"And two murders," Linda said, "and some story about bigamy?"
"And murder and bigamy, and probably a lot worse to come," I said. "It's the way I make my living. It's the way I got to be the guy you wanted to marry in the first place."
"And if I were poor?"
"You're not poor. I'm poor and you're not," I said. "There's no point talking about things that aren't so."
"What are you going to do with that picture of Muffy?" Linda said.
"I don't know," I said. "I didn't understand this case before and now I understand it a lot less."
Linda stepped to the bar and picked up the picture.
"I could tear it up right now," she said.
"Sure," I said, "but I've made copies."
"You think of everything, don't you," she said.
"Everything that doesn't matter," I said. "I haven't thought of who killed Lola Faithful or Lippy. I haven't thought of where Les Valentine is. I haven't thought of a way to keep the cops from tearing up my license, which I don't have copies made of."
Linda dropped the picture back on the bar.
"Perhaps she had Les take it, you know, just for them," she said.
"Maybe."
"Darling," Linda said, "let's go to Mexico again. Today, right now. I could be packed in an hour."
"You could be packed in two," I said. "And you'd pay for the trip and when we got back I'd still have to make a living."
"Damn you," Linda said. "Goddamn you." She walked to the picture window that looked out onto the -patio and pressed her forehead against it.
"I'm embarrassed with my friends about what you're doing. Can you imagine the talk at the club when I had to get you out of jail? I'm terrified when you're not home and I'm humiliated when there are social occasions and I have to go alone, and I don't even know where you are."
There was nothing to be said. So I said it.
"I know it seems so terribly snobbish and petty to you," Linda said. Her forehead was still against the glass. "But it is my life, the only one I've known. And my life matters to me too."
"I know," I said.
She turned from the window and stared at me.
"So what are we to do?" she said.
"You have to live your life," I said. "I have to live mine."
"And we can't seem to do that together," Linda said.
"No, we can't seem to," I said.
We were silent for a long time.
"I'll ask my attorney to draw up divorce papers," Linda said finally. "I want you to have something."
"No," I said. "I'll never touch it. It's not mine."
"I know," Linda said.
We were silent again. Through the plate glass two swallows darted into the bougainvillaea and disappeared in the leaves.
"I'll stay in the guest room tonight," I said. "Tomorrow I'll move back to L.A."
She nodded. There were tears on her face.
"Damn it, Marlowe," she said. "We love each other."
"I know," I said. "It's what makes it so hard."
34
I found a furnished apartment in front on Ivar north of the boulevard, in a stucco building built around a courtyard in the days when Hollywood had more screen stars and fewer hookers. My old office in the Cahuenga Building was still empty, so I moved back in. The desk, the two file cabinets, the old calendar remained, the outer office was still empty. Two dead flies lay on the floor just inside the door that still said Philip Marlowe, Investigation. I put a fresh bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer and rinsed out the two glasses on the sink in the corner, and I was ready for business.
Except there wasn't any business. A cousin to the dead flies in the outer office was buzzing lethargically against the window pane behind my desk. I put my feet up on the desk. The fly paused in his buzzing and looked at the impenetrable transparent space before him. He rubbed his face with his front feet, then buzzed again, but there wasn't much pizzazz in the buzz. It was a losing battle. He rattled for a minute against the window pane, then settled back down to the sill again and stood with his legs spraddled. I got up and carefully opened the window. The fly stayed motionless for a time, then he buzzed once and soared lazily out through the window and into the traffic fumes, three stories above Hollywood Boulevard. And then he was gone. I closed the window and sat back down. No one came in, no one called. No one cared if I got rabies or went to Paris.
At noon I went out and got a ham sandwich and some coffee at a joint on the boulevard and went back to my office to try sitting with my feet on the other corner. I still had my naked pictures of Muffy in the middle drawer of my desk. I still didn't know what to do with them. The negative was locked in the old floor safe behind the inner office door. I still didn't know where Les/Larry was and I didn't have a client.
I heard the outer door open and shut. And then Eddie Garcia came into my office and glanced around once and stepped aside and Clayton Blackstone came in behind him. Eddie went over and leaned blankly against one of the file cabinets. Blackstone sat down in my client chair. He had on a double-breasted grey pinstripe that cost more than my car.
"You've left the desert," he said.
"Word travels fast," I said.
Clayton smiled. "I'm sorry for your marital failure."
"Sure," I said.
"Have you gotten to the bottom of this mess yet?" Blackstone's hands were motionless on the arms of my chair. His nails were buffed. He wore a large diamond on the ring finger of his right hand.
"Maybe it doesn't have a bottom," I said.
"Which means no, I take it," Blackstone said.
"Yeah," I said.
'Tell me what you know."
"Why?"
Garcia laughed, a short barking sound.
Blackstone shook his head without looking at him. He reached inside his suit jacket and came out with a pigskin leather wallet, the long kind that is too big to fit into your pants pocket. He took out five hundred-dollar bills and laid them one beside the other on the desk.
'That's why," he said.
"You wish to employ me?" I said.
Eddie laughed his harsh bark again. "See, Mr. Black-stone, I told you he was a smart guy."
Blackstone nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I wish to employ you. I want you to find out where my son-in-law is. I wish you to bring these two murder investigations to a satisfactory conclusion. I wish my daughter's life to be orderly and pleasant again."
"What if the orderly conclusion is that your son-in-law buttoned both of them?" I said.
Blackstone shrugged.
I looked at the five hundred. "I don't need this much retainer," I said.
"Take your usual retainer, keep the rest as advance against expenses."
I nodded. "Why me?" I said. "Why not buy a couple of cops or maybe a judge or a D.A. and have the whole thing called off?"
"My daughter wants her husband back," Blackstone said. "Your suggestion doesn't lead to that."
"Okay," I said. I leaned over and picked up the hundreds and put them in my wallet. There was nothing in there to crowd them.
"If you wish to reach me, call Eddie. He will put us in touch. He has my complete confidence." He leaned forward again and placed a small white card on my desk. It was blank, except that a phone number was written on it in black ink.
I looked at Eddie. "Mine too," I said.
"My only condition, Marlowe, is that you report everything to me. I am not employing you to gossip to the police."
"You get first look at everything," I said. "But there may be things that I'll have to report. I'm a licensed private investigator. There's only so far I can go for a client."
"As long as I'm first," Blackstone said. "We'll deal with any other eventualities as they arise."