Stephen King
Umney's last case
(Последнее дело Амни)
I. The News from Peoria.
The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the valley across the Hollywood hills you can see snow on the high mountains. The fur stores are advertising their annual sales. The call houses that specialize in sixteen-year-old virgins are doing a land-office business. And in Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees are beginning to bloom.
It was one of those spring mornings so L. A. -perfect you keep expecting to see that little trademark symbol – (R) – stamped on it somewhere. The exhaust of the vehicles passing on Sunset smelled faintly of oleander, the oleander was lightly perfumed with exhaust, and the sky overhead was as clear as a hardshell Baptist's conscience. Peoria Smith, the blind paperboy, was standing in his accustomed place on the corner of Sunset and Laurel, and if that didn't mean God was in His heaven and all was jake with the world, I didn't know what did.
Yet since I'd swung my feet out of bed that morning at the unaccustomed hour of 7:30 a. m., things had felt a little off-kilter, somehow; a tad woozy around the edges. It was only as I was shaving – or at least showing those pesky bristles the razor in an effort to scare them into submission – that I realized part of the reason why. Although I'd been up reading until at least two, I hadn't heard the Demmicks roll in, squiffed to the earlobes and trading those snappy one-liners that apparently form the basis of their marriage.
Nor had I heard Buster, and that was maybe even odder. Buster, the Demmicks” Welsh Corgi, has a high-pitched bark that goes through your head like slivers of glass, and he uses it as much as he can. Also, he's the jealous type. He lets loose with one of his shrill barking squalls every time George and Gloria clinch, and when they aren't zinging each other like a couple of vaudeville comedians, George and Gloria usually are clinching. I've gone to sleep on more than one occasion listening to them giggle while that mutt prances around their feet going yarkyarkyark and wondering how difficult it would be to strangle a muscular, medium-sized dog with a length of piano-wire. Last night, however, the Demmicks” apartment had been as quiet as the grave. It was passing strange, but a long way from earth-shattering; the Demmicks weren't exactly your perfect life-on-a-timetable couple at the best of times.
Peoria Smith was all right, though – chipper as a chipmunk, just as always, and he'd recognized me by my walk even though it was at least an hour before my usual time. He was wearing a baggy CalTech sweatshirt that came down to his thighs and a pair of corduroy knickers that showed off his scabby knees. His hated white cane leaned casually against the side of the card-table he did business on.
“Say, Mr. Umney! Howza kid?”
Peoria's dark glasses glinted in the morning sunlight, and as he turned toward the sound of my step with my copy of the L. A. Times held up in front of him, I had a momentary unsettling thought: it was as if someone had drilled two big black holes into his face. I shivered the thought off my back, thinking that maybe the time had come to cut out the before-bedtime shot of rye. Either that or double the dose.
Hitler was on the front of the Times, as he so often was these days. This time it was something about Austria. I thought, and not for the first time, how at home that pale face and limp forelock would have looked on a post-office bulletin board.
“The kid is just about okay, Peoria,” I said. “In fact, the kid is as fine as fresh paint on an outhouse wall.”
I dropped a dime into the Corona box resting atop Peoria's stack of newspapers. The Times is a three-center, and over-priced at that, but I've been dropping that same chip into Peoria's change-box since time out of mind. He's a good kid, and making good grades in school – I took it on myself to check that last year, after he'd helped me out on the Weld case. If Peoria hadn't shown up on Harris Brunner's houseboat when he did, I'd still be trying to swim with my feet cemented into a kerosene drum, somewhere off Malibu. To say I owe him a lot is an understatement.
In the course of that particular investigation (Peoria Smith, not Harris Brunner and Mavis Weld), I even found out the kid's real name, although wild horses wouldn't have dragged it out of me. Peoria's father took a permanent coffee-break out a ninth-floor office window on Black Friday, his mother's the only white frail working in that goofy Chinese laundry down on La Punta, and the kid's blind. With all that, does the world need to know they hung Francis on him when he was too young to fight back? The defense rests.
If anything really juicy happened the night before, you almost always find it on the front page of the Times, left side, just below the fold. I turned the newspaper over and saw that a bandleader of the Cuban persuasion had suffered a heart attack while dancing with his female vocalist at The Carousel in Burbank. He died an hour later at L. A. General. I had some sympathy for the maestro's widow, but none for the man himself. My opinion is that people who go dancing in Burbank deserve what they get.
I opened to the sports section to see how Brooklyn had done in their doubleheader with the Cards the day before. “How about you, Peoria? Everyone holding their own in your castle? Moats and battlements all in good repair?”
“I'll say, Mr. Umney! Oh, boy!”
Something in his voice caught my attention, and I lowered the paper to take a closer look at him. When I did, I saw what a gilt-edged shamus like me should have seen right away: the kid was all but busting with happiness.
“You look like somebody just gave you six tickets to the first game of the World Series,” I said. “What's the buzz, Peoria?”
“My mom hit the lottery down in Tijuana!” he said. “Forty thousand bucks! We're rich, brother! Rich!”
I gave him a grin he couldn't see and ruffled his hair. It popped his cowlick up, but what the hell. “Whoa, hold the phone. How old are you, Peoria?”
“Twelve in May. You know that, Mr. Umney, you gave me a polo-shirt. But I don't see what that has to do with…”
“Twelve's old enough to know that sometimes people get what they want to happen mixed up with what actually does happen. That's all I meant.”
“If you're talkin about daydreams, you're right – I do know all about em,” Peoria said, running his hands over the back of his head in an effort to make his cowlick lie down again, “but this ain't no daydream, Mr. Umney. It's real! My Uncle Fred went down and picked up the cash yest'y afternoon. He brought it back in the saddlebag of his Vinnie! I smelled it! Hell, I rolled in it! It was spread all over my mom's bed! Richest feeling I ever had, let me tell you – forty-froggin-thousand smackers!”
“Twelve may be old enough to know the difference between daydreams and what's real, but it's not old enough for that kind of talk,” I said. It sounded good – I'm sure the Legion of Decency would have approved two thousand per cent – but my mouth was running on automatic pilot, and I barely heard what was coming out of it. I was too busy trying to get my brain wrapped around what he'd just told me. Of one thing I was absolutely positive: he'd made a mistake. He must have made a mistake, because if it was true, then Peoria wouldn't be standing here anymore when I came by on my way to my office in the Fulwider Building. And that just couldn't be.