I turned back to Shelly, who gave me a look of agony instead of relief. He had almost swallowed his cigar in an attempt to hide it in his mouth. He spat out the butt in his sink and choked away while I got him a glass of water, which he downed in one long gulp.
“The pressures of this job,” he gasped. “You wouldn’t know. You’ve got all the fun and what do I get?”
“Older,” I answered. “Remember to make those name changes on the door.”
Shelly’s fit of choking was passing. He leaned back in the dental chair and closed his eyes, the calm after battle. “We’ll see,” he said.
“We’ll see it the way we agreed,” I went on, moving to my office door, “or I call Miss Ferzetti at the State Dental Office and tell her I am not Captain Midnight and that you are a menace to home-front hygiene.”
“Where has compassion gone?” Shelly sobbed, his eyes still closed. “Where is friendship?”
“It sat down in that chair of yours and let itself get drilled and filled,” I said. “Now I’ve got some work to do.”
“Almost forgot,” Shelly said, opening his eyes without sitting up. “You had a guy looking for you.”
“A guy?”
“Right.”
“Did he leave his name? Number?”
“No,” said Shelly sheepishly. “He didn’t have to. He looked kind of sick when he came in. I sent him into your office and then the inspectors came.”
“You mean I’ve got a client in my office right now?”
“I forgot,” Shelly said with a shrug.
“You always forget,” I said, opening my office door. Fala came running out.
“That dog doesn’t stay around here,” Shelly said with all the authority he could put into it. “I’m in a good mood and everything, but I can’t have a dog here.”
I coaxed Fala to me, but he didn’t seem to want to meet my visitor. He whimpered as I picked him up, put him under my arm, and opened the door.
When I closed the door to my cubbyhole, I spotted Martin Lyle seated in the chair in the corner. He was looking out the window at a darkening sky.
This wasn’t quite the way I had planned to settle the whole thing, but I was willing to wrap it up any way I could.
I put the whining dog on the floor, went around my desk, sat down with satisfaction, and said, “Okay, Lyle, we talk, but we don’t leave this office till I have a murderer to hand over to the cops. Do we understand each other?”
It was at that point that I realized Martin Lyle was beyond understanding. His dead stare behind his Ben Franklin glasses went right through me and beyond. No more New Whigs, memories of Henry Clay, and wacky speeches about the future. There was no more future on earth for Martin Lyle.
I sat looking at him for a minute or two and watched him looking at me. The hole in his chest had stopped bleeding long before I arrived. There was no final pulsing of the thin chest under his white shirt. I looked at him and silently asked him some questions I had to answer myself.
He couldn’t have traveled far with a bullet in his chest, which meant that he had probably been shot in the building, on his way to see me. While it didn’t rule him out as the killer of Olson or his wife, it did eliminate him as a suspect for one murder, his own. Since Bass was firmly tied to Jeremy’s chair and probably listening to Byron’s poetry, he was safe on this one.
“So who punctuated you?” I asked Lyle.
Since he had no answers, I got up, walked over to him, and closed his eyes.
I folded my hands, exercised my jaw, unfolded my hands, and went through my mail. There was nothing much in it. I looked at Lyle again and made my decision.
I would feed the dog, make my phone calls, and come back to wait it out with Lyle’s corpse. I could see that the dog didn’t think very much of the plan. He went to the door and looked back at me, tail wagging in hope.
I went over to him, let us out, locked the office door behind me, and turned to Shelly.
“Mr. Lyle is going to wait for me,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Big case. I’ll be back in a little while.”
Shelly nodded. “How’s the tooth?” he asked.
“Okay,” I admitted.
“Professionalism,” he sighed. “It’ll show everytime.”
There is not much you can do with a dog outdoors in Los Angeles after you’ve fed him a decent taco lunch and walked him in the park; but we had some hours to kill and no place to go. I drove up Wilshire to Westlake Park, parked near the eastern Wilshire Boulevard entrance, and got out to let the dog sniff around the eight-foot-high black cement nude of Prometheus holding a torch and a globe. Jeremy had once told me that if Los Angeles had a patron saint, it was Prometheus. Jeremy’s favorite Prometheus was in a painting up at Pomona College in Claremont by a Mexican named Orozco. He had driven me out to see it a year earlier, and the damned thing depressed me. Prometheus had looked miserable, a big naked giant trying to keep the roof from falling on the heads of a whole bunch of bald guys who looked like zombies.
Jeremy also called me the poor man’s Prometheus when he was feeling particularly fatherly. He had even given me a book of Greek myths to read, but I had put it aside before getting to Prometheus because a walnut farmer from the San Jose Valley hired me to find his son who had run away with the daughter of one of his walnut sorters. I found the two kids in Fresno, married and working in an Arthur Murray dance studio as instructors. The kid was eighteen but looked a lot older. The girl was twenty and looked a lot younger. They both smiled a lot and I told the walnut grower I couldn’t find them. Someday I’ll get back to reading about Prometheus.
We spent an hour on and near a park bench watching some kids in the playground and talking to an old guy in a gray cardigan sweater who seemed to live on the bench. He knew a lot about dogs and was willing to tell me. I knew nothing about dogs and wasn’t very interested, but I had nothing better to do so I watched the kids, heard about short-hairs, and kept asking him for the time.
“Good dog you got there,” the old guy said, pointing the stem of his pipe.
“Man’s best friend,” I agreed, while the dog lay on the bench next to us, following the conversation.
“Like hell,” said the old man, leaning toward me. “People always say that. Dogs are something special in God’s world. That’s a fact, but they are dumb sons of bitches, and I mean that literally. They do what you teach them and if you treat them good they lick your hand and stay out of trouble if something doesn’t itch away at them. But you ask me, I’d rather have a friend who can talk back and have his own ideas. Dogs are just yes-men or no-men. You want a friend who just licks your mitt and tells you you’re right all the time? Hell, that’s no friend, that’s a dumb dog.”
The old guy spat, nodded his head, and put his pipe back in his mouth as he crossed his legs and looked out at the kids in the playground. “And,” he added, remembering an important point, “you’ve got to walk them, clean them, and feed them.”
“A lot of trouble,” I agreed, reaching down to pet the dog looking up at me.
“And there’s worse,” the old man said, looking away from me. “They don’t live long. Slobber all over you, trick you into investing some feeling in them, and their goddamn life span catches up with them.”
“You’ve had a dog or two,” I said.
“A few,” he said, still not turning to me. “A few.”
He told me some interesting things about the dog I was petting and I got up.
The dog and I said good-bye to the old guy and he waved, puffed on his pipe, and didn’t turn to watch us as we made our way back to Wilshire.
I found a small hot dog stand shaped like a hot dog bun with a fake hot dog coming out of each end and bought a sack with fries and a pair of Pepsis. On the way back to the Farraday, the dog kept sniffing at the bag and I had to protect it with my right hand while driving with my left. I had to ease my defense when I shifted gears, but I managed to keep the pooch at bay.