed to be open in an end wall, but the smoke didnt move. I had never seen the room before. There were bars across the windows.
I was dull, without thought. I felt as if I had slept for a year. But the smoke bothered me. I lay on my back and thought about it. After a long time I took a deep breath that hurt my lungs.
I yelled: Fire!
That made me laugh. I didnt know what was funny about it but I began to laugh. I lay there on the bed and laughed. I didnt like the sound of the laugh. It was the laugh of a nut.
The one yell was enough. Steps thumped rapidly outside the room and a key was jammed into a lock and the door swung open. A man jumped in sideways and shut the door after him. His right hand reached toward his hip.
He was a short thick man in a white coat. His eyes had a queer look, black and flat. There were bulbs of gray skin at the outer corners of them.
I turned my head on the hard pillow and yawned.
Dont count that one, Jack. It slipped out, I said. He stood there scowling, his right hand hovering towards his right hip. Greenish malignant face and flat black eyes and gray white skin and nose that seemed just a shell.
Maybe you want some more strait-jacket, he sneered.
Im fine, Jack. Just fine. Had a long nap. Dreamed a little, I guess. Where am I?
Where you belong.
Seems like a nice place, I said. Nice people, nice atmosphere. I guess Ill have me a short nap again.
Better be just that, he snarled.
He went out. The door shut. The lock clicked. The steps growled into nothing.
He hadnt done the smoke any good. It still hung there in the middle of the room, all across the room. Like a curtain. It didnt dissolve, didnt float off, didnt move. There was air in the room, and I could feel it on my face. But the smoke couldnt feel it. It was a gray web woven by a thousand spiders. I wondered how they had got them to work together.
Cotton flannel pajamas. The kind they have in the County Hospital. No front, not a stitch more than is essential. Coarse, rough material. The neck chafed my throat. My throat was still sore. I began to remember things. I reached up and felt the throat muscles. They were still sore. Just one Indian, pop. Okey, Hemingway. So you want to be a detective? Earn good money. Nine easy lessons. We provide badge. For fifty cents extra we send you a truss.