"Depends who the writer is, maybe," I said. "It didn't come easy to Flaubert, and his stuff is good."
"Okay," Wade said, sitting up. "So you have read Flaubert, so that makes you an intellectual, a critic, a savant of the literary world." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm on the wagon and I hate it. I hate everybody with a drink in his hand. I've got to go out there and smile at those creeps, Every damn one of them knows I'm an alcoholic. So they wonder what I'm running away from. Some Freudian bastard has made that a commonplace. Every ten-year-old kid knows it by now. If I had a ten-year-old kid, which God forbid, the brat would be asking me, 'What are you running away from when you get drunk, Daddy?"
"The way I got it, all this was rather recent," I said.
"It's got worse, but I was always a hard man with a bottle. When you're young and in hard condition you can absorb a lot of punishment. When you are pushing forty you don't snap back the same way."
I leaned back and lit a cigarette. "What did you want to see me about?"
'What do you think I'm running away from, Marlowe?"
"No idea. I don't have enough information, Besides, everybody is running away from something."
"Not everybody gets drunk. What are you running away from? Your youth or a guilty conscience or the knowledge that you're a small time operator in a small time business?"
"I get it," I said. "You need somebody to insult. Fire away, chum. When it begins to hurt I'll let you know."
He grinned and rumpled his thick curly hair. He speared his chest with a forefinger. "You're looking right at a small time operator in a small time business, Marlowe. All writers are punks and I am one of the punkest. I've written twelve best sellers, and if I ever finish that stack of magoozium on the desk there I may possibly have- written thirteen. And not a damn one of them worth the powder to blow it to hell. I have a lovely home in a highly restricted residential neighborhood that belongs to a highly restricted multimillionaire. I have a lovely wife who loves me and a lovely publisher who loves me and I love me the best of all. I'm an egotistical son of a bitch, a literary prostitute or pimp-choose your own word-and -an -all-round heel. So what can you do for me?"
"Well, what?"
"Why don't you get sore?"
"Nothing to get sore about. I'm just listening to you hate yourself. It's boring but it doesn't hurt my feelings."
He laughed roughly. "I like you," he said, "Let's have a drink."
"Not in here, chum. Not you and me alone. I don't care to watch you take the first one. Nobody can stop you and I don't guess anyone would try. But I don't have to help."
He stood up. "We don't have to drink in here. Let's go outside and glance at a choice selection of the sort of people you get to know when you make enough lousy money to live where they live,"
"Look," I said. "Shove it. Knock it off. They're no different from anybody else."
"Yeah," he said tightly, "but they ought to be. If they're not, what use are they? They're the dass of the county and they're no better than a bunch of truckdrivers full of cheap whiskey. Not as good."
"Knock it off," I said again. "You want to get boiled, get boiled. But don't take it out on a crowd that can get boiled without having to lie up with Dr. Verringer or get loose in the head and throw their wives down the stairs."
"Yeah," he said, and he was suddenly calm and thoughtful. "You pass the test, chum. How about coming to live here for a while? You could do me a lot of good just being here."
"I don't see how."
"But I do. Just by being here. Would a thousand a month interest you? I'm dangerous when I'm drunk. I don't want to be dangerous and I don't want to be drunlc"
"I couldn't stop you."
"Try it for three months. I'd finish the damn book and then go far off for a while. Lie up some place in the Swiss mountains and get dean."
"The book, huh? Do you have to have the money?"
"No. I just have to finish something I started. If I don't I'm through. I'm asking you as a friend. You did more than that for Lennox."
I stood up and walked over dose to him and gave him a hard stare. "I got Lennox killed, mister. I got him killed."
"Phooey. Don't go soft on me, Marlowe." He put the edge of his hand against his throat. "I'm up to here in the soft babies."
"Soft?" I asked. "Or just kind?"
He stepped back and stumbled against the edge of the couch, but didn't lose his balance.
"The hell with you," he said smoothly. "No deal. I don't blame you, of course. There's something I want to know, that I have to know. You don't know what it is and I'm not sure I know myself. All- I'm positive of is that there is something, and I have to know it."
"About who? Your wife?"
He moved his lips one ever the other. "I think it's about me," he said. "Let's go get that drink."
He walked to the door and threw it open and we went out.
If he had been trying to make me uncomfortable, he had done a first dass job.
24
When he opened the door the buzz from the living room exploded into our faces. It seemed -louder than before, if possible. About two drinks louder. Wade said hello here and there and people seemed glad to see him. But by that time they would have been glad to see Pittsburgh Phil with his custom-built icepick. Life was just one great big vaudeville show.
On the way to the bar we came face to face with Dr. Loring and his wife. The doctor stood up and stepped forward to face Wade. He had a look on his face that was almost sick with hatred.
"Nice to see you, Doctor," Wade said amiably. "Hi, Linda. Where have you been keeping yourself lately? No, I guess that was a stupid question. I-"
"Mr. Wade," Loring said in a voice that had a tremor to it, "I have something to say to you. Something very simple, and I hope very conclusive. Stay away from my wife."
Wade looked at him curiously. "Doctor, you're tired. And you don't have a drink. Let me get you one."
"I don't drink, Mr. Wade. As you very well know. I am here for one purpose and I have expressed that purpose."
"Well, I guess I get your point," Wade said, still amiable. "And since you are a guest in my house, I have nothing to say except that I think you are a little off the beam."
There had been a drop in the talk near by. The boys and girls were all ears. Big production. Dr. Loring took a pair of gloves out of his pocket, straightened them, took hold of one by the finger end, and swung it har4 against Wade's face.
Wade didn't bat an eye. "Pistols and coffee at dawn?" he asked quietly.
I looked at Linda Loring. She was flushed with anger. She stood up slowly and faced the doctor.
"Dear God, what a ham you are, darling. Stop acting like a damn fool, will you, darling? Or would you rather stick around until somebody slaps your face?"
Loring swung around to her and raised the gloves. Wade stepped in front of him. "Take it easy, Doc. Around here we only hit our wives in private."
"If you are speaking for yourself, I am well aware of it," Loring sneered, "And I don't need lessons in manners from you."
"I only take promising pupils," Wade said. "Sorry you have to leave so soon." He raised his voice. "Candy! Que el Doctor Loring salga de aqui en el acto!" He swung back to Loring. "In case you don't know Spanish, Doctor, that means the door is over there." He pointed.
Loring stared at him without moving. "I have warned you, Mr. Wade," he said idly. "And a number of people have heard me, I shall not warn you again."
"Don't," Wade said curtly. "But if you do, make it on neutral territory. Gives me a little more freedom of action. Sorry, Linda. But you married him." He rubbed his cheek gently where the heavy end of the glove had hit him. Linda Loring was smiling bitterly. She shrugged.
"We are leaving," Loring said. "Come, Linda."
She sat down again and reached for her glass. She gave her husband a glance of quiet contempt. "You are," she said, "You have a number of calls to make, remember."