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“Mostly yes? It’s all right. I didn’t figure, once you run free, you’d be back soon. I mean, this ain’t the front end of the elephant is it?”
“It’s not the back, either.”
“Near on to it.” Henry laughed. “Jesus, it’s good to hear your voice, son. I always did think you smelled good. I mean, if innocence was ever put up in a pack, it was you, chewing two sticks of spearmint at a time. You’re not sittin’. Sit. Let me tell you my worries, then you tell yours. They tore down the Venice pier, they tore up the Venice short-line train tracks, tear up everything. Next week, they rip up this tenement. Where do all the rats go? How do we abandon ship with no lifeboats?”
“You sure?”
“They got termites working overtime, below. Got dynamite squads on the roof, gophers and beavers gnawing in the walls, and a bunch of trumpeters learning Jericho, Jericho, practicing out in the alley to bring this tumbling down. Then where do we go? Not many of us left. With Fannie gone, Sam drunk to death, and Jimmy drowned in the bathtub, it was only a short haul before everyone felt put upon, nudged, you might say, by old man Death. Creeping melancholy is enough to clean out a rooming house in jig time. Let one sick mouse in, you might as well sign up for the plague.”
“Is it that bad, Henry?”
“Bad leaning into worse, but that’s okay. It’s time to move on, anyway. Every five years, just pack your toothbrush, buy new socks and git, that’s what I always say. You got a place to put me, boy? I know, I know. It’s all white out there. But, hell, I can’t see, so what’s the difference?”
“I got a spare room in my garage, where I type. It’s yours!”
“God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost coming up fast.” Henry sank back in his chair, feeling his mouth. “Is this a smile or is this a smile? Only for two days!” he added, quickly. “Got a sister’s no-good husband driving from New Orleans to carry me home. So I’ll get off your hands—”
He stopped smiling, and leaned forward.
“Armpits somewhere again? Out in that world?”
“Not quite armpits, Henry. Something like.”
“Not too much like, I hope.”
“More,” I said, after a beat. “Can you come with me, right now? I hate to rush you, Henry. And I’m sorry to take you out at night.”
“Why, son,” Henry laughed gently, “night and day are only rumors I heard once, as a child.”
He stood, groped around.
“Wait,” he said, “till I find my cane. So I can see.”
54
Crumley and blind Henry and I arrived near the graveyard at midnight.
I hesitated, staring at the gate.
“He’s in there.” I nodded toward the tombstones. “The Beast ran there the other night. What do we do if we meet him?”
“I haven’t the faintest goddamn idea.” Crumley stepped through the gate.
“Hell,” said Henry. “Why not?”
And he left me behind in the night, on the empty sidewalk.
I caught up with them.
“Hold on, let me take a deep breath.” Henry inhaled and let it out. “Yep. It’s a graveyard all right!”
“Does it worry you, Henry?”
“Hell,” said Henry, “dead folks ain’t nothing. It’s live ones ruin my sleep. Want to know how I know this ain’t just a plain old garden? Garden’s full of flower mixes, lots of smells. Graveyards? Mostly tuberoses. From funerals. Always hated funerals for that smell. How’m I doing, detective?”
“Swell, but …” Crumley moved us out of the light. “If we stand here long enough, someone’ll think we need burying and do the job. Hup!”
Crumley walked swiftly away among a thousand milk-white tombstones.
