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“Jesus. Okay, okay. Sit down. Lie down. Do I turn out the lights? God, give me hard liquor!”
I ran to fetch chairs and put them one behind the other.
“This is the big train at night,” I said. “I sit here. You sit behind.”
I ran to the kitchen and brought Crumley a slug of whiskey. “You got to smell like he smelled.”
“For this relief, much thanks.” Crumley belted it down and shut his eyes. “This is the dumbest damn thing I have ever done, ever.”
“Shut up and drink.”
He finished a second one. I sat. Then I remembered and jumped to put on Crumley’s African storm record. It began to rain all through the house, all around the big red train. I turned down the lights. “There. Perfect.”
“Shut your yap and shut your eyes,” said Crumley. “God, I don’t know how to do this.”
“Sh. Gently,” I said.
“Sh, it is. Quiet. Okay, lad. Go to sleep.”
I listened closely and carefully.
“Easy does it,” drawled Crumley, behind me on the train in the night in the rain. “Serenity. Quiet. Lazy. Easy. Around the curves softly. Through the rain, quietly.”
He was getting into the rhythm of it and, I could tell from his voice, beginning to enjoy.
“Easy. Slow. Quiet. Long after midnight. Rain, soft rain,” whispered Crumley. “Where are you, kid?”
“Asleep,” I said drowsily.
“Asleep and traveling. Traveling and asleep,” he murmured. “Are you on the train, kid?”
“Train,” I murmured. “Train. Rain. Night.”
“That’s it. Stay there. Move. On the straightaway through Culver City, past the studios, late, no one on the train but you and—someone.”
“Someone,” I whispered.
“Someone who’s been drinking.”
“Drinking,” I mourned.
“Swaying, swaying, talking, talking, muttering, whispering. You hear him, son?”
“Hear, talk, murmur, mutter, talk,” I said quietly.
And the train moved down the night through dark storm and I was there, a good subject well transported and asleep but hearing, waiting, swaying, eyes shut, head down, hands numb on my knees....
“You hear his voice, son?”
“Hear.”
“Smell his breath?”
“Smell.”
“Raining harder now.”
“Rain.”
